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“The girl’s name was Emily, and she died while sleeping in that bed,” I said, pointing to Amanda’s new bed.
Amanda quietly took it in. “That’s fucked up,” she finally said.
I nodded in agreement.
During the rest of her stay, Amanda never refused any meals she was given, never asked for liquid supplementation, and never ended up on a feeding tube. She also never asked to be switched out of our room, despite learning that Emily had died in her bed. Maybe the healthy voice inside of her knew she needed to stay there as a reminder of her fate if she didn’t put up a fight against ED.
Emily’s legacy turned out to be not the one ED had envisioned. Her premature death had lessened his grip over another one of his victims. Not just Amanda’s, but mine too.
Emily had saved me once when she told on me after I ran away. Now she had saved me again.
CHAPTER29
Day Three
I’VE SPENT THElast five hours in my airplane seat, hyper-alert, with my overhead light turned on. But nothing’s happened, and no additional texts have come through.
Staring out the window, I watch the sun rise on a blanket of white clouds. Night turning into day. Every time I think about who or what awaits me in the Big Apple, my stomach turns.
I pull out my phone to text Eddie to let him know I’ll be landing soon, but he’s beaten me to the punch.
Paul just texted me. Change of plans.
His mom asked them to visit this weekend instead after his dad is out of the hospital.
He’ll pick you up curbside. Stay with him and Anthony.
Blue Prius, plate #: ZB31256.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I won’t be alone in New York after all.
I start texting Eddie back to thank him when a flight attendant loudly wheels a cart filled with food down the aisle.
“Pancakes or omelet?” she asks the passenger seated next to me.
“Pancakes,” he says.
She removes a sheet of tin foil from a tray, letting out a small cloud of steam, and hands the food to the man who rips open a white plastic package of syrup that he uses to douse three mini pancakes and an overcooked sausage link.
She turns to me, “What’ll it be, pancakes or omelet?”
Since Cristina Cadell blew into my office forty-six hours ago, I’ve eaten a frozen Amy’s Mac & Cheese meal, half a plate of spaghetti and meatballs with Eddie and Sarah, and one protein bar. I’ve also drunk one Diet Coke and several cups of black coffee.
When I first started restricting as a fifteen-year-old, I dranka lotof coffee—black coffee. It made my stomach feel fuller, helped suppress my hunger pains, and the caffeine kept my body functioning without food. Among anorexics, coffee is considered a “free” food because as long as you don’t add sugar or milk, it has little to no calories.
Over the last couple of days, whenever the healthy voice in my head has been there, reminding me that I can’t solely subside on black coffee and that I have to eat real food, ED has also been there quick to rationalize why I can’t:You’re too busy. Things are so chaotic now. How could you possibly eat with the stress you’re under?
“So what’ll it be?” the flight attendant asks me again.
“Coffee, black,” I say.
“The drink cart’s separate,” she says. “You’ll have to wait.”
Even better,ED tells me.
CHAPTER30
March 1998
