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i.

i was six years old the night my mother crept into my room, spread a second quilt on top of me, and began to quietly brush the hair of my barbies. she laid down on the cold wooden floor, one ear down - as if she could hear the small specks of dust moving across the downstairs hardwood.

"we're moving to waterford," she said, staring fondly at my lovingly-kept pocahontas doll. i hadn't seen her swipe it, and she played with the silky ends of the doll's purple-sewn hair in silence.

"i don't want to go," i told her, bleary-eyed and whining, "who wants to live in a place named after water? don't they have anything exciting to name it after?"

she stood with a thoughtful smile, something twisting in the murky brown pools of her eyes.

"water is like magic," she said. "water grows beautiful things."

and with that, she patted my foot, looked me in the eye, and took pocahontas away to the hall with her.

"she is beautiful," my mother told me softly. "i want her."

i closed my eyes and rolled back to sleep in confusion.

(and i never saw that doll again.)

-

ii.

she finds me, at twelve years old, gazingly longingly at her wedding album.

"you'll never marry," my mother says, matter-of-fact.

i feel put out, recalling how just the past day, we had stood in the clothing section of our local department store, and she had said that nothing there would fit me. "you're too fat to wear what they sell," she'd told me. "nobody likes a fat girl."

my fingers stroke the crushed velvet cover. i like the texture; it makes me feel like the moment is real. it connects me to the reality of her standing there, hands on her hips, and with a smile that doesn't touch her eyes anymore.

"no," she continues, lips tilting strangely, "you can't marry- you're mine."

-

iii.

at fourteen, i start getting migraines. they keep me holed up in my pajamas for days on end, staring up miserably at the dark ceiling of my bedroom.

sometimes i watch re-runs of my favorite tv show, a drama about these cops that rescue rape victims. i stare at the screen through watery eyes, gripping my head and wishing that someone would save me, too.

my mom comes to my room every hour, pounding on the door, or tapping with her fingernails. she asks me how i am.

i usually answer "hungry".

-

iv.

i go on a mean diet after i find out that i'm sick.

it turns out that i have a really rare autoimmune disease; it takes two years and five doctors to tell me about it. i learn that my life is shortened, that i'll never enjoy winter walks or michigan summers ever again. ...and it should strike me. i should pity myself, or cry. but i don't cry for myself- i cry for her.

she sits in our shallow living room for three days after hearing the news. she sleeps there. she doesn't eat unless i bring food to her.

life goes on - i run the vacuum and play with the dogs. i use the microwave excessively, and break a plate right in front of her.

...life goes on - but not for her.

-

v.

i'm standing in my best friend's closet, eyeing her designer-label clothes, when i first begin to comprehend the weight i've lost.

she is model-thin, with thick brown hair that always waves the way she wants it to. her dresser houses old-fashioned perfume bottles filled with ralph lauren and american eagle. the entire room smells like cinnamon - and new. something there always smells new.

"so you're totally a size 2 now, right?" she asks, flipping that damned caramel hair of hers.

"yeah," i say, slipping into a pair of her jeans, "i guess i am."

her boyfriend lounges peacefully across her bed, eyes closed, drowning us out with his mp3 player. she saunters over, straddles his leg, and whispers, "hey there. wanna wake up and tell me something?"

he hesitates, and sits up.

"look at audrey," she says defiantly. "do you think she looks thinner than me?"

his eyes crawl across my figure in the most perfunctory, uninterested way. "i guess so," he yawns, "but i think you look better."

she flashes him an ultrabright smile and pushes him down to the matrress again, waving her hand in dismissal.

"i think you look good," she says enthusiastically.

as she says this, her fingers run across my rib cage, which juts out.

"niiiice," she says. "i wish i was as bony as you--it's cute."

-

vi.

it isn't cute when my mother and i go shopping.

she has me fitted for a dress that i hate. it's a deep cobalt blue-- "to match the eyes you don't have," she mocks.

the seamstress pauses briefly over the taut skin near the back zipper. "is this bone?" she asks.

"where?" my mother shoves her out of the way, to look.

i feel her cold fingertips trailing across my back in assessment. she counts the ribs aloud.

"eight." she says, thinking. "we can do something with eight." i hear a genuine smile in her voice as she turns me around to face the mirror.

my hip bones poke out awkwardly from the front of the dress. the constricting bodice betrays the lines of my sunken stomach, and in the back, there is a small lump of fabric that my body can't fill.

"congratulations," my mother finally says.

"you're beautiful."