Survivor's Guilt
A hot day in July 2000 I plot my escape. If I was running away I wasn’t going alone. I pack our grilled cheeses and prepare Ellie’s tricycle. She doesn’t hesitate. She blindly follows me down the traffic filled street to the beyond (our neighborhood park).
“I’m giving them a haircut!” I yelled from inside the locked bathroom door. Mom pounded while Ellie cried. What were they so worked up about? They’re just dolls. Special edition dolls maybe, but layers were “in” and I just want to make them look pretty.
The parents called Ellie down to talk. I rush to my bedroom vent and stick my head against the grate—sound travelled up directly from the family room.
“Over one third of children are clinically obese.”
“One third of obese children are obese as adults.”
“Obesity increases risks of diabetes.”
Children and adolescents who are obese are at greater risk for sleep apnea, and social and psychological problems such as stigmatization and poor self-esteem
“Mom? Why do Ellie’s meals come in special containers and mine don’t?”
“Ellie has a special meals now, neither one is better they are just different.”
“Is this because I’m ten now?” I asked, jealous she was getting special treatment.
The side of the package read Lean Cuisine.
It’s 9th grade and I can’t find my blow dryer. My hand hits a pile of bottle under the sink. no one uses this bathroom other than me and Ellie. I thought, confused. The labels read; Diurex, Hydroxycut, Dulcolax, Alli, Rogaine.
“Ellie!” I yelled, “What the fuck are these?”
“They’re mine! Mom got them for me.”
“Why the rogain?”
“When I don’t eat my hair thins.”
I wait in her newly done bedroom while she changes. No old pictures, no old clothes, no sign of the girl I knew before she went away. She went to boarding school four years ago and I’ve seen her on and off during breaks ever since. In many ways she is a stranger. This Ellie is a statue, she never looks happy or sad. Just content. Jesus Christ she takes forever to change now too.
She comes out of the closet in a dress just a little too tight. A seam rips. Her hands shake as she reaches for the sowing kit. She whipstitches the needle back and forth, back and forth. It will be perfect, it will look perfect, she assures me.
A mask slips.
She whispers the words she was told when she was seven and collapses on the floor.
One third. One third. One third.
I want to grab her tricycle and plot our escape—to escape a life defined by a scale and statistics.
