All That Fills Us

A Novel

Autumn Lytle

• Publisher: Revell
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9780800740160
• eBook ISBN: 9781493436330
• Subtopic: Women in Fiction

Mel Ellis knows that her eating disorder is ruining her life. Everyone tells her rehab is her best option, but she can't bring herself to go. Broken and empty in more ways than one, Mel makes one last-ditch effort to make hers a story worth telling. She will walk her own road to recovery along the lesser-known trails of the North American wilderness.

Though she is physically and mentally unprepared to face the difficulties that lay ahead, she sets off on foot from Grand Rapids, Michigan, and heads toward Mount Rainier National Park in Washington State. During the long journey, she meets strangers with their own stories, as well as ghosts from her past who can no longer be ignored. But though the land she travels threatens her success at every turn, it's her own dark thoughts she'll have to overcome in order to find peace in the life and the body she has been given.

With pitch-perfect timing and delightfully witty self-awareness, debut author Autumn Lytle masterfully leads readers on a journey down the hard path toward healing.

***

"All That Fills Us is a compelling drama of the complex battle with the debilitating longing for perfection as enacted through a severe eating disorder. Told in an equally raw and wry first-person narration, this tale bears powerful witness to how the individual's quest for wellness is necessary groundwork for collective healing."--Booklist

"Lytle draws on her own experience with eating disorders to take readers inside Mel's mind and misguided thinking about her own worth and health."--Library Journal

1

EARLY MAY

The worst part of regaining consciousness was the slow and unavoidable realization that the life I was waking up to was hardly worth the effort.

It didn’t help the situation to realize I was back in the hospital, gown and all. I would never know exactly what happened in the time I was unconscious, but I could guarantee it was awkward, embarrassing, and involved being naked in front of medical personnel. I tried to pretend to sleep, but it was pointless. The blissful ignorance of the unconscious was long gone.

I could have postponed whatever was coming next by faking sleep for a few more hours, but a lack of patience had always found a comfortable place on my list of flaws, so I braced myself and opened my eyes.

My grandma glanced up from her magazine with a look just shy of a glare. I couldn’t blame her. If I wasn’t even happy to be awake, how could I expect anyone else to be?

“Nice of you to join us,” she said before returning to her magazine.

“What’d I miss?”

“Nothing that paints you in a good light, I can assure you.”

I could have guessed that. “Well, that’s a shame. Who was my knight in shining armor this time?”

“A group of young men walking by the parking lot of your work. There you were, passed out for the whole world to see.” She lowered her magazine just slightly. “Do you realize how lucky you are that they were the kind of men who call 911 when they find a young woman passed out in a parking lot instead of a group of rapists and murderers? Now you’re here. You hit your head on the way down, but you’ll be fine. Oh, and we have another ambulance bill added to our tab. I’m sure your parents will be thrilled.”

I thought this over for a moment. A small part of me worried how strange it was for me to feel nothing about this new information. Normal people felt embarrassment after this sort of thing, right? There was, of course, the ever-present shadow of guilt for dragging innocent bystanders and my grandma deeper into my mess. But these days, that wasn’t anything new.

Sometimes that gnawing guilt could be drowned out with a poor attempt at comedy. I turned to my grandma. “Were any of the guys cute? Any of them leave me their number?” When she put down her Better Homes and Gardens and shot me what was now certainly a full-on glare, it was clear my attempt at lightening the mood was in vain.

“Is this all a joke to you? You know, I was supposed to spend the day packing. That cruise I’ve been planning all year? They set sail tomorrow, as I’ve told you at least a dozen times over these past few months. But instead of my much-needed day of packing, I find myself here. Again.” Her voice sank to a harsh whisper, as if she was worried about someone overhearing. “Do you think it’s easy or enjoyable for me to make the three-hour drive out here every couple of weeks just to sit and stare at you wasting away until the doctor tells me the exact same thing I’ve heard a dozen times?”

She touched a finger to her temple like a migraine was inevitable after this conversation. “And this isn’t something I can keep from my friends, you know. They ask about you with pity in their eyes every time we get together for lunch. I can barely stand to be around them anymore because of it.”

She paused to bring a hand dramatically to her heart, and I bit back a comment dripping with sarcasm about the agonizing pain I feel daily over upsetting Ladies Lunch at the country club.

“And your mother,” she continued. “Your mother hardly calls me anymore because she can’t stand to hear what a mess you’ve become. I can’t even have a normal conversation with my own daughter. We used to be so close, and now . . . Can you get out of your own head long enough to imagine how that feels for me? Don’t you ever stop to think about others before you act?”

I never asked you to be here, I thought. But I managed an almost-sincere “I’m sorry” instead.

Because I was sorry. I had more apologies stored up than I knew what to do with. Here’s the thing about screwing up over and over though: The sorries stop holding any meaning. It’s like saying “you too” when the person at the movie ticket counter tells you to enjoy the show. The words are automatic and nonsensical. Both my grandma and I knew how inadequate that apology was.

She sighed and shook her head an almost indecipherable amount, taking care not to ruffle her hairdo, and returned to her article about, I could only assume, throwing an effortlessly intimate garden party. Even in her frustration, she was poised and graceful. My mom and sister inherited her slender frame and her delicate features. All my life, Grandma had seemed to be on a different fifties-era fad diet. I’d witnessed the grapefruit diet, the SlimFast diet, the cabbage soup diet, and my personal favorite, the baby food diet. Not that they ever made any difference to her naturally small waist. The only thing those diets ever shrank was her already dangerously short temper.

No matter how unpleasant we found each other, I couldn’t deny we shared a core motivation. Over time, our images had become everything to us. My grandma showed this by spewing elegance and grace in every waking moment. I showed it by exercising for six hours a day and starving myself. Besides doctors and other medical professionals, who’s to say whose methods are better?

While I began my day with 2,571 jumping jacks, 751 sit-ups, and a 15-mile run, she began hers by measuring her waist, thighs, ankles, and arms and writing said measurements down in a notebook before slipping into a crisp pantsuit or perfectly starched dress. The similarities were funny if I didn’t think about them too hard. Or at all.

She was wearing one of those dresses today. Blue with pale pink flowers. Its cheerfulness should have sharply contrasted with the current environment, but there was a sterility about it that fit right in. Her fingers flipped the page, flashing her always perfectly manicured nails. Never much for conversation, we continued to sit in silence.

Eventually she sighed and pulled a twenty out of her bag and grabbed her coat. “I was up driving most of the night. If I’m ever going to make it back, I’m going to need my Starbucks.” She brushed invisible wrinkles from her dress like a nervous tic as she took a moment to compose herself. “If the doctor comes in when I’m gone, do not give him any of your sass. I swear, if I hear you were on anything less than your best behavior—”

“There will be hell to pay. Got it, Grandma. Thanks for the warning.”

Her look of fury was softened with just a hint of lingering pity. I dropped my gaze to my hands, noticing a few new scrapes that I assumed came from my latest unconscious adventure. I could deal with Grandma’s wrath, but not her sympathy. I felt her gaze linger on the pitiful sight that was somehow still her granddaughter for a few seconds longer before swishing out the door. The click of her heels echoed long after she disappeared from view.

I glanced over at her bag as her half-hidden cell phone lit up with a notification. It brought with it a memory that made me cringe involuntarily. Two hospital visits ago—or was it three?—I had reentered the land of the living to the familiar sound of my grandma’s voice, except it held a note of desperation that made me jolt right awake. She was taking a phone call in the bathroom, unaware that the walls separating us were about as thin as the hospital gowns.

“Elizabeth, it’s time. You need to come home.” There was an urgent insistence in my grandma’s voice. If I didn’t know better, it sounded as if she were pleading. My heart began to race. I was legitimately scared now. My grandma wasn’t the pleading type.

A short silence followed. Then my grandma’s voice returned. Still pleading. Still scary. “For goodness’ sake, she’s your daughter. She needs you now more than ever. Things are bad. They are getting out of control, Elizabeth. I can’t be what she needs right now. I’m trying, but I’m not making a lick of difference. You can’t possibly be the only missionaries over there. Let someone else take over for a bit. No one else can be what she needs. No one else can be that girl’s mother.”

I tried my hardest to pretend I didn’t know who they were talking about. When that failed, I tried even harder to bury it all—the searing pain and crushing guilt—before it immobilized me completely. When my grandma hung up a few moments later and the choked, muffled sobs started, I did the kindest thing I could think of. I closed my eyes and pretended to be fast asleep.

2

Sometimes it was nice to have a brain that could no longer land on a single thought for more than a few moments. I let the normal waves of guilt and shame wash over me, but nothing stuck. Whatever brain cells I hadn’t yet starved immediately zeroed in on whether or not I had gained any weight while unconscious. I hadn’t eaten but I also hadn’t exercised, one of the many recipes for instant obesity in my book. Like I always said, who needs guilt when you have an eating disorder to keep you company?

I ran a few fingers up and down my ribs, counting each one as I went. I tapped my hip bones with my fists, making sure they were still sharp as razor blades and not swallowed up by fat, and was greeted by a satisfactory dull ache. I peeked into my hospital gown, trying hard to avoid staring in revulsion at my flabby stomach in the process.

A relatively fresh bruise bloomed over my right hip. I poked it gently, watching the color fade from blue to purple.

A light knock on the doorframe caused me to stop turtling in my gown. I stuck my head out to see Dr. Clifford.

“Melanie,” he said as way of greeting. He raised an eyebrow. “Is this a bad time?”

“Well, hey,” I said as he closed the door behind him. “No, just checking to make sure everything’s still there. You can never be too sure when you wake up in a place like this.” I placed my hands over my heart. “Which is, of course, a lovely establishment.”

“Mm-hmm. Yes, you seem to truly enjoy it here. What is this, your third visit in two months?”

“I figured you might start to miss me if I stayed away too long.”

Dr. Clifford crossed the room to the sink, completely unfazed by my comments by this point in our patient-doctor relationship. I noticed his new pair of Asics running shoes and thought it was probably a bad sign that I knew my doctor typically wore Nikes but had been thinking of switching brands due to a stubborn IT band injury. I hoped it hadn’t kept him from the River Bank Run last week. He had been really looking forward to that. He often shared his running stories with me, knowing I let my guard down when we talked about safe things like road races and the best moisture-wicking socks. He never failed to follow up every story with the moral: So, if you still want to be running at my age, you’re going to have to make healthy changes to your exercise and eating routines starting now.

“As much as I cherish your sarcasm and look forward to you ignoring my advice,” he said, “I was hoping we wouldn’t be seeing each other for a while.” He dried his hands and turned to face me, one bushy gray caterpillar eyebrow raised. “Instead, your visits have become more and more frequent.”

“But how could I stay away when I still needed to hear how your new running shoes are working out? I’ve been on the edge of my seat for weeks!”

Dr. Clifford’s face settled into his best concerned medical professional expression. “Melanie, this is serious. I’m assuming you saw the bruise? You’re lucky you only hit your hip badly and the concussion you sustained was a minor one. What if you had been driving when this happened? Or where I know for a fact you spend most of your time, running on a treadmill? Your habits have become so worrisome, you’ve begun to put your life in danger on a daily basis. We don’t want that.”

He pulled the chair where my grandma had been sitting close to the bed and sat down so we were at eye level. Obviously, this wasn’t his first time delivering unwanted news. I wondered how many other disappointed doctors and ashamed family members had sat in that very spot.

“I know you want to handle your recovery on your own, but so far there hasn’t been any recovery. I think it’s time we discuss getting some help. Maybe staying with us for a while. Your grandmother seems to think that would be best as well.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, I see the grandma’s opinion is not helping my case. Should have thought that one through.”

“Now there’s a sentence you don’t want to hear your doctor say.”

“Melanie . . .”

I sighed. “Listen, you’ve been a really, really great doctor. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, seriously. But I’m okay. I’m not great, I’ll admit that, but okay has suited me fine my whole life. I don’t need help. I can handle this on my own. I just need some time.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Dr. Clifford scooted the chair closer to the edge of the bed. There was a pang of unprofessional worry in his tone that made the knot of guilt in my chest tighten. He once told me that I reminded him of his granddaughter. Was he making that connection again? “If you keep heading down this path, I don’t think you’ll have much time left. I know you see it differently, but getting help is not a weakness. There is strength in admitting you have a problem and taking the necessary steps to overcome it.”

My anger flared, dissolving the constricting guilt. “What is that, some doctor proverb? Listen, I know I have a problem. I am taking the steps, just in my own way.”

He shook his head. “Melanie, I told you last time you were here if we didn’t see progress soon, we were going to give our methods a try. You agreed to that, remember? Since then, you haven’t shown up to any of your doctor or counseling appointments, and you’ve lost an additional three pounds. Three pounds you can’t afford to lose at this point. I can’t in good faith release you today. You have to understand that. Once your grandma gets back, we’ll discuss our options moving forward, okay?”

I stared at him, hoping my look of flesh-melting anger and betrayal masked the panic roaring through me.

“I’ll let you think this over.” He patted the crumpled hospital sheet on my bed. “We’re on your side, Melanie. All we want is for you to get better, and we’re going to do what it takes to get you there.”

He stood, glanced down at his shoes, then back up at me with a weak smile. “The Asics are working out great, by the way. My IT band feels better already. Thanks for the suggestion.”

I tried to force a smile in return, but I knew it was u...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Endorsements
• Half Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Author’s Note
• Acknowledgments
• Back Ads
• Back Cover