On the Rocks(8)
“I’ll come over first thing in the morning. I promise. I don’t know what to say. I thought this was going to be one of the happiest days of my life, and it’s the worst of yours. I wanted us to do this together! I’m so bummed!”
“You’re bummed?” I was pretty sure my sister had managed to make my rejection ruin her plans for some kind of co-bridal shower she had probably been envisioning where we would wear matching dresses and receive duplicate Cuisinarts. “I want to say I’m happy for you, Katie. I just . . . I can’t right now. Please don’t hate me.” I rolled over and looked at Grace, who had been able to discern what happened from listening to my side of the conversation. She went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of wine, just a sip or two swirling around the bottom of the glass. “I have to go,” I said as I threw my phone on the bed next to me, experiencing a virulent self-pity that I didn’t know was possible until that moment.
Grace sat on the edge of my bed. The tears that had been brimming before the phone call were now falling down her cheeks. “You don’t deserve this, Abby. I wish I could do something to make everything better. I wish I had a way to fix things for you.”
“What the hell is happening to me?” I wailed, choking on my breath, my words, and the bile that I felt rising in my throat. “I can’t handle this. Katie’s engaged now?”
“Do you remember when you were ten and you broke your wrist roller-skating?” she asked. I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure where she was going with this.
“Yes. You were the one who roller-skated over it. And it was my birthday party.”
“Right, and do you remember who came over every day after school and watched TV with you because you couldn’t play outside?”
“You did,” I replied, burying my face in my pillow.
“And when our class went on that field trip and you couldn’t go because your mom forgot to get the doctor’s note saying it was okay? Who stayed behind with you?”
“You did.”
“Exactly. You weren’t alone then, and you’re not alone now. You still have me.”
“Thanks,” I said apathetically. I loved Grace, but I didn’t want to marry her, so frankly it wasn’t the same.
“I know you’re not supposed to drink while you’re on these drugs, but a sip or two won’t kill you.” For the second time in twenty-four hours Grace handed me a glass and said, “Drink this.”
And I did. Then I went back to sleep.
Six months and twenty pounds later . . .
Chapter 3
Petty Thieves with Eating Disorders
COUGH, WHEEZE, SPIT, SNORT. My lungs sputtered and heaved and spasmed as I tried to run the trail along the Charles River for the first time in months. I struggled to inhale oxygen, while women pushing baby strollers and middle-aged men who probably smoked three packs a day managed to jet past me. My legs quaked as my muscles readjusted to being used for anything other than walks to the grocery store, and when I grew lightheaded I decided it was time to take a little break or risk having a massive coronary while attempting to be healthy. I leaned my hands on my knees while I glanced at the distance display on my newly purchased jogging watch and discovered that I had gone about ten feet. Great, I thought as I stretched my quads and pretended to be busy so I could delay starting up again until I could breathe like a normal human being. This is just absolutely fantastic.
March is still cold in Boston, but on this particular morning the weather was just warm enough to manage a pathetically slow run in yoga pants and a zip-up fleece. The events of the last six months had rocked my entire world, and let’s just say that my mental health wasn’t the only part of me that suffered––my ass took the brunt of it as I decided to feed my grief with ice cream, cookies, and anything else that had a high sugar content and wasn’t nailed down. Weight gain was really the least of my problems, all things considered, but once your underwear and your shoes become painfully tight, you realize it’s time to rein it in a bit.
One hour and one mile later, I returned to my walk-up apartment on Hancock Street, stopping to pick up my mail from mailbox number 3C, my name, Abby Wilkes, written in black pen and taped to the little silver door. I grabbed the stack and flipped through it, throwing the things I didn’t want to open, and the things I didn’t need to open thanks to the wonders of auto-pay, in the trash can: bill, bill, birth announcement, another bill, bank statement I would most likely never bring myself to open, catalogs, baby shower invitation, and a rent statement. I really, really hated mail. All it ever seemed to do was remind me that people out there were happy or that I owed people money. I know it’s selfish to begrudge other people’s happiness, and I’m not particularly proud of it. That said, having to send out wedding cancellation cards that say, “Picked the wrong guy, gave him the wrong finger,” can change a girl.
I entered my apartment and threw myself despondently on my couch, which is what I did every time I came home these days. This last year had been the absolute worst of my life, and that included the year I read an article in my mom’s magazine about eyebrow shaping and thought that meant you were supposed to shave your eyebrows off with a disposable razor. I thought that episode had put my “most humiliating experience” on lock, but it paled in comparison to how embarrassed and ashamed I’d felt lately. That’s really saying something. Spending most of fourth grade without eyebrows was a hugely traumatizing experience, as ten-year-old girls don’t really have much interest in hanging out with someone who accidentally turned herself into a walking mannequin. Trust me.