Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (24 page)

Rhonda stares at me, shaking her head.

“Those weren’t just oranges,” she says. “There was some sort of meat in there.”

“Well, I don’t know what those girls eat!” I exclaim. “Why are you interrogating me?”

“I’m not interrogating you—”

“Well, it sure feels like an interrogation! No hot lights, but plenty of suspicious questions.” Rhonda reaches out and places one hand on my shoulder.

“Eva, soccer was months ago. We’re in July.” I sigh, exasperated.

“Paige is captain of her spring travel soccer team. They just played in the regional finals. In
June.
”

I watch the confusion play out across Rhonda’s face. She wants to believe this story, but she knows damn well there was nothing in that bucket resembling a rotten orange. After a minute, the lines of her face arrange themselves purposefully.

“If Paige is team captain, then she should get the trash, not you,” she says, a little indignation brewing. “Friends don’t treat each other that way.”

“Well, if you don’t like Paige, why do you keep pushing her to invite me to the swim club?”

“I don’t push her! What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please. ‘Eva doesn’t have anything going on this week, Paige.’ I mean, could I look like more of a loser?”

“Honey, you are not a loser. I … I just want you to get out a little. It kills me to see you sitting in your room day after day.”

Yeah, that’s right. Loser daughter with no social life. Nothing to brag about there
.

She glances at her watch.

“Well!” she says briskly, getting up. “I need to fumigate your room. Then we have time for your snack before we head to the doctor’s. Okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. And as she retreats back upstairs, I feel like throwing up.

Yeah, but you can’t, can you? You’ve never been able to. You’re such a wimp
.

*   *   *

Wendy Koontz looks like a large child dressed as a grown-up. Some organic cotton approximation of professional clothes that come off more like refugee couture from
Little House on the Prairie
. Her long, colorless hair is neatly woven in a French braid that trails down her back. She wears rimless glasses and chunky, colorful shoes that you gotta know are treated with tea-tree oil. She speaks in a girlish whisper. I don’t think she could scream if her life depended on it.

I have an overpowering urge to smack her, which is not good, since she’s my therapist and I’m supposed to be in here baring my soul. But I can’t get beyond the feeling that this gal could use some assertiveness training herself.

We sit in her office, the three of us: Rhonda and I in these deep, cushy armchairs, Wendy in her desk chair with the wheels on the bottom. She smiles serenely. Her expression matches the décor. Muted colors. The walls covered with flower prints. No framed diplomas.

“So how’s it going?” she asks gently. Rhonda and I look at each other, unsure who is supposed to answer that question. This is our second appointment. The last one started with both Rhonda and me in the room for fifteen minutes; then I went solo with Wendy for the remaining forty-five. I assume it’s the same drill for this visit as well.

“Fine,” I reply, at the very same moment that Rhonda says, “A little stressful.” Only Wendy smiles.

“Eva, why don’t you start?” she says. I take a deep breath.

“Everything’s going fine,” I repeat. I try to match her flat, emotionless affect. “It’s a little boring, since I’m trying to stay
off my toe as much as possible. But I’ve been able to spend some time with friends. We hang out at the town pool a lot.”

“Swimming?” she inquires softly.

“Eva’s doctor doesn’t want her to swim right now,” Rhonda interjects. “But she can visit with her friends at the club.”

Wendy acts as if Rhonda isn’t in the room. She stares placidly at me, awaiting a response.

“I’m not supposed to swim,” I say agreeably. Then stop. Wendy holds my gaze for five full seconds, then moves on to Rhonda.

“Why do you think things are a little stressful?” she asks. Rhonda shifts uncomfortably.

“Well,” she begins, “there’s definitely some tension. Between us.” She nods in my direction. “And even between Eva and her father. They’ve always been so close, and this is a man who never argues, he’s so even-tempered, and last night? Well, they weren’t exactly shouting at each other, but he raised his voice because she barely touched her dinner.…”

“Pot pie, Mom. You made chicken pot pie. You know I loathe it.” So much for serenity. The acid in my voice could burn through reinforced steel.

Rhonda looks hesitantly at Wendy, who says nothing.

“No, I didn’t know that, Eva,” Rhonda says. “I thought you liked it. I know you won’t eat beef, or pork. Just chicken and fish. So I thought pot pie would be a good choice.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” I say. Silence follows.

“What
did
you eat for dinner, Eva?” Wendy finally asks.

“I had some ramen noodles,” I say.

You mean ramen broth. You dumped the noodles
.

“And that’s it?” Wendy continues. I frown.

“May I ask a question?” I say.

“Of course,” Wendy says.

“Why are we talking about what I eat? I thought that topic was saved for the nutritionist Mom’s been dragging me to.” Wendy purses her lips.

“I’m concerned over your choice of the word ‘drag.’ Eva, are you going to these appointments unwillingly?”

“Why is it that I have to answer your questions, but you get to answer my questions with another question?” I fire back. The urge to hit her is becoming almost too much for me.

“We were talking about the different responses you and your mom had to my question. You think things are going fine; she says it’s stressful and attributes the stress to your conflict over dinner last night. That’s why we’re talking about food.”

I pull my gaze from hers and stare out the window. Leafy foliage presses against the glass. Wendy’s office is attached to her house, a tasteful square addition to her suburban Ridgefield home. Last visit, I remember hearing ambulances screaming in the distance. Wendy said Ridge Valley Hospital was only a few blocks away.

“Mrs. Smith, why don’t Eva and I talk alone now?” Wendy says. Rhonda dabs at her eyes; she sniffs. Wonderful. More waterworks. Rhonda hasn’t stopped crying since Dad came home with all my stuff from the annex. Wendy picks up a box
of Kleenex and holds it out to Rhonda, who plucks a tissue, smiles gratefully, then quietly exits.

Wendy returns to me.

“I’d like to get back to the nutritionist. Your choice of the word ‘drag’ makes me think you don’t want to see a nutritionist.”

“Well, you have to admit it
is
a little ridiculous,” I say.

“Why?” Wendy asks.

“What does a nutritionist know about broken toes?” I reply. Wendy’s eyes widen ever so slightly.

“Not much, probably,” she says. “But you’re not seeing a nutritionist to discuss your broken toe.” I shrug.

“Why do you think you’re seeing a nutritionist, and seeing me?” Wendy continues.

“I have no idea,” I say. “Because it gives my mother something to do besides cry over my lost ballet scholarship?”

“Is that why you think your mother is crying?”

“It was just a guess. You’d have to ask her.”

“You sound very angry, Eva.”

“Not at all. I love having nothing to do all day, getting dragged around to stupid doctors’ appointments and being pressured to eat unhealthy, disgusting food.”

Wendy looks steadily at me, digesting this comment. Then she changes tactics.

“Tell me about the bag your mom found in the closet.”

They’re talking about you behind your back
.

“When did she tell you that?” I say.

“She emailed me before your appointment today,” Wendy says.

“Well, then she probably also told you it was some trash I had forgotten about.”

“Yes, I know that’s what you told her. But I want to hear it from you.”

“Excuse me: are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m giving you an opportunity to confide in someone. What goes on in this room stays in this room. Priests and doctors. We’re professional secret-keepers.”

I laugh, in spite of myself. Wendy smiles. She waits. I disappoint her, however, so she tries again.

“What do you think all these appointments are about?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“What do your parents say?”

“I don’t know. Ask them.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Relentless. The woman must’ve completed her residency interrogating prisoners. I look at the clock. Only ten minutes have ticked by.

“They think I need help,” I say. Then stop.

“What sort of help?” Wendy presses.

“Eating help,” I say reluctantly. Wendy bobs her head, a slight, encouraging nod.

Oh god, look at those thunder thighs squeezed into that chair! She wears those dresses to hide her big lard butt. This is the sort of woman who stows a twelve-pack of Twinkies in her bottom desk drawer. Why would you tell her anything?

“Some emergency-room doctor in New York told them I’m too thin,” I finally say. “They’ve completely overreacted.”

“Do you think you’re too thin, Eva?”

“No. I’ve just said, everyone’s overreacting.”

Wendy picks up a manila folder from her desk and flips it open.

“I’m looking at a memo your family doctor faxed to me. He says at your last weigh-in they determined that you are only at seventy-three percent of the minimum healthy weight for someone your age and height. He says blood work indicates that your electrolyte balance is off. An EKG shows that you have an irregular, slow heartbeat. A bone-density scan reveals osteopenia, which means your bones are thinning, probably caused by a calcium deficiency. Your mother reports that after you shower the tub is full of your hair. You’ve stopped menstruating, which is what happens when the percentage of fat on your body drops below healthy levels. Eva, this doesn’t look like an overreaction. It looks like a very serious condition.”

My god, why won’t these people let up! Dough Girl here doesn’t know the first thing about health. Look at her! Even her ankles are fat
.

“Wendy, I’m a dancer. Guys lift me. I leap. The aim is to appear light, to bound across the stage effortlessly. Have you ever seen a graceful elephant bounding effortlessly?”

“Healthy ballerinas menstruate,” Wendy replies evenly. “They are not bald. Their toes don’t crack during lessons.” I throw myself back into the cushions in frustration.

“Listen, I eat, okay?” I half shout. “Maybe not dripping,
bloody steaks and buckets of Häagen-Dazs, but I eat good, healthy food. Everyone is threatening me and saying I have to gain a couple of pounds, and I’ve agreed to gain a couple of pounds. What more do you want from me?”

“We want you to accept that there is a larger problem here that goes beyond gaining a few pounds, and we want you to accept help,” Wendy responds instantly.

“What problem? What’s the larger problem?” I fire back at her.

“Eva, you have an eating disorder.”

“That’s
bull
shit. That’s overreacting crap you got from my mother, and I’m not going to sit here and listen to it.”

“That’s a diagnosis from several different doctors. And it was the last thing your mother wanted to hear.”

“Are you my therapist, or hers?” I demand.

“I’d like to be yours. But you need to speak to me. Honestly.”

Oh, moo. Go moo, you big cow. Let me tell you something, Wendy-girl: no one is honest. And if they tell you they are … they’re lying
.

I get up. A bit too quickly. The room goes from dark to bright, and the jackhammer inside my rib cage springs into action again. I grasp the back of the chair to steady myself, take one slow deep breath. Then I toss a little “honesty” at Wendy.

“You want to know what was in my closet? It was garbage. Garbage that my parents were trying to make me eat. They know I like steamed vegetables, grains, beans. But instead they slather everything in fatty oils and cheese. So yeah, I dumped
the gross food in the bag, hid it and unfortunately forgot all about it. Now you know. What are you going to do? Go tattle to my parents?” I stare, hard, into Wendy’s wide, watery eyes.

“I told you: what’s said in this room stays here,” she answers. “But Eva, I’m really, really proud of you for coming clean with me.” She smiles the smuggest, most self-satisfied smile I’ve ever seen.

So they know about the closet. It’s okay. They don’t know about your pockets, do they? Half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich fit nicely in your pocket yesterday, compressed neatly into that paper napkin. Bet you can get a sandwich and a half in there tomorrow
.

I might burst into tears at this very moment. Time to exit, stage left.

As I concentrate on walking out the door, Wendy says one last thing to me.

“I’ll see you next week, Eva.”

Hand on knob, I pivot to face her.

“Whatever. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“S
o, how rich
are
you?”