I reach down and touch my thin knee. The therapist keeps talking, but I'm not listening. Does my knee look bigger than it did yesterday? No. I can't keep thinking things like this. My knee should look bigger. It's much to skinny. That's what the people at the hospital say anyways. But I don't want to have a fat knee. And I most definitely don't want to be fat.
Manny says I'm crazy. That I'm way too skinny. She comes to visit me after school is over in the hospital. Sometimes Peter comes too. I tell them I'm trying so hard to beat this disease. I was diagnosed anorexic a week ago. I'm stuck in the awful hospital and I've been attending therapy daily. All I want to do is feel good about myself again, like I used to. I just want to go back to school and be normal. I want to eat, I do, but this thing in my head is telling me I can't gain anymore weight while the nurses and my family are telling me quite the opposite.
"What do you think about that, Emma?" Dr. Fields asks me. I snap back to reality and stare at the psychologist blankly. What was she talking about?
"Huh?" I mutter. "Sorry, I…."
"Emma, you haven't been very concentrated during our session today. Anything on your mind you need to discuss?"
"No, Dr. Fields," I smile sadly. "I'm just tired." I flip my blonde hair over my shoulder and glance at the ticking clock on the wall. Five more minutes of this terrible, boring, pointless therapy.
"Have you eaten today, Emma?" she asks me.
I nod quickly. Of course I have. The nurses here watch over me like a hawk after they give me my meals. Plus, they stand my the bathroom door to make sure I don't throw up after I eat. How dare they think they can just take someone's privacy away like that. It's humiliating and depriving of my personal space.
"Okay," Dr. Fields smiles at me. "I guess we can finish our session early today so you can go get some rest." I quickly stand up and say goodbye as I head out the door.
Mom is sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Fields' office, reading a magazine when I come out. "Hi, sweetie," she smiles. "How are you?"
"I'm okay."
Mom grabs my hand and squeezes it quickly. "Let's go back to the hospital, Em. Manny called and said she'd be there in a couple hours to bring you your homework. And Peter is coming to visit too."
"Great," I say lifelessly as Mom and I walk out the door and to her car.
As we get in the car and begin our decent to the hospital, I glance at my mom and blurt out. "When can I go back to school, Mom? When can I go home?"
Mom looks at me out of the corner of her eye. "Snake and I want you to stay at the hospital until you don't have to be forced to eat. You're still sick, Em. Everything we're doing is to make you better." she replies coolly.
"But I am eating, Mom!" I shriek. "I'm better now and I want to go home. I hate the hospital."
"You're not better until Dr. Fields says you are, Emma."
I huff and cross my arms over my chest. How could she say that? She doesn't know how I feel. And actually, I feel great. I could eat all day and not worry about how much weight I'd gain if I did. But I would probably have to run a few miles after that. And maybe do some aerobics too.
Mom turns sharply into the hospital parking lot and parks. We get out but I refuse to look at her. I'm furious with her. She doesn't understand anything. She doesn't even understand why I starved myself in the first place. She doesn't understand that I'm better now and that all the feelings of wanting to puke whenever I swallow a piece of food is gone now. Well, I think.
My mom follows me into the hospital. She checks me in and we make our way to my room. It's a tiny room with white, plain walls. There's a hospital bed at the front of the room and a small TV in the right corner. This room is so depressing. How can I possibly recover in this place?
"Welcome back, Emma!" an overly cheery nurse named Melanie exclaims, waltzing into my room with a tray of steaming soup, a loaf of bread, and vegetables. "Here's lunch!"
I crawl into my bed and carefully take the tray from Melanie and place it in my lap, staring at the food, disgusted. I cannot eat this. I can feel my stomach growing, my thighs getting larger and larger. But I have to shove the bread down my throat as Melanie and my mother hover over me, waiting for me to finish my lunch. I eat quickly. Mom tells me she's going to go get Jack from preschool. Melanie says she's going to go take care of another patient quickly and tells me she'll be right back.
As soon as the door closes behind them, I grab the nearest object-a pink paper bag that previously held a stuffed animal and a get well soon card that Peter got me a few days ago-and shove my finger down my throat. I cringe at the taste of my own vomit as it comes out of my mouth and drips down into the bag, but smile as I think of the food that I did not digest. The fat that won't be going to my hips or thighs. My skinny body staying skinny.