Never Enough (23 page)

Dad and Mom whispered beside me, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I felt stares from other parents in the auditorium, and realized Claire’s cover-up hadn’t fooled anyone. I felt partly thankful, but partly embarrassed for her, almost like I was the one up there. Keeping my eyes trained ahead, I watched Claire drawl her way across the stage and back. Even though she kept up with her group, there was an unmistakable feeling that she was on the verge of falling behind the other dancers.

While everyone was taken with the prima ballerina’s big scene on the other side of the stage—the scene that would have been Claire’s, in any other show—I snuck my camera to my eye. I didn’t attach the flash, and during the next round of applause I clicked the shutter, a shot of Claire and her entourage holding a staged pose. Feeling sick to my stomach, I packed my camera away, not wanting any more memories of what we were seeing.

Claire was soon back in the limelight, scurrying behind the other ballerinas. I thought I could actually hear her huffing and puffing from my seat in the twenty-third row.

By the end of the performance, I had given Claire my all:
every prayer, every bit of energy I could transmit through the atmosphere. I was spent.

When the lights came up, Mom didn’t jump into her usual eager socializing mode. She sat in her seat with us, offering a nod and a timid wave to the other ladies who caught her eye. No one came over to talk to Mom, or to offer their praises like they usually did after one of Claire’s performances. I kept my head down and pretended to adjust my camera to look busy. After the auditorium had pretty much cleared, my family silently rose and filed out.

Claire emerged alone from the dressing room in an overcoat with her head down. She didn’t notice us at first. The second her eye caught us, it was as if the world had stopped.

After a long pause, she marched right out the door without saying a word. Mom strode after her, followed reluctantly by me and Dad.

“Claire,” Mom said in a tone that said a million things.
You will stop and listen to me, young lady. What happened? Who have you become? What can we do about this?

Claire didn’t stop. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” she said, as though this was all our fault, and there wouldn’t be a problem if we hadn’t come.

“The car’s this way, Claire,” Dad said. He didn’t yell. He’d never been the disciplinary parent. But when his stern tone came out, there was this instant fear that rose up. At least in
me. Obviously in Claire, too, because she stopped in place. Her whole jaw trembled.

Mom and Dad and Claire all stood there like dogs at the ends of their leashes. If Claire didn’t follow along to the car, my parents wouldn’t know what to do with her. If Claire walked, it would be more than two miles, and I doubted she had the stamina for it. But she probably didn’t have the energy for a barrage of questions from our parents, either. I wondered who was supposed to give her a ride home. Had they deserted her?

I took a step toward Claire. Then another. Without a word, I grabbed her hand and gently tugged her toward the car. She came willingly, and even though there were no tears on her cheeks, she shook like she was bawling her head off.

During the car ride home, my whole family stayed silent. Claire headed straight for her room without saying a word to any of us. I stood in the foyer while my parents sat in the living room together eyeing me, like they were waiting for me to get out of earshot. I headed for the stairs. They obviously needed to talk. But before I left, I turned back to say, “Are you going to do something about this?” Because I had to know.

Mom looked away, and I wondered if it was guilt—for not believing me. Or for letting that whole auditorium of people see her daughter’s problem before she could admit to it.

Dad nodded. “Yes, Loann.” He let out a long breath. “Why don’t you head up to bed.”

I did.

I thought I would be happy to have this off my chest. To have someone else dealing with it.

But I was anything but happy.

The next morning, Mom made an appointment for Claire to see Dr. Quinton.
Apparently, Claire had regained some emotional strength overnight and walked into the kitchen with balled fists.

“But, Mom, I have to work today,” she said, and took a bite of her banana, as if to prove she was fine.

I held my tongue from telling Mom that Claire hadn’t been working at all lately. I wanted to keep out of this as much as possible. Claire probably didn’t know that I’d been the one to make the family go to her ballet production and I didn’t want that to accidentally come out.

“I took the morning off. You’re going.” Mom plunked the dishes in the dishwasher roughly, and I cringed with each one, waiting for one to break.

“Besides, I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” Claire went on, as if she hadn’t heard Mom. “So I lost a few pounds. I’ll put it back on. You know how it is when you’re a teenager.” Claire tried to give Mom a knowing nod, but Mom wouldn’t have it.

“Dr. Quinton can see you this morning, and so we’re going this morning. I’ll call your boss if you need me to,” she added.

“Why can’t we go tomorrow?”

“Today,” Mom said firmly, not even bothering with the obvious argument: that
she
had already taken this morning off.

“I’ll eat more, I will,” Claire practically begged.

At least Claire was admitting she avoided food more than she avoided bad fashion. Though she said it as though it was really no big deal.

“Ten minutes.” Mom headed out of the room. “Get your shoes on.” Her voice gave away a slight quiver.

*   *   *

I don’t know what happened in Dr. Quinton’s office, but when they got home, Claire went straight to her room and slammed the door. Mom strode for the phone on the hutch. She hadn’t noticed me, so I picked up a book and slunk into the couch to make myself invisible.

“I’d like to admit my daughter,” was the first bit of conversation I caught. Mom leaned forward against the hutch while she talked, like she had a stomachache.

Mom wasn’t talking to the University of Wisconsin. It was a hospital of some kind.

The more Mom went on, giving doctors’ names and Claire’s medical history, the more I realized it wasn’t just a stupid crash diet or even an eating disorder they were talking about. Claire had some serious medical problems. From putting the pieces together of words Mom repeated, I understood that San Diego had a clinic that could treat liver and stomach disorders as part of their program.
Claire had a serious liver or stomach problem?

“Uh, yes . . . I appreciate you making allowances with your waiting list . . .” Mom went on. I could hear her trying to force strength and calm into each of her words. “Claire Rochester. Yes, we’ll be there by the end of the week.”

Mom noisily fumbled the handset back into its holder. As she turned my way, I brought my book up to my face, probably a little too close, maybe a little too fast. I just didn’t know what to say, and I doubted Mom did either.

*   *   *

Wednesday morning, Mom rushed between arranging her luggage, phone calls, and programming her GPS for the trip. She’d worked herself into a frenzy since she’d found out about Claire. “There’s dinner in the fridge, Loann. Your dad won’t be home until late.”

No surprise there.
Dad hadn’t been home at a reasonable
hour since Claire’s recital. It had always annoyed me the way he ran away whenever things got stressful, but this was really serious. It was his oldest daughter, and I was having a hard time believing he could try to avoid
this
.

When Mom seemed to have everything together, she kissed me on the forehead, told me she’d be back the following night, then moved like a whirlwind toward the front door. Claire inched herself in that direction, but looked back at me like she wished I’d grab her hand and pull her back. “Bye,” she said in nearly a whisper.

“I hope . . .” The words stuck in my throat. What did I hope? I hoped to have my happy, normal sister back. I hoped she wouldn’t ever hide something this big from me again.

“I hope it helps,” I said finally.

When the door closed behind them, I stood in place and just listened to the silence. The sick feeling in my stomach intensified until it almost snaked up my throat. Claire had looked so scared and I hadn’t even hugged her, hadn’t even really said good-bye. All I’d been able to think about lately was how weird she’d been acting, how much she’d been hiding, but the truth was, five minutes after she left, I ached to have her back.

I’d told Marcus I probably wouldn’t be in today, but I couldn’t stay in the empty house. I grabbed my bag and headed out the door, just to stop thinking about her.

*   *   *

Armando was nowhere in sight, and Marcus sat alone at our table. He wore a long-sleeve black shirt today, which must’ve been stifling in the heat. He was probably covering up another bruise. I looked at him for a long time before finally pulling out a chair. Could I really find it in me to argue with him about opening up today?

“My sister has stomach problems from her eating disorder,” I said, my voice empty and tired.

“Yeah,” he said, but by his tone it might as well have been
Duh,
which sure didn’t seem very sympathetic.

“She’s going away to a clinic of some kind in California.”

“Hmm, good.”

“Good?” I scowled at him. “That’s all you have to say?” I shook my head and stood up. He called out something as the door shut behind me, but I ignored him. I so was not in the mood for his short answers today. I picked up my pace and ran all the way to the high school.

There was a soccer practice going on in the backfield. I steered clear of that and headed toward the portable classrooms. As I walked behind the buildings, I was overcome by a flood of emotions. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I sat down between the trees. Somehow, the place where I’d been with Josh, the place where I’d been so stupid and careless and lost a piece of myself—that was the place I wanted to be.

I let myself get good and angry, and remembered every stupid thing I’d ever done. I pulled at the roots of my hair until it hurt and didn’t bother to wipe my eyes or my nose.

The strange thing was, being in this spot, I felt completely different than I had the last time I had come here. Last time I’d been starry-eyed, not just about Josh, but about Claire, too. My one-night stand with Josh was only the start of my realizations. Nothing was what I’d thought it had been back then.

Two hours later, the punishment finally felt like enough. At least for the moment. I picked myself up, and headed for home.

Over the past few months, Claire had become pretty private about her room. Whenever I knocked, she usually just met me at the door, then started to close it in my face if I tried to come in.

But now all I wanted to do was sit on her bed and pretend she hadn’t left.

When I walked into her room, though, the first thing that registered was the stench. All those dinners she’d brought to her room to eat—I wondered if they were still in here somewhere.
Ugh.
I scrunched up my nose as I strode to open her window, then headed for her unmade bed.

I’d heard Mom call her bulimic, but I was pretty sure there’d also been long stretches when Claire didn’t eat at all.
I wondered how many kinds of disorders she really had. But then, it didn’t really matter, did it? What mattered was that I hadn’t figured it out sooner. I’d never paid close enough attention.

“I miss you, Claire.” I lay back on her bed and murmured into the ether. But after five minutes, I couldn’t wallow anymore. And I couldn’t stand the thought of Claire’s normally pristine bedroom looking like this.

After making her bed, and tidying up her messy clothes, I dug through her drawers, looking for anything that might be rotting. I could barely believe my eyes at the top drawer. Skittles, Milky Ways, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups—she practically had a whole candy store in her desk! I closed the drawer tentatively, wondering if it would be better to dump it all in the garbage or tell Mom first. Opening the other drawers by rote, I found a bag of rotting fruit in the back of the bottom one. That would explain the stench, which actually felt like a relief. I grabbed it, and the rest of her garbage, too, figuring I should empty it, since she probably wouldn’t be back for a while. But when I reached for her garbage can and looked inside, I blinked hard, not believing my eyes.

I’d given Claire copies of the grad pictures I’d taken of her, Josh, Jaz, and Laz. And sure, it would have been expected for her to stuff them away somewhere after her breakup with Josh, at least until she got over it.

But that was more than a month ago. And the grad pictures I saw now, crumpled at the bottom of her garbage can, had nothing against Josh.

Every impression of
Claire
had been obliterated with thick black felt marker.

What did my sister think of herself? Did she hate herself that much, and I’d never even seen it?