The Perfect Mum. Janice Johnson Kay
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figured they weren’t ready-made, they got built here. That’s reasonable.” He paused, his gaze intent. “Ms. Monroe…”
“Kathleen. Please.” Her heart seemed to be pounding.
The cabinetmaker nodded. “Kathleen. I don’t suppose…” He stopped, frowned fiercely, and shook his head. “Never mind.”
“What?” She wanted to stomp her foot.
“No.” His expression was stolid again. “It was just a passing thought. Nothing important.” He held out a hand. “I look forward to doing some work for you.”
What could she do but hold out her hand in turn? His was big, warm and rough-textured. It seemed to her that he released her hand reluctantly before nodding one more time and heading down the porch steps.
Tempted to watch him go, Kathleen made herself shut the front door. She was too old for delusions of passion and romance.
EMMA SAT AT THE TABLE in the dining hall and stared at her dinner tray. They could not possibly expect her to eat all that!
She sneaked a glance around and saw that a few of the other women and girls—right now, there wasn’t a single guy here—had matter-of-factly picked up silverware and started to eat. Maybe they had figured out some way to get away from their captors long enough to puke up all this food. Or maybe they had decided eating was the only way out of here. It wasn’t like they couldn’t lose the weight again.
Emma just didn’t want to. Gaining ten or twenty pounds, just so she could go home… She shivered at the thought. She’d be fat!
Reluctantly she picked up her fork and stabbed a few peas. Okay. She guessed she could eat them. They were starchy, but still a vegetable. Then maybe if she stirred some of the other food, made it look like she’d eaten some, they’d let her go.
The peas seemed to stick in her throat. She reached for her milk and gagged when she tasted it.
“It’s whole milk,” the girl beside her said. “Or maybe two percent. I’m not sure.”
“Even my mom buys nonfat!”
“Yeah, but this has more calories.”
Beads of sweat stood out on Emma’s brow. “I can’t eat this.”
“You have to. They make you sit here until you do.”
“All of it?”
“Didn’t they tell you?” The girl was really pretty, with shiny thick black hair, and so slim, lots slimmer than Emma was.
“They said I had to eat what they served, but I didn’t figure they meant, like, every bite.” She stared again in dismay at the pork chop, mashed potatoes and gravy and peas.
“I sat here for four hours my first day. The meat was even grosser when it was cold.”
Emma took a tentative bite of mashed potato. It slipped down easier than the peas had. “What’s your name?”
“Summer Chan. What’s yours?”
“Emma Monroe.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“Seventy-six pounds.” Emma was embarrassed. “I wish I looked like you do.”
“But I’m only five-two.” She took a dainty bite and swallowed. “You look great. I’m the one who’s still fat. No matter what they say.”
Emma didn’t ask what she weighed. She’d end up being totally humiliated.
“Do they ever get so they trust you, and you can go to the bathroom and stuff alone?”
“No.” She took another bite. “I’ve been here before. If you want out, you have to cooperate.”
Emma poked at the pork chop. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“You had to tell them you were when you checked in. Now it’s too late. They’ll think you’re lying.”
Emma hadn’t been a vegetarian until she decided meat had too much fat in it. Now…her stomach quivered at the thought. It was almost like being hungry, but more like she needed to throw up.
Summer took a bite of hers and murmured out of the corner of her mouth, “You’d better look like you’re eating. Here comes Karen.”
Karen was one of the nurses. She was stocky, with chunky arms and shoulders and a thick neck. The idea of ending up looking like her scared Emma.
She paused right behind the girls. “How are you doing, Emma? Doesn’t look like you’ve eaten much yet.”
“I had some peas. And potatoes.”
She laid a hand briefly on Emma’s shoulder. “Remember the rules. You have to eat it all. You can’t get well if you don’t eat.”
When she moved on, Emma muttered, “She means, get fat.”
“Just keep eating,” a woman across the table advised. “It’s easier if you don’t think about it. By the way,” she added, “I’m Regina Hall.”
“Nice to meet you,” Emma said automatically.
Not think about it. Right. How did you do that? She always thought about what she ate! She knew how much fat and calories every bite had, how full it would make her, whether she’d feel like a pig after she was done scarfing it down. To just eat and eat and eat…
“I won’t,” she said, and put down her fork.
“Suit yourself.” Regina, who was maybe in her early twenties, shrugged. “I’d rather watch TV than sit here all night. Even if it is reruns.”
“Everybody watches Friends,” Summer chimed in. “Monica is so-o pretty. Don’t you think?”
“I wish I looked like her,” Emma agreed. “I like to cook the way she does, too.”
Everyone at the table joined in to talk about Friends and whether Phoebe was too fat and how cool it would be to have a job as a chef as long as you didn’t have to sample anything and which was the hottest guy on the show.
Joey, most of them agreed, although Summer didn’t say anything and Emma didn’t think any of them were that hot. They were old, for one thing. Her uncle Ryan was better-looking than any of them. Her friends, back when she had some, always said he was super hot compared to their fathers or uncles or any of the teachers.
Emma guessed her dad was, too, but now when she thought of him all she could remember was his face contorted with rage and the cruelty of his hands and the terror of not being able to breathe when he shoved food into her mouth until it was smeared all over her face.
It was that moment when she knew how much he hated having a daughter who couldn’t do anything right. He’d mostly hidden it until then, but he’d finally cracked. Now she hated him, too, and dreamed about running into him by accident sometime when she was grown-up, and slim, and so beautiful she drove men crazy. And wildly successful, too—maybe a federal judge or mayor of Seattle or a movie star. She’d raise an eyebrow, just so, as if in faint surprise at his temerity in approaching her. Her expression would say, Do I know you? He’d mumble something about how much he admired her, or he’d say, “I tell all my friends you’re my daughter.” Mostly in these daydreams she was gracious, saying, “How nice,” before noticing someone more important she had to speak to. Sometimes, when she was in a bad mood, she’d imagine the scathing look she’d give him. “I have no father,” she would say icily, before moving on as if he was nobody.
Right this minute, she wished she had no mother, either. Because then she’d be living with Uncle Ryan, and he wouldn’t have committed her like a crazy person who needed twenty-four-hour guarding.
Realizing that even Summer was almost done with her dinner, Emma took another bite of mashed potatoes. Her stomach growled, startling her. Two