Paperweight by Meg Haston Page A

same every time I remember. I am filled with spitting rage.
    â€œBut it’s like, she’s my mother ,” Jenna says. “Mothers are supposed to take care of their kids, no matter what.”
    Some other voice at the table snorts. “ Supposed to.”
    I sweep a plastic fork from the counter and stab the first piece of chicken in the bag. I fling it on the plate, already feeling the hot grease soaking through and staining my palms. If she wants to hurt me like this, fine. I don’t care enough to stop her.
    â€œGood, Stevie,” Shrink approves quietly. “You’re really challenging yourself.”
    I turn away from her. There’s an empty seat between Jenna and Ashley, and I squeeze between them. I dump my plate on the table and wipe my palms on my jeans, leaving dark swipes on my thighs. The fat burrows between the denim fibers.
    â€œSo let’s try a second bite.” Ms. Dalton circles the table. Slowly, like a shark. “Again, lift a bite from your plate. Noticethe smell. Does it smell salty, or sweet? What spices have been used to season the food?”
    I drive the fork into the chicken flesh and rip a piece from the bone. I won’t breathe it in. If I breathe it in, I’ll break down and consume it all.
    â€œNow place the bite on your tongue and hold it there for just a moment,” Ms. Dalton instructs. “What tastes arise for you?”
    I stare at the speared meat. Purse my lips together to contain the scream.
    â€œGive it a try, Stevie,” Shrink prods quietly behind me. “You’re doing great.” There is a scream inside of me, building. Rattling my insides. I stuff it down with the chicken. When I cram the bite into my mouth, my stomach heaves, and I am back on the porch at the house on Broad. My mother has left me.
    That night, it just happened naturally. I was sitting on the porch swing full of chicken and tea, and my belly kept twisting into itself and I couldn’t sit still. I made it to the edge of the porch just in time. I folded over the railing and emptied myself into the earth.
    Shrink pipes up behind me. “Girls, notice that you can take a bite—that you can experience this food—without overdoing it, and without dissociating; meaning that you can stay fully present in this moment.”
    The air on the porch was heavy enough to crush me.
    â€œWe’re so very proud of you guys for trying this,” Ms. Dalton adds. “The strength in this room is palpable.”
    There is still fried animal on my tongue. I swallow it and the scream. The meat lodges in my throat and for a second I think it will stay there. Maybe it will stop my breath. Maybe the foodwill actually kill me. But my body takes over and swallows again. I can feel the weighty flesh worming its way down to my gut. My stomach coils, desperate to reject it.
    I whisper, “Excuse me. I need some air,” and I shove back my chair and run outside. Shrink thinks I can do this, but she’s wrong. My body won’t allow it. I stumble around the side of the house. Next to the stucco wall, I bow my head and my body gives it up; I don’t even have to ask. I feel the familiar click, the moment when my body knows everything is going to be okay. When I’m done I kick fiery dirt over pale meat and I think, It’s like riding a bike . Which is weird because I never learned to ride a bike. Josh crashed his and broke his arm when he was seven and I was six, and that was that.
    I come around the corner, rubbing the damp from my eyes and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Finally, my insides are quiet.
    â€œOh.” Suddenly Ashley is standing there, wobbly and gray in the too-bright sun. “I . . . um . . . wanted to check on you. I told Anna I’d come so she could stay with the group.” Her lower lip twitches.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œStevie.” She whispers it.
    I should feel something. A real girl would feel something.