Chapter 4

Mom rushed to explain.

"I bought that scale to take care of you.

"You kept saying you never had enough to eat. I only wanted to know exactly how much you were eating."

I shook my head.

"No.

"You bought it to punish me."

Every bit of color went out of her face.

The day after Noah was found, he stood in front of every relative we had and cried that I hadn't cared about him at all.

"Owen kept saying he was hungry.

"I was lost and he was sneaking bread."

Every relative in that room started looking at me differently.

Mom felt like I'd humiliated her in front of all of them.

That afternoon she came home with a kitchen scale, and she locked every snack, every loaf of bread, and every carton of milk in the house inside a cabinet.

She set my bowl on the scale.

Seven point one ounces.

Right there in front of me, she dumped the whole thing in the trash.

"Over seven ounces and you don't get any of it."

I was so frightened I started crying.

"Mom, I'm hungry."

She pointed at Noah, kneeling on the couch with a slice of cake, and screamed at me:

"When he was lost, all you cared about was being hungry.

"So I'm going to make sure you never forget what it feels like to be hungry."

Dad stood off to the side and tried to speak up more than once.

But the second Noah started crying, he shut his mouth.

Mom taped a chart to the refrigerator.

Seven ounces a meal, no more.

One tenth of an ounce over and the whole meal went in the trash.

Sneak food once, no dinner the next day.

And if I dared say I was hungry, I had to stand beside the table and watch Noah finish eating.

The first night, Noah dropped a pork rib into my bowl on purpose.

The scale jumped to eight point one ounces.

Before I could get it out, he was already shouting:

"Mom! Owen's sneaking food again!"

Mom came over and swept the whole bowl into the trash.

"You love eating so much?

"Then you don't get a bite tonight."

I stood next to the table while my stomach cramped in waves.

Noah sat in my chair, working on a drumstick.

"Owen, are you still hungry?"

I didn't dare answer.

Because if I said yes, there'd be no food tomorrow either.

By the second day I'd learned to weigh it myself.

One grain of rice over and I picked out a grain.

One leaf of greens over and I put the leaf back on the platter.

Then Noah waited until I looked away and poured a spoonful of broth into my bowl.

The number went over seven.

Mom dumped my food again.

On the third day the hunger felt like a knife turning in my stomach.

That night I fell out of bed and split my forehead open on the floor.

Mom finally panicked.

She held me and cried and said the punishment was over, that from now on I could eat as much as I wanted.

The chart came down off the refrigerator.

The cabinet was unlocked.

Everybody thought that was the end of it.

But I didn't stop.

I still ate seven ounces and no more.

And when I couldn't stand the hunger, I pulled out my own hair and put it in my mouth, one strand at a time.

Hair has no weight.

At least, not any weight that scale could find.

More than that — every time I ate it, Mom cried and held on to me.

Every time my stomach hurt so badly that I passed out, Dad dropped whatever Noah needed and came to save me.

That scale wasn't a punishment.

That hair wasn't food.

They were how I got back inside my parents' hearts.

Dr. Shaw's eyes had gone red.

"So seven ounces was never the maximum amount you were capable of eating.

"It was the limit your mother used to punish you with."

Mom collapsed onto the floor, shaking her head over and over.

"I only punished you for three days.

"I just wanted to frighten you. I wanted you to understand that your brother mattered more than eating."

I lifted my head and smiled at her, sweet as anything.

There wasn't a trace of hatred in it. Only gratitude.

"It's okay, Mom.

"I like that kitchen scale. I like eating hair too.

"After I had them, I got Mom and Dad's love back.

"So how could they be nothing but punishment?

"They were the best gift you ever gave me."

Looking at how satisfied I was, nobody in that room said a word.

It was quiet. Quiet in a way that wasn't right.

Then a phone rang.

It was Noah.

The second Mom picked up, his crying came through.

"Mom, I fell down the stairs. It hurts so much..."

Mom was on her feet instantly.

I caught hold of her and wouldn't let go.

"He's faking.

"He knows you're here with me. He's doing it to get you home."

Dad said nothing.

Mom already had her bag in her hand.

"Owen, I'm only going to look in on him.

"As soon as I know he's fine, I'll come right back."

Only going to look in on him.

She'd said the same thing when I was twelve.

But her hand had already slid out of mine.

I watched her hurry toward the door, and all at once I understood.

I hadn't eaten enough hair.

I wasn't thin enough. I wasn't pitiful enough.

Not pitiful enough to make them look at me and nothing else, forever.

I turned and walked to the window.

Dr. Shaw saw it first.

"Owen. What are you doing?"

Mom finally turned around.

I stepped up onto the ledge and smiled at her.

"Mom, this time...

"Which one of us are you going to save first?"

Every bit of color drained out of her face and she threw herself at me like something in her had snapped.

She was one step too slow.

I let go.