Sure enough, the first thing Marcia, who was pretty, skinny, and wearing the brown leather Frye boots I’d coveted for months, did was smile at me and the lump on the chair next to her. “Everybody, please say hello to Margot, Elizabeth, and Lexi.”
I smiled and tried to look like someone the other girls would want to be friends with. The lump/Margot didn’t respond. I felt guilty thinking about her that way, but I couldn’t even see her face. She really needed to sit up, at least a little.
“Let’s do a quick check-in,” Marcia said.
“See?” Willa mouthed. As we went around the circle, girls said things like “fine,” or “cold,” or “anxious,” or “sad.” One girl, Beth, said, “Excited! I got my feeding tube out yesterday.”
I said “nervous.” Margot said nothing.
The baseboard heaters creaked and groaned, but I was freezing. I should have worn another layer. I had goose bumps practically all the time, which made my lanugo stand on end. I sat with my knees curled up to my chest to stay warm. Most of the other girls did too, except for Margot, who sat with her arms across her chest, head down, legs splayed out in front of her. I’d never sit like that. It made my thighs look fat.
“A couple of days ago,” Willa whispered next to me, “we sat behind cardboard walls made from boxes and talked about what parts of ourselves we wanted to hide. That was the worst. I hope we aren’t doing that again.”
We didn’t. Instead, we filled out a worksheet to help us identify any emotions that might be hiding when we felt mad. Then everybody talked about it. It wasn’t so bad.
About forty-five minutes into the hour-long session, Marcia asked if Margot had anything to say. She looked up for a second, and our eyes met. My stomach dropped. Oh my God. I knew her. Her name was Margot Camby. She lived in Esterfall and went to boarding school. We’d taken ballet together when we were six. In the performance, we’d both been shooting stars, twirling each other in our light-blue tutus and silver ballet slippers as our parents took pictures.
Her eyes were desperate, trapped. Do something, they seemed to say. Help me.
What did she want me to do? I didn’t want to talk. At home I always went with the smile-and-nod approach, which I’d developed in my old support group. I’d joined after Dr. Brach, our family doctor, told Mom during my annual physical that I’d lost too much weight over the summer. He was the one who told her to sign me up. It met once a week in a plain room in the one office building in town. He’d also told Mom I needed to quit cross-country, at least until my weight stabilized. Even though Mom told him she thought I was fine, she obeyed him because, as I overheard her say to Dad later that day, “I didn’t want him to think I was a bad mother.”
Smile-and-nod was the best way to show you cared without having to contribute. The smile was key. It had to be upbeat, but not too yay-everything-is-awesome cheery, because the person talking might feel laughed at. It had to be sympathetic, but not wow-that’s-totally-how-I-feel, because group leaders lived for that stuff and would definitely call on you to “share your thoughts.” And you definitely couldn’t zone out, because that was rude and you’d get a reputation for either being self-absorbed and bitchy, or on too high a dose of antidepressants.
“Margot?” Marcia’s voice was a little more demanding this time.
“I hate this hair,” I blurted out, plucking at the thin layer of lanugo on my arm. I blushed. Of all the things to say, I chose that? I looked toward Margot, expecting a thank-you, but she’d gone back to looking at the floor.
Everybody waited for me to continue. I cleared my throat. “It doesn’t seem fair, you know, that you work so hard and you get this,” I said, holding out my arm as evidence. “I would have shaved it off, but the only thing weirder than too much arm hair is none at all. And now, here, I don’t even have the option.” Razors were sharp, and sharps weren’t allowed at Wallingfield.
You owe me, Margot.
A couple of girls in the room nodded, and I was relieved that they didn’t think I was crazy.
Beth raised her skeletal arm. You could still see the tape residue on her cheek from her feeding tube.
She smiled in my direction. “I totally agree, Elizabeth. This fuzz sucks.”
Willa leaned over and in my ear said, “Beth never smiles. She must be in a good mood because she got to walk to group. Up until now, she’s been pushed around in a wheelchair so she’d burn fewer calories and gain more weight.”
With her white-blond hair, Beth looked like a cross between an angel and a ghost. Her skin was so pale I could see the blue veins on her wrists.
Lexi spoke then. “Kids called me Amy Winehouse.” Ouch. Amy Winehouse was a rock star who died from alcohol poisoning. She’d been anorexic, too, with an unfortunate whorl of black hair right below each ear, like Lexi.
“I wore so many layers people called me a bag lady.” This came from a girl named Jean, who smiled at me as she spoke.
Willa leaned in. “She’s twenty-two. She’s from Canada.” Willa said this like it was a miracle or something. “She’s been here for eleven weeks. Everybody calls her a lifer because she’s been here for so long.”
Jean was tall and awkward, like a female Abraham Lincoln.
“She’s really nice, though. Maybe the nicest,” Willa said.
Then, without missing a beat, Willa turned to the group and held out her arms, which were covered with downy hair and parallel scars. I looked away. “I didn’t know…” She stopped herself midsentence. “I tried to shave mine off,” she said.
Everybody nodded. Suddenly the grubby, white-painted cinder-block walls, folding chairs, fluorescent lighting—even the whiteboard, which someone had ruined by writing YOLO on it with a Sharpie—felt warmer. For the first time, I felt understood. These girls got me. And yet … a part of me wanted to cry. This wasn’t normal. I wanted to be home, listening to Spotify with Katrina, studying for my SATs, reading Hamlet, and training for states with my cross-country team.
Marcia looked around. “Does anybody know why people with low body weight see more hair on their bodies?”
Practically every hand went up except mine. “Jean?”
“We grow lanugo because our bodies are trying to keep us warm.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Marcia said. Then she glanced at her watch. “Oh, darn it. I hate to do this, but unfortunately, our time is up. Please put your chairs away as you leave. Lunch in five minutes. Thank you, and I’ll see you all on Thursday.”
I sighed with relief. So far, the minutes passed slowly at Wallingfield. It felt like nothing moved fast, including us. When you moved fast you burned calories, and the goal around here was to expand, not contract. Willa had told me that if you moved too much or, God forbid, ran somewhere, the nurses made you drink an Ensure.
As I walked to the door, Willa slipped in next to me. “Hey,” she said under her breath, her voice so soft I could barely hear it. “I thought the hair was part of, you know, puberty…” Her voice trailed off.
“Yeah, well,” I said as nicely as I could, “it’s not.”