I shake my hand free from her grip. “No. I’ve been busy, that’s all.”
“It’s been a week since I’ve seen you and you look like you lost another five pounds. This has to stop.”
I place my warm hands on my cheeks and close my eyes. “Mom, please. I’m not hurting myself. It’s stress-related, okay?”
“You need to go back to the doctor.” Mom isn’t letting up on me, so unless I agree, the next hour of my life will be consumed with a million reasons why I should listen to her.
“Okay, will you stop talking about my weight if I agree to see a doctor?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and cocks her hip out to the side. “I won’t bring up the doctor again. You need to gain some weight back, though.”
She’s been saying this for months, but once Dad passed, my stomach felt better hollow than full, and it became a cycle with easy upkeep.
“I’ve been eating, just so you know.” Not lunch or breakfast, but dinner is a must. Mom isn’t buying into my words.
“Eat,” she says, her voice stern as if I was twelve again.
She brushes by me to pull her chair out and sit down in front of the oversized sandwich she prepared.
I follow and take the seat across from her, watching her right eyebrow perch in its corner of annoyance. It’s always her right brow that proves the worth of her anger.
“So, about the dinner party,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“I just lost your father, Journey. I won’t make it through another loss. Do you understand me?”
I inhale slowly and puff my cheeks out as I exhale even slower. “I’m not going to die.”
“Bulimia can lead to death,” she says, whispering as if the walls were listening to the secret stories of my hidden past.
“I’m not—I’m not sick like that, Mom.”
“Right after Adam died—it was the last time you ‘weren’t sick like that.’ Then I was sitting in the hospital with you for days while doctors refueled your body with IV fluids. I took a leave of absence from work to take you to psychiatrist appointments three times a week and then home to monitor you and the bathroom every other minute of the day. All so I could keep you out of the hospital.”
I hate this reminder. I hate that my past is like the ink of a permanent tattoo—one I should never have gotten and deeply regret. It fades, but I see it every time I look in the mirror.
“I have been fine since,” I remind her.
“You are prone to future bouts. You heard the doctor.”
I wish she would believe me. “I’d like to have a dinner party to discuss my decision about The Barrel House.”
It’s easy to see that the change of discussion isn’t acceptable. She takes a few minutes before responding. “Who needs to be at this party, Journey?”
“Melody and the Pearsons.”
“You’re selling your share?” Mom is trying to stay neutral as she questions me. I know she would never ask me to hold on to my share and take on a new career doing something I’m not passionate about, but at the same time, she’s terrified to lose the family business.
“Yes and no. I have found a loophole to protect our family assets, and I’m having paperwork drawn up as we speak.”
“Wow,” Mom says, taking another bite from her sandwich. “I’m glad to hear you spoke to an attorney about this. Thank you for doing so.”
“It’s my family business too. I haven’t gone a day without debating this decision.”
“I know,” Mom says. “I didn’t want you to give up your life for something that wouldn’t make you happy. I just couldn’t think of a solution to the issue either.” She smiles and places her hand on top of mine. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’ll have more details by tomorrow afternoon when I get the paperwork.”
“Okay. Then, how about tomorrow night? I can call Elizabeth and Bill to see if they’re free for dinner.”
