The Weight I Kept, The Family I Lost Chapter 05

The Weight I Kept, The Family I Lost Chapter 05

The wind screamed past my ears.

Mom’s shrieks faded into the distance.

When I hit the ground, I didn’t feel pain. Just a dull thud, and then the world flipped upside down.

Mom was the first one down.

She knelt beside me, hands hovering, wanting to hold me but afraid to touch.

“Please, open your eyes. Look at Mom!”

I wanted to tell her I was fine.

That as long as she didn’t go to Sophie, everything would be okay.

But when I opened my mouth, blood spilled out first.

Dad reached us. He dropped to his knees on my other side and tried to wipe the blood away with his

sleeve.

But it wouldn’t stop.

His phone kept ringing. Sophie’s name flashed on the screen.

Dad didn’t even look. He hurled the phone across the pavement.

I saw that, and a warm sweetness spread through my chest.

So what if Sophie was hurt?

Dad wouldn’t even answer her calls.

The ambulance arrived fast.

Mom climbed in with me, gripping my hand.

“Clara, I’m not going anywhere. Mom’s staying right here.”

I forced a smile.

I’d waited years to hear those words.

The paramedic pressed an oxygen mask over my face.

The lights above blurred and swam.

For a moment, I was small again.

Before Sophie was born. Before I was afraid of food.

Mom would sit me on her lap and feed me scrambled eggs, one small bite at a time.

I’d puff out my cheeks and refuse to open my mouth because it was too hot.

She’d blow on each spoonful until it was just right.

“One more bite, Clara.”

“Mommy’s happy when you eat.”

When Dad came home from work, he’d sneak me a cupcake.

I’d get frosting all over my face, and he’d laugh and kiss my cheeks over and over.

Back then, I didn’t need to be sick. I didn’t need to faint.

I just had to reach out, and they’d hold me.

Then Mom’s belly got bigger and bigger.

She stroked my hair and said, “Clara’s going to be a big sister.

“You’ll have to be gentle with the baby. Protect her.”

The day Sophie was born, Dad didn’t come to pick me up from preschool.

My teacher stayed with me until dark.

I sat by the door, clutching a little flower I’d gotten for being good that day, thinking they’d just lost

track of time.

When I got home, Mom didn’t hug me either.

She had a smaller child in her arms now.

That child only had to cry, and they’d all run to her.

I taped the little flower to Dad’s pillow.

The next morning, it was crumpled in the trash.

After that, fighting over toys was “acting out.”

Wanting Dad to play with me was “being needy.”

Being hungry was “being selfish.”

It took me years to learn how to be the perfect older sister.

Eat less. And less.

Get thin enough that Mom cried when she looked at me.

Get sick enough that Dad couldn’t focus on Sophie anymore.

But somewhere along the way, I forgot something.

I never wanted to win in the first place.

I just wanted them to hold me again.

“Blood pressure’s dropping!”

“Prep for surgery!”

The harsh lights snapped me back.

Someone cut my clothes open. Someone drove needles into my arms.

Mom and Dad were pushed back to the other side of the operating room doors.

Just before they closed, I saw Dad stumble toward me.

He was missing a shoe. Sweat dripping down his face.

Just like when I’d fainted at school at twelve.

That time, he’d burst into the hospital the same way, holding me and saying over and over:

“Daddy’s here.”

“Don’t be scared, Clara.”

Now he was here again. I’d finally taken them both back.

From outside the OR, Sophie’s voice cut through.

“Mom, my foot hurts so bad. Can you take me to get it checked?”

My heart rate spiked. The monitor shrieked.

There she was again.

One cry, and everyone would run to her.

But this time, I heard Mom scream back:

“Clara is dying! How can you still only think about yourself?”

Silence.

I slowly unclenched my fist.

So dying really did work.

It worked better than starving. Better than losing forty–four pounds.

The doctor told me to stay awake, but I was so tired.

When I closed my eyes, I saw myself at twelve.

Standing outside that bakery, cheek still stinging from Mom’s slap.

She bent down and picked up the dusty roll.

I walked over and took her hand.

“Don’t pick it up.”

She looked up and asked, “Then what do I do when I’m hungry?”

I didn’t know.

No one ever told me what a child who didn’t have to starve–who deserved to be loved–was

supposed to do.

A jolt of electricity tore through my body.

The doctor’s hands pressed hard against my chest.

Mom pounded on the OR doors.

“Clara, Mom’s here!”

“I’ll give you everything!”

“I just need you to live!”

I wanted to laugh.

She finally understood that I could hurt too.

But she understood too late.

My stomach had forgotten how to eat.

My body had forgotten how to keep living.

The monitor beeped faster.

In my memory, I was four years old, sitting on Dad’s shoulders, holding a half–eaten cupcake.

Mom stood beside us, smiling.

“Clara, is it good?”

I nodded hard.

Back then, I ate way more than seven ounces.

I didn’t throw up. No one blamed me.

So I was once a child who got hungry, who laughed, who was held without conditions.

The monitor let out one long, steady tone.

The doctor’s hands slowly stopped.

The OR doors opened.

Mom staggered forward.

“Where’s my daughter?”

“Is she awake?”

The doctor pulled off his mask and said quietly, “I’m sorry. We did everything we could.”