Of course “we” did.
Mary continued. “So, every day we gather in the dining room for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There are three snacks scheduled throughout the day—morning, afternoon, and after dinner. Meals last forty-five minutes, snacks twenty. For the first few days, your nutritionist, Sally, will set your menu, but after that you’ll work together to create your food plan. At each meal you’ll find a menu check sheet on your tray. A nurse will make sure you’ve eaten everything. Any questions so far?”
I shook my head. She didn’t say what would happen if I didn’t eat, and I didn’t ask. I’d read about places like this online, how they required you to eat every single thing they put in front of you, how they punished you with super-fattening nutrition shakes if you didn’t.
Mary kept talking. “Weights and vitals is every morning from six to seven. Since it’s your first day, we’ll also do a medical intake, like a physical, later today. Oh, and at some point we’ll take you to get a bone density test.”
A bone density test? I didn’t need one of those. My bones were fine. I ate yogurt. And why did they need to weigh me so soon? They knew my weight already. They wouldn’t have admitted me otherwise. I shook my head. No. No weighing.
Mary watched me, her face soft and knowing. I recognized that look. It was the same look my friends Priya and Shay always gave me at lunch at school. They felt sorry for me. Sometimes, when I left the table, I saw them bend their heads together and whisper.
Mary put her hand on my shoulder. I flinched and she dropped it. “I know this is hard, Elizabeth, but we weigh everybody. Every day. It’s an important part of recovery.”
Mom piped in, “Does she get to know her weight each morning?”
“No,” Mary said. “We don’t reveal numbers.”
Mom frowned. She probably wanted me to know so I wouldn’t gain too much.
Once, at lunch, Priya asked me if I was anorexic. I didn’t know what to say. I’d hoped that maybe I was, because of the lanugo and all, but to have someone else actually say it? I felt like dancing right then. But I couldn’t admit that. No one was supposed to want to be anorexic. So I’d said, in as sarcastic a voice as I could muster, “Obviously, no. Have you seen my thighs?” Priya didn’t push the issue after that, and I spent the rest of the day smiling.
“… alarm clock?”
“Sorry?” I’d completely spaced.
“Did you bring a cordless alarm clock?”
We’d bought one at CVS on the way; everybody I knew, including myself, used our phones’ alarms, but Wallingfield didn’t allow anything that got Wi-Fi. Or had cords. I guess so we wouldn’t strangle ourselves. I nodded.
“Great. So lunch is at noon,” Mary continued. “I’ll give you your daily schedule after lunch, but it goes pretty much like this: group therapy three or four times a week, individual therapy with me twice a week, family therapy—either in person, on the phone, or in a group setting—once a week, and various other types of activities, such as dance and art, scattered in as well. We do meal support therapy after lunch and dinner. Oh, and we got another admit today—did you meet Lexi in the foyer?”
I nodded.
“Great! She’s going to be your roommate.”
I shrank into myself a little. No one told me I was going to have a roommate. And Lexi? The angry girl? I shot a look at Mom. I bet she’d known. But her face looked as surprised as mine.
How could my parents leave me here?
Mary continued on. “Now, I haven’t seen your schedule, but my guess is that you’ll likely start with a group session today. Our first individual therapy session is set for the day after tomorrow. Tonight we have free time. On other nights it varies; there might be activities, or arts and crafts, or group sessions. It will all be on your schedule. Any questions?”
“Are there boys here?” I hoped not. I’d read that some programs were coed.
“No. This adolescent and early adult program is for girls only. We have a coed program in Building Three for ages twenty-five and over.” She paused. “We’ve talked about including boys, though. Their rate of anorexia is rising. But for now it’s just girls.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved. Being here was bad enough. Being here with boys? I couldn’t even imagine it.
We followed Mary around the facility until we ended up back at the common room, with its line of bedroom doors. She stopped in front of the only bare door on the hall, number 16. Bits and corners of Scotch tape littered the dark brown wood, the only sign of the girls who’d come before me.
Inside were two normal beds stripped down to the plastic mattress pad. Morning sun filtered through the curtains on the single window; outside, I could see our maroon Honda in the parking lot. A nightstand with a beige lamp stood between the two beds, and across from it was another door, closed. Mary pointed at it, her bracelets clinking. “Bathroom,” she said. “You share it with the room next door.” The whole setup reminded me of a hotel, which, weirdly, made me feel better. I didn’t need a “real” bedroom. Wallingfield’s website said that the average stay was a month, but there was no way I’d be here that long. I wasn’t that sick. I was just a little bit anorexic. All my body needed was a rest. I’d be out of here in a few days—a week, max.
The room had gone quiet. Everybody stared at me. “Okay, Elizabeth?” Mom asked. I nodded like I had a clue.
“I’ll give you a minute to get settled,” Mary said, closing the door on her way out.
When Mary left, Mom dove in. She rolled up her cashmere sleeves and opened my suitcase just like when they sent me to sleepaway camp in middle school. She pulled out my favorite sheets, my gray wool blanket, and my purple-and-blue-pinstriped duvet. She stretched the sheets tight and snapped the duvet up and over the bed. The room filled with the smell of our fabric softener, a scent I loved. After she fluffed the duvet, she reached into her purse, brought out a gray stuffed dolphin with only one plastic eye, and leaned him against a pillow. Flippy. My favorite from when I was little. I thought I might cry. I looked at her, questioning.
“The ‘What to Bring’ list said a stuffed animal,” she said defensively.
Our eyes met, mirror images of each other. We’d always looked alike—the same straight brown hair, the same cheekbones—except she’d been the thin one. I got my dad’s genes, my grandma liked to say, which meant I vacillated between average and chubby, depending on whether it was cross-country season or not. Now, though, I was skinnier than Mom. Even in this room, I was proud.
She reached out to touch my cheek, her hand soft on my always-cold skin.
Mary knocked and entered. Mom’s hand fell to her side.
The room felt crowded now. “You look settled,” Mary said, then smiled at Dad. “Will you be joining us for snack?”
Of course he’d stay. He’d stay until Mary told him to leave. I knew it.
“No, thanks,” he said.