“Chloe, get down here, now!” Mom cries from the stairwell, less than an hour after our heated words. It’s strange though, because it usually takes her two or more hours to cool down.
“Leave me alone!” I scream back through my closed door. “I’m not coming down there!”
“Chloe Elizabeth Wilson,” She threatens.“If you don’t come down here this instant I will call the Preserve and get someone to come drag you down those god damned stairs!”
“Fine,” I mutter, “You don’t understand me anyway.”
“What did you say?” She counters as I slink down the stairs.
I step forward, until I’m an inch away from her makeup-bogged face. “I said,” I whisper, “You don’t understand me.”
“Oh, darling,” She rolls her eyes, “Drop it. Cut the drama bullshit.”
“You just don’t get it! Look at Megan for example – even if she was standing in front of you screaming for help, you refused to listen to her. She tried to talk to you about her depression, she really did, but you didn’t hear her.” I catch my breath, “All you saw were parties, money and a glittery house. You never cared about Megan or me. As soon as our disorders came to the surface, you couldn’t wait to send us away.”
“Her…” Mom mouthed, “Depression?”
“Oh, god!” I cry, “How could you be so blind? She didn’t just have a destructive eating disorder.”
“How would you know?” She quizzes.
“I know because she told me everything that you were too self-absorbed to see,” I calm down a little bit, “I listened to her when you didn’t.”
“Anyway,” She snarls, gritting her teeth, “let’s get back to the issue at hand.”
I put my hand in her face, “No, Mom. I’m not listening to your drama. I don’t need to go back to the Preserve.”
“Chloe…” She lays a hand on my shoulder, before yanking it away. My skin burns where she touched it.
“What, Mom? What do you want? You want me to eat or grieve? Look!” I snatch a piece of bread from the kitchen counter.
“Stop…” She murmurs.
“Look at me!” I scream, the chewy mess dripping onto the floor. “Chloe’s eating! Chloe’s eating!”
“That’s it,” Mom reaches for the phone, whatever number she’s looking for obviously on speed dial.
“Leave me the fuck alone. I don’t need the Preserve. It didn’t work the first time – what makes you think it’ll work again?”
She’s not listening though, she’s yapping away into the receiver, “Yes. My daughter needs some kind of evaluation, she’s going crazy. Please, send someone right away. Thank you.”
“You wouldn’t dare…” I shriek quietly, but it only comes out as a whisper.
“Baby, I already did.”
I storm off into my bedroom and lock the door.
About twenty minutes later, I hear a forceful knock. “Chloe, come out.”
“No, Mom.” I snap.
I hear an exasperated sigh on the other side and then a bang. My door crashes to the floor.
Mom is standing in the doorframe, with two white-suited men behind her. She looks at me, shaking her head.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, whirling around in my desk chair.
Mom stares at me, her eyes glassing over with tears, “Go ahead.”
The men advance on me, grabbing one of my arms each. I struggle against them, which only makes their grip tighten.
“Mom!” I scream, as I’m towed downstairs.
Mom shakes her head again, black-streaked tears running down her face. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I’m led into an ambulance. The men strap me onto the gurney-like object once inside. I flail my arms until their secured.
The flashing sirens wail as the van speeds down the street. I look up into a bright light that’s coming from the ceiling. I squeeze my eyes against the brightness.
Someone wraps a cuff around my arm that crushes my bones. I cry out in pain and someone reaches over me, stabbing me in the arm with a needle.
The sounds and images of the ambulance fade as an intoxicated sleep overtakes me.
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Beep… Beep… Beep… A persistent, steady noise wakes me. I look up at a white ceiling, and white walls.
“Where…” I croak. My mother leans over me.
“You’re in the hospital, for your own safety,” She says, taking my hand. As she covers it, I realize that tape is criss-crossed over it.
I yank at it, but it’s sealed tight. It’s an I.V. drip… wonderful.
Mom’s eyes dart around the bleach-scented room, before she pushes a red button on the wall, directly over my head.
Seconds later, a nurse stands in my doorway, grasping a clipboard. “Chloe E. Wilson?”
“Yes, that’s her,” Mom points at me as the nurse flutters towards me, “She was brought in after she was told about being sent back into the Addison-Manuel Preserve.”
“Oh I see…” The nurse pokes me. “Well, I’ll go page Dr. Sanchez, our eating disorder specialist.”
The nurse ruffles her feathers and stalks out of the room.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I snarl.
“If I don’t leave you alone,” Mom says, “you’ll end up like Megan.”
I bite my tongue and try to get comfortable, but the plastic bed is stuffed with stones.
Minutes tick by on the wall clock before a tall, thin woman enters the room. Her lab coat flows behind her as she walks.
She looks me over carefully, before turning to my mother. “Hello, Mrs. Wilson. My name is Dr. Sanchez.”
“Hello, I’m Chloe’s mother,” Mom extends her hand towards the doctor in a point-blank gesture.
“Before we begin discussing your daughter, I’d like to go over some information about myself, just so we have a better understanding,” Dr. Sanchez’s words fall out of her mouth, “I’m the eating disorder specialist. I’ve been working in the field of disordered eating since I became a doctor. What made me explore this field was my work as a psychologist.”
Another psychologist… Can’t they just give me a break?
“So, what brought you to this point, Chloe?” She asks gently.
“Well… I’ve had… disordered eating… for a while. My sister, Megan and I were constantly battling each other to see who can be the skinniest. She died a few weeks ago, so I guess that kind of drove me off the edge.”
“I see… and your sister’s eating disorder was never diagnosed?” She seems puzzled.
My mother speaks, “Yes, it was. Chloe and Megan had recently gotten out of a clinic for teens with eating disorders.”
“So, Mrs. Wilson, why are you trying to put Chloe back into a facility?”
“Because,” Mom says. “Her father and I feared that Megan’s death would send Chloe over the edge; forcing her back into her old habits.”
“I see… well, we can look over her records for a brief evaluation…” Dr. Sanchez muses. “but, for now we can just have her meet with me.”
A knife stabs through my heart and I struggle to catch my breath. NO! I am not seeing another frizzy-haired woman to discuss my “problems”.
“That’s fine.” Mom concludes.
“It’s settled then. She’ll meet with me tomorrow afternoon,” Dr. Sanchez writes on the clipboard that’s at the foot of my bed before twirling out of the room.
Emotion! Emotion!