Page 2 of Impossible

The nice part about no longer being a student is that my brain doesn’t need to work to wash dishes. I just need to avoid losing consciousness, which requires far fewer calories.

The not-nice part about fewer calories is that I tend to lose time. I’m not sure if it’s my brain eating itself or the monotony of sitting in front of a sink arm-deep in suds for six hours straight, but whatever it is, I find myself in the doctor’s office without any memory of getting here. I remember the individual parts of the process when I focus—guzzling water in the bathroom, collecting coins to stow in the lining of my pockets, downing a protein bar and pinching my cheeks to get some color in them.

Dr. Mason purses her lips when she enters the exam room and sees I’ve pulled the paper gown on over my winter clothes, even though it’s May—Indie the Incorrigible. I hold my breath—half anticipation over whether she’ll make me change or not, half trying to look objectively larger.

She lets it slide.

Then we watch the little counter-balance weight on the scale slide together.

112.8.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not feel shock, horror, or disgust when the number—higher than last month’s—settles into place. I put effort into getting it that high. I know I know I know. So I only feel slightly slimy. Slightly.

Dr. Mason purses her lips again. A permanent pucker.

“That’s good, right?” I ask. “Up from last time?”

“We’ve spoken with your parents, Indie—”

“What?” I can’t keep the sharpness from my voice. “You spoke with myparents?”

“Yes.” Dr. Mason’s voice is stern.

“I’m an adult. You had no right to do that.”

“We told them if your weight continues to drop that we think outpatient care might be the best solution,” she continues, ignoring me. “And Adams is not equipped to facilitate that.”

“Solutionimpliesproblem. I gained weight. What’s the issue?”

She stares at me. I wonder if the wrinkles surrounding her lips remain when she stops pursing them. I wouldn’t know.

She doesn’t see Indie the Incredible. She just sees Indie the Anorexic.

I hate these visits.

“If your weight drops below 110, we’ll have no choice.”

“My parents said they wouldn’t take me, right?” I want to laugh. She made a similar threat at the 115 mark, last month. Lo and behold, how the bar lowers when parents enter the equation. Literally.

“This is serious, Indie. If you drop below 110, that’s it.”

“That’s what?” I scoff. “I’m an adult. You can’t make me do anything. Neither can my parents.”

“You fainted twice last week, Indie. Your blood pressure is dangerously low. Your creatinine is too high. I’m willing to bet if we did an EKG we’d see an arrhythmia as well, wouldn’t we? When was your last period?”

“Two weeks ago,” I lie. I’ve never gotten my period. Just another upside. “And I didn’tfaint. I just got dizzy.”

Dr. Mason’s lips form a flat line. A mix-up of their usual sphincter-like appearance.

“Can I go?” I ask. “Understood. Not below 110. Though my parents won’t want me back then either, promise. I’m nobody’s problem but my own.”

“We need to get some blood.” Dr. Mason sighs. “See Becky out front to schedule your next check-in.”

“Do I really need another? We just have this same conversation every time.”

“See Becky.”

I see Becky.

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