daughter, Dana realized she could no longer indulge in that fantasy about waking up with upgraded parts. There were no do-overs. Ruined teeth would never be new, a middle-aged body would never be young again, a collapsed marriage would never go back to the point before you knew it was over.
As she pulled in to the safety of her own driveway, Dana could hear her mother’s raspy voice saying, You play the hand you’re dealt. Then Ma would glance at her husband sitting in the far corner of the couch staring blankly in the direction of the television, and take another drag of courage from her Marlboro Light.
CHAPTER 7
T HE ISSUE OF WHAT TO DO NEXT.
Should she talk to Morgan now? And say what, exactly? “Please stop making yourself vomit, honey. It’s ruining your teeth”? Or maybe, “WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE THINKING?” Or should she be honest and say, “I’m so sorry that I’ve obviously failed you in some massive, bottomless, irretrievable way”?
No, probably not.
Dana had spent the last twelve years feeding her children. Within moments of their births, she had nursed them. Since then she’d spent hours of every day planning, buying, preparing, and offering meals to them. She’d imitated a wide variety of vehicles as she drove spoonfuls to their lips, and always asked the direction in which their sandwiches should be cut, because they would refuse to eat squares when they wanted triangles. She’d had countless conversations with other mothers about what and when to feed them and what to do when they refused to eat anything but buttered saltines. She’d learned to have a certain amount of high-calorie, non-nutritious snacks on hand, because other kids were less likely to come over if there wasn’t anything “good” to eat.
Vomiting all that effort back up was inconceivable to her, a conversation she didn’t know how to begin. She should tell Kenneth, she knew. Yet food had been her job. And it was hard to imagine calling her ex-husband, who had chosen some other, somehow better woman instead of her, and say, “You were right about me, I’m inferior. A factory second as a wife and a mother.”
Dana didn’t call Kenneth. Locked in her room, she called Polly, possibly her best friend, the only one she trusted not to make her feel even worse. “Hey, do you have a minute?” Then she started to cry in soft, gulping gasps, and Polly said, “Take all the time you need, I’m right here.”
In pieces, Dana got it out. Polly was skeptical. “Morgan’s too sensible for that. She’s a good, smart girl. How does this guy know for sure?” Dana explained how Dr. Sakimoto had ruled out other causes. Polly didn’t buy it. “How many bulimics do you think they have in China, huh? Not that many, I’m guessing. So how much experience could he have?”
“China?”
“Sure, isn’t he Chinese?”
“Um, I’m pretty sure Sakimoto is a Japanese name. And his first name is Anthony, so maybe he’s part something else, too.”
“Does he have an accent?”
“Somewhere between Boston and New York. Sort of Rhode Islandish.”
“Oh,” said Polly. “Well, still. I don’t believe it. I’ve known that kid since she was in diapers. She’s eaten over here hundreds of times. She’s not a puker.”
Dana sighed. Polly was so reassuring. Not inasmuch as she was right. The more Dana thought about it, the more she saw that it might be true. Morgan often raced to the bathroom after dinner and sucked on breath mints in the evening. She’d gained weight and was disgusted with herself.
But Polly’s disbelief was comforting nonetheless. Polly had taken a particular shine to Morgan right from the beginning. While Dana bemoaned Morgan’s moods and stubbornness, Polly admired them. “So she’s headstrong,” Polly would say. “It’ll serve her well.” As a little girl, Morgan would “run away” to Polly’s house when she’d been denied her inalienable right to jump from an upper limb of the crabapple tree
As she pulled in to the safety of her own driveway, Dana could hear her mother’s raspy voice saying, You play the hand you’re dealt. Then Ma would glance at her husband sitting in the far corner of the couch staring blankly in the direction of the television, and take another drag of courage from her Marlboro Light.
CHAPTER 7
T HE ISSUE OF WHAT TO DO NEXT.
Should she talk to Morgan now? And say what, exactly? “Please stop making yourself vomit, honey. It’s ruining your teeth”? Or maybe, “WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE THINKING?” Or should she be honest and say, “I’m so sorry that I’ve obviously failed you in some massive, bottomless, irretrievable way”?
No, probably not.
Dana had spent the last twelve years feeding her children. Within moments of their births, she had nursed them. Since then she’d spent hours of every day planning, buying, preparing, and offering meals to them. She’d imitated a wide variety of vehicles as she drove spoonfuls to their lips, and always asked the direction in which their sandwiches should be cut, because they would refuse to eat squares when they wanted triangles. She’d had countless conversations with other mothers about what and when to feed them and what to do when they refused to eat anything but buttered saltines. She’d learned to have a certain amount of high-calorie, non-nutritious snacks on hand, because other kids were less likely to come over if there wasn’t anything “good” to eat.
Vomiting all that effort back up was inconceivable to her, a conversation she didn’t know how to begin. She should tell Kenneth, she knew. Yet food had been her job. And it was hard to imagine calling her ex-husband, who had chosen some other, somehow better woman instead of her, and say, “You were right about me, I’m inferior. A factory second as a wife and a mother.”
Dana didn’t call Kenneth. Locked in her room, she called Polly, possibly her best friend, the only one she trusted not to make her feel even worse. “Hey, do you have a minute?” Then she started to cry in soft, gulping gasps, and Polly said, “Take all the time you need, I’m right here.”
In pieces, Dana got it out. Polly was skeptical. “Morgan’s too sensible for that. She’s a good, smart girl. How does this guy know for sure?” Dana explained how Dr. Sakimoto had ruled out other causes. Polly didn’t buy it. “How many bulimics do you think they have in China, huh? Not that many, I’m guessing. So how much experience could he have?”
“China?”
“Sure, isn’t he Chinese?”
“Um, I’m pretty sure Sakimoto is a Japanese name. And his first name is Anthony, so maybe he’s part something else, too.”
“Does he have an accent?”
“Somewhere between Boston and New York. Sort of Rhode Islandish.”
“Oh,” said Polly. “Well, still. I don’t believe it. I’ve known that kid since she was in diapers. She’s eaten over here hundreds of times. She’s not a puker.”
Dana sighed. Polly was so reassuring. Not inasmuch as she was right. The more Dana thought about it, the more she saw that it might be true. Morgan often raced to the bathroom after dinner and sucked on breath mints in the evening. She’d gained weight and was disgusted with herself.
But Polly’s disbelief was comforting nonetheless. Polly had taken a particular shine to Morgan right from the beginning. While Dana bemoaned Morgan’s moods and stubbornness, Polly admired them. “So she’s headstrong,” Polly would say. “It’ll serve her well.” As a little girl, Morgan would “run away” to Polly’s house when she’d been denied her inalienable right to jump from an upper limb of the crabapple tree
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