Three More Words

  Because of all the shouting and slamming doors, I slept fitfully. Around seven I woke Erick. “Let’s just get out of here. We can have breakfast on the road.”

  While I packed, Erick helped Jasper get going.

  Wes was sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping a mug of coffee. “You leaving?”

  “Yes. Thanks for everything,” I muttered awkwardly.

  “Is that an apology for all the trouble you caused?”

  I sucked in a breath. “I’ll call Lorraine to say good-bye later.”

  “Oh, she and the kid are long gone.” He grunted at my surprise. “She doesn’t want to have anything more to do with you than you want to do with her.” He ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “I don’t know why either of you bother. Lorraine thinks you are the biggest stuck-up piece of crap, and you hate her guts for what she supposedly did to you and your brother. None of it was her fault. The state took you away and wouldn’t give you back.”

  He poured a swig of bourbon into his coffee and took a gulp. “I knew your mother way back when. She went through hell with that crazy daddy of hers, and finally her mother dumped all those kids at that orphanage. Just when she was getting back with her family, her mama died—your grandma wasn’t much more than thirty—and then you came along nine months later. Nobody gave your mother a nickel to help care for you, but she struggled for years to try to get you back. And what do you do? You not only throw it in her face every chance you get, you go out of your way to be mean to your little sister, who worships you.”

  Erick had come back inside to find out what was taking me so long and heard Wes spewing out more ugliness.

  “Let’s go,” Erick said with a squeeze on my elbow. I followed him without another word to Wes. I was mute for almost an hour in the car as my mind swirled with the retorts I should have said. When Jasper had dozed off, I finally spoke. “That’s it. I’m done.”

  Erick nodded. “I know.”

  “No more chances, no more visits. She’s nothing to me.”

  “You’re right.”

  We drove on in silence for another half an hour. “Crystal River isn’t too far out of our way, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Do you mind if we go there for the Fourth?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Jasper can see the fireworks on our river.” I exhaled. “I just need . . . I just need to go home.”

  8.

  the hungry hormone

  You have to give to the world the thing that you want the most, in order to fix the broken parts inside you.

  —Eve Ensler

  I had hidden my wedding pictures. They were concrete proof that I was overweight. At least Erick loved me for my true self and wasn’t hung up on some perfect female image. I had promised myself I would go on a strict diet after the wedding. Erick agreed to help me make healthier eating choices.

  Trying to figure out why I couldn’t control how much I ate, I thought about my relationship with food before and after my adoption. In foster care I was anxious about where my next meal was coming from, and sometimes food was withheld as a punishment. Cheap canned, boxed, or prepackaged meals were the staples of our diet, so fast food was used as a reward. In group homes, we had limited time to eat, so I would cram as much as I could in case I would be hungry later. I mounded large portions of potatoes and other starchy foods on my plate, rarely choosing salad or fresh fruit. There were never snacks or ways to acquire my own food.

  The first time in my life I had free access to food was at the Courters’ home. On one of my early visits, I had pointed to the fruit on the kitchen counter. “What are the rules about eating that?”

  “You can have fruit anytime you want,” Phil had said. He showed me a bowl of nuts in their shells. “You can have nuts, too.”

  I picked up a walnut and twirled it in my hand. I had never seen anything besides a shelled peanut. Phil cracked one for me. I tried it, but the taste made my tongue curl. I spit it into my hand.

  Gay handed me a tissue and a banana. “Everyone likes these.”

  The skin on the outside was mottled. “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll try to get some that aren’t quite as ripe,” Gay said.

  I soon discovered that the Courters had food everyswhere! The main refrigerator was stocked with fresh milk, orange and grapefruit juice, homemade iced tea, apple cider, and lemonade. A food pantry held mac-and-cheese, spaghetti and sauces, canned veggies and fruits, peanut butter, and several flavors of jelly. One shelf was loaded with crackers, cookies, pretzels, and chips—even three flavors of chewing gum! They kept a supply of fruit juices; cans of salmon, tuna, and sardines; cake, brownie, muffin, and bread mixes. They had an extra refrigerator in the laundry room for cold beverages and fresh vegetables. The two freezers contained frozen vegetables, meats, and homemade soups and casseroles, and several flavors of ice cream—with chocolate and butterscotch toppings in the fridge. Another cabinet was filled with cereals, coffees, and teas.

  The kitchen looked as industrial as the one in The Children’s Home—all stainless steel and granite, with a gas cooktop that whooshed out scary tongues of flame. Pots hung like Spanish moss from the rack over the sink, and a clutter of gadgets dangled from hooks on the wall along with a magnetic strip that displayed sharp knives. I made a mental note to make certain these were hidden when Luke visited. Best of all, the kitchen was just down the hall from my bedroom, so I could help myself anytime I wanted. I knew certain snacks were only put out for picnics and visitors, but I couldn’t help myself. When I craved potato chips, I devoured the whole bag. Fortunately, nobody noticed they were missing.

  When most people think of hunger, they imagine starving children in developing countries. It’s true that each year 2.6 million children die of hunger-related causes, but far more are food insecure, a term that defines how I had felt until well after I was adopted. Some of my first memories are about wandering through a trailer park, begging neighbors to fill Luke’s bottle and give me a cookie. For the next nine years the idea of food shimmered in the back of my mind, and I often became distracted by cravings that would never be fulfilled. I salivated at commercials for fast food and decided that I would eat at Wendy’s or Pizza Hut every day when I grew up. At The Children’s Home, good behavior was rewarded with ice cream or a pizza. Now I realize that one of the most insidious results of my time in foster care was a lifelong struggle to separate my moods from foods.

  I’ve been told that heavier people lack self-control, that they are lazy, indulgent, sedentary, and make unhealthy choices. Although Gay never said any of those things, and she tried to make me feel food secure in her home, we squared off almost from day one as I tested her willingness to let me eat anything I wanted versus her ideas of a balanced diet. Children who don’t feel safe have trouble eating. The universal comfort food for American foster children is Kraft mac-and-cheese—and only that brand in the blue box with the neon-yellow cheese—because no matter where you are, it tastes exactly the same.

  I’d learned to make mac-and-cheese in another foster home and asked Gay if she would keep some on hand in case I didn’t like what she cooked. Once, I rejected meat loaf and made myself two boxes. When it was ready, I stood at the counter, eating it from the pot.

  “Ashley, serve some onto a plate and join us at the table.”

  I went back three times and ate it all. As we cleaned up, Gay said, “Two boxes have far too many calories.”

  Phil shrugged. “She’ll learn to self-regulate.”

  Gay lectured me on nutrition to the point of disgust. “You need protein in the morning to keep your blood sugar stable,” she said, then drew a chart showing the difference between having eggs and milk versus a Pop-Tart and OJ. “Girls need extra calcium to prepare their bodies for having children and becoming older,” she said, pushing yogurt. When I came home from school, I was usually famished. She put out carrot sticks and celery along with little squares of cheese and fresh fruit. She also urged me
to take lima-bean-size vitamins. She baked chicken nuggets in wheat germ and tried to convince me it was as good as KFC.

  I, on the other hand, pranced around chomping on chips to see how Gay would react. Some days she would do her best to ignore me, but other times—like when I asked Phil to make me five grilled cheese sandwiches—she would explode.

  “I don’t think she should ever again worry she won’t get enough to eat,” Phil insisted.

  “She can have as much good food as she wants,” Gay replied. “Her body doesn’t need junk that will expand her fat cells and ruin her figure.”

  “Would you rather she be anorexic?”

  “No. I want her to have a positive body image and a sensible diet.”

  “She’s not overweight,” Phil pointed out.

  “Not yet,” Gay said ominously.

  My brothers jumped on Gay for allowing me to eat foods that had been forbidden when they lived there. “You have sodas in the house?” Blake exclaimed one day shortly after I was adopted at the age of twelve.

  “Ashley is limited to one a day.”

  “We were limited to one every holiday!” he replied.

  Josh found Fruity Pebbles and Cap’n Crunch in the cabinet. “Ash, this crap is sheer poison,” he said. “Read the label. The second ingredient is sugar, and check out the list of toxic chemicals and artificial coloring.”

  “And since when are you buying junk bread?” Blake tossed a package of plain white bread to Gay.

  “We’re slowly introducing Ashley to better decisions.”

  I reluctantly tasted a few new foods and found I liked broccoli (with cheese sauce), cauliflower (with cheese sauce), and creamed spinach.

  But no matter how much food was available, my hunger was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. I had to feed the beast that roared through my gut, demanding mounds of buttery mashed potatoes, multiple packages of ramen noodles, white, no-crust bread slathered with peanut butter and grape jelly, a stack of warm brownies, blueberry muffins melting with butter, bagels and cream cheese, a slab of crispy bacon, a bag of pretzels with spears of sour pickles on the side. Take me to a buffet restaurant and I would fill two plates for the first round—one piled high with yeast rolls and the second with every carb offered. Of course I couldn’t eat it all, but I had to have it—had to! Even when I felt bloated and ill, I still wanted something . . . something else—although I couldn’t have articulated what it was.

  At the same time, the more apprehensive I felt about getting perfect grades or how my friends felt about me or when the Courters might reject me, the more active I needed to be. I begged Phil to jump on the trampoline or play volleyball with me in the pool. I skated and biked with neighborhood friends. I had played softball in Tampa while I was at The Children’s Home, and I joined a Crystal River team after I moved. I even took a scuba course at the dive shop directly across the bay from our house.

  “We had to adopt a girl to get a jock,” Phil said with pride, since neither of their sons had shown much interest in sports.

  My freshman year of high school, I was recruited to play varsity basketball as a point guard because I was considered an extremely tough and energetic player. I had played basketball and won many medals running track in middle school. I had a sport for every season and no matter how many calories I consumed at the dinner table—or in secret—I never actually put on too much weight.

  Early in my freshman year of high school I was having severe knee pains, and the orthopedist diagnosed Osgood-Schlatter disease, which causes a throbbing lump below the kneecap that occurs mostly in kids and teens—especially those who are in sports. The doctor told me to modify my training routine. “No laps or squats. You can warm up on a stationary bike.”

  “Your doctor is not going to dictate my program,” the basketball coach said, and I was relegated to the bench. I ultimately traded varsity sports for drama club.

  In a few months I needed a larger size of jeans. I stayed active—but it was nothing like conditioning for sports. In college I kept weight off with my brief stint playing rugby, until I required knee surgery. After that, I was more cautious . . . then I was helping coach some new players. I was explaining a tackling drill, but the girls weren’t getting it. “Here, let me show you what I mean.” I dove at one of the players. My knee rotated in the wrong direction, and I collapsed in agony. I had torn my knee graft and was faced with having another complex surgery. After considering all my options, my doctor agreed that I could go without another operation only if I retired from sports.

  Without thinking about it, I had maintained a weight of around 135 pounds during high school. I’m just over five feet six inches, with a large but proportioned frame. After my knee injury, I gained the “freshman fifteen”—and then some. One visit home during college, Gay had looked me up and down. “Ashley! What do you weigh?”

  Phil glared at her.

  She stared at my feet. “Your poor ankles are swollen, and your face is bloated.”

  I went upstairs and pulled out my rarely used scale. I weighed 175 pounds, by far the most ever. The next weekend Erick came for Sunday dinner. I took my usual huge helping of mashed potatoes and a big chunk of brisket. Gay reached over and scooped most of the potatoes back in the bowl. “That’s a proper serving size.”

  I was mortified she had done this in front of Erick, but she was unfazed. “Ash, I also would stop you if you were taking drugs or drinking excessively. Obesity leads to diabetes and numerous health problems.”

  “Gay, this is not—” Phil began.

  “I may have been out of line taking food off your plate, but it was my protective instinct. Let’s stop pretending that you don’t have a problem.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Go see Doc. Maybe he’ll figure out why you are packing on the pounds.”

  Dr. Rollins looked at his chart, then at me, and back at his chart—with my weight of 181 pounds recorded and circled. “Honestly, Ashley, I didn’t recognize you when you came in. What’s been going on? Your blood pressure is high—especially for someone your age. Are you ever short of breath?”

  “I had trouble hiking recently,” I admitted.

  “We’re always concerned when someone either gains or loses weight rapidly,” he said, “so we’re going to run some tests.”

  A few days later he asked me to return for the results. “Bring someone with you, if you are comfortable doing so,” he said.

  A few hours later Gay and I were sitting in Dr. Rollins’s examining room. “Ashley, your cortisol levels are through the roof,” he said. “That’s the stress hormone. Elevated levels can cause rapid, unexplained weight gain, moodiness, irritability, or depression.”

  “What causes it?” I asked.

  “It’s a malfunction in either the pituitary or adrenal glands,” he said. “We have to eliminate more worrisome causes like tumors—but those are rare.”

  I almost hoped I had a disease that could be cured and then my weight would melt away. But when I returned after more testing, Dr. Rollins, in his gentle, heartfelt way, said, “You don’t have anything serious, but you do have the first signs of metabolic syndrome. I see it all the time . . . in people thirty years older than you.” He tried to educate me about my body-mass index and scare me with statistics about diabetes and heart disease. I knew he was right—just like Gay had been—but how was I going to lose forty or fifty pounds?

  Gay offered to pay for Weight Watchers and a gym membership. “I lost seven pounds!” I crowed to her after the first week.

  I stocked up on raw veggies and melons and started counting points. I spent two hours a day at the gym. I was hungry all the time and I also ached all over, but I lost almost twenty pounds. My friends who hadn’t seen me all summer definitely noticed. I appreciated the compliments, but it also made me self-conscious, because I hadn’t realized I’d looked fat to them before. And the moment I stopped exercising daily and went back to cafeteria food, I gained again.


  A friend suggested a weight-loss clinic to help jump-start the diet again. Not only did the appetite suppressant they prescribed for me cause my heart to race and my face to burn in the sun, I felt so agitated that it wasn’t worth the few pounds I lost. The plan was also expensive, and I found it hard to fit weekly injections and doctor visits into my work, travel, and school schedule.

  I couldn’t avoid Gay’s birthday party the first week of October, and I knew she would notice I had gained back my summer losses. Later that evening, she said, “I found this article—it’s about foster children who exhibit higher rates of atypical neuroendocrine and have problems with weight control.”

  “You mean gaining weight isn’t completely my fault?” was my first comment as I scanned the words Gay had highlighted. Childhood abuse or neglect could take a lasting toll on physical health . . . may trigger long-term hormone problems that increase the risk of obesity . . . places stress on the endocrine system, leading to impairment of important hormones that can contribute to abdominal obesity.

  “So, no matter how much I diet or exercise, I’m doomed.” I paused to consider my predicament.

  “Dieting will still work,” Gay said. “It just will be harder for you.”

  “There must be another way. Maybe I need my hormones recalibrated or something. I don’t want dieting to consume my life.”

  “You’re not the only one looking for the magic pill,” Gay said. “At least this gives you more information.”

  Here is a recipe for sure-fire weight gain: travel for work. After graduating college, Three Little Words had become a bestseller, and I was in high demand for speeches. That meant quick airport food or expensive room service. A late arrival reduced me to peanuts, candy, and a soda from the minibar. Then there were the embarrassing moments. The person with whom I had made arrangements for a speaking engagement greeted me at the airport. “Are you Ashley?” she asked in a voice that sounded disappointed. I nodded. “You look very different from your poster,” she said before realizing her gaffe.