Page 37 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
Jessica crouched on the floor inhaling Oreo cookies. She was eating like the food had personally insulted her, and she had to eradicate it.
“Why do you eat like that?”
She froze, panicking, a deer in headlights. I’d found her out. This was why her weight hadn’t budged, even though she’d been eating super clean all week.
“Baby.” I walked over to her and sat down next to her. “I see you. You either don’t eat at all, or as little as you can politely get away with, until you can sneak away and eat in secret. This is why there’s been no change. What’s going on? What’s wrong with eating around people?”
“Then they’d know that I was eating.”
“You know, people eat. That’s what we do to live. We survive by eating. So it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s okay to put food in your body. You don’t have to pretend you don’t.”
She stared at me.
I continued. “I just want you to feel at home. Don’t feel like you have to be all Ms. Uptight around me. Just fucking eat and don’t worry about it.”
She burst into tears and rocked back against the dresser. “I can’t. I can’t eat like a normal person. Food is my drug.”
I wrapped my arms around her, smelling her sweet hair. I tightened my grip, and she collapsed into me. “Food is not your drug.”
“It is. It’s the good girl’s drug. You have to eat, so no one could tell if you were using it or abusing it. There are no needle tracks. You can go to work or school. It’s easy to hide. And it’s easy to buy more.
“I’m an emotional eater, Mikey. Food helps me. When I need to escape, it hides me. When I need comfort, food gives it to me. When I need joy, I have food. When I cry, food wipes my tears.”
I let go of her, got up, grabbed a box of Kleenex, and crouched down, wiping her cheeks.
“This is me, baby. Not food.”
She gave me a weak smile.
“Why do you need the drug?”
“I just do. It’s the way I’ve dealt with things my entire life. It’s the only way I can escape. If you only knew the way I grew up—well, then you’d understand.” She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“Try me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t tell anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too embarrassing. It’s too bad.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But if you need someone to listen,” I gestured at myself, “I’m here.”
“I don’t know.” Looking down at the floor, she whispered, “Everyone who has ever known me intimately has betrayed me.”
“I’m so sorry—“
“—starting with my father. He was a very angry man.”
Ice cold water chilled my veins. I suddenly wanted to kill him, and I’d never met him. No one should hurt this pretty princess. No one.
“Do you want to tell me?” She hesitated, then nodded and wiped her face with another tissue. I sat back down on the floor, my back to the dresser. She pressed her face to my shoulder, and I kissed the top of her head.
She started talking. Her voice was a whisper, wavering. “When I was five years old, one thing I knew for sure was that I loved my nice daddy with his bristly mustache, dark eyes, and thick, dark hair. He wore plaid, button-down shirts and jeans with a belt, and felt solid, but cozy, like my teddy bear. I’d watch TV with him, and he would hug me and sing me to sleep.
“But one day he came home from work before we’d even had lunch. He yelled for my mommy and his loud, angry voice sounded like thunder and monsters. He didn’t sound like my daddy.
“My mommy ran to see him, wiping her hands on her apron. Her hands shook and then held her belly. She had a baby in there.
