now, more gray in her hair. Her eyes aren’t twinkly anymore. Neither are Dad’s.
And it’s all my fault.
I put the phone down. What is there to say?
“Hey, Mom, it’s your daughter who’s repeating a grade and failed the ACT test and probably won’t get into a good college because she doesn’t know how to eat and keep it down like a normal human being?”
I brush away a few more tears and pull out the sticker chart I crammed into my purse on the way out. Ten days. I’ve done awesome for ten days. I can’t mess up now.
I could call Jana.
I dial her number and her cheerful answering message picks up. Oh, I forgot, her office is closed most of this week. I’ll have to wait until my next appointment.
I could call Parker. I mean, he is my boyfriend. He will be nice and supportive. Hasn’t he pretty much always been? I start to call him, but my fingers hover over the number. He was so upset the last time I restricted. The worry was written all over his face. Shame fills me just by thinking about it.
I’ve already wasted ten minutes. The chart stares up at me.
Failure. You’re a failure, it says. You weren’t any good at being bulimic, and now you’re not any good at recovery.