Four
“Tell me about your weekend,” Rae said to her last patient of the day. “How about we start with that?”
Lisa, a fourteen-year-old bulimia patient, twirled her short, brown hair around her finger, her eyes cast to her sneakers. “My mom came to visit,” she said with a sigh.
“That’s good,” Rae said, watching Lisa’s micro expressions closely. “How did she make you feel?”
“The same. Guilty. I know it costs a lot to keep me here, and she thinks that I can just turn it off.” Lisa’s eyes rose to Rae’s. “But I can’t. Every time I look at myself, that monster is there. The fat one with the huge thighs and droopy chin.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her red jacket. “I hate the girl in the mirror.”
No, sweetie, Rae thought.
Her heart broke from all of the pain she felt emitting from
