The photo falls into my lap. Never mind how it got there – I got to see it get developed last week, when mommy took me with her to the K-Mart photo center. The lady behind the counter was nice. I thought one hour would be a long time, but really it wasn't.
But how did my belly get so big.
Grammy tiptoes up behind me. The air moves as she comes closer, brushing on my sensitive back.
She puts her long, perfectly-filed nail on the image, careful not to scratch its glossy surface. "Well, look how pretty you are! And look at the beach, oh, and the sand, and all the pretty waves behind you."
Yes, I see the sand, and the waves, and the beach, all hidden behind my massive stomach, I want to say, but I don't know sarcasm. I don't know how to be anything more than an innocent little girl.
And an innocent little girl is supposed to be happy, something I forgot more than an hour ago.
"Grammy, what did I eat that day?" I ask, careful to keep my voice chipper. She was there. She saw me. She can give me a clue as to what made my stomach so big.
"Well, I don't know. There was a lot of yummy food there. Maybe some of your mommy's deviled eggs, and your cousin's venison for sure. I know you like coleslaw..."
What an insufficient answer. "I know I ate those things, Grammy, but none of them make my tummy big. What made my tummy so big?" I point to it, the thing that cannot be part of me, the massive beach ball hiding under my dress.
Grammy waves her hand dismissively. "Oh honey, that's just the wind making your dress go everywhere. You have a little tummy, see?" She arches her arm around my torso, ticking vigorously.
I laugh and kick, because that's what I'm supposed to do.
But her big, long hand doesn't fit over my tummy. I can feel it bulging out everywhere, between her knobby, vanilla-lotioned fingers and hard-as-diamond nails.
But Grammy pretends to not feel the same things I do. She pads away, into her huge, glowing, warm kitchen. I remain, knees bent, on the sandy carpet between the living room and the hall. I hear my breathing, which draws attention to the way my gurgling tummy presses against the elastic on my bleach-white tights.
I look at the photo again. The wind alone could not have make my dress that tight across the torso. The unanswered question gnaws at my brain: how did my belly get so big? I was nice, wasn't I?
Nice people don't get big bellies. What did Ido? What got inside of me that made me so mean?
YOU ARE READING
Unphased: Another Eating Disorder Memoir
No FicciónGood day, I'm a young professional working toward her double-major in French and English. I love children, and think I might go to grad school for Child Psychology. I hear there's a national shortage, and feel that helping others is my calling. I'...
