Zoe Letting Go (13 page)

“I don’t know,” I said, plucking a stray thread from my leggings, which still trembled. “I wanted to write Elise a letter today.”

I examined the thread and dropped it on the ground, where it formed a stark black line against the white carpet.

“How about this,” Alexandra suggested, capping her pen. “We’ll hold off until your session tomorrow to address the topics we broached today. But today, for a change, I’d like you to mix with Caroline during Group Downtime instead of spending the time with Victoria and Haley.”

(How did she know what I did during Group Downtime?)

The thought of socializing with Caroline turned my stomach into a raisin, but I signaled agreement with a passive nod. What else could I do?

“Think of it as a fun assignment,” Alexandra said, standing to open her office door for me. With her shimmering black hair, sleek top, and witchy flats, she looked less like a therapist than the executive of a lifestyle TV channel. I didn’t get it.

As I started down the hallway, I heard her call out softly.

“Oh, and Zoe?”

I swiveled around. Alexandra leaned out of her doorway.

“How are you feeling about our agreement?” she asked.

I thought of the white cardstock box that Alexandra had
given me during our first session. I stored the box beneath my bed, out of sight. But always within reach.

“Fine,” I said. “It’s going fine.”

“Good.”

I waited for more questions, but none came.

“Have fun with Caroline today,” she added, with a small wave. “Tomorrow you can tell me all about it.”

Right,
I thought.
Tomorrow.

Dear Elise,

Day six. When I zoom out to consider the fact that I’ll be here for thirty-six days—the length of a standard summer camp session—my mind turns into an iTunes visualizer. All productive thoughts halt and my brainspace fills up with imploding swirlies, dots, and abstract fireworks. No music, though. Just unaccompanied chaos.

Want to know how many pounds I’ve gained?

That’s a trick question. I have no clue how many pounds I’ve gained because one of the novel aspects of the Twin Birch treatment is that we are not weighed. We are not asked to strip to our underwear and stand atop a cold doctor’s scale. We are not forced to watch in terror as the number climbs, ounce by ounce, pound by pound, with each passing day. There is no last-minute chugging
of water or hiding of weights in our underwear before the weigh-in. None of this petty deception is permitted at Twin Birch.

Instead, we are provoked to speculate about our “progress.” And there is plenty of time to do so.

When Alexandra first told me that I would not be weighed, I nodded and asked no questions. What was there to ask about? I could easily guess the reasoning behind the no-weighing rule: people with eating disorders, for all their supposed deficiencies, are spectacularly good at math. And while I’m far from anorexic, I’ve spent enough time among these other girls that their numerical prowess has rubbed off on me. Like them, I can easily calculate the number of calories on my plate, the number of calories burned off during gardening class, and the number of calories extinguished by my basal metabolism. I have a running number in my head as long as a grocery receipt. I know how many calories are in a plum (40) and how many calories are in a cup of the thick Greek yogurt that we eat for breakfast (220), and how many are in a quarter cup of the deceptively fibrous-looking granola that we are urged to sprinkle on top of that yogurt (250). This is a minuscule sample of the information now stored in my head. Name any kind of food and I’ll tell you how many calories are in a tablespoon, a handful, or a scoop. My mother would be displeased to know that my mind is filled with such facts. If brainpower is a zero-sum operation, a huge amount of algebra and European history is
being deleted to make room for the nutritional rundown of, say, six ounces of pineapple (85 calories, 17 grams sugar, 22 grams carbohydrates, zero fat). After this is all over, she’ll wish she sent me to a public high school.

On the brighter side, a single day spent at Twin Birch would swiftly disprove the old stereotype that girls have inferior math skills to boys. Given the speed at which caloric numbers are added, divided, and multiplied here, that cliché can’t possibly be true.

So the question remains: How much weight have I gained?

Well, I can’t give you an exact figure. Without a scale to spit out the digits, the number remains relative.

For example, I have gained more weight than Caroline and less weight than Haley.

I have gained enough weight to produce a small ripple of fat that spills over my leggings when I pull them on in the morning.

I have not gained enough weight to see cellulite appear on my thighs.

I have gained enough weight that my ribs are less visible when I lift my arms in the air.

But not totally invisible.

I have gained enough weight to see my upper arms thicken.

I have not gained as much weight as my mother would like me to gain.

When I dispatch these statistics, I wonder what you
are thinking. Are you worried? Disappointed? It isn’t easy to write any of it down, you know. When I write out, on paper, that I’ve put on weight, my instinct is to scratch out the offending sentence and start over again with a new one. But if I did that, would anything change? No. I’d simply be back at square one, writing the same sentence again. I have gained weight. I have gained weight. I have gained weight.

My mind returns to the subject of my mother. Is there a number that she would like me to hit? And if so, what is that number? When she was deciding whether or not to mail out the application for Twin Birch, did she watch me carefully, promising herself that she would stamp and send the envelope if I dipped below X number or Y number of pounds? Being here has prompted me to look back over the past few months with a vigilant eye. I review old incidents, trying to figure out whether I was auditioning, inadvertently, for a spot at Twin Birch. I curse myself for every egg-white omelet I ordered or sliver of avocado I refused to eat in front of her. I should have been more careful about hiding my habits.

But back to the question of math. Re-reading what I’ve written so far in this letter, I worry that I’m being too abstract in my explanation of the circumstances here. So I will give you concrete examples of this math business. I will “show my work.”

Breakfast today. Imagine a dining room bathed in a bright morning sunshine that starkly illuminates each
platter of food. Today those platters contained cornmeal pancakes, each one modest—the size of a softball—but soon to be stacked high on our plates, the way pancakes are stacked in cartoons. Filagreed dishes contain our choice of toppings: honey butter (70 calories per tablespoon), maple syrup (200 calories per quarter cup), peaches sauteed in butter (150), a scoop of heavy whipped cream (250) from a tureen kept on ice. Don’t forget the handful of honey-roasted pecans (280) scattered on top. And the pancakes themselves? Only, according to Victoria’s calculations, 180 calories each—but we’re served six of them.

There’s coffee too, of course. Coffee has zero calories, but we’re only allowed one cup.

That adds up to roughly 1,100 calories before nine o’clock, if you eat the bare minimum required of you. To make matters harder, Alexandra occasionally sits in on breakfast and take notes on her legal pad, which means that I am scrutinized not only by Devon, and not only by the other five girls, but by my therapist, who is no doubt analyzing my intake and tucking the results into a folder somewhere. Sometimes I fantasize about stealing the notepad from Alexandra’s hands and reading it. What could she possibly be writing?
8:14 a.m.: Patient examines single banana slice, displaying contempt (or possibly hesitation). Patient stabs fruit with fork. Symbolic gesture?

As we picked at and deconstructed our pancakes this morning, I was reminded of the fact that I weigh at least ten pounds more than the second-biggest girl here. I may
be skinny, but my hair is not brittle like Caroline’s, and my thighs don’t resemble a wishbone like Haley’s.

Still, nobody will tell me why I’m here.

After breakfast, Devon led us into the living room to warm up. As usual, I was not particularly cold. Caroline and Jane had started watching a DVD of Hitchcock’s
Rear Window
last night, and they asked Devon if they could finish the movie during warm-up. She said sure, if it was okay with everyone else. Everyone else nodded, and Jane slid the DVD into its player. Grace Kelly popped up onscreen.

I wish I were creative,
she was saying.

You are
, said the Jimmy Stewart character.
You’re great at creating difficult situations.

I quickly zoned out. My attention span is exactly the length of a TV show, not a movie. I can never focus on a whole movie unless I’m doing something with my hands at the same time, like folding laundry. On either side of me, Victoria and Haley watched the movie attentively, wrapped up in a scene where Grace Kelly bustles about in a full-skirted wasp-waist dress. I watched the actress cross the screen and wondered briefly if she was anorexic. Her waist was tiny. Other than that, the movie was dull as dust, and I had to fight the impulse to get up and move around. The feeling of entrapment was reinforced by Devon, whose supervision had the quality of a prison-tower guard.

I picked at the silk upholstery of the couch, my mood
darkening as I unraveled stray threads. The elegance of Twin Birch, I thought, is a sham. It is elegant because it constricts its inhabitants. It’s like a corset in this way. The laces may be sewn of satin, but the cinching is rib-breakingly painful. I’d much rather be in a prison than in a prison disguised as a family estate. At least with the former, you know what you’re getting into.

My feet tapped impatiently against the floor. Nothing had happened so far in the movie—its plot was moving forward at the rate of spilled molasses. I wasn’t cold, and I didn’t need to warm up. Boredom engulfed me like a noxious fog. I couldn’t stand the stillness any longer.

“Devon?” I asked impulsively, interrupting the movie. Several turned to look at me. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Sure,” Devon said. She looked around the room expectantly, waiting for someone to volunteer. After mealtimes we’re required to have a companion go with us to the bathroom, to ensure that we don’t throw up our food. I looked to Victoria, who was my default companion, wondering why she hadn’t instantly popped up to accompany me. My stomach sank. Victoria and Haley were nestled against each other, dozing. Why had they picked
this
moment to take a nap? Victoria had never failed to be my bathroom partner. I turned back just as Devon pointed to Caroline. “Why don’t you two partner up?” she said.

Caroline looked displeased, but she couldn’t say no to the request. She stood with a wobble and followed me to
the door as Brooke and Jane exchanged glances.
Great
—I didn’t even have to go to the bathroom. I’d planned to get my ya-yas out by doing a few sets of lunges across the bathroom floor. Now what? Caroline’s mouse-like footsteps echoed my own as we walked down the hallway. The situation, I realized, at least presented me with a decent opportunity to follow through on Alexandra’s prescription. But what could I possibly say to Caroline?

I slowed my pace, hoping that she’d catch up and walk beside me. Instead, she slowed her own pace as soon as she realized what I was doing. Clever. As we got to the bathroom door, I turned around to say something—anything!—in hopes of starting a brief and perfunctory conversation. There was no chance to do so. As I turned, a high-pitched rattle noise escaped from Caroline’s mouth. She jumped back a foot in surprise—had I turned too suddenly?—and shrank from my presence like prey from a lion. I gawked at her, unable to process her reaction. Surprise turned to shame. She made me feel like a monster, regarding me with eyes that were absolutely soaked in fear. I pushed open the bathroom door, closed it behind me, and turned on the faucet. Hot with shame and confusion, I held my wrists beneath the cold water as Caroline hovered outside. I peered at myself in the mirror, wondering what was so fearsome about me. You never felt that way, did you?

I hope you will tell me the honest truth.

By now you’ve had plenty of time to write me back,
Elise, and I’m worried. I’m afraid that something is wrong. Please reply as quickly as you can, even if it’s just to send a postcard.

I’ll be waiting for it.

From,

Zoe

“Can I ask you something?”

It was Caroline. The lights were out, and the moon threw a pool of milk-hued light onto the bedroom floor. Curled in a fetal position beneath her bedding, she had appeared to be asleep. Not a single word had been spoken since our bewildering encounter outside the bathroom. What time was it?

“Sorry?” I said. (What I really wanted to ask: How did you know I was awake?)

Part of me was relieved that she’d started a conversation with me, even if it was in the dead of night. Perhaps she
wasn’t
afraid of me after all—perhaps our earlier experience was a fluke.

Caroline, however, had no intention of following up on that subject.

“This is a question with no judgment implied,” she said, barely whispering the words. Her body didn’t move beneath the sheets.

“Okay,” I replied.

“Why are you here?”

The words met my mind with a thud. They were not what I expected.

“It’s a simple question,” Caroline added.

We lay in our respective beds, facing each other like parentheses in the dimness.

“Well?” Caroline persisted, her feeble voice growing agitated. The question—combined with the fact that she’d never spoken so much at one time before—momentarily baffled me. Then I almost started to laugh. My first reaction, when attacked, is to laugh. I don’t know why.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I began, smothering the nervous giggle that threatened to escape.

That much was true: I have no idea what I’m doing here, and at the time I had no clue what her question was supposed to mean. Was it literal? Figurative? Clinical? Or simply designed to make me feel weird? She waited, still as a lizard, for a more satisfying answer.