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There are three things, in my mind, that define and encompass me completely. The first and absolutely most important, is that Riley Mathews is my best friend. The second, just as absolute but far less mushy-gushy, is that I have an absent mother. No father. I'm not an orphan, but I might as well be all on my own, squatting in an abandoned, leaking, and hole ridden apartment.
The last thing that defines me- and only in my mind because no one else can know (even Riley), is that I control only one thing in my life.
I was seven when I decided to run away. I didn't get far because, two blocks away, I heard singing. It was very different from back home, where there was only ever screaming or deserted silences, mixed with the stench of beer and hard liquor.
I was seven when I decided to crawl through that window, met a little girl named Riley Mathews, and gained my best friend in the whole entire world. I was seven when I decided to stay- to experience more of this happy, innocent, precious, girl (when I got home later, well after dark, no one even notice I'd been gone for hours- no one was even home).
That was the first control I ever had over anything- no one to stop me from doing what I wanted (either running or staying), and it was then that I learned that the one thing I can control, is myself- and what I do with myself. Maybe not control over if my parents argue, or if they are there, or if there is food in the fridge, or holes in the walls, or leaks in the ceiling, if my dad leaves- but I can control my body.
I can control what clothes I wear, if I go to school or not (I usually do after I get Riley in my class), if I stay in my apartment, alone, or wander the New York underground. The biggest control I've discovered, though, is what I put in my body. Or don't put in it.
While I can't control the food I have access to, or when it becomes available, I have the control of NOT eating it. I feel… better when going from not having a choice in not eating, to not eating because I CHOOSE to. It's like something in the universe is being put right again.
Even if the aching hunger that carves into my stomach is a result of that choice. It's my CHOICE.
But if I set a number that I allow myself to eat each day, I can meet that number without fail. I can control the number if it's low enough. School always gives me food. Sometimes, something from the diner shows up in the kitchen- dropped off before mom is gone again, back to her shift. Sometimes Riley drags a bunch of food out after school or for a sleep over- the amount available to me always fluctuating- so I can't decide a number too high. It has to be constant- consistent- enough that I'll always have access to it- can always meet that number.
The only thing that's a sure thing is school lunch. So that's the amount that I set, that I eat each day, no matter how much more becomes available. Otherwise, I lose control. Again.
….
"Maya, have a seat!" Mrs. Mathews calls as I step out of the hallway into the open living area. No one blinks at me appearing from the depths of their apartment, unaccompanied, and not first showing up at the front door to be let in. Riley is already sitting down at the table, dressed for school and eating breakfast.
"I'm alright, thank you," I say immediately, ignoring the hollowness of my stomach. It's always there now. Even when half the time I feel a distinct lack of appetite, it's still there.
"I wasn't asking." She points her wooden spoon threateningly at the empty seat next to Riley before filling the empty bowl already waiting there. She's been doing this lately. Every morning. Setting a place for me.
I wonder if she's noticed- if she suspects. Which is ridiculous, because there's nothing to suspect. Nothing is actually wrong, but I don't want her thinking I have anorexia or something. I don't eat because I choose to, not because of some stupid body issues. I'm NOT anorexic.
I sit down and smile as Riley immediately snuggles up to my side, lazily letting her head drop to rest on my shoulder as she resignedly eats her own oatmeal.
It's not her favorite breakfast. She says it's tasteless and boring, but Mrs. Mathews likes making healthy morning food. Pancakes and other sweets are for special occasions and Saturday's mornings after I spend the night.
Saturday breakfasts are so good, I can hardly control myself- but I do, even if that one meal consists of everything I'll allow myself to eat until lunch the next day.
I stab at my oatmeal with my spoon, calculating how much I need to eat to appease the lawyer with, and how much I'd need to give up at lunch to offset what I do eat.
I decide two small bites should be enough, and I slowly chew each one, counting to seven in my head with each mouthful. But Mrs. Mathews doesn't stop watching me while I eat, and I'm forced to eat a third, fourth, then a fifth- and then I'm suddenly at seven, my bowl is empty, and I feel sick to my stomach. Nausea rolls through me, there is an abrupt cramp behind my ribs, and I shiver as a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.
But Mrs. Mathews seems satisfied and suggests we get going to school or we'll be late. I weakly heft my bag back onto my shoulder, feeling tired and angry that she essentially forced me to eat.
But I am still in control, because this is okay. I have a system, a quota, and I just won't eat at lunch.
….
By the time lunch rolls around, I feel even more woozy and tired and weak. I fall into my chair with my erratic heart in my ears.
"Are you okay, Maya?" Riley asks, looking over her pizza at me. It's greasy and soggy, and the cheese falls right off the bread when she picks it up. The smell makes my hunger pains worse and nausea further pronounced.
It feels like the churning acid in my stomach has moved up to the back of my throat.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I say, using my straw to absently squirt some chocolate milk onto my own slice. "Not really hungry."
"Oh, mom texted and told me to ask if you wanted to have dinner with us," she says suddenly, as if just remembering the request.
"You know my mom likes to come home for dinner on the weekdays," I remind her. It's a lie, of course. The only time I see my mother is when she comes home (if I stay up late enough), the rare weekend- or holidays, sometimes.
"Yeah, I know," Riley says, dropping her drooping pizza back to the tray in favor of the fruit cup, "but she wanted me to ask anyway." I stuff mine own into my pocket, so I can hide it for a later date that I might need in order to fulfill my quota.
….
"No thanks, Mrs. Mathews."
"Still wasn't asking, Maya," Mrs. Mathews says the next morning, even though I made sure to come later than usual, Mr. Mathew's has already left for work, and Riley is just finishing her breakfast. If we don't leave soon, we will be late.
"Seriously, Mrs. Mathews, I'm not hungry. I had a big breakfast." The room spins dizzily around me.
"Maya-"
"She said she doesn't want any, mom," Riley saves me, jumping up from her chair to grab her bag. "Besides, we're going to be late if we don't go now." She guides me out the door by the hand, and I clutch onto it desperately as the world tilts and my heart beats notably uneven against my rib cage.
"What's with your mom?" I ask, slightly breathless by the time we reach the elevator. I wonder if the film of cold sweat on my hands is noticeable. If it is, Riley's polite enough not to mention it.
"She thinks you don't eat enough or something and is trying to fatten you up. The other day, she was asking me what snacks you liked and how much you usually eat at our sleepovers, and if you eat all your food at lunch." My stomach drops even further, and a headache throbs behind my eyes. "She just worries. It's what moms do."
Not all moms. Black dots form in the corner of my vision, and it suddenly feels like the floor is trying to become the ceiling. I know that I'm standing up straight, but it feels like I'm falling, so I lean against Riley who's conveniently at my side as we wait for the elevator.
"Are you okay?" she asks as I sag against her.
"Just tired," I excuse. "I didn't sleep well." They aren't exactly lies.
It's now been 24 hours since I last ate. I should have taken at least a bite or two of Mrs. Mathews' oatmeal to tide me over to my main meal. I hope lunch comes around quickly.
….
I forgot today was P.E.
I hate P.E.
I hardly have the energy to walk from Riley's apartment to the subway anymore, let alone run a few laps around the gym.
"Sir, I'm not feeling very well today," I tell our teacher after he instructs us to start our warmup laps. "Can I sit out today?"
Riley hovers a few feet away, waiting for me to either run with her or go sit in the bleachers.
Coach Gleason scowls at me. "Hart, you're always trying to get out of physical activity. Now, I don't see a doctor's note, and you're not throwing up, so get running," he says, pointing at the court where the rest of the class is half-heartedly jogging laps.
Farkle has already stopped on the sideline, doubled over and gasping for air.
I turn away and start walking beside the court as Riley nervously run/walks at my side.
"Run, Hart," Coach Gleason shouts across the court, "or I'll give you an F for the day."
With an angry, irritable, huff, I shuffle into a jog.
I only get halfway around the court before the blackness that's been hovering at the edges of my vision, rushes forward and overtakes the rest of my sight. The ground, that I previously felt jarring up to my knees with every step, suddenly disappears- and down becomes up and up becomes down.
I hear, "Maya!" shouted above the noise of a train (and I didn't know that New York had trains), and then I lose consciousness before I realize I should be hitting the ground.
…..
I blink blurry eyes open to green-blue oceans staring down at me.
"Maya, hey," Mrs. Mathews says softly.
"Maya!" her daughter exclaims, much less considerate as she throws herself onto the cot with me, wrapping me up in her arms. I reflexively embrace Riley back, soaking in her warmth as she presses into my side.
"What happened?" I ask, glancing around as the world wavers. It takes me several seconds to recognize the nurse's office, and the nurse herself standing just off of Mrs. Mathews' shoulder.
"You passed out in gym class," Riley informs me, voice muffled tearfully against my neck. "You really scared me, Maya!"
"Sorry," I murmur distractedly. My thoughts aren't working quite right. It feels like they're floating just out of grasping reach. "Where's my mom? Did someone call her?"
The nurse and Mrs. Mathews exchange looks. "The school couldn't get ahold of her, so they called me. I'm listed as one of your emergency contacts."
"Oh." I don't know why I feel my heart throb, the ache spreading through my entire core. I know by now not to expect any differently. I know better than to hope for her attention, or hope for anything from her- including showing up.
"Here, drink this" Nurse Benoit says, reaching over Mrs. Mathews' shoulder holding a cup with an orange liquid that almost slips over the lid. The lawyer takes it from her and presses it into my hand after helping me sit up. Riley has to back off some, but she reaches out again to help me as the cup in my hand shakes horribly. "And this. Your blood sugar is far too low." Something else is pressed into my other hand, plastic crinkling. A granola bar.
"Maya," Mrs. Mathews says gently, turning her unsettling, seeing, NOTICING, eyes on me. I've never realized how unique they are- I usually avoid them. "Cory and I- Riley- we love you very much. You are so, so, important to us; I really hope you know this by now." It's leading somewhere- I know it is. And it comes a moment later. "Well, when you were moved here, Ms. Benoit noticed something concerning about your health."
My heart jolts chaotically, erratically, in my chest. I can feel it against my ribs, in my ears, throbbing in my throat.
This can't be happening. Control. I have control. I sip at the very sweet drink in my hands, but no matter how hard I concentrate, I can't stop the trembling in my hand. My anxiety spikes even higher.
"Can you tell me why you haven't been eating?" Mrs. Mathews requests so compassionately that, for a moment, I hate her. I hate her for not being my real mother, hate my real mother for not being here to have this uncomfortable, stupid, useless, conversation.
"I HAVE been eating," I say, ripping open the granola bar with my teeth and taking a huge bite of it. I'm so hungry, drool drips down the foil and across my clenched hand as I take half the bar in one go, and I quickly wipe it off on my pants.
"Honey, a lot of young girls have these kinds of problems. I know how it feels to look in a mirror and not see what you want to see. In college, I went through something similar. I went on unhealthy diets, not eating to lose weight, all the while hiding what I was doing. So, I know how… shameful it can feel, but it's not-"
"I'm NOT anorexic," I burst, temper spiking with each word the older woman utters. "I don't have freaking body issues, I'm not like you, and I'm not stupid enough to think I need to lose weight because I'm fat!"
"MAYA!" Riley gasps, ripping herself away from me for the first time… ever. Her absence has me quaking so hard that the cot rattles faintly beneath me.
"Wait," I croak as my own words register in my brain far to late- long after they left my lips. "Shit, shit, shit- I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm SORRY- I didn't mean it!"
Mrs. Mathews doesn't pull away like Riley did, she doesn't get mad- doesn't look upset. She wears that same mask of compassion as she reaches out and rests a comforting hand over mine.
The plastic cup slips from my fingers, spilling the orange drink over the cot and across the floor. No one moves to clean it up; no one scolds me for my language.
"It's alright," she says slowly. "…I'm sorry for assuming. But that doesn't change the fact that you are severely underweight. Do you want to tell me, then, the real reason you're not eating?"
I lower my gaze, unable to hold it any longer. I feel miserable- cold, nauseous, lightheaded, still, and Riley remains apart from me despite her mother giving me her supposed forgiveness. I've never found anything Riley hasn't instantly forgiven me for. Apparently, now I have.
I mumble dejectedly under my breath.
"Can you repeat that? I'm sorry; I didn't hear you," Mrs. Mathews says gently, squeezing my hand.
"It's the only thing I can control," I repeat, louder this time, glaring at the half-eaten granola bar in my hand and the juice splashed on my shorts. It should be about lunch time, now. I should be eating my government paid, school provided, meal. This is the schedule; this is what I had planned- it feels like my power is slipping- like bugs are crawling over my skin.
I pull out of Mrs. Mathews' grip, running the flat of my palms up and down each of my arms, trying to brush away the invisible bugs, and then rub them both harshly over my neck.
"The only thing you can control?" she asks, allowing my physical retreat, but unwilling to just let this go. Why can't she just let this go? "Can you explain, please?"
I don't want to; I just want to go home, but I give a jerky shrug and elaborate just enough to hopefully satisfy her. I feel obligated to, after what I said to her. All she's ever been, is kind to me; all she's ever done, is care. "My body. I can't control where I live, who isn't in my life, or what I eat. But I can control my body. I decide what I wear, where I go. How MUCH I eat."
"Why do you decide to eat so little?" she asks, not disgusted, not judging. Just trying to understand.
"Because it has to be CONSISTENT," I hiss, scrubbing harder at my neck, pressing harder and harder in agitation. There's this ache in my chest, this tickle on the inside of my skull- in my brain- that makes me unable to stop. I CAN'T stop, even when I think that maybe I should- I shouldn't be showing anyone this. I start obsessively making the clicking-grunt in the back of my throat that I try to only ever do when I'm alone or with Riley, hoping to just alleviate this ITCH, but no matter how much I do it, no matter what pattern I do it in, or what pitch, it just won't be soothed- my anxiousness only builds.
"Okay, Maya. Okay? We're done. We don't have to talk anymore right now. Okay? Calm down."
Riley is suddenly beside me again, momentarily forgetting the offenses I made against her mother, and pressing her hip against mine and looping an arm around my back.
I force myself to stop rubbing at my neck and, instead, crush the heels of my palms hard into my eye sockets until colorful spots dance across my eye-lids- and it's almost like I'm scratching at the inside of my brain. I keep clicking in my throat, trying my best to pretend I'm alone, until, after a long while, the compulsive itch finally eases enough to stop.
"Sorry," I murmur ashamedly, not daring to look at anyone's expressions. I resolutely keep my attention on my lap, vision still spotting with dots, as I slowly lower my hands from my eyes and rub them over my neck again. Then down my arms. One last time.
"Don't apologize, Maya," Mrs. Mathews says, rubbing a hand up and down my shin. I wonder how long she's been doing it. "You have nothing to be sorry about." I stare at her hand, rubbing up and down, creating friction, heat, pressure, on only one of my legs, and I feel the Itch. I reflexively reach out to rub furiously at the other one, using the same amount pressure, the same distance knee to ankle.
I allow a few more grunting-clicks in my throat even though I don't NEED to as much as a minute ago- but they've already seen. What does it matter?
Mrs. Mathews pulls her hand away from my leg, and I stop a moment later when they feel equal again, running both hands down them one final time. My sanity feels fragile and frayed.
"I'm taking both of you home for the rest of the day," Mrs. Mathews says. "Do you feel well enough to get your things?"
"Yeah," I say, swinging my legs out of the cot. The room still feels a bit floaty, but I don't feel like I'm going to pass out again if I stand up. The protein bar helped, even if I didn't get to finish the juice. I push to my feet, and the ground remains steady beneath me even though Riley jumps up, looking ready to catch me if I sway the slightest bit.
"Riley, can you hang back a minute?" her mom asks as I make for the door. Despite feeling very certain that they'll be talking about me, I don't look back as I make my way to my locker.
The end of lunch bell rings just as I'm pulling my bag out of my cubbyhole, and soon the halls are flooded with seventh graders.
"Maya!" Farkle exclaims as soon as he spots me, and soon all my friends are surrounding me.
"What happened?" Lucas asks staring at me in concern. It's a strange sensation, being under this much worried scrutiny from my friends, other than Riley.
"Low blood sugar or something- made me pass out. Riley and I are going home the rest of the day, but I'm fine."
"Tell the truth," Zay says, a giant teasing grin splitting his face, "Did you fake it to get out of class?"
"If I did, it's because Coach Gleason was being such a dick- and getting pulled for the rest of the day was just bonus," I play along, hesitating before deciding against stuffing the dense textbooks I might need for homework into my bag that.
They're too heavy, and it's not like I'm going to do it anyway. I'm just going to get a bad grade on it even if I try, so by not doing it, I'm choosing the bad grade.
It totally makes sense. Trust me.
"Peaches," Riley glomps onto me from behind, and because she used my nickname, I know I am fully forgiven from earlier. I can only assume it's because Mrs. Mathews told her how screwed up and crazy I am, and I'm not to blame for the mean words I say when I'm angry (or something of the sort). Riley's entire being exudes anxious worry. "Are you ready to go? Do you have everything?" She takes my backpack from my arms before I can respond, adding it to her shoulder with her own.
No one blinks at her over-the-top, doting, concern. It's just what she does- especially if it's me she's worrying over. So far, I haven't found anything she's not willing to do for me- including breaking her morals- and she does it all without a second's hesitation.
I'd do the same for her, obviously. Always- though I don't have many morals (she's the more moral one- her voice usually acting as my conscience).
"Yeah, Honey, I'm ready to go," I say, offering my elbow. Her arm immediately slips through mine, settling there like a comforting weight.
….
Mrs. Mathews makes us sandwiches when we get back to the apartment. I settle almost robotically in my seat next to Riley, and she places the two plates in front of us as I look up at her.
After learning everything she has, I wonder what she's thinking as she sits down across from me with her own sandwich. I twitch. Because that's Auggie's seat. She NEVER sits there.
I twist my rings anxiously around my fingers- pulling it off and pressing it down on each finger, one at a time.
"You missed lunch," she explains. "I'm not going to force you to eat it, but it's here if you want it."
I've only had a granola bar today, which I finished in a literal two bites. I haven't met my quota, so I pick up the sandwich and think about how much I need to eat of it.
It's a stacked sandwich, packed with meat and cheese and lettuce and tomato. I eat half. She doesn't protest.
"Thanks," I say when I'm finished.
"Maya," Mrs. Mathews begins, "What did you mean earlier, when you said it has to be consistent?"
"I MEANT," I shrug uncomfortably, "exactly what I said. I have to eat the same amount every day."
"Why?" Riley asks, shifting on the bench until she is facing me completely. She finished her entire sandwich. Her mom did too.
"BECAUSE," I say, frustrated that they don't seem to get it- don't understand. I twist, twist, twist my ring, put it on the next finger and twist, twist, twist until all eight are twisted, and then I pull at my thumbs, too, because the rings are too small to fit over them. "I just DO."
"What concerns me," Mrs. Mathews says, leaning forward across the table to try and catch my eye- but I studiously avoid it, determined not to notice again that she's not sitting where she should be sitting, "is how underweight your consistent diet is making you. When was the last time you've had a checkup with your doctor?"
"Um, never?" I start over in twisting my rings. Pointer, middle, ring, pinky. Thumbs. "Mom doesn't have insurance. We don't go unless we HAVE to."
"If I were to take you, would you go?" she asks. "I just want to make sure you are healthy."
I'm clearly not. Nothing about passing out from running half a basketball court says 'healthy,' but it's nice that she cares, and that she's not trying to force me. Or telling my mom. I'm not sure how my mom would react, but I think she might freak out. When she's present, she acts like she cares- which is a direct contradiction to every other time- when she's not present.
"Okay." If it will make her feel better.
The lawyer nods. "Then I'll set up an appointment. Why don't you go to Riley's room and get some rest? Since you won't be eating with you mother, you can have dinner with us."
I don't even bother arguing right now; I just want to get out of her line of sight and maybe sleep till morning. I make a break for the back rooms, leaving my half-eaten sandwich and the two female Mathews behind.
Riley enters the room a few minutes later, but I pretend to already be asleep when she stops by my side.
"Maya?" she whispers. I imagine sleeping people aren't so still, so I shift slightly and nuzzling deeper into my pillow with a hum. My next inhale brings a stronger whiff of my best friend, and despite trying to avoid her right now, it calms me. Riley sighs, and climbs into the bed behind me. "How did I not notice," she whispers, and I wonder if she guessed that I'm awake and only pretending, but with her next uttering, it becomes clear her words aren't directed at me all, but the ceiling. "She's my best friend- I should have NOTICED."
My chest aches from her words, and I want to turn over and reassure her that this isn't her fault- her knowing or not doesn't change anything, but I'm supposed to be asleep right now, so I remain still.
After another minute of just quiet breathing, Riley throws an arm over me, snuggling down into my side, and I fully relax into the bed. I'm asleep seconds later.
…
Mrs. Mathews shakes me awake, and I brush her hand off as I sit up with a yawn. Riley moans as she, too, shuffles into a technically upright position, blinking blurrily.
"Wha..?"
"You both slept through the afternoon. Dinner is ready."
"I'm not hungry," I say, flopping back down onto my pillow. I can smell whatever she cooked, wafting into the room from the hallway. It makes the hunger pains in my stomach even more pronounced, but I ignore it. If I ignore it long enough, it usually goes away.
"You need to eat something, Maya," Riley says, prodding me in my ribs, and I flinch.
"I don't NEED to do anything," I snap, twisting sharply away from her hand. I jab my fingers into my ribs on my other side in the same spot. "It's my body- you can't make me eat if I don't want to!"
She opens her mouth, looking ready to argue, but her mom stops her by laying a hand on her shoulder. I watch as Mrs. Mathews gives her daughter a pointed look, and the slump Riley's shoulders take.
"You're right- we can't force you to eat," Mrs. Mathews says, turning her attention to me once Riley is subdued. "But I'd really like it if you came and sat with us."
"Fine," I frown, still feeling tense. I think I should maybe apologize to Riley for snapping at her, but she only squeezes my hand when I look to her.
I follow them into the kitchen where the table is already set, including a spot for me with a chicken leg, rice, and broccoli already on my plate.
I sit down stiffly in my usual spot, across from Auggie and next to Riley.
"Hey, girls," my favorite teacher says cheerily. "How are you feeling, Maya?" I wonder if Mrs. Mathews has already told him what a freak I am.
"Fine," I say, twisting my rings.
"What happened, Maya? Are you sick?" Auggie asks, already spooning rice into his mouth and completely avoiding the veggies.
"No. I wasn't feeling well earlier, but I'm better now." I assure him.
"Okay," he accepts trustingly. "Do you wanna know what I did today?"
"Of course," I say, and listen as he goes on to list every single thing he did since leaving the apartment. It's not very interesting, but it gives me a direction to look, and keeps the conversation to safer topics.
Safer, at least, until he asks, "Are you not hungry?" looking at my untouched plate.
"Not really," I lie.
The youngest Mathews nods sagely. "I don't really get hungry when I'm sick either." No one corrects him.
When everyone is finished, my plate is packed away with the rest of the leftovers without another comment, and I relax.
"I made an appointment for tomorrow morning," Mrs. Mathews says before Riley and I can make an escape to her room. "Why don't you spend the night? I can call your mother and let her know."
"Sure," I say. "If she even picks up." If she even notices that I don't come home. I ignore their uneasy expressions and lead the way back to Riley's room.
…
The doctor's office is different than I was expecting. The cold is there, but I always feel cold. It's the bright walls that draw my eyes, color where I expect impersonal white. It's the smiling doctor with a gentle disposition that I stare at, when the cold, condescending, indifference doesn't come.
Sure, in the beginning, the woman only talked to Mrs. Mathews, but I didn't want to talk to her anyway. But when she starts doing things directly with me, she's talking to me openly and asking me questions and trying to meet my eyes.
I don't want to meet her eyes, so I watch my fingers twist my rings and squeeze my eyes shut over and over to itch my brain.
She doesn't pause or blink after I step off the scale, only going about listening to my heart and taking my blood pressure. I know that I eat too little, that it makes me tired, and my heartbeat weird, and sometimes I can't think right (who's going to notice- I'm stupid anyway), but I can't eat more- not sometimes and then not others.
Routines are important- everyone has them. This is mine.
"How much do you eat each day?"
"7 bites," I go ahead and tell her, because it's not like she can force me to change- to eat. I'm LETTING her look at my body, so that she can tell Mrs. Mathews that I'm not COMPLETELY starving myself- I've been doing this for years.
The doctor looks up at me in interest. I avoid her gaze and switch my ring to the next finger to twist. "You count bites? Not calories?"
I scowl. "No."
"So, 7 of anything? Does that only count for food?"
"Yeah," I say.
She rolls across the room, to a mini fridge, which she pulls open. "Do you like chocolate or strawberry better?" she asks.
I glance up, curiously, accidentally meeting her eyes. They're brown- the same color as her hair. "Chocolate," I say and drop my gaze.
She grabs something before she kicks it closed and rolls back over to me, shaking it on her way. She holds out a chocolate protein shake.
"Can you drink this for me?"
I finish twisting my thumbs before reaching out and taking the bottle, which she patiently holds, suspended in the air, until I grasp it.
It tastes wonderful, but makes the hollowness in my stomach somehow feel hollower, even as it becomes less empty. She watches me as I sip at the drink, holding it only with my fingertips between both hands. She doesn't appear to be in any rush to hurry along the visit (another thing different from my expectations), and she waits until I finish the shake. She tosses it in the trash when it's empty.
"Have you ever been tested for OCD, Maya?"
"OCD," I say, aghast. "Like, obsessively cleaning and washing my hands all the time? That's not me at all; I'm a complete slob."
The doctor nods slowly, attention fully on me (not distracted by a clipboard, or other commitments she has to attend to). She hasn't talked to Mrs. Mathews since the paperwork, and I keep forgetting she's there in the corner.
"When OCD is mentioned, people do usually think of germaphobes and people who clean all the time, and there are many OCD people who are like that, but that's not everybody. OCD means Obsessive Compulsion Disorder. The compulsion, like cleaning, can be anything that you do over and over, obsessively- because if feels like you HAVE to." She nods down at my hands. "Like twisting that ring."
My fingers immediately stop what they're doing and pull apart. "This- this is just a nervous habit." And then I feel the Itch, deep in my brain, right between my eyes, because I stopped on my ring finger- I didn't finish- and my fingers find my ring again.
Of course, it only makes sense to start over- I can't just start on my RING finger.
"That you compulsively have to do? Counting is pretty common with OCD, too. Your number seems to be seven," she nods to my ring again where I just finish my seventh rotation. I move to my next finger- my index on the opposite hand. "Seven twists, seven bites- do you count when you chew?"
"Well- yeah- but that's not why I don't eat. I had to choose a number and- it's just- seven is a nice number, and it fits."
"Fits what?" she asks me.
"My school lunch always has enough for at LEAST seven bites."
She regards me for several long moments, and I wonder if she's going to ask any more questions I've never had to explain or think about before.
"I'm going to give you the name and number of a friend of mine, a psychiatrist, that I'd like you to see. She can see about getting you an official diagnosis and help you get a handle on your more harmful habits. You can't go on eating as you are; you are already malnourished and this can have serious long term side effects, such as an increased risk of heart disease and other chest infections. You probably won't be as tall as you would have been with a healthy diet."
I can acknowledge that my priorities might be skewed, when it's my height that hits me the hardest, rather than the heart disease.
"I'd like you to come back in about a month, and until then, I'm going to give you a list of liquid supplements you should take in addition to your normal meals, and some vitamins to get you back into the levels you should be at. Don't worry, the vitamins I'll give you come in a powder that you can mix with water or your shakes, so they won't take away from your seven."
"Um-" I say, suddenly getting overwhelmed as she rattles off all these instructions, scribbling on her clipboard as she talks. "I don't think any of this is possible- I can't, my mom- she probably can't afford any of this stuff you want me to get- let alone seeing a psychiatrist."
"Don't worry about any of that, Maya," Mrs. Mathews says, stepping out of the corner to be at my side. She offers a reassuring smile. "I'll take care of it. We just want you healthy." The doctor turns her approving attention back to the adult, including her in the conversation again. She holds out the slip of paper she was writing on.
"I'd really like to talk to her mother in person and go over all this with her."
"Katie is… really busy and hard to get ahold of. But I'll go down to the diner myself and give her your number."
They exchange looks, JUDGING looks, but they don't know- don't get it- don't understand.
"My mom LOVES me," I bristle, drawing their attention so they can stop having that silent conversation. "She's a single mom with a crappy job, and she just has to work a lot. It's not her fault I'm screwed up."
Mrs. Mathews' arm slips around my shoulders, squeezing me against her side. "You are NOT screwed up, honey; no one is saying that."
"But you DO think she's a bad mom," I glare up at her, even as I lean into her support. Because she's the one who notice I wasn't eating. She's the one who took me to the doctors, is trying to help. She's the one who is HERE.
And I hate for it with the same fervor that I love her for it.
"I don't think she's a bad mom, Maya. I think she just needs some help sometimes, too. Like you. And I will always be here to help." I sigh, haltingly bringing my arms up to return the embrace as I burrow into her side. Her hug is almost as good as her daughter's. "So why don't we go pick up these shakes and see about calling this psychiatrist?"
"Okay," I say after another moment of thought. I wonder why I'm being so compliant.
…..
"I'm NOT anorexic."
"Anorexia nervosa is a lot more complicated than most people think. While the overwhelming majority of people afflicted with it obsess about losing weight and counting calories, there are people who do it to exert control when they feel like there's nothing else in their lives that they have control over. And for you, this is exacerbated by your Obsessive Compulsions- having the sameness every day- seven bites- seven chews between each bite. A lot of anorexics are also obsessive compulsive- like you- but it's their reasons for the compulsion that make them different from you. But it's the same result, isn't it? The result is: you don't eat. You just count bites instead of calories."
…
"How have you been this week? Anything you want to talk about?"
"Riley treats me differently, and I hate it. She watches me more- when I eat, when I start messing with my rings. I used to always make this noise in the back of my throat- she's the only one I let myself do it around, and she never acknowledged it before- it was just me making noises- but now she stares and it makes me self-conscious."
"Give her some time; she's looking at everything you do in a new way- just like you are."
"I know, and yeah, I get it. But she also stares when I actually do eat, and asks like, five times a day if I remembered my shakes when she WATCHED her mom pack them for me. I think our other friends suspect something is up, and if they ask her, it will be a disaster. She's a TERRIBLE liar."
…..
"Mr. Mathews told Auggie that I have a sickness, and that's why I have special shakes and don't eat a lot."
"That is technically true."
"I guess. I've just never really thought of it as an illness. I chose to not eat more than I do on purpose. I control what I do or don't eat."
"Your desire for control over your body is what's making you sick. Why do you choose to eat so little?"
"Because that's all I know for sure that I'll have to eat each day. Seven bites is all that is consistently available to me, so that's all I eat even if more happens to be an option sometimes."
"Is that still the case?"
"What?"
"Is it still the case that, at the minimum, only seven bites are available to you each day?"
"…No… I guess not…"
…..
"How are we this week?"
"I feel really really anxious."
"I can see that. Want to tell me why?"
"I had 14 bites today. I feel like something really, really, bad is going to happen."
"What bad thing could happen because you ate a little more than usual?"
"I don't KNOW… Maybe, all this will fall apart and it will go back to the way it was before."
"Before?"
"Before the protein shakes and vitamins and having three full meals offered to me every day by people who I feel like love me more than my own mother. And I love them so freaking much, too, but it feels like, once it looks like I'm getting better, they'll want to just go back to the way things were. It feels like it won't last. GOD, I want it to LAST."
…..
OCD. Anorexia nervosa. Anxiety disorder. Those are the words that run through my head now, each day, with everything. Because those are the three things that pretty much encompass my entire life.
OCD whenever I twist my rings- when I click my throat- bleeding into anxiety when the Itch doesn't go away and I rub at my throat and try to press my eyeballs into the back of my skull. OCD bleeding into Anorexia nervosa as I stare down at a full plate- which bleeds into anxiety as my mind tricks me into believing everyone in the room is watching me- waiting to see if I'll eat or not.
But they aren't watching me- not really. There was a pause the first time I came home with an empty lunch bag, and then proceeded to have seven bites of dinner with my evening shake. The pause didn't last long, though, and nothing was said of it- and after three consecutive days of adding another meal to my day with nothing else changing, I manage to relax a bit.
After the first few weeks, meals with the Mathews aren't a big deal at all to even Riley. It becomes routine, and I get very comfortable with my routines.
It becomes something that exists, but something that we don't talk about past asking if I'm ready to go to therapy, or if I feel like a strawberry or chocolate shake with my lunch today.
So, it kind of surprises me when Riley brings it up weeks later, when everything is normal and calm and routine.
I lie in the bay window, butt going slightly numb, and I use her thighs as a pillow. One of her hands is captured in mine, and I turn it back and forth in my field of vision, trying to look at a new angle I can draw on it. Doodles litter her arm all the way up to the elbow, but it doesn't feel done yet.
As I turn her hand, my fingers rest over her pulse, counting, trying to imagine my own heart being so regular and steady. I can't feel mine right now, but I've noticed that it's not as chaotic lately. It no longer randomly races or skips several beats in a row without reason.
The pulse under my fingers flutters briefly, and I glance up to meet my best friend's nervous eyes. Her other hand pauses in my hair when she notices my attention. She hesitates a moment, before resolve steals across her expression.
"You know you're the most important person- thing- in my life, right?"
My pen wavers just above an unfinished sun on the back of her hand. Then I turn all of my attention to it and Riley starts combing through my hair, again, with her free hand.
"I know. And you KNOW you're the most important person in my life, too. The apple of my eye- light of my life- my heart and soul- my beloved little plant-"
She laughs, tugging reproachfully at a lock of my hair. I add little sunglasses to my sun, and then start a winding vine that twists around her wrist and ends in a blooming flower in her palm.
She scratches her nails gently over my scalp, and I close my eyes, soaking in the momentary peace where there is no anxiety, no itch, no aching hollowness.
"Then why didn't you tell me what was going on?"
I sigh, opening my eyes again to stare up at big, pleading, brown ones. "I don't know, Riley. Maybe I thought I was protecting you or something… or… Maybe I didn't think you'd get it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You have this… perfect life. A mom AND a dad who love you more than anything- who are HERE for you. A brother who adores you. You're so smart-"
"You're smart too, Maya-" she tried to interject, but I don't let her.
"No, I'm not, Riley. You wonder why I don't do my homework- well it's because I'm just going to fail at it anyway. You have this nice apartment; your refrigerator is always full of food- how can you understand? How can you get it?"
She hesitates, expression looking hurt. "You can explain it to me."
Her pulse drums steady and strong under my fingertips. She doesn't blink, doesn't back down, and maybe she isn't the innocent, fragile, flower I'm always careful to leave in the sun, and water, and do my best to keep from any harm.
"It's like…" I lick my lips. "Okay, so, obsession is like- when we watched the first three episodes of Red Planet Diaries, and you got completely hooked- and we watched the entire two seasons in two days, but even after we finished- it wasn't enough. You obsessed over it for, like, an entire two weeks- reading all this fanfiction on it, looking at fanart, talking about it all the time. That's obsession. Imagine that except… more. Because then there's the compulsion. Imagine that feeling about blinking, or making that noise I do, or twisting a ring- and it's all you can think about and you HAVE to do it and if you don't, or you can't get it right, then you just feel the anxiety getting worse and worse- and it feels like you're going to have a break down and you just… panic. Panic like… like that time your parents asked us to watch Auggie at the fair, and we turned around for, like, two seconds- and then he was gone and we couldn't find him."
Riley's attention is absolutely riveted on my face. Her hand is still in my hair. Her pulse is quick, fluttering under my fingertips.
I'm trying to explain it as best I can, but it still doesn't feel like I'm getting it across quite right.
"Oh-" Another experience pops into my head to draw from. "Or- remember that time your dad took us camping, and we ended up making camp in a clearing of poison ivy and didn't realize it for two days? Imagine that itch- but instead of it on your skin, it's inside your brain."
"And that's why you don't eat?" she asks, brow furrowing. "Because of the… itch?"
She doesn't understand. But that's okay. She doesn't need to, and I wouldn't want her to, either. "Partly," I shrug. "Mostly, I just want control over SOMETHING in my life. But, I guess, I don't really have as much control of my body as I convinced myself."
Riley's hand starts moving through my hair again, and her tattooed one twists around to hold mine. The pen slips through my fingers and lands on my stomach, where it's forgotten.
"…When did you start restricting your food so much?"
"About four years ago, now?" I think back, remembering the vindicated spite I felt rejecting the food (even though I was hungry) instead of going to look for food in the fridge, only to find it empty, or walking through the door each evening not knowing if I'll be surprised with a takeout box from the diner or not each night. I stare up at Riley's face, the evening sun making her glow gold. "You know it's not your fault, right? You couldn't have known."
"I should have."
"I did my best to make sure you didn't," I say firmly. "I don't even know how your mom found out."
She hesitates, brows furrowing. "I heard her tell dad that she went down to the diner to talk to your mom a while ago, and she found out that you were lying about her eating dinner with you."
"Oh."
….
"Can we adopt Maya?"
I choke on my bite of potatoes, losing track of how many chews I've done as I wheeze for air. I swallow the large bite in a thick lump, eyes watering as I look toward Auggie who sits across from me, innocently picking at his food.
"You can't adopt me," I say clearing my throat over and over, but it still feels like my airways are blocked no matter how much I do it. I drink a few gulps of my water.
"Why not?" he asks, and I turn wide eyes to the rest of his family.
Three forks hover in the air as they look toward me, an invested curiosity plastered on their faces. They don't offer any words to save me, and I turn back toward the young boy that sees too much (like his mother).
"Cause I already have a mom," I say, clenching my hands into fists in my lap.
This seems to make him think. "Well," he reasons, "Can't you have two moms? This kid in my class, Emery, has two moms."
"That's not really how it works," I stutter, feeling far too flustered with this conversation. I wonder why it's the six-year-old that I have the most trouble interacting with in this family.
"Oh," he frowns in disappointment, and my pulse thrums strong and quick in my veins. Because it sounds like he wants me. "But you'll be my sister, at least, when you and Riley get married, right?"
My heart stalls and then slams against my chest cavity. "Married?" I stutter, voice raising several octaves. "Who said anything about getting married?"
"Riley did," he points across the table. "She said she was going to marry you one day."
The table jolts as Riley slams her knees against it, fork clattering as she twists her body to face me. "I was obviously joking," she says, waving her hands and laughing past an uncomfortably wide smile- in that nervous way she does when she's panicked.
"You were sitting in the bay window talking to Beary-the-Bear bear while writing in your diary."
My cheeks burn as Riley slaps her hands down on the table and glares across it at her brother.
"You little teddy bear murderer- why were you spying on me?!"
"I'm a Superspy!"
I watch them argue back and forth, thoughts stagnant, and when I look to the elder Mathews for direction on what to do- how to handle this- they are again of no help. Mr. Mathews gapes at his daughter, but Mrs. Mathews' eyes remain glued to me. She looks entirely unsurprised, expression only painted with a silent question lifting her eyebrows- as if asking 'well, what are you going to do about this?'
I turn my attention back to my plate and pick up my fork. I don't remember how many bites I've already had, but I shovel the next one into my mouth, carefully chewing the now tasteless meal to the count of seven.
I decide to ignore it- that this is a whole other can of worms that I don't want to open just yet- a conversation I don't think I'm quite ready to have (especially not in front of the entire Mathews clan).
But with or without that particular conversation, I'm pretty sure this, what I have right now, will last no matter what.