Elena Vanishing (34 page)

“Daniel, you're going to have to tell them to leave,” I say. “The cops were here.”

He climbs to his feet. “I'll take care of this,” he says. And, to show that he means business, he dons his Wolverine claw again.

Daniel forces his way into the living room to take care of the noise problem. Unfortunately, he's feeling relaxed and beatific. As a result, his idea of crowd control is to stand in the middle of the babbling mob, close his eyes, and gently whisper, “Shhhhh!”

Around him, a sea of oblivious, happy people in various colors of theater makeup continues screaming and dancing.

“They can't hear you,” I tell him.

“They can,” he assures me. He closes his eyes and holds his finger to his lips. “Shhhhhhhhh!”

“
I
can't hear you,” I say.

But Daniel is convinced that he has taken care of the problem. Like a second Dalai Lama, he trails clouds of peace and glory back to his room.

Once he's gone, I turn off the stereo. Then I find a chair, drag it through the crowd to the middle of the room, and stand on it.

“People!” I shout. “Cops are here! Let's go!” Then I shove my way to the front door and hold it open.

Icy air curls in. Faces turn my way. Leotards and nylon capes are definitely not weatherproof. Eventually, the group begins hunting down cell phones and shoes. People fan out across the complex to their apartments.

After a few minutes, only about twenty partiers remain, and the noise is down to a reasonable level.

I shut the door and return the chair to the breakfast nook. On the way, I almost trip over Daniel's friend Robin, passed out on his back.

“Hey, that's not going to work,” I say as I shake him. “You have to lie on your side.”

Robin opens his eyes. He's had a lot to drink. “Elena,” he says, squinting in wonder but also great complacency, as though he has personally conjured me up out of another dimension.

“Robin. Roll over on your side,” I tell him as I prod him with my foot.

“I will . . . if you come . . . h-here and . . . and cuddle,” he says as he attempts to assemble a devastating leer from spare parts lying around his cerebral cortex. Unfortunately, not all the parts arrive at the same time, resulting in facial spasms.

“If you roll on your side,” I offer, “I'll tell you a story.”

To my surprise, Robin executes a half roll onto his side. I quickly sit down against his back to prop him into place.

“Story,” he murmurs contentedly. “What you said.”

“All right, this is a story my mom made up for my sister and me when I was little,” I say. “It's called ‘Baba Yaga and the Glass Cat.'”

“That's
amazing
,” Robin breathes. He closes his eyes to better absorb this fact. “It's just . . . It's just . . . 
amazing
.”

“Baba Yaga lived in the wide, dark forest in a little hut that stood on chicken legs.”

“
Chicken
legs!” explodes Robin. “
Chicken
legs? Ha, ha, ha!” It takes quite a bit of effort to settle him back down, and I make a mental note to leave the chicken legs out the next time I tell this story to drunks.

I tell Robin that the king comes to Baba Yaga and asks her to bring a clear glass statue of a cat to life. She agrees, but only on the condition that he returns the pieces to her if it breaks. “So the
crooked old witch picked up the glass cat,” I say, “and she threw it into the thickest, hottest part of the fire. And the flames shot up—red and green and blue.”

“Red and green and blue,” repeats a female voice dreamily. I glance up. A bee in black thigh-highs has settled down nearby.

“At first, the statue lay there,” I say, “with firelight shining on its glossy form. Then it began to glow—first orange—then cherry red. It twisted, and it turned. It gave a sudden shake. And the glowing cat came strolling out of the fire.

“The glass cat lifted its clear glass head, and its eyes were two golden sparks. Its clear glass tail waved back and forth in question marks. It stretched on the hearth, and it had the tiniest clear glass claws. It yawned, and its teeth were the tiniest clear glass needles.”

I hear a whispered “Wow!”

I look up. Fifteen or twenty people are sitting in a ragged circle around me. They are staring at me, following my every word. All the remaining partiers have settled down to listen, as eager as preschoolers at library story hour.

So, like a modern Baba Yaga, I weave my spell over the crowd. Why not? My body is inked in symbols and myths, and a dead poet gazes serenely from my shoulder. Lifting my hands, I draw in the air the elegant towers of the king's white castle. I tell them how proud the king is of his unusual pet.

But little by little, the poor glass cat falls out of favor with the king. Stroking the cat leaves fingerprints. It's hard to find because it's clear. And when it tiptoes up and rubs its cold body around the king's bare ankles one morning, it nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

“So the glass cat was banished to the kitchen,” I say. “It crouched on the hard stone floor underneath a bench. Along came a little mouse looking for a crumb, and—the glass cat was a cat, after all!

“The little mouse streaked across the floor, and the glass cat did, too. The little mouse raced up onto a table, and the glass cat did, too. The little mouse sprang down onto the stone floor, and the glass cat did, too—and
smashed
into a thousand shining pieces.”

“Oh,
shit
!” yells Robin.

“But Baba Yaga knew what to do,” I assure him, and I tell them how the king sent her back the pieces of his ruined pet. “She dropped the sparkling fragments into the thickest, hottest part of the fire, and the flames shot up—red and green and blue.”

And when the glass cat comes strolling out again and jumps up onto the wily old witch's lap, I see on their faces the same look of wonder that Mom must have seen on mine when I was little.

The next night is Halloween, and I am back home, manning the candy bowl. Mom and Dad have been overseas in Germany since summer, enjoying schnitzel and soccer games. I'm enjoying having the house to myself.

Leela, our new black cat, and I are watching a movie. Mr. Snaky is curled up in my hair. The doorbell rings, and I run to grab the candy bowl, while Leela hops up onto the banister beside the door and stares at the visitors with enough pure evil in her eyes to justify her heritage as a Halloween icon.

Mr. Snaky twines down from my neck to explore the candy bowl. With his bright orange and red body, he blends right in.

Mouse?
he thinks as he pokes his nose into the candy wrappers.

“SNAAAKE!” yell the delighted kids.

Mr. Snaky, Leela, and I answer the door for an hour or so, but I've got clinicals early in the morning, so I set the bowl of candy outside and change into pj's.

Time for bed.

I take a minute to fire up my computer and check Facebook.
Valerie has posted photos of three-year-old Gemma out trick-or-treating. Clint is downrange, so she's managing the family single-handedly for the next few months. Facebook is keeping us all together.

The first photo shows Gemma in a gauzy Snow White tutu and a red hair ribbon, ready to go. I scroll to the next photo and laugh out loud. Gemma is sitting in the middle of the street, flat on her bottom. There's a furious scowl on her face. She wouldn't get up and move for a Mac truck, but she's still got a death grip on her candy bag.

Below the photo, Valerie has written,
Aaaaand she was done.

Clint has been online, too, and he posted a photo of the small plush shark I sent him in my latest care package. The shark is at the business end of Clint's assault rifle. The caption reads
Left him alone for five minutes . . . !

There's also a message from Sam. The little girl I knew is now a gorgeous young woman in high school who looks sophisticated and aloof in her Facebook pictures. But I know the secret behind why Sam looks so reserved. She has a new set of braces. Yesterday I wrote her and said,
Come on! I want to see them
, so she has emailed a photo just for me. And there she is, wearing a great big braces-filled smile.

She's so beautiful that I almost burst into tears.

Is that talking outside? I hear a murmur of voices.

“Blah blah
real snake
blah blah
I swear, she has a snake!”

The doorbell rings. Then it rings again.

I go to the door in my pj's and snake to find a dozen little ghosts, zombies, killers, and princesses crowded onto my porch.

“SNAAAKE!” they yell in delight.

Everybody gets a picture with Mr. Snaky, including the parents. A five-year-old pink Whoopee Cushion is inspired into eager speech: “He's a long drippy candy corn candy snake drip!” Her friends and siblings ask tons of questions before snagging some Milk Duds and racing off into the night.

I put Mr. Snaky back into his terrarium and wander into the kitchen for one last Ensure of the day. A poster on my fridge says
WHAT ARE YOU HUNGRY FOR?
I study the food choices it offers as I chug my protein drink.

Sometimes learning to eat is like learning a foreign language.

When I get back to the bedroom, Leela and Mr. Snaky are eye to eye through the terrarium glass.

Mouse?
thinks the snake.

Toy?
thinks the cat.

Mom's old tan-colored terrier is sacked out on my pillow. She looks like a messy bird nest. Next to her sprawls my black spaniel, Tess, rescued from a Love's truck stop. Tess is resting her head on my old cloth cow, who's wearing a bright, clean, rip-free new hide. Mom found the same cow pattern and sewed her again. She used the old eyes and tail and stashed the ancient ripped-up hide deep inside the new stuffing.

They all look so peaceful that I can't wait to join them. I take my medicine—I'm down to two pills a day now, and they work.

Okay,
now
it's time for bed!

At one in the morning, my phone buzzes. Dad's drinking his morning coffee and worrying about me. He hasn't factored in the time change.

“Are you getting enough to eat?” he wants to know. “I know nursing school is hard. Are you getting enough rest?”

“Really, I'm fine,” I mumble. “I've gained two pounds this week.”

Leela wakes up, assumes I'm talking to her, and purrs loudly as she crowds under my arm. Tess wakes up and attempts to scooch closer, too, but Leela gives her a smack on the head with her paw. I discover that I'm inhabiting a narrow strip of bed mere millimeters from the edge. When I try to rearrange my fuzzy companions, Leela gives me a smack, too.

“Sorry I woke you up. I just worry,” Dad says. “You know I worry about you.”

“It's okay,” I say as I close my eyes and listen to Leela's loud, rumbling purr. “It's nice to be worried about.”

The alarm goes off at six-thirty, and I raise my head. Two old dogs and one young cat gaze at me reproachfully as I struggle out of the warm, cozy blankets.

My day planner is open on the desk. I have an early appointment at Sandalwood, then clinicals. I take out my clothes for the day: a set of scrubs. My heart lifts at the sight of them. I'm in nursing scrubs again!

I wander into the bathroom and attempt to wake myself up with a steamy shower. Singing, I soap my arms. Here's the tattoo for Lilly:
Can a woman forget her own child? And yet will I not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee in my hands.

I'll see you one day, dear heart. Your mommy loves you.

There's a scramble by the shower curtain. Leela perches on the edge of the bathtub. She gives me a golden-eyed glare, snatches my razor in her teeth, and races off. I catch up to her in the dining room, where she is in the process of dragging the razor under a chest of drawers to join four tampon wrappers, two pill bottles, one credit card, two pieces of junk mail, two bottles of nail polish, one toy mouse, three ChapSticks, two headbands, and one straw.

My cat has a hoarding problem.

I grab the razor, adjust my sopping towel, and squelch back to the bathroom. It's 6:45, and I've already flashed the neighbors.

I finish my shower and put on the set of scrubs. I put on my makeup. Then I tighten my ponytail, clip on my ID, and meet the gaze of the mirror girl.

Staring out at me from the mirror is a student nurse, crisp and professional in neat navy-blue scrubs. Her tattoos are hidden away beneath a bland white long-sleeved T-shirt. The look in her eyes is friendly and assertive.

You're ugly
, says the voice in my head.

That means I still can't see what other people seem to see when they look at me. I still hate my nose. But I accept that I'm loved, and I look neat and pulled together.

Recovery is a path, not a destination.

At Sandalwood, Dr. Leben and I dissect the week that has just ended. I'm having to double down to gain weight after the damage I did to my digestive system, but I'm making slow progress, and I'm even starting to find a few foods I like. That isn't easy. Repeated purging has destroyed about half of my taste buds and most of my sense of smell. But at least I don't have to be on laxatives for life. I have eating disorder friends who do.

“I'm so, so proud of you,” Dr. Leben says as we walk to the door after our session. “You're just doing so well. You know, this is a learning process for all of us. The field of eating disorder therapy is evolving very quickly. We've tightened up our protocol here thanks to you, you know. It isn't so easy to cheat here anymore.”

I laugh. “I'm sure you've worked on it. But you've still got the vase.”

I point to a big red vase by Brenda's desk. Dr. Leben looks puzzled. So I tip the vase over, and a quart or more of pretzels and goldfish pour out.

Dr. Leben bursts out laughing.

“Well, we're getting rid of
that
!” she says. “You get on out of here, Missy. Have a good, healthy week. And behave!”