The sky blushed an ashen gray as raindrops landed on blades of grass, staining Aileen’s track suit. She heard the faint sound of thunder rumbling over her haggard breath, a certain sign of the bad weather soon to come. Brown wisps of hair tickled her cheek and she tucked the rogue strands behind her ear to glare at the rain clouds. The steady droplets of rain slapping her skin mingled with beads of sweat from her interrupted run. The soft thuds of cleats against the ground trickled to a halt as the other runners were drawn inside the resting area to escape the rain. Some breathed sighs of relief, thanking the gods for the bad weather halting their running practice. Aileen was left standing in the field, a lonely speck of brown against the jade terrain.
Aileen cursed under breath as she heard the short, shrill sound of the whistle ring over the slight rumbling of the sky, announcing the end of practice. She couldn’t stop now. Her muscles screamed with exhaustion. Her heartbeat was faster than a moth fluttering wildly against a flame. She felt her stomach gave a painful twinge, the type of pang that came after running non-stop with an empty stomach. Her bottle of diet Pepsi was in her bag, she reminded herself, so her stomach wouldn’t murmur her secret. Through the rain, she could see the faint silhouette of someone beckoning her over.
Coach Jones was a portly man with stringy ginger hair that seemed to stick out in all directions and a tremendous beer gut. At first glance, one wouldn’t assume he was once an Olympic athlete, much less a running coach, but he carried himself with an air of self-confidence that came with experience.
Carrying a clipboard in one hand and a stop watch in the other, he regarded her critically as she made her way over to him.
Rain wasn’t going to stop her from training. She spent too many hours running on the track field until her legs collapsed from exhaustion, as if she became immune to the burn of her muscles. Her stomach gave the familiar painful lurch and she pushed the thoughts of hunger into the soft fringes of her mind. She was training for the Olympics. If she couldn’t even go through practice on an empty stomach, she had no business being here.
Every snip, every trim she made in her diet was a careful dance that had strict rules to adhere. An apple for breakfast, 95 calories. She made sure to take a morning run she burned off the excess fat, so the bulge in her stomach didn’t show, so she didn’t have to bear through their judgmental stares and idle gossip. Nothing could distract her from the wind on her cheeks or the tug of ribbon against her chest as she ran towards the finish line.
“Look, Coach Jones”, she began. “I’m fine with running with a little rain.”
“It would be a safety hazard to run into the wet grass.” He said matter-of-factly. “You wouldn’t want an injury right before the tryouts, do you? By the way, that’s exactly what I need to talk to you about.” He adjusted the clipboard in his hands. “Your running times.”
“What about them?”
“You’re getting slower, that’s what. At first I thought it was a fluke, but look at your times from the beginning of the year to now. You’ve gained two, almost three full minutes in your time.”
Aileen flinched at his words.
“Your form is sloppy, your breathing is all over the place, and you’re somehow slower than you
were before.” He made a tsk, tsk, tsk. “At this rate, you can’t even beat a turtle in a race, much less try out for the Olympics.”
She let his words churn in her head as he continued talking. “Look, this is the Olympics, the real deal. You know this field is competitive as hell. I know I promised to put a good word for you, but you need to shape up.” He tucked his clipboard in his arms. “Come back tomorrow with a clear mind and get ready for the morning drill.”
Aileen didn’t feel her feet walk towards the locker rooms to get her things. Coach Jones shouted at her retreating figure “and take care of yourself! You’re looking a bit worse for wear!”
She walked into the locker room to collect her things, and took out her umbrella. Aileen stood at a street corner for her incoming bus. The wheels of the bus whined to a stop. The space was congested with people, so she picked a seat in the back. She allowed her coach’s words to churn in her head.
He was right. When the last time she kept track of her breathing or felt the exhilaration of being the first to finish practice? Aileen couldn’t remember. Perhaps it began last year, when she began this new “diet”.
The first time she did it, her stomach was unfamiliar with the feeling of being empty and made little growls throughout the day. After bearing mocking stares from her other teammates, Aileen made sure to bring Pepsi, the diet kind of course, so her stomach wouldn’t tell her secret. Her legs ran beneath her in a blur. Over the sound of her haggard breath she heard Coach Jones praise her for beating her past record. She felt so fast, so in control, running off the high of endorphins and the envious looks of the other runners. All this in exchange for snipping a little bit of her meals.
So she did it again. The list of safe foods seemed to grow smaller and compact every day. Aileen counted the calories as meticulously as she the counted the days off her calendar to the Olympic tryouts. Any edge she could get in the competition, she invited with open arms.
Her first time collapsing on the running track, she assured the Coach that was just an ankle sprain. She couldn’t understand why her body was suddenly deteriorating, where this constant ache in her logs came from, or why she felt so weak. Aileen thought she was sticking to her diet to a T, so obviously it meant she needed to restrict herself. A little snip here; no dinner after 7 P.M. A small trim there; eat energy bars in the morning to avoid losing weight. Any lulls on her running times only meant that she needed to try harder.
She tugged a yellow string to alert the driver to stop the bus here, and got off. Aileen checked her watch. 6:30 P.M. Her mom should be waiting for her to make dinner. As she walked in, she heard the familiar greeting from her mother in that casual tone of hers, so Aileen replied back, taking pains to keep the sadness from her voice. She began to make pasta, one of the few dishes she knew how to make. After some time passed, Aileen was busy setting the plates when her mother came to the dining room.
“How did practice go?” Her mother asked.
Aileen gritted her teeth. “It went fine mom. So, uh, I made dinner. Pasta with meatballs.”
She passed out the dishes as they sat down to eat. Aileen checked her time phone. 7:10. It’d too late to eat this, she realized. Maybe just one or two bites so Mom doesn’t get suspicious. Her mother watched Aileen poke the food she made herself with the fork.
“’Leen, that’s not enough to keep a bird alive. You used to love pasta, what happened?”
Aileen remembered when her mom was first teaching her how to cook, how excited she was to start creating things in the kitchen. Back when food and I were on speaking terms, Aileen thinks.
“Well, maybe I already ate at the gym,” she says.
She could feel her mother’s eyes narrow at her face, and felt them linger at her gaunt cheeks.
“’Leen, I’m your mother, I can tell that you’re lying. Are you eating properly?”
Aileen’s heartbeat stuttered. “Of course I do! I’m a vegetarian. What-are you trying to say something?”
Her brow crinkled in concern. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Sometimes, you’d skip breakfast completely and train.”
“Well, maybe I’m not hungry in the morning.” Aileen crossed her arms. “I thought training for the Olympics was the exact reason why I’m here. Please enlighten me on how that’s a bad thing. Look, thanks for the concern, but I’m fine.”
“As your mother, it’s my job to-“
“I said I’m fine.” Aileen snapped.
Aileen dropped her fork at her plate and got up from the table. “I don’t need to take this, I’m going to my room.” Her voice sounded cold even to her own ears.
Her footsteps fell silent against the carpet, but the slamming of her door reverberated against the walls. She just didn’t understand, didn’t get it. Aileen didn’t expect her to.
Eventually, Aileen crept down the stairs to see of her mother was there. The lights were dimmed down and not a sound disturbed the silence, so it was safe to assume she was in bed. She went inside the dining room to find that her plate was still there, untouched and surprisingly warm. Her mother must
have reheated it for her. On a closer look, she saw note was left underneath the bowl. Honey, I’m so sorry for what I said, the note read. I just want you to know you can come to me for anything. You’re still my little girl.
Aileen didn’t notice she was crying until she saw a tear stain the edges of the note. She crumbled the note and put it in her back pocket. It was too close to lose focus now. She couldn’t let anyone stand in her way, not even her own mother. Remembering the reason why she came downstairs, she picked up the bowl of pasta her mother left for her. Giving one final sigh she threw the rest in the trash.
Morning came sooner than Aileen liked, but she reminded herself of practice. She needed to show Coach Jones that she was more than enough for the Olympics. Feeling light-headed and slightly woozy as she stumbled down stairs, and she hoped the feeling would go away. Aileen needed to leave before her mother woke up, to avoid speaking to her, so she didn’t have to see the sadness in her mother’s eyes.
Her bus came on time as per usual and she arrived to the training facility for her morning run. She noticed that her skin felt was pale and clammy, and beads of sweat were breaking out like weeds. Her legs trembled like a leaf quivering in the wind. Aileen stumbled into the locker rooms to change into her track suit. As she opened her bag, the note slipped out. Slightly creased and adorned with wrinkles, she picked it up and glanced over the words again.
Aileen couldn’t do this anymore. Her body was deteriorating right in front of her. She made her decision.
She dialed the number she should have called in the beginning. “Hey mom, I have something to tell you…”
Little by little, Aileen slowly started to get better. When they sit down to eat, Aileen doesn’t hesitate to talk about her day as she makes an effort to place more on her plate and her mother gives a reassuring smile. She keeps tabs on her teammates and stifles the pang of jealousy when they get qualified for the Olympics. Aileen tells herself she’s happy for them until she almost believes it, but not really. These days her smiles don’t feel forced and when she laughs, it’s the real kind. The type of laugh that comes from the center of stomach Aileen knows that she is far from okay, but right now this is enough.