A/N: This story, as you'll see, needs a bit of explanation. It was written as a birthday gift for Degrassidreamer, whose writing I admire, but more importantly, who also means a very lot to me as a friend. Therefore, certain sacrifices had to be made in order to make her happiest. ;0)
Baker Baker baking a cake
make me a day
make me whole again
and I wonder what's in a day
what's in your cake this time
-Tori Amos, Baker Baker
One minute I was lying here in my hospital bed, and the next, you were sitting next to me and my world shrank to the blue of your eyes and the movement of your lips.
"Emma."
Hearing you say my name still gives me chills. It always has. But it warms me, too--warms me to a temperature I haven't felt since the day I stopped eating. I have a million things I'd love to say but my tongue is clumsy and I can only nod.
I wonder who told you. I wonder why they told you.
"Manny called. She told me everything."
Well that takes care of that. You always were a mind reader. You knew when I was upset and you knew how to say what I needed to hear.
There's no pity in your eyes. I'm glad; I can't stand being pitied. But you know that, too, don't you? Still, I know there's one thing you won't understand. I need this. This is who I am now. And I can't let anyone take it from me. Not even you.
"She told me you were killing yourself," you continue. "I didn't believe her. But I do now."
"I--"
"No. You're not okay. You can't handle this, Emma. Not alone. This is where you need to be."
How do you still know me so well after not seeing me for more than a year? I've changed. I got an STD for god's sake. Yet here you are, countering my arguments before I can even get them past my lips. And somehow, coming from you, it's almost believable. Somehow it's just that much harder to believe that what I'm doing isn't a big deal.
"I want to go home."
"I know," you say quietly. "But you can't. Not yet. Please, Emma. You..."
And suddenly, you're crying. I don't know if I can remember you ever crying before. Of course, lately it's been hard to remember much more than my first name--but that doesn't change the fact that this isn't you. You've always been strong. For both of us. When I'm scared stiff, you give me the courage to pretend I'm brave. You give me the courage to believe in goodness in the world.
"You broke my heart."
Damn. Of all the words that could have come out of my mouth, why were those the ones?
"And I'm sorry. But Em, you can't punish yourself anymore."
"You think this is me punishing myself? You think that's what this is? Look at me! Look at me, Sean!"
The words keep tumbling out--the words I've wanted to say for so long, but have had no one to say them to.
"You're... you're beautiful."
"You don't have to humour me, Sean. I'm a cow."
Every time I say it, I believe it a little more. That's the thing--people think I mean it, but you know what? I don't. Or at least I didn't... Maybe if they think I think I'm just fat, they'll leave me alone. Maybe I can say I'm cured and then they'll go and I can control my world again.
But somehow at some point it all backfired and now I don't know if I'm as thin as I originally thought I was.
"You're Emma," you say, and my eyes drop down to your feet. You're wearing the same sneakers you've had since grade nine, since before we broke up.
"Am I?"
Suddenly I don't know anymore. All I can think about lately is food. Not the environment, not Manny, and not even Mom and Jack. Just food. Just me. Who is this Emma?
"I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted to. I'm sorry. Emma, I'm so sorry."
"Why are you here?"
"Because I don't want you to die."
Your words nearly stop my heart. How bad had Manny made it sound? How could you believe what they say? You're sitting here, staring at me, and... and you see me. You've always seen me--seen the real me. And it chills me to the bone to think that maybe you--and Manny and Mom and Dad and Peter (well, before he dumped me) and everyone in this godforsaken hospital--might be right.
"I'm not going to," I say, but somehow it's no longer easy to believe my own words. I can't think. I can't remember. I can't stand up without the room tipping and caving in around me. My heart jumps in my chest at random. And I don't feel light and airy anymore. I only feel the oppressive weight of the very oxygen that sustains me. "I--I don't want to. I won't. I can't. I'm fine."
Everything's unravelling now.
"Damnit, Sean! Why did you come here? Why are you doing this to me? I'm fine! I was fine until you showed up. Why are you hurting me?"
I try and think of something else to say, of some other way to express what you've done to my world, but before I can form a coherent sentence, I'm startled by your arms around me.
"We'll get through this." You whisper your sweet words into my ear, but I don't dare believe you.
"We? We, Sean? Just like we got through my Dad's cancer? Just like that?"
And suddenly I'm crying and you're rubbing my back. I flinch as your fingers trace the knobs of my spine--your hands are gentle through the two thin gowns, but it's not my body that aches at your touch.
"I've changed," you say, and I believe you. I saw you with Ellie last year, and even then you were different.
"You saved my life," I whisper, suddenly ashamed. "Last year. And I yelled at you. Why?"
"Because you're Emma. You're independent and you say what you're thinking. And that's the Emma I... love. That's the Emma that needs to come back."
The words don't come easily for you. I know you mean them--I can see it in your eyes--and I know how hard it's always been for you to open yourself up like this.
And suddenly, I think I get it. Except,
"What about Ellie?"
"Ellie... Ellie's moved on. She doesn't need me anymore. And I've moved on, too."
"You want to be friends?"
It was a test, and I saw your face droop before you covered over your disappointment.
"If that's what you want. But Emma... this--you can't. Please. Believe me."
It sounds pathetic and juvenile that you do so much for me, but I'd be lying if I denied it. You make me be honest. You make me face the truth. When you stole Dad's computer and I went after you? I had no way of knowing it was you. And you made me face that. When we were on our first date? I messed up. But you made me face the fact that it didn't matter--that I needed to have the courage to laugh it off and admit that imperfection is okay.
And now, again, you're making me see the truth. I'm not okay.
"I know," I whisper, and you know I know. But I'm scared--terrified. What if you can't save me?
"Em, I'll help you, okay?" I don't reply--I can't. I'm too caught up in the moment. And then you speak again, and this time there's a trace less tension in your jaw. "Happy birthday, by the way."
"What?" You startled me. I was expecting silence, I guess, or some murmurings related to the topic at hand. It was such a revelation that in any movie or TV show, it would have been followed by a long pause and then smiles of happiness. And then everything would have been okay and I guess maybe that's what I was hoping for. Most people don't know it, but I'm a dreamer.
"Happy birthday," you repeat, and I'm dismayed. My birthday was months ago. But once again, you read my mind. "I missed it. I know it's not your birthday. But I wasn't here for your last one, and, well, I just thought..."
You reach in your bag and I have to suppress a gag when you pull out two matching cupcakes. But you immediately look regretful and I force myself to smile.
"I'm sorry," you say, and it's clear you mean it. "It was a stupid idea. Manny said... and I thought she was wrong. I thought I could make you better or something."
Your cheeks are red. Most people don't know it, but you're a dreamer too.
I reach out and for the first time, for a fleeting moment, I see what others see. My fingers are chapped and red and my skin is stretched taught across my bones.
I dip the tip of one finger past the tough top layer of icing and down to the creamier sugar beneath. I touch it to my lips and savour the sweetness on my tongue, trying to burn away the calorie and fat figures taking over my mind.
And I reach up and I kiss you and you give me the strength the face the truth.
I'm not okay, but I will be. And that--that is okay.