THE NIGHT HER FATHER IS ARRESTED, Eden is sitting on the long side of the dinner table, facing the wall that separates the dining room from the kitchen. Her back is to the broad picture window that looks out onto the manicured backyard that abuts the edge of the forest.
This is her seat. When Eden was a child, her stepmother, Vera, couldn't stand how Eden would stare and stare into the trees during dinner, so she made Eden face the wall instead. The wall in question is blank; no pictures of friends or family; no commemorative plates or interesting artwork-certainly none of Eden's artwork from childhood.
Of course, Eden is not a child anymore. She knows how to survive, now. She learned long ago not to remark upon, or even think about, the bare white walls. She learned long ago not to look over her shoulder for a glimpse of the wilderness.
Eden's father and stepmother are sitting to her left and right, respectively, each at a head of the table. A glass of water and a glass of red wine sits at each place setting. Vera always says alcohol is an appetite suppressant in moderation, and it seems to be true for her. She sips her third glass of wine tonight, her salad sitting mostly untouched as she glares back and forth between the window, Eden, and Father.
Eden is acutely aware of the tension at the table. Father has been on his phone for the entirety of the meal, arguing with
one business partner or another. His tone is aggressive and sharp, even though he is not yelling. There is a grilled cut of red meat on his plate that smells divine, but he has barely cut into it. The soft pink of it is so alluring to Eden's senses, it is almost vulgar.
Eden wishes there was something she could do to distract Vera from Father's rude behavior; she wishes there was something she could do that would get Father to put his phone away and pay attention to his unhappy wife. But to please either parent would mean potentially angering the other, so instead Eden focuses on her salad of bitter greens and grilled white chicken meat. She discovers their cook, Mariya, has hidden a little pool of herbed olive oil beneath the salad, which Eden carefully dips pieces of chicken into before sticking them to the greens to cover the shine. Vera would be furious if she suspected Eden was going off her "diet."
Black coffee and half a grapefruit for breakfast, two hard-boiled eggs midmorning. Lean meat and vegetables for lunch and dinner. Protein shake after a workout, but only if the workout is more than sixty minutes. Raw broccoli for snacks-the fiber will fill you up faster. No fats after seven o'clock. And red wine at dinner. It helps with digestion.
That is how Vera lives her life, so it's how Eden lives, too.
She was only six years old when Vera first started criticizing her body, restricting her food, bringing Eden with her to the gym. She is now sixteen years old and cannot eat even so much as an apple without recalling its caloric density. Vera has made sure of that.
If it wasn't for Mariya hiding liquid calories beneath her "approved" foods, or her stepbrother, Kevin, sneaking her treats at night when he stayed with them, Eden thinks she might have wasted away by now. She is always tired, always hungry. She fantasizes about food constantly, and not even anything special: furtive spoonfuls of peanut butter, a classmate's ham and cheese sandwich, butter on her steamed vegetables, a fucking slice of fresh-baked bread.
