Elena Vanishing by Elena Dunkle Page A

parking lot, stops the car, and bursts into tears.
    Mom and I are stunned into silence.
    We decide to find a hotel and stop for the night. But it isn’t five minutes before Mom’s talking about dinner. It’s like she’s doing this on purpose!
    Still, I act like I don’t mind—for Dad’s sake, not hers.
    We go to Subway, and I order first. I load my sandwich up with pickles, sit down, and tuck right in. Before long, the whole sandwich is gone. Then I start in on the chips—crispy, salty, and delicious.
    I eat the entire bag.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad exchanging meaningful glances with Mom. He thinks I’m doing great.
    Mom relaxes, too. Pretty soon she and Dad are joking and having fun.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” I promise, and I head for the bathroom.
    Someone is in the next stall. No problem. It could be Mom, and it wouldn’t matter. I guarantee that she wouldn’t hear a thing.
    I bend over and close my eyes, and it all flows smoothly out—soft bread, edges of chips, and hard knots of pickles. Then I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and flush.
    I feel like Wonder Woman. I feel fantastic. Nothing brings on a quicker high than purging. I’m not losing my touch. No fear and no pity. This is going to be a great senior year.
    Afterward, I stand in front of the mirror, pop two Tums, and chew them cautiously while I fill my mouth with water. Calcium carbonate to neutralize the stomach acid. Baking soda works, too.
    Then I pop an Altoid, reapply lip gloss, and grin to check my teeth.
    Smooth. White. Perfect.
    You can tell I don’t purge.

8
    Eight months have gone by since the drive across the States to meet with Dr. Harris. Senior year is almost over. Even though that psychiatrist tried to take it away from me, I’m having my senior year in Germany with all my friends. I’m finishing up advanced-placement classes at the high school on base, and every other day, a school bus takes me to the military hospital, where I volunteer in the emergency room for high school credit.
    Right now, it’s ten o’clock in the morning, and I am where I love to be: in nursing scrubs in the middle of a busy hospital, with patients and staff all around me.
    Every room in the ER is full, and the waiting room is packed. Even the hallway is packed, but not with patients. We’ve just gotten in a new set of Army trainees, and they’re clustered by the big dry-erase board—nervous, miserable, hoping not to be asked to do anything too complicated. By the end of the month, each one of them needs to know how to perform basic medical procedures in the field. Then they’ll disappear, and a new batch will show up and cluster by the dry-erase board.
    I listen to Sergeant Blake lecture the group on how to start an IV. Then he spots me.
    â€œAh, Elena!” he says. “Accompany . . . ,” he scans the group,“. . . Private Henning into Room Six and monitor as he starts an IV on the patient there. The rest of you, come with me.”
    Inside Room Six is a middle-aged woman with little baggy eyes and a pinched mouth. She’s cradling her abdomen like she’s carrying a baby, but if she were pregnant, she’d be upstairs in Labor and Delivery. Appendicitis? Constipation? Since starting here, I’ve been surprised at the number of patients who need emergency enemas. There’s even a special “enema” hand signal in the ER: the first finger curled into the thumb to form a butthole.
    I wash up and coach Private Henning on how to wash up as we put on sterile gloves. Private Henning is a gangly African American with the words “Only God Can Judge Me” inked in blue letters into his neck. He can’t hide his worry as I tear open the IV kit and lay its components out on a sterile tray.
    â€œCouldn’t you just do it for me?” he begs in a low voice.
    The middle-aged woman with the constipated