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I book a red-eye flight for tonight and text Eddie to let him know. I also apologize because we were supposed to go to the Four Seasons in Santa Barbara this weekend to celebrate our second anniversary, where we celebrated our first last year. He immediately texts me back not to worry, that we can reschedule our trip, and that he’s contacting Paul to see if I can stay with him and Anthony at their apartment in New York.
After a couple of minutes, Eddie calls me.
“I just spoke with Paul. His dad had emergency heart surgery last night in North Carolina, where his parents live. He and Anthony are leaving soon. They’ve offered to let you stay at their place and can leave you a key with one of their neighbors.”
“I think I’ll feel more comfortable staying at a hotel,” I say. I don’t tell him the reason why—that I’ll feel safer being around people than in an apartment alone.
“Okay,” Eddie says.
“Thanks for asking him,” I say, and we hang up.
Since yesterday morning I’ve gone from sadness to anger to sadness for being put in this situation. Now I’m back to anger again.
If Mom’s still alive, finding her is no longer just about warning her that she’s in danger. It’s about me being able to safely return to my life, which it doesn’t seem I’ll be able to do until I figure out what’s going on. People are following me. I don’t even feel safe being in my own home now.
I went through hell after her death and have worked hard to move past it and build a life for myself. And now, because of whatever web she got herself entangled in decades ago, that life is at risk.
I start packing.
CHAPTER21
February 1998
BY THE TIMEgirls arrived at Better Horizons, their entire lives revolved around their eating disorders. Their days were spent counting calories, obsessively focusing on their weight, measuring every inch of their bodies to see if they had lost or gained weight (at first, they always thought they had gained).
Doing chores allowed them to get back in touch with daily tasks that didn’t revolve around ED. The staff was mindful of assigning ones that weren’t physically strenuous, like folding laundry, dusting, or throwing out the trash.
Given my recent exercise compulsion, I was assigned the least strenuous task—folding brochures for the treatment center and inserting them into envelopes to be mailed to hospitals and doctors’ offices.
Emily was assigned the same chore because she had a feeding tube and needed to exert herself as little as possible. It was bad enough that I had to room with her after she had lied about ratting me out when I tried to run away, not to mention all of her constant digs that I had to suffer through about how she was more committed to ED than me. Now Iwas forced to sit next to her at the dining room table doing our chores.
While waiting for Dr. Larsen to bring the brochures, Emily was busy doing her daily compulsive body-checking ritual, seeking information or rather confirmation about her slight weight and size. Sometimes she’d feel her collarbones. Other times she’d measure her thighs with the palms of her hands. On this particular day, she placed her fingers around each of her wrists, meticulously checking their circumference to see if her fingers still fit around them with ample room to give.
Dr. Larsen stepped into the dining room with a stack of brochures. “Emily, please take your fingers off your wrists,” she told her. Emily dropped her hands to her side.
Dr. Larsen placed the brochures in front of us, took the top sheet off the pile, and laid it flat on the table to show us how she wanted it folded.
“The letterhead is at the top,” she said. “Visualize each sheet in thirds, one-third on top, one-third in the middle, and one-third on the bottom. First, you take the bottom third and fold it toward the top—”
“We know how to fold a piece of paper,” I cut her off. “My God, it’s not that hard.” I shook my head angrily. But what I was really enraged about was that she had put a stop to my exercising.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you two are doing.”
I rolled my eyes at her as she walked out of the room.
I wanted this over with as quickly as possible to get away from Emily, so I began attacking the pile of papers, folding one sheet after another without stopping while Emily was going at a snail’s pace.
“If you don’t start helping me, I’m telling Dr. Larsen,” I said.
Emily continued moving like a turtle.
“Did you know that folding paper burns calories?” I asked her.
She didn’t respond.
“Never mind, don’t help me,” I told her. “I’ll just burn more calories than you.”
She looked down, ashamed, realizing I was right, but she was still moving very slowly.
