Page 38 of Since She's Been Gone

After the nurse weighed us, she administered medication to the girls who required it—mood stabilizers, vitamins, bone density meds for girls like Emily who suffered from osteoporosis. She always checked the inside of their mouths to ensure they hadn’t secretly hidden any pills underneath their tongues to spit out later.

Then we headed to the dining room for breakfast, where Dr. Larsen was already seated. “Today is cooking day,” she announced.

We all groaned. Cooking is a minefield for those recovering from an eating disorder. ED’s rules stop sufferers from cooking and eating what they want. Instead, they focus on how to get away with eating as little as possible and, ideally, staying away from food altogether.

“Iris will lead our cooking session today,” Dr. Larsen told us. “After you finish breakfast, please go to the kitchen. She’s waiting for all of you there.”

“Since I’m not eating, I don’t have to cook,” I announced, lifting the Ensure bottle in my hand.

“Everyone has to cook, whether you’re eating food or not,” Dr. Larsen told me.

I rolled my eyes at her and took another sip of my chocolate cardboard-tasting shake.

After breakfast, we filed into the kitchen. Every cupboard was locked and childproofed to prevent girls from hiding pieces of food. I had a flashback to home when I hid snacks Dad gave me inside the piano bench. I wondered if he’d ever found them or if they were still there.

“Today, we’re making chili for lunch,” Iris told us. It was a smart choice because liquid food, like soups and smoothies, is hard to hide. She had all the ingredients laid out on a giant island in the middle of the kitchen.

“Before we brown the meat inside the pots, we need to add things to it,” she said, motioning to the ingredients. She pointed to one of the girls. “Please add the olive oil.”

She handed her a measuring cup filled with oil to add to the pot. The girl took it, terrified, as if the calories inside were contagious. She quickly tossed the oil inside and handed the measuring cup back to Iris.

As more girls tossed more ingredients inside, my anxiety rose because the ingredients were rapidly running out. I was most worried about being asked to stir the meat, worried about the steam hitting my face, worried about its calories.

“Beatrice,” Iris said.

“What?” I asked.

“Time to stir the meat.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She turned on the burner. I watched the orange-blue flame ignite below the pot.

“I’m not comfortable doing that,” I said.

“Why not?” she asked.

“I’m scared of getting burned,” I told her.

“I’ll lower the heat, and you can stand a foot away. There’s no risk at all,” she said.

“I don’t want to do it.”

“It’s not a choice,” she reminded me, knowing the real reason why I didn’t want to stir the meat. “You don’t overcome your fear of being inside an elevator by avoiding riding it. You get over it by riding the elevator over and over again.” She handed me the spatula and stepped away.

ED was all over me as I moved closer to the stove with the spatula.

“You didn’t have to take it from her, you stupid, worthless cow. You say you’re devoted to me, but you ate a hamburger and fries just to see your dumb dog. And now you’re cooking! I’m done with you, and once I’m gone, you’ll have NOBODY!”he screamed.

With my back facing Iris, I covertly placed the palm of my right hand on the side of the burner until I heard my skin sizzle and crackle.

“AHHH!” I screamed.

“What’s wrong?” Iris asked, walking up to me.

I removed my palm from the burner. A large throbbing white blister had already formed on the top layer of my seared skin. As painful as it was, I felt relief too, knowing I wouldn’t have to stir the meat.

Iris stood there, horrified, fully aware this was no accident.

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