Elena Vanishing (30 page)

“Hey, look,
I
don't care,” she says. “You can pretty much believe whatever you want to believe, and props to you for whatever bullshit story you put together. Fact is, you loved boarding school—except for all the times you hated it.”

“I can prove it!” I repeat.

But Valerie walks off.

Valerie goes into the media room to put Gemma down for her nap. I turn to my journals to prove my point. But a journal is missing, a whole year and a half: the journal that I burned.

“Mom still won't answer,” Valerie says as she walks by again. “I'm starting to get worried about her.”

That's right! Mom has our old letters in her office. That's how I can prove it. I can show Valerie the letters I wrote to Mom, begging to come home.

I go into Mom's study, pull the letters out of a file drawer, and sit down on the floor to read them. A whole sheaf of crackly pages on grid notepaper in the distinctive blue lines of the German school fountain pen—the mere sight of my former self's neat, girlish handwriting makes me feel wistful and sad.

I read through them. But I don't find letters begging to come home.

Guess what!
I wrote during my first week at boarding school.
I BROKE THE ICE! Last night, I noticed lots of horse pictures and a halter (used) and a black braid of horsehair on Barbara's billboard. In our room, I pulled out my cowboy book. She asked if I liked horses. Even though my favorite animals are cows, I said I loved them and that they were my favorite animal, casually adding I had gone to riding class. She came over to the bed and it was the first time I had ever seen someone's eyes sparkle!

The energy and excitement in this old letter makes my heart ache with loss. I was aglow with emotion, on fire to change the world. Where did that bold, ambitious little girl go?

I can't wait till next year!
the young me wrote as that first school year came to an end.
I have a feeling I will really miss this place during the summer vacations! It is so orderly and clean and girly!

I close my eyes and concentrate on the memory I've held on to for so long: my voice begging to leave the boarding school and Mom's voice refusing to let me. The memory opens out. I'm crying over an exam that I've barely passed. And Mom's telling me how proud she is that I passed an exam in German.

I read on into the next school year. The bright, lively, dramatic girl that I used to be lives on these pages, in every silly story and poorly spelled sentence. The months pass. She's still there, riding to the rescue of her less gifted friends.

And then . . .

That girl vanishes.

Overnight, the letters become vague and cynical. They don't say much of anything anymore. They certainly don't tell any more silly stories.

A couple of months after that, the letters stop.

I read the last few pages again. This can't be right! The rape didn't slow me down. I never even thought about it.

But there's no mistaking the pattern.

Before the rape, I'm a child. A ditzy, bouncy, high-strung kid.

And after the rape . . .

I'm gone.

I'm just not there.

A sob surprises me, and I look around the study as if I expect the sound to have come from someone else. Lovingly, carefully, I even out the ragged stack of pages and tuck them all back into the folder. Then I unbend my stiff, aching joints and stagger to my feet.

Soreness radiates from every cracked, malnourished tendon and shrunken muscle in my body. A net of pain surrounds my parched, hungry bones. Thick, toxic blood throbs a drumbeat inside my aching head.

I thought I'd hidden the rape deep inside myself where no one would ever find it. But that's not what happened. The rape hid me. I can't even remember who I was anymore. The person I used to be has been gone for years now—that bright, lively girl who vanished.

I shuffle down the hall and crawl back into bed. Tears seep out of the corners of my eyes. The presence of death clings close to my worn-out body. It flattens me under its weight.

Half awake, half asleep, I lie in a stupor and dredge up old memories—memories that have lain undisturbed in the back of my mind ever since I burned the journal. I see a friend at the boarding school take my hand and hold it as we walk down the hall. I see Mom put her arm around me during church. I see myself put my head on her shoulder.

That's right. I remember now. As hard as it is to imagine, there was a time when I actually liked to be touched.

But in memories after the rape, I see myself jerk away from friends. When Mom puts her arm around me, I flinch and glare. I see myself using sarcasm to build up my defenses. The world begins to divide into enemies and allies. In memory after memory, I watch the walls form around me, until my life stops being about growth and happiness and becomes a matter of cold, stiff pride. The walls around me thicken and harden until it's not me I see anymore. I'm hidden inside a giant, cinder-gray skull.

A skull. A shell of death between me and my life. For years, that skull has stifled my better intentions. The bad people I know—the abusive guys and self-destructive friends—have been right there with me on the inside. But the good ones, the ones who cared for me—the ones I would have had to learn to care for in return—they haven't had a chance to break through.

A skull. A shell of death.

When does life become death?

I've been dying now for seven long years.

Valerie's voice cuts through my daydreams. “I got hold of Mom,” she says. “It's crazy! She's on the other side of Austin. But at least she's okay.”

I don't open my eyes. I can't find the strength to answer. I can still feel it all around me, blocking out the light—the cold, dead weight of that skull.

Valerie's voice comes closer. “Hey—are
you
okay?”

Tears are sliding out of my closed eyes and down my face. “I feel sick,” I whisper.

“You look sick!”

I feel my sister sit down on the bed. I want to take her hand, but the skull is between us.

“So, if I make you chicken noodle soup,” she says, “will you just puke it up? Because if you will, I'll save myself the trouble.”

“I . . . I don't know. Maybe.”

Her weight leaves the bed.

I lie there, ground down to exhaustion beneath the skull. Dear God, is this my life? Is this my future?

This is who we are
, says the voice in my head.
I'll never leave. I'm all you've got left.

The savory aroma of chicken with noodles slides into the room, and Valerie's warm hands help prop me up against the pillow. I open my eyes to see my sister sitting by me in my room (her and my room), giving me that look I remember so well from when we were little.

“Seriously, you look terrible!” she says.

She watches me choke down a few spoonfuls and then takes the bowl back. I'm still crying. I want to say thank you, but I can't.

The rape happened. I can't change that it happened. I can't change what it did to the girl I used to be.

“You know we love you, right?” Valerie says. “You do know that.” She turns out the light and leaves the room.

She never loved you!
says the voice in my head.

But that's not true. I know she loves me. As crazy as it sounds, I do know that. As unlikely as it seems that anyone could still love what I've become, I don't doubt that love for a second.

I close my eyes and cry myself to sleep.

One by one, the people who love me come into my dream. Gemma, holding up her arms to me. Dad, unable to imagine how he'll survive my death. Valerie, still setting me straight. My new brother, Clint, wearing my initial in his band of stars. Mom, pushed away by my angry words.

I see Valerie and me playing in this room when I was little. I see our old dogs dozing nearby. I see wonderful teachers who cared about
my future and wanted to share the excitement of learning with me. I see Mona in the moonlit attic of the boarding school. I see the books I've loved, gifts from extraordinary minds that reached out with their words to touch me. I even see Rupert Brooke sitting barefoot on the green grass that is forever England, and he looks up and smiles at me.

Every single life that has enriched my life has been a separate gift of love. Those lives come pouring into my dream from all sides. Friends and the pets of friends. Aunts and uncles and grandparents. The sweet potato plant that grew on my windowsill, and the big mulberry tree I used to climb. Beautiful blue Dylan, and my cat Sam. My great-grandmother, who gave me the high school ring I wear. The brand-new butterfly I held until it dried its wings and flew away.

One after another, those lives that have touched mine gather until they become an enormous crowd that presses in around me from all sides. The skull can't keep them out anymore. It begins to shrink away. Freed from its shell, I feel the contact of those lives like a living current of love. It flows through the whole vast crowd of us and holds us safe in the cradling hands of God.

Life is love. Life, in all its suffering, is love. And death is powerless to change that.

As I realize this, the skull dwindles down in size until it lies on the ground at my feet. I pick it up, and it's so small now that it fits on the palm of my hand. I hold it for a long moment, debating what to do with it, and I seem to feel the expectant hush of those thousands of other lives jostling close and watching me breathlessly, waiting to see what I decide to do.

I can't throw the skull away. It's too important. It's been part of me for too long. But I won't keep it where I can see it anymore. I won't let it warp my vision again.

So I reach behind me and put it on my back.

I feel it flatten into my spine.

And then I feel strong wings blossoming out.

I wake up. It's dark in my room, and I'm alone. But I can still feel the strong, living current of all those lives joined to mine. I feel the weight of the skull where it rests between my shoulders. And, filling up the darkness around me, I feel the beauty and the power of outstretched wings.

The first thing I do is call Mom's phone. She doesn't answer, but I leave her a message. I tell her how sorry I am. Even though we haven't spoken, I know I already have her forgiveness.

The next day I go to my tattoo artist, and he designs a new tattoo for me.

When Mom sees it, she doesn't say anything because the truce between us is still brittle, but I can tell from her eyes that she's shocked. Dad declines to comment. Even Valerie doesn't care for it, and Valerie likes tattoos.

“Really, Elena?” she says. “Really? A skull with wings?”

But that's all right. My family doesn't need to hear about my tattoo. I know what they need to hear.

“I have an announcement to make,” I say. “I'm putting myself back in treatment.”

It's December. For the last two and a half months, I've been doing
eleven-hour days at Sandalwood, the eating disorder treatment center across town. I've gained weight, and I'm on only half the meds I took before. I'm feeling more alert, and I can stay awake for a whole day now. I can go home every night and sleep in my own bed, play with Gemma, and gossip with Valerie.

But the progress I'm making is so ungodly slow that snails would get whiplash by comparison.

It's lunchtime, the end of a long, exhausting morning. Once more, my stomach groans and lurches as I face an enormous meal. Across the table is a twelve-year-old boy with an enormous meal of his own. Trevor has been so brave. For weeks, he hasn't complained. But today, I can see that he's struggling.

The other patients and I sit quietly, spearing pieces of cold chicken and green beans and making the monumental effort to bring the food to our mouths. Finished at last: the staff brings us our after-dinner Ensures, and we sit and sip. The only sound in the room is the clink of Trevor's fork against his plate. We are done, but he still has mounds of food to get through.

“Elena.”

Trevor sets down his fork and folds his hands. I can see that his hands are shaking.

“Elena,” he says again. “Elena, I just . . . I just . . .”

I reach across the table. My hand flutters against his face, and I struggle for words. What can I say that will help? How can I tell him it will be this hard for a long, long time?

“Sweetie,” I say. “It's okay.”

The first tear rolls down his cheek and hits my hand with a splash. Then another, and then another. Without asking permission, I jump up and fly around the table and pull him out of his chair and into my arms. The fragile little boy curls up against me, shaking with sobs, and my throat hurts so badly, I can barely stand it.

We anorexics, we cause ourselves pain every day. We toughen ourselves to withstand any hardship. We can deal with the physical torture, the anguish, and the emptiness, but the thing that kills every one of us is having to see what the others suffer.

A staff member looks toward me and hesitates. I shake my head at her:
Please don't make him finish that!
A few seconds later, she slips out of the room.

She's going to fetch Dr. Leben
, says the voice in my head.
You're breaking the rules. You're a bad influence. What happened with Sam is going to happen all over again. They want you out of here.

Anger bubbles up to join the pain I feel. Why does the staff have to be like this?

Poor sweet little Sam, left alone when I walked out of Clove House, passed back and forth between her idiot parents like a bag of trash. Her phone is turned off now, and it's been weeks since I've heard from her. Nobody knows if she's alive or dead.

Cradling Trevor in my arms, I think of the other anorexics who make my heart ache with pain and love. There's the girl whose teacher bullied her incessantly, until she lost hold of who she was. There's the former gymnast, urged to stay small, stay small, control portion size,
watch her calories—until one day her malnourished body gave way at the joints, and she took one last tumble off the bars.