Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped (15 page)

“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “Kellie always makes it like that. But after my surgery and not eating much, I figure a little sugar won’t kill me. And the way I feel right now, maybe I wouldn’t care if it did anyway.”

I set my barely touched tea back on the table in front of me. “Are you still glad you did it?”

“I don’t think that’s a fair question right now. Ask me in a week or so.”

“Okay.”

So we talk awhile about other things. I tell her how Frieda called me Miss Skinny Mini at work. This makes Leah smile. “Well, you have lost a lot of weight, Em.”

“I told her about your dieting tips, and she’s going to try it too.”

“Good for you.”

After a while, Leah notices that I still haven’t touched my tea. “I thought you were thirsty, Em. You should drink that.”

“Well . . . the sugar, you know.”

Her brows lift. “It’s not going to hurt you. I mean, you just walked for an hour in the hot sun. Go ahead and drink it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Fine. Go get some water then. Just don’t sit there looking like you’re going to melt on me or even faint from heat exhaustion. Remember what happened to Jenna at camp?”

“Yeah.” So I go exchange the tea for water and come back for the third time.

“Emily?” she says as I polish off the water in practically one long gulp.

“Huh?”

“What’s up?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean with you.”

“Huh?”

“Well, I was just sitting here thinking about how little Jenna got heatstroke that day. And I also remembered how she accused you of being anorexic. I mean, I kind of forgot about it when the poor girl almost bought the farm. Talk about freaky. Anyway, I’m curious. I want to know why Jenna accused you of being anorexic. What was up with that anyway?”

I just shrug. “I think I’ll get some more water.”

But when I come back, Leah is still stuck on this. It’s like she won’t let me off the hook until I confess to her. “Come on, Em, we’ve always been honest with each other. I can tell something’s up. Don’t hold out on me. If you can’t tell your best friend, who can you tell?”

“Like the way you didn’t tell me about your surgery?” I try.

“I did tell you. I told you last May. But you were so totally against it that I really didn’t want to go there for a while. I decided to wait until it was almost time. And then I told you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So, come on, Em, time to come clean. Is it anorexia or bulimia or both?”

Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe I’m just tired of hiding, or maybe I feel sorry for Leah all bandaged up like that, but I spill the beans. And to my surprise it feels kind of good to admit what’s going on with me. And I remember how I’ve heard that admitting you have a problem is the first step in changing. Maybe that’s what’s happening with me. Although I’m not entirely sure that I want to change—not yet anyway.

“Well, I can’t say I’m too surprised,” she says, closing her eyes as if she’s still in pain.

“Are you okay?”

“That pill will probably start working in a few minutes.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk so much,” I suggest. “Maybe you should — ”

“No.” She opens her eyes. “I want you to listen to me, Emily. You’re my best friend and I want you to stop the anorexic thing, okay?”

I consider this. Stop it? Just like that? Like I walk out of here and start eating like a normal person again? Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure that it’s actually possible.

“I’m serious, Em. You know better than this. You’re playing with fire.”

“I plan on stopping it — ”

“When?”

“When I reach my goal.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You need to stop it now. It’s dangerous. And so is the overexercising. You’re stressing your body. And you could actually have a heart attack.”

“Oh, I doubt it.”

She sighs, then closes her eyes again.

“I shouldn’t have told you all this,” I say quickly. “It’s just making you feel worse. I’m sorry.”

“The only thing you should be sorry about is for what you’re doing to your body, Em. It’s all wrong. Please, stop doing it.”

“I told you, I will. But I just need to lose about ten more pounds first. And I know this is the only way I can do it. You told me yourself how bodies are different, Leah. And I just wasn’t losing weight when I did it your way. And we were doing the swan project and I wanted to be in shape in time for our senior year. Remember, we were both going to look hot for our last year. And I’m doing it, Leah. You should be happy for me.” I ramble on a little more and her eyes remain closed. And finally I stop talking, and it gets very quiet in the room.

“Leah?” I say softly. But she doesn’t answer and I realize that she’s fallen asleep. Probably from the pain pill. And maybe it’s for the best. Maybe the pain pill will help her to forget what I just said to her. Maybe my confession will be wiped away, and by tomorrow, everything will be the same as before. I can only hope.

I tiptoe from the family room in search of her dad, finally finding him in the laundry room.

“Sorry to bug you,” I say, “but Leah’s asleep now and I’m going home. Just in case you need to check on her or anything.”

“Thanks,” he says as he arranges a shirt on a hanger. I have to smile because I still think it’s funny seeing a dad doing laundry, but then I know he’s been doing stuff like this for years. Mister Mom. “And thanks for coming over to see her. I know Leah appreciates your support.”

“Well, I wasn’t in favor of the surgery, but I do love her.”

He nods as he picks up another shirt. “Leah said that you and I were in agreement on that.”

“I just hope she feels better tomorrow.”

“I do too.” He shakes his head as he shakes out one of Leah’s little T-shirts. “I just don’t understand why you girls think you have to look like the cover of a fashion magazine. It’s not healthy, you know. And Leah’s already beautiful enough. And you are too, Emily.”

“Thanks.”

He frowns now. “It sure looks like you’ve lost a lot of weight. I hope you’re doing it carefully. Not taking any of those diet pills, are you?”

“No way. I’ve heard they’re dangerous. This is just from dieting and exercise.”

“Well, don’t overdo it. You girls need to ease up on yourselves. Just enjoy life for what it is and be thankful that God gave you all that he did. Things could be worse.” His eyes look sad, and I remember how his wife died of cancer.

“Yeah, you’re right, Mr. Clark. I’ll try to remember that.”

“Good.” He shakes out a towel. “Now, I didn’t see your car out there, Emily. You need a lift home?”

“No thanks. I don’t mind walking. It’s probably cooler out by now anyway.”

He frowns again. “Well, just remember what I said. Don’t overdo it.”

I smile brightly at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t. I just want to be healthy is all.”

“Well, healthy is good.”

And as I walk home, I try to make myself believe that what I’m doing is healthy. And that it’s good.

I
VISIT
L
EAH AFTER WORK FOR THE NEXT COUPLE OF EVENINGS, BUT SHE
doesn’t seem to get any better. And by Thursday morning, I find out that she has an infection and has been admitted into the hospital. “I’m just so worried about her,” Mr. Clark tells me. “I was hoping you might come by and cheer her up, Emily.”

“Sure,” I promise. “I’ll come by on my lunch break.”

But when I see Leah, I can tell she’s in pain. Not only that but she’s really discouraged.

“I never should’ve done this,” she tells me with tears in her eyes.

“It’s going to get better,” I assure her.

“No. It was a mistake. I should’ve been happy with what I had. My breasts might’ve been a little bigger than I wanted, but at least they didn’t hurt like this.” Tears are streaming down her cheeks now. “Why was I so stupid?”

“You thought it would help your career,” I say weakly, not even convincing myself.

“Yeah, right. Now I may end up with big ugly scars.”

“Scars?” I try not to make a face.

“Yeah. When you get an infection it complicates the healing and you can scar.”

“Oh.” I hand her a tissue.

“The only way to get rid of the scars is more surgery.”

“Oh.”

“I am so stupid.” She loudly blows her nose.

“No, you’re not, Leah. And this is probably just the worst of it. I’ll bet that you’ll be feeling better by the end of the week. Your dad said they’re giving you some pretty strong antibiotics that will whip this in no time.”

“I just feel like such a fool.”

“It’s going to get better,” I say as I hand her another tissue. Then I try to change the subject. I start talking about the shopping we’re going to do once she’s out of the hospital. And then I hold up my bag and pull out the new September magazines that just showed up in the bookstore. “Hot off the press,” I tell her.

Her eyes brighten as I hand her the heavy edition of
In Style
. “Don’t hurt yourself lifting it.”

“Thanks, Em. You really are a lifesaver.”

We try not to talk about her “ruined” breasts as we look at pictures and Leah points out what she thinks is cool or not and what might look good on me or her. And before I know it, it’s time for me to go back to work.

“I’ll come back after work,” I promise. Fortunately, the hospital is only a few blocks from the bookstore. “Want me to bring you an iced mocha?”

“That’d be great, Emily. Thanks so much!”

And when I come back after work, she seems in better spirits, and we don’t talk about her botched breast job or what the outcome may be. And, to my relief, she doesn’t mention my “eating disorder” as she called it the other day before she went into the hospital. It’s as if we’ve made some sort of silent pact not to mention these things.
Like it’s just the price we must pay for beauty, and perhaps by not talking about these things, somehow that will make them okay.

Leah is released from the hospital on Sunday morning. And I go to visit her at home later that afternoon.

“Did you go to church today?” she asks.

I make a kind of guilty face. “I slept in.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just that I’ve been getting up early all week, for work, you know. And I thought I was going to get up and go to church . . . but I just didn’t wake up on time.”

“I was wishing I could’ve gone to church today,” she says in a kind of wistful tone. “I wanted to ask God to forgive me and to thank him for helping me to get better.”

“But you don’t need to go to church to do that.”

“I know. But it just would’ve felt good. Because I really feel like God is teaching me something, Em, and it’s almost like I want to let other people know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean all this focus on how we look on the outside. It’s just all wrong.”

I nod without speaking, but I guess I’m feeling kind of surprised.

“When I was alone in the hospital, feeling totally rotten, and even wondering if I could die from the infection—which is actually possible—I asked myself how I’d feel if I was standing before God, you know, like waiting to be let into heaven. And I imagined him saying, ‘Okay, Leah, what brings you here today?’ And that I had to tell him that I had a boob job that went bad. And how embarrassing would that be? I mean, it’s like I wanted to keep this whole thing top secret, and the next thing I know I’m standing in front of God
and the whole world. And I just felt so incredibly stupid. Like how could I have been so shallow and vain?” Then she just looks at me, like somehow I should have the answer.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ve decided that I’m going to change some things, Emily.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. But for one thing, I am going to quit focusing on the outside Leah and start working on the inside.”

I nod. “That sounds good.”

“And I’m going to spend less time reading stupid fashion rags and more time reading the Bible.”

I nod again. But even as I nod, I feel this wave of frustration washing over me. Like I’m not quite ready to lose my fashionminded friend yet. I mean, she hasn’t even finished the swan project with me. How can she suddenly turn into this totally spiritually minded person when I still need her to help me look better? Of course, I can’t say this to her. Like how shallow and selfish is that? Especially when she’s having her own epiphany.

“I know it probably sounds silly . . . I mean after I’ve been so consumed by all this stuff. Talk about your one-eighties.”

“What about your plans to become a professional model?” I ask meekly.

She just shrugs. “I don’t really know. And I’m not sure that I really care.”

“So, do you think that fashion and beauty are sinful?”

She seems to consider this. “I’m not really sure, Emily. I just think that getting obsessed with it is wrong. I can feel that inside of me. And trying to make myself look like something I’m not . . . well, that was wrong too.”

I swallow hard and look away.

“But I can’t judge you, Emily. I mean at one point, I was all ready to give you a big old sermon about not eating. And then I realized that would be wrong. Even though I’m seriously worried about your health, and I even feel partly to blame, you’ve got to come to God about this on your own. You’ve got to ask him to help you through this stuff, Emily. That’s what I’m praying for you.”