Watch Me Disappear

doesn’t seem fair, but I’m not sure what to say. It’s cold and I want to leave. It feels like I am making progress with Maura, so I try to think of another question. “So you think your mom just married him for money?” I ask finally.
    Maura rolls her eyes. “After my dad died, my mom and I had to move in with my grandparents for a while until my mom got a job. Then David came along like Prince Charming, promising she’d never have to work again and all that crap.”
    “She wanted to be able to be there for you,” I say.
    Maura shakes her head. “It’s all about her. No one gives a shit what’s best for me.” She starts to cry again.
    I tuck my hands into my armpits to keep them warm and wonder what I could possibly say to get Maura out of this funk. “Do you still write poetry?” I ask after a few minutes.
    “Do you know why I wrote that stupid poetry? Because my therapist suggested it. They made me go to therapy. Family counseling, they called it.” She wipes her eyes. “David didn’t like my ‘attitude,’ and he convinced my mom that I needed to see a shrink. So we went together, me and my mom. And the therapist suggested I keep a diary. No way was I doing that. I knew she’d read every word. But I had to show up to therapy with something, so I wrote poetry. I figured my mom is so stupid she wouldn’t figure it out. And I was right. She didn’t. I’d share what I wrote at our little sessions, and instead of hearing me out, instead of even trying to understand, she’d try to revise them for me, to be happier, to fit her idea about how I should be and how I should feel. It was stupid.”
    “But they were good poems,” I say. “You have a talent—”
    “I’m not interested in being a misunderstood poet.” She has stopped crying and now just seems tired and resigned.
    “Look,” I say, “you are allowed to be as upset as you want, but you’re walking back down the trail with me if I have to drag you by your hair.”
    “What’s the point?”
    “Maybe there is none, but I think we should both try to live long enough to find out,” I say.
    And that does the trick. She walks past me and I hurry to keep up. The trail down winds around the side of the hill we walked up, so it’s longer, but it isn’t as steep or slippery. We scurry along, not talking, just watching our feet and trying to stay warm. Every now and then I hear Maura sniffle or hiccup, but after a while her breathing returns to normal and she seems to have gotten past whatever it was that had started her crying. More than once I wonder if she’s taking us on the right trail, because it seems like we’re headed in the wrong direction and it is taking too long, but after a while the trail opens back out on the road and I can see the gate at the entrance of the park. We get in the car and I crank the heater up full blast.
    “Can you stop at Dunkin’ Donuts?” Maura asks.
    I am relieved that she’s interested in food, and I am pretty eager for a hot beverage myself. I get a hot chocolate with whipped cream and a chocolate-frosted donut. Maura orders a coffee with Splenda and skim milk. The sundae the night before convinced me that dieting is not for me, but it made Maura feel as though she should repent until she feels adequately thin again, which doesn’t make much sense, because she is already ridiculously thin. Back at New Year’s when she enlisted me to diet with her, I could not comprehend why she needed a diet, but I knew I could lose some weight, so I agreed. But now, looking at her bony hands around the Styrofoam cup, I want to shove a donut in her mouth and tell her to eat.
    “I would feel like crap if I ate that,” she says, eyeing my donut. “So much sugar.”
    I sip my hot chocolate. “I like it.”
    “Well, good for you.” She turns to look out the window.
    The last few bites of my donut don’t taste very good, though. All I can think about is how that donut is reforming itself into a layer of fat on my butt. But then I consider Maura: I always equated being thin with being happy, obviously a false connection. Maura is one of the thinnest, least happy people I know. I admire Maura’s willowy form, but coffee with Splenda and skim milk? That just sounds awful. I promise myself I won’t eat any bread at dinner to make up for the donut and I feel a little better.
    We drive along without talking until we get near our houses. Maura says she’s too tired to walk up from around the corner and begs