“I will take your silence as meaning you’ve eaten this morning and cancel –”
“How dare you speak to me like this! Don’t you know who I am? I want a different doctor.”
“By all means,” I say. “Hire a yes-man to put you under anesthesia despite the increased risks of you not waking up. You have anorexia nervosa –”
She huffs and crosses her arms. “They’re lying. Look at me. I’m –”
“– meaning you’re at higher risk of aspiration, hypokalaemia, arrhythmias, acute congestive heart failure, life-threatening cardiovascular dysfunction, and falling into a myxoedema coma.”
Her lips pinch tight as she glances away.
Despite what a lot of people think, anorexia isn’t about being thin; it’s a punishment for daring to enjoy something they believe they shouldn’t. It’s a crushing amount of guilt. A harsh, little, lying voice telling them they don’t deserve anything good.
If I was trying to help her, I would applaud her for eating and work on convincing her that she is worthy of being healthy and happy. That that little voice she hears isn’t hers but rather a demon inside her. I would not judge her when she relapsed. I’d stand beside her as she recovered, a cheerleader without limit. And right now, I’d try to help her understand that the weight she would gain after the surgery isn’t anything to be ashamed of. That she is worthy of being cared for.
But I don’t give a shit about her mental health. Ms. Reeds, with her movie star superiority, would walk all over Summer if they ever met, and for that, she can die on the operating table for all I care.
One less person in the world to hurt my girl.
But at the moment, I have need of her, so I turn on my bedside manners. “Tell me what’s giving you second thoughts about the surgery,” I say softly, now acting every inch the concerned father.
She looks at me, her face guarded, but with a bit more coaxing, she opens up. We skirt around the illness she isn’t ready to admit she has, but we get to the bottom of her fears. We touch on the edge of her shame – how she doesn’t feel like she deserves her success or a second chance with this surgery.
I gently talk her through her doubt and make her feel seen for the first time. And when she trusts me to have her best interests at heart, I get the answers I need from her as I take her vitals.
She claims she stuck to the eating plan we gave her and didn’t skip any of the meals. I press her on that but not too hard. I don’t want her to tell me the truth. I only want to cover my ass if a complication arises during her surgery or recovery.
“I swear,” she lies.
“Okay, let’s get you into the OR.”
I wheel her out into the hall. Her bodyguard moves towards us immediately, waves of emotion rolling off him.
He opens his mouth as he reaches her side, but she cuts him off.
“Don’t.” Her voice softens. “Whatever you’re going to tell me, do it after.”
“But –”
“Don’t freak me out, okay? Do it after.”
His lips tighten, but he nods, and I wheel her into the OR. The monitoring equipment goes on her. The face mask is placed over her mouth and nose. As she inhales the general anesthesia deep into her lungs, I calmly count her down.
Her eyelids slowly flutter.
Then she’s under.
And not once did she realize that the doctor she’s trusting with her life…
… is preparing to take it.
Sixteen
The surgery goes well, with no complications. Ms. Reeds’ eyes are out of focus when I pull her out from under the anesthesia. The pain and confusion in them delights me, and for a moment, I let myself believe she’s tied down in my basement where no one can hear her scream.
She deserves nothing less for how she judges big girls. A few years ago, she did an interview, talking about how disgusting overweight people were. That anyone who didn’t have the discipline to hit the gym or control what they ate should be ashamed of themselves for the burden they put on society.
Her interview blew up all over the web. Memes were made. The populace was split into two: one tearing her down for being inconsiderate, the other applauding her for “telling it like it is” and “not going woke.”
