Mom panicked. “Stop, don’t eat anymore!”
But I couldn’t stop. I ate, I vomited, I ate
again. Finally, I coughed up blood and
collapsed unconscious. My exposed skin, my
neck and face, erupted in angry red hives.
Chloe looked terrified. Dad’s temples
throbbed. He clenched his fists. “Call 911.”
Twice in one day, I ended up in the hospital.
This second time was an emergency. Red
lights flashed. Doctors frantically pulled me
back from the brink. Mom and Dad let out a
choked sob of relief. The doctor frowned.
“The patient is severely malnourished, has a
serious stomach condition, and can’t eat
greasy food. She’s also allergic to clams. As
parents, shouldn’t you know this?” Mom
looked blank. “Malnourished?” she mumbled,
then, helpless as a child, “I didn’t know about
the allergy.” The doctor’s voice sharpened.
“This is negligence! She almost died!” Mom
collapsed onto a chair, pale and trembling.
Dad’s face darkened, a vein throbbing in his forehead. Chloe lifted her head, tears
streaming down her face, the picture of
innocence and grief. Her eyes were red- rimmed. “Uncle, Aunt, it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t cooked, hadn’t given Ashley so much food… Maybe I don’t belong here. I should leave.” Dad hesitated, then frowned, insisting she was always welcome. Mom dabbed at Chloe’s tears. “You’re a good girl, Chloe. We know you meant well. It’s not your fault. Ashley’s just…frail.”
Frail. Right. Even if I died, it would be my
fault.
When I was stable, they moved me to a
regular room. My workaholic parents, surprisingly, took time off to care for me. Dad, in a rare display of affection, reached
out to touch my hair. I flinched, eyes wide
with terror, screaming and scrambling back,
falling off the bed. “Don’t hit me! It hurts!”
Dad’s face hardened, an unsettling coldness
in his eyes. He left without a word. Mom
helped me up, offering to peel an apple.
