After we all had finished eating, I waited for my mom to go to the bathroom to wash her hands. At restaurants, she always washed her hands before and after every meal in the restaurant bathroom.
“I’m going to go to the ladies’ room to wash my hands. Anyone else want to come with?” my mom advertised.
“I’ll go with you,” my sister said. I slid down the bench so she could get out.
“You’re not going?” she asked me.
“Not yet, I’m gonna finish my pancakes,” I replied, smiling.
“You girls sure can eat!” my grandma said as she stood to go to the bathroom with my mom and sister.
The waitress sauntered back to our table. Holding the black folder in her hand, she looked at my dad, then to my grandpa, and then back to my dad.
“Who do I give this to?” she asked.
“Give it here,” my grandpa bellowed, his low voice and white hair attesting to his authority.
“No, no, no,” my dad protested, reaching over the table and snatching the folder out of the waitress’s hand before she could pass it off to my grandpa.
“Let me get the bill, David.”
“Nope. I got it,” my dad replied, reaching for his wallet.
I quietly shoveled forkfuls of cold pancakes into my mouth. There was too much syrup; they were too soggy and too sweet. I gulped my ice water. It was my third glass. Bready things like pancakes don’t come up easily if you don’t drink enough with them.
“Wow, are you gonna be in the clean plate club, Bee?” my dad joked. He was always telling my sister and I to clean our plates, but especially at restaurants, this rarely happened.
“Yeah, looks like it. Except for that white bacon fat. But that doesn’t count,” I replied. “Ready?” I asked my dad, raising my eyebrows, smiling, scooping up the last bite of pancakes with my fork. As I raised it, the syrupy mush started to fall through the tines. I quickly put it in my mouth and swallowed it, erasing the disgustingly sweet taste with mouthful after mouthful of freezing water.
“Way to go, Bee!” he said, putting his hand across the table, waiting for me to high-five him. I gave him a strong high five as I continued drinking, and saw my mom, sister, and grandma coming back to the table. I scooted to the edge of the bench and grabbed my purse.
“I’m a member of the clean plate club,” I pseudo-bragged to my sister as I passed her en route to the ladies’ room. She laughed.
I pushed opened the door to the room, and was immediately hit with the fake smell of industrial hand soap. I hated that smell. The yellow fluorescent lights hummed as the door fell shut behind me. I opted for the handicapped stall since it was slightly farther from the door than the other stall, and there would be less chance of anyone seeing my feet, which would be facing the wrong way if anyone walked in. I closed and locked the door, hanging my purse on the hook above the lock.
I walked over to the toilet and ripped some single-ply toilet paper off of the roll, covering the water’s surface with it. I tucked my pinky and ring finger with my thumb as I moved my hand toward my mouth. My hand smelled and tasted like maple syrup. I felt my epiglottis with my first two fingers. It was kind of hard—the cartilage kind of hard—but smooth, wet, and warm. Touching it made my throat feel scratchy. Perfect. I started to rub the flap with my fingertips, reaching deeper into my throat until my stomach heaved. I crouched over the toilet, still standing, as watered-down pancakes and bile poured over my hand and into the water, making a plopping noise as if I had simply dropped an apple in it. I kept rubbing my epiglottis, heaving, and coughing, spewing the very watery contents of my stomach into the toilet. When I couldn’t breathe, I pulled my vomit-covered hand out of my mouth and coughed until I could inhale again. And then I would reach back down my throat. I felt the little chunks of bacon shooting up my esophagus. I looked down and saw the pale and tiny pieces of light yellow scrambled eggs. Everything came back up in the opposite order that I ate it in, though everything was mixed, mashed, mush. I kept putting my hand down my throat until I heaved and heaved, but nothing came out. That’s when I knew I was done. Tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes, but I wasn’t sad; I was proud. Think of all of the hard work those calories would have erased. I felt satisfied, confident, physically exhausted. I used some toilet paper to wipe the vomit off of my hand and the toilet seat. I used some more to dab at my teary eyes, and to blow my nose, which was now also full of vomit. No more industrial hand soap smell; now everything reeked of bile and syrup. I looked at myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. There was a piece of semi-digested pancake that had splashed out of the toilet in my hair. I picked it out. The pre-puke toilet paper usually prevented most of that.
I grabbed the lever on the paper towel dispenser and pulled it down a few times as my sister walked in.
“Almost ready to go?” she said.
I ripped the paper towel from the dispenser. “Yup!” I affirmed, and smiled at her.
“You okay? Your eyes are kind of red. I just noticed.” My sister raised a concerned, well-manicured eyebrow.
“I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well last night,” I replied to her. She knew it was true: I had had insomnia for a while now.
“Aww, I’m sorry, Woo,” she comforted me, wrapping her arms around my thin waist.
“It’s okay,” I said, confidently, upbeat. I tossed the paper towel in the trash. “I’m getting used to it.”
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