“What do want on it?”
“Just
plain.”
“Okay.
What else?”
“Nothing,
thanks.”
He
pauses and I can see his knuckles turn white as he grips the steering
wheel tighter.
“You
don’t want a sandwich or anything?”
“No.”
My
dad shifts so he can look into the rearview mirror to see Jana sitting
in the back seat with perfect posture staring at the floor.
Trying
to remain calm he says, “You’re going to eat a plain baked
potato for a meal?”
“I’m
not that hungry.”
I
can tell he wants to persist, but he just sighs, rolls his eyes, and
sticks his head out the window, barking our orders into the scratchy
speaker.
I
look back at Jana, and she hasn’t moved at all. She sits with her
feet flat, her purse clutched tightly, her hands resting in her lap.
She stares blankly at the ground. She looks tired. She looks weak. She
looks hungry.
We
are on our way to drop her off at work, and we left early so we could
grab some lunch. The counselors recommend that we eat all meals with
her, so that way we know if she’s actually eating or not. I guess
you can call having a plain baked potato at Wendy’s eating.
As
we pull into a parking space I wonder why we didn’t eat inside.
The
doctors and counselors won’t let her play tennis or ice skate anymore.
She is sick.
She
puts up a really clever front. She’s always moving; she has school,
her job, and friends. But sometimes she’ll sleep for an entire
day. Sometimes she drinks a whole pitcher of Kool-Aid, since sugar is
her only source of energy. Recently, she got a cold and was down for
a week. She’s scaring the hell out of me.
Jana
looks down at her watch.
“I
need to leave. I don’t want to be late for work.”
“You
won’t be late. Finish your food.”
“I
am finished.”
Dad
turns his head and looks down at her baked potato.
“You’ve
barely touched it.”
She
doesn’t say anything.
“I
haven’t seen you take one good full bite.”
She
doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t
want to be here.
“Fine,”
he says starting the car, “but I have to use the bathroom first.”
He
slams the door.
“Don’t
you get tired from not eating?” I ask.
“I
eat.”
I
look at her. She stares right back at me.
“I
was the same way in high school,” a girl at work tells me later.
“I got very sick towards the end.”
“Why?
Why would anyone do that to herself? Why did you?”
“There’s
so much pressure to be thin in high school.”
I
grab my gut. “There is?”
“Not
for you, asshole, for girls. Especially younger ones like your sister.
The pressure is unbelievable.”
“What
pressure? What is so severe that no one would want to eat food? She’s
starving herself.”
“It’s
hard to explain.”
“Who
puts this pressure on her?”
“Everything.
Everyone. Your parents. Her friends. You.”
“Me?”
“Have
you ever made a fat joke? Have you ever seen a fat person and acted
disgusted? Have--”
“But
she was never fat.”
“But
she thinks she is. TV, movies, magazines; our society tells her she
is.”
“Don’t
people realize... Shouldn’t we... Shouldn’t we do something?”
She
smiles and touches my hand, “Don’t worry, she’ll grow
out of it. Promise.”
“I
hope so.”
