Page 47 of Since She's Been Gone

As we coast down the runway and climb up into the night sky, I look down at the City of Angels, a web of flickering lights connecting freeways and dreams, wondering when—or if—I’ll be able to return home again.

CHAPTER28

March 1998

THREE DAYS AFTEREmily died, my new roommate arrived. Given what I had gone through, Dr. Larsen asked me if I wanted to change rooms, which would have meant sharing a room with a staff member since there were no beds available in any of the other girls’ rooms. While I was no longer opposed to the idea for fear of being micromanaged, I didn’t want to change rooms, which meant I was getting a new roommate.

It was early in the morning when the new girl arrived, carrying a small dark green duffel bag into our room. She was fourteen years old and wasn’t underweight. She had previously been considered “overweight” by medical professionals who used the BMI calculator to assess her, and she had lost thirty pounds in the four months before her admittance.

Because of this, she was diagnosed with “atypical” anorexia. Atypical anorexia is, in fact, not atypical at all. In the nineties, there was even less awareness than there is now that eating disorders affect people of all shapes and sizes, all genders, all races, and from all socioeconomic backgrounds.

“Hi, I’m Beans,” I told her.

“Amanda,” she said, plopping down on her new bed. Emily’s old one.

“We need to go downstairs for breakfast,” I said.

“Oh, I’m not eating,” she said.

“You still have to go. They’ll give you Ensure,” I explained.

“What if I refuse that?” she asked me.

“Then you’ll end up with a feeding tube,” I said.

Her eyes briefly lit up, excited about the prospect.

“The girl here before you also had a feeding tube,” I said.

“Why did she leave?” she asked.

“She died of heart failure,” I said.

She looked at me, uneasy, as Dr. Larsen appeared at our door. “Have you two had a chance to meet each other?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Amanda quietly nodded, still taking in what I had just told her.

“Please come down for breakfast,” Dr. Larsen said.

I left the room, and Amanda followed, her footsteps behind me, walking down the stairs. We got to the dining room and took our seats.

The staff started carrying our breakfasts from the kitchen. Iris brought Amanda a plate of waffles with syrup and berries. Amanda opened her mouth, about to say something. I thought she would ask for Ensure, but she stopped herself.

As the meal progressed, I could tell she was struggling to eat breakfast. I recognized her discomfort as my own, wincing each time she swallowed. But she ate the food.

That night when we were getting ready for bed, she turned to me.

“Did the last girl really die, or did you make it up so that I would eat today?”

“What?” I ask, confused, taken aback that she thought I’d made up Emily’s death.

“Are you happy because I’m bigger than you, and you want to make sure it stays that way?” Amanda asked me.

“No,” I said.

“Everyone at school used to call me A-minivan-da. Not anymore,” she said, determined never to let a hurt like that come her way again. A hurt that had given ED the chance to infiltrate her body and soul.

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