September, 1986

Michael looked out the kitchen window at the gray morning clouds rolling in off the ocean as he waited for Lindsay to come downstairs. It had been almost a month since she'd passed out. He'd panicked and called 9-1-1, which she'd been very angry at him for doing when she woke up shortly after the EMTs arrived. Even worse than the terror of not being able to wake her up was how little she seemed to care afterwards. He remembered the look on her face when she was eating the candy the EMTs had given her to raise her blood sugar, like it was torture. He couldn't understand how she could care more about that than the fact that she'd passed out. She'd never exactly been a reasonable person, but it was still shocking after spending his whole life with her to see her thinking so irrationally.

To his immense relief, the EMTs had convinced their mother to make Lindsay see a doctor the next day. Physical examinations showed that her body weight was only 85% of what it should be and her bone density was abnormally low, and after interviews with her and the family she was diagnosed with anorexia. This finally convinced their parents that she needed help, and when their father returned from his business trip they put her in an intensive outpatient treatment program, which meant that she was now spending four hours a day, four days a week in therapy and nutritionist sessions.

Surprisingly, besides complaining about the amount of time she had to spend there, Lindsay was initially fairly cooperative. But after about two weeks Michael realized she was secretly skipping meals and appointments whenever she could get away with it. Since then he'd taken a much more active role in making sure she ate three meals a day and didn't exercise compulsively. Unfortunately this had put a strain on their already rocky relationship. They were now constantly arguing and she was avoiding him more than ever. He tried not to let it bother him since he knew she was struggling, but it was hard not to feel hurt and somewhat unappreciated. She hadn't once thanked him for doing most of her homework for her so she would have time for treatment, which was particularly difficult since it was on top of the five AP classes he was taking, not to mention college applications.

He wasn't getting any appreciation or support from his parents, either. His father was genuinely trying to help, but he seemed to want to solve the problem by throwing money at it and leaving Michael to do the rest. But he had been helpful in paying for the most expensive treatment facility in the O.C., and having J. Walter Weatherman jump in front of Lindsay's car when she tried to go to the beach instead of therapy. His mother wasn't doing anything to help, but she had at least stopped talking about Lindsay's weight, which was probably doing more good than anything else.

Michael looked up as Lindsay came down the stairs, pulling her hair up into a ponytail as she walked. Lately she'd abandoned her usual elaborate hairstyles for less work-intensive alternatives, though she was still wearing a Swatch watch as a hair band. She looked like she was in a particularly bad mood this morning.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Michael asked her as she walked into the kitchen.

"Yes," she said, rolling her eyes.

"When? I didn't see you."

"Oh my god," she groaned, pushing past him to get to the door. She opened it and stepped outside into the cloudy morning. "Let's go," she said when he didn't move.

"Come on, you've got to eat something."

"I told you, I did," she said through clenched teeth.

"No, you didn't!"

"Why do you have to be so damn controlling?!"

"I'm not trying to be controlling," he said, taken aback. "I just—I want you to get better, I care about you."

"Oh, please," she said poisonously. "You're not doing this for me, you just like to think you're saving me because it makes you feel good about yourself, it's pathetic."

Michael blinked. "That's not true," he said, a little stunned. "Jesus, Linds, that's not true at all."

"Whatever," she sighed, and set off down the pathway. She stopped at the gate and turned around. "Come on," she said impatiently. He hesitated, then followed her down the pathway and through the gate into the driveway. As they wordlessly got into the car he realized she still hadn't eaten breakfast, but he decided it was probably best to just let this one go.

He turned over what she'd said as she backed out of the driveway and drove up the winding road. Things had gotten pretty bad between them but she'd never said something like this. It was hard not to feel angry at her, after everything he'd done for her. He hoped she didn't actually think that and that she was just trying to distract him so she could get away with skipping breakfast.

He looked over at her. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the road in front of them, her expression stony. He thought he saw her eyes flicker over to him for a second, but then she was determinedly staring ahead once again.