The Disappearing Girl Part 16

I hated the mirror for showing me the truth. I was merely a husk, hollowed out completely. As I reached back to punch my fist through the gla.s.s, Lila grabbed me. I fell into her, then, and released the anguish I had bottled up for ages. I sobbed violently, blubbering against the fabric of her shirt as she held me steadfastly. We had swapped roles, and Lila had become the caretaker, the strong one.

As my moans subsided, Lila stood up straighter. "I have a brush and makeup in my purse. We'll get you ready and I'll text Cam to come up." I wanted to refuse, but my need for him was growing more insistent each second. What I felt for him outweighed my shame over my appearance. Lila continued, "Cam loves you, Kayla, and what you look like doesn't matter to him. You're still beautiful to all of us."

My sister had changed, too, in the past few months. She'd grown stronger and surer of herself. I was relieved she hadn't followed me down the th.o.r.n.y path I had traveled.

Fifteen minutes later, I cowered in bed, the covers pulled up to my neck when I heard a light knock at the door. My sister gave me a rea.s.suring smile and went to answer the door. After a few seconds of indiscernible whispering, Cameron trailed Lila into the hospital room. I envisioned the warning: be prepared to behold the horror.

Shock registered in his eyes and I could see the effort he put into concealing the emotion. Instead, he managed a half-smile as he moved to the foot of the bed. My obsessions had damaged everything good in my life, and I wondered whether my relationships were beyond repair.

I tilted my head toward my sister. "Lila, can you give us a few minutes alone?"

"Sure," she offered, apparently eager to escape the awkwardness of Cameron's arrival. "I'm going to raid the cafeteria and see if I can find anything edible."

I studied him as Lila gathered up her things and headed to the door. It had been two weeks since I'd last seen him, and I felt my breath catch at the sight. He was gorgeous-there was never any doubt of that in my mind. The sun had lightened the blond streaks in his hair and a healthy-looking tan colored his skin. He must have worked at some point during the day; he wore a white, b.u.t.ton-down shirt and black pants. My hand itched to play with the striped tie that hung loosely around his neck.

"I'm glad you're here." I was trying for honesty. Maybe if I expressed my feelings more, I'd have an easier time dealing with them.

"I had all these things to say to you, but now I'm at a loss," he said softly.

"I owe you an apology for so many things I honestly don't know where to start. But I'll start by saying sorry for the disgusting things I said to you when I saw you last. That wasn't me and I wouldn't have blamed you if you decided to never see me again after that."

"Kayla, I've been going out of my mind these past two weeks. I was freaked out over the thought something terrible had happened to you. I've never felt so helpless," he admitted.

I scooted over to the left side of the bed and motioned him over. Without a second's hesitation, he climbed in next to me. I rested my head against his shoulder and enjoyed the comfort of being next to him. "I'm starting to believe I'm truly broken. I don't know how I got to this point, but I can't continue like this."

"We're all broken in some way, Kayla. You just have to wake up each morning and find a reason to keep going," he said quietly.

"I've been selfish. The very thing I hated about my mother is the exact thing I've become. You tried to talk to me about your mom and I never tried to get you to open up more about it. One of my biggest regrets is not being there for you."

He took my hand in his and I watched as our fingers intertwined. My fingers looked frail and bony next to his large, strong hand. "My mom is in the past, Kayla. I've moved on from the things she did. There's not much to say about it."

"Cameron," I said gently. "I don't think it's completely in the past. The Vonnegut quote from your tattoo-it was your birth mom's favorite verse, not your stepmother's, right?" At his brisk nod, I continued, "Maybe you should consider meeting with her. It may help you-"

He didn't allow me to finish. "What could she possibly have to say that I'd want to hear? She left Scarlett and me for almost ten years because she couldn't stop using drugs. It's not my job to ease her guilt."

"I'm not suggesting it for her benefit. But maybe you need the closure. I'm sure you have questions you want answered." Maybe I wasn't qualified to give advice, but it was easier to sort out someone else's problems than deal with my own.

He coughed uncomfortably. "Why are we talking about this? I'm here to help you get better." A muscle twitched in his jaw. I didn't want to drop the topic, but he'd have to be the one to decide whether he wanted to see his mom and if he could forgive her. Pain flashed in his eyes. "Kayla, the time we've spent apart has been h.e.l.l, but I haven't stopped loving you for one minute."

I didn't reply. Instead I hugged him tighter. He nuzzled my neck, his voice m.u.f.fled as he whispered endearments, words I was too broken to hear.

Tears traveled down my cheeks. I knew the right words to say to him, but they were trapped inside. I wanted a moment to get lost in the feel of his body and the sound of his voice. Because once I said what I needed to, it was possible I might never see him again.

My mouth found the way to his on its own accord. His lips were soft and his mouth tasted sweet. The kiss was tender and alluded to the raw need we were both feeling. Our romance was addictive, a calming drug in my chaotic world.

Unshed tears clouded my vision when I opened my eyes. The tips of our noses were still touching as I held him close.

"I need to get help. The doctor here found a place for me in an eating disorders clinic," I said.

He pressed his lips to mine before replying. "Lila told me. I think it sounds great. They have visiting hours which means I can come see you."

"Cameron," I said, affectionately grazing my finger over the rough skin of his cheek. "I can't see you while I go through treatment. I believe the problem before when I went to counseling was I was going for your benefit and not for myself."

"Kayla, you have to let me in. I feel jerked around with the constant back and forth with you. Why can't you understand I want to be there for you?"

"I'm not intentionally trying to push you away this time. It's a lot to ask of you to trust me, but my reasoning is I want to go into this program with my best shot at succeeding. What I feel for you ... it's intense and all-encompa.s.sing, and seeing you will only make it harder for me to focus on what I need to do to get better," I said breathlessly. I wished he could see inside me. He'd realize it was killing me to let him go. "I don't want this to be goodbye forever. But it would be selfish of me to ask you to wait for me." Please wait for me, I prayed silently.

His tone was gruff. "You're serious about this, aren't you? You're different already, I can tell. You really want to get better."

I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. "More than anything."

"Then, I'll stay away if that's what you want-"

I cut him off. "It's not what I want, it's what I need right now."

"Kayla, do whatever it takes to come back to me. Because, honestly, I don't think I could move on even if I wanted to. I only want you." His kiss was an oath, and I planned to hold onto it as I fought against the disease that was slowly destroying me from the inside out.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

"This is where you'll be staying. Your roommate's name is April. She's at a group meeting, but you'll meet her this afternoon," the nurse explained as she led us to a room at the end of the hall. She unlocked it and turned to me. "Why don't I give you some time to say goodbye to your family?"

After my a.s.sent, she disappeared back down the hallway. I scanned my room. "Looks like my dorm room. It's actually an improvement over the hospital."

My room at the River Center featured a pair of twin beds, dressers, and nightstands. The floor was carpeted in dark blue, and a set of windows overlooked the front lawn. The linens were also provided, and matching floral bedspreads covered the beds.

I'd been fighting my nervousness since my mom parked the car in front of the ivy-covered brick building. The inviting exterior gave no indication of what took place inside. As we walked down the hallway toward my room, I pictured the pain of all the past patients seeping into the walls. The patient dorms, lounge areas, cafeteria, and treatment rooms were all housed in the single three-story building.

I rolled my suitcase to the middle of the floor. The clinic provided a lot of the items I needed for my stay, so I'd packed lightly. I was given a list of things not to bring before I left the hospital. On the forbidden list were fashion magazines, tank tops, short skirts and shorts, and over-the-counter medicines. The toughest thing for me to leave behind was my laptop. After I took a minute to think about it, I realized it would probably be best, since I'd be cut off from my Pro-Ana network. The clinic had desktop computers, but their use was monitored.

"At least you're used to sharing a room. I was never able to get along with other girls and couldn't imagine being forced to live with a stranger," my mom remarked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Lila rolled her eyes behind my mom's back. We'd heard time and again how girls were always jealous of my mother and that was the reason she never had girlfriends. Thankfully, my mother was going to attend family therapy sessions as part of my treatment. If her behavior didn't change as well, I'd have a struggle changing my own.

"Maybe I'll luck out and have another roommate like Brittany," I said.

I had called Brittany the night before and we'd talked for over an hour. She'd tried to reach me in the midst of my pandemonium, and I wanted her to know I was sorry for not returning her calls.

I confessed everything that had been going on with me, down to the last dirty detail. I was surprised to learn she suspected I had an eating disorder, but that she couldn't figure out a way to confront me about it without initiating the collapse of our friendship. I promised to stay in touch as often as I could while staying at the clinic. I didn't have a clue whether I'd be finished with treatment in time for the start of the fall semester in September, but I didn't doubt we'd remain close, whether I returned to school or not. I was appreciating my roommate a lot more since living with Marti for two weeks.

"So, I guess this is goodbye for now," I said uncertainly to my family.

"You get an hour for visitors each night. Lila and I can come by as often as you want us to. I'm also meeting with your therapist once a week. She thought I should start off the sessions without you attending," my mom explained, brushing an imagined piece of lint from her blouse. The clinic made her uneasy. I could see it in her darting eyes and gritted teeth. I wondered if she had mentally compared me to the girls we'd seen on our arrival, the doll-like girls with very little flesh, their heads appearing oversized compared with their compact bodies. As we walked the halls of the clinic, I imagined myself in a warped beauty pageant, with my mother and Lila as the judges, comparing my bony frame against those of the other patients, mentally deciding how sick I truly was.

I hastened the goodbye. The sooner I came to accept that as my new reality, the easier the transition would be. I would set small and achievable goals to get me through the initial difficult days. That world was unfamiliar and terrifying. But I was my father's daughter. And if there was one thing I always admired about my dad, it was his ability to make the best of the most impossible situations.

The hours that followed were a rush of unfamiliar faces, all wanting something from me. I was weighed, measured, and poked with needles until the counselors and nurses were satisfied. The clinic performed blind weigh-ins: they would know how much I weighed, but it would remain a mystery to me. The purpose was to curb the obsession over what number appeared on the scale. The blood work was required to see what type of nutrients my body had been deprived of during my months of starvation.

I met with my individual counselor, a woman named Noreen. I liked her carefree manner and imagined I'd eventually feel comfortable enough talking to her about my deepest secrets. She was also in charge of several of the group meetings held at the clinic. The groups covered topics like self-esteem building, nutrition education, and body image.

I met my roommate April before dinnertime. She was tiny; I guessed her height was just under five feet. Her curly ginger hair was cut to her chin and her blue eyes sparkled when she introduced herself. April didn't look a day over fourteen-years-old. I hid my astonishment over her revelation she was nineteen. She was a sweet girl, offering up my choice of beds despite her being in the room first. I liked the way she laughed; it was deep and came from the belly. I didn't foresee any conflict arising between us during my stay.

April seemed to sense my unease as we walked down the hall to the dining area. It would be my first supervised meal at River Center. During my stay at the hospital, I picked at the trays of food sent to my room. I guessed the doctors didn't press the issue since I was hooked up to an IV and I was being checked into a residential eating disorder program. April a.s.sured me although we'd be watched while we ate, no one was going to force the food down my throat. It felt like she could see inside my head and understood my nightmare visions of nurses shoving feeding tubes up my nostrils.

I was also told I should squash any thoughts of throwing up after eating. An escort went with patients if they decided to use the bathroom after meals.

A nutritionist had filled me on my meal plan and what to expect as my body adjusted to eating three meals and two snacks per day. However, nothing could prepare me for the overwhelming emotions I felt sitting in front of a plate of food in a room full of watchful eyes. The meal wasn't extravagant, just grilled chicken with brown rice and steamed broccoli. My brain registered the food as healthy, but I couldn't bring myself to pick up the fork. I was crippled by my illness, a prisoner to the idea that food was the enemy.

I closed my eyes and took a few long and cleansing breaths. Parker had talked about goal setting, and I suspected that this would be a part of my recovery. I told myself if I could eat that meal, I'd give myself a reward at the end. I decided if I ate dinner, I'd spend my free time downloading every cheesy love song on my iPod that reminded me of Cameron. The thought made me smile and I mechanically pierced a spear of broccoli and lifted it to my lips. I washed the food down with milk and concentrated on eating another piece of food.

I held back tears of frustration as I continued to eat. To an outsider, my behavior probably made little sense. All I had to do was eat. It was a simple enough thing to do. But I had to knock down the mental barriers first.

Making it through my first meal went unrewarded. Instead of downloading songs, I laid curled up on my bed. My arms clutched my stomach tightly as cramps stung my insides. "Are you okay?" April asked hesitantly from her side of the room.

"No, something's wrong. Please, can you find me a nurse?"

Pity flashed in her eyes, but she complied. A minute later, one of the nurses was escorted by April to our room. "What's wrong Kayla?"

"I have this horrible pain in my stomach. I'm also feeling bloated. I need something to help stop it. Can I have a diuretic or a laxative?" I moaned out my question.

"Kayla, we talked to you about this when you checked in. Your body needs to get accustomed to eating a regular diet again. We don't provide medications to get rid of the calories you take in." Her tone was gentle, but firm. I disliked her at once for her part in my misery.

"This isn't normal. This isn't going to make me better," I cried.

April sank on her knees next to my bed. "You're going to feel wretched for a while, but it stops. I've been here three weeks and my stomach is no longer swelling up like a balloon after each time I eat."

My inner demons struggled against my will to survive. I was going to get fat. This was what I had signed up for and I'd have to learn to live with it. Eating wasn't going to kill me, but the hunger could.

The first night, April stayed with me. I appreciated the gesture, because I knew she was missing out on her free time for the evening. She was on the other side, working her way toward a return to her normal life, and still she was willing to reach out and lift me out of my unsettling thoughts.

Recovery wasn't going to be painless. I was going to have to claw my bloodied and damaged body out of the hole I'd fallen into.

"It gets better, Kayla," April said as I sobbed into my pillow. "I felt the same way you did when I first came here. I thought no one would get what I'd gone through. But when I started meeting the other girls, I realized I wasn't the only one hurting. There's always a story worse than yours, more tragedy than you can imagine. But we all want to get better, that's why we came here."

I used my shirt sleeve to wipe away my tears. "Why are you here?"

"Because I wanted to be a prima ballerina," she said, and she did a brief pirouette around the room. I was able to manage a smile. She added, "Did you ever hear of the diet philosophy of ballerinas? It's simply 'do not eat.'" Breathlessly, she fell back onto her bed. "There's no such thing as a chubby ballerina. I've dreamed of being part of the New York City Ballet since I was a little girl, and it was clear early on that food would only get in the way of my dreams."

"What happened to you?"

"I stopped growing. Ballerinas are beautiful, tall and elegant, and I'm stuck in the body of a ten-year-old boy," she said wryly. "Everything seemed to fall apart for me at once. I blew a couple of auditions and was told I'd never be good enough to make it as a professional dancer. All that time I wasted on something that wasn't going to happen. Not to mention the torture I put my body through. I thought about killing myself so many times ..."

"Oh, G.o.d, I'm so sorry," I murmured.

She rose up on her elbows and stared at me across the room. "My problem was I let being a ballerina define who I was. Without it, life didn't make sense. I'm here because I want to know if I can still be happy without dancing."

"Have you figured it out?"

"Not completely, but I'm learning to enjoy food again and not treat it like it'll bite me back. I definitely don't miss being so hungry that I'd put whitening strips on my teeth to keep myself from eating." She paused and said thoughtfully, "The thing about this place is it lets you escape your real life and figure out how to be happy again."

"Thanks. It's nice of you to share all that stuff," I said awkwardly.

April's laughter was abrupt. "You get used to all the over-sharing too. Within two seconds of meeting someone, they're telling you all about how c.r.a.ppy their lives are." When I didn't respond, she commanded, "Try and get some sleep. It'll make things easier on you. Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to the rest of the gang on the Island of Misfit Toys."

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

The schedule at River Center was regimented. Each morning, I woke up knowing exactly what to expect. Structure was intended to give us the best shot at sanity. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks were all supervised and at the same time each day. I was expected to attend two group meetings per day along with two individual counseling sessions each week. My mother was attending the family counseling sessions alone for the time being, but I was expected to join her as part of my treatment.

True to her word, April introduced me to the friends she had made during her stay. During group meetings, I'd hear their horror stories and the lengths they went to for thinness. I wasn't forced to share my past; the staff explained I'd talk during group meetings when I was ready. However, hearing the other girls' tales did make me feel an instant kinship with them.

It was our own little world inside the River Center. The rules were different there, and it was up to us to learn how to make it on the outside. Field trips involved outings to coffee shops and restaurants. We were lost children who needed to be taught again how to order and eat in public. Back at the center, there were meal preparation cla.s.ses where we were instructed on how to make healthy, well-balanced meals.

Fun was allowed, but like everything else it was monitored. If I ran too hard on the treadmill, I was told it was time to stop. If I went onto a website that wasn't considered conducive to my recovery, a staff member told me to get off the site and find another activity for my free time.

Besides being anorexic and bulimic, I was diagnosed by my therapist as having depression and body dysmorphic disorder. My counselor described body dysmorphic disorder as a type of mental illness where a person becomes obsessed with an imagined flaw. I finally understood all the times I thought I saw a reflection of an obese girl in the mirror, it hadn't been real.

Multiple diagnoses made me feel like I was all sorts of crazy. On the other hand, I thought if the doctors could name what I had, I could be mended. I was prescribed antidepressants, but warned they weren't a miracle fix and it'd take weeks for the full effects to kick in. I wished for an easy way to be cured. Like whatever was wrong with me could be surgically removed and the despair would be gone instantaneously.

On my tenth day of the program, I woke up feeling different. I decided it would be the day to stop feeling sorry for myself. My symptoms, since I'd begun eating a regular diet, were easing, and I was more energized. My inner anguish over stepping on the scale each morning had diminished. I didn't see the number, but I accepted my weight was climbing.

Normally silent during cognitive group therapy, I felt the urge to share with my friends. The goal of cognitive group therapy was to transform negative thoughts and behaviors into positive ones. During the session, the counselor, Mary, was discussing how we had to give up the idea of perfectionism and break away from the all or nothing way of living our lives.

Mary took note of my enthusiastic nodding as something clicked inside of me. "Kayla, did you have something you wanted to share?"

I cleared my throat. "Looking back at the past few months, I'm starting to understand why I wanted to be skinny so badly. I needed to be skinny because to me that meant I'd be perfect in my mother's eyes. She's been so unhappy since my father died; I thought if I could just be what she wanted, we'd both find a way to move on."

"Do you think it made her happy?"

"I thought so for a while. I received so much positive attention when I first lost weight. My mom kept going on about how great I looked, and my friends told me how envious they were of my body. It was almost addictive to hear their compliments. After so much time being told how fat and plain I was, I wanted to hear I was pretty.

"But I think I gave her too much power in our relationship. Why should my weight affect whether or not she's happy? Being thin isn't going to bring my father back to life," I said. I chewed on a hangnail as I felt the stares of the other patients.

Mary sent a nod of approval my way before segueing into another part of the group discussion. I'd been skeptical about the therapy, but I couldn't deny how good it felt to self-reflect over the destructive nature of the relationship with my mother.

Hours later, April and another patient named Chelsea gathered around my bed. I could tell by their expressions they were excited about something. April wasn't a major rule-breaker at the River Center, but she did have a tendency to push the limits. One of her new life goals, she'd stated, was to get me to loosen up.