Chapter 150 Bulimia
Hermione gave a tired, almost helpless smile. "Isabella, help me with my coat," she said softly.
Isabella crossed the room without hesitation. She eased the coat from Hermione's shoulders, careful not to tug, then draped it back over her so she wouldn't get cold. Her hands rested lightly on Hermione's shoulders, warm and natural.
Donny watched her, and something clicked in his mind. That quiet tenderness... there was no way she could have done what people whispered—no way she'd try to steal the man her sister loved. Whatever had happened, there had to be another reason.
Hermione's blood pressure was still high. When it was Rodolfo's turn to check, the numbers were worse. Isabella's worry spiked instantly.
"You both have dangerously high blood pressure," she said, voice taut. "This isn't something to ignore."
Donny stepped in. "You need to keep reminding them. When I first came here, I found out they were eating from those big barrels of pickled cabbage almost every day—cheap, lasts forever, but packed with salt. I told them over and over, but nothing changed until I spoke to their son. Only then did they start cutting back. I'm not sure they stick to it when I'm not around."
Isabella remembered seeing two barrels tucked in the kitchen corner the other day when she was making dinner. She'd seen those barrels since she was a child, visiting here. Back then, she thought it was just convenience. Now she knew—it was about saving money, keeping more for their son in the city.
Her eyes burned. She clasped Hermione's hand, and tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them.
Hermione reached up quickly, brushing the tears away. "Don't listen to Mr. Dickson. It's nothing serious."
Isabella shook her head, urgent. "I'm taking you both to the city for a full check-up. If anything's wrong, you'll get treatment right away."
She wasn't just worried. She was afraid—afraid that one day she might come back to find only silence.
Rodolfo chuckled, trying to ease the tension. "Don't worry. We're tough. We're not going anywhere."
Donny could see it—this wasn't casual concern. It was heavy, almost desperate. She wasn't even their granddaughter, yet she poured all her heart into them.
"I'll keep an eye on them," he promised. "In a few weeks, I'll put together a list of older folks in town with health issues, and we'll take everyone for check-ups."
Relief flickered in her eyes. "When that happens, let me know. I'll go with them."
"Deal," Donny said. Then he tilted his head. "What about you, Isabella? Want me to check you while I'm here?"
"Me?" She blinked, then smiled faintly. "I'm fine. No need."
But he'd noticed something—how her gaze drifted, how her words sometimes came with a faraway look. And earlier, when she looked at Hermione, it was as if she were seeing someone else entirely.
It was the kind of detachment that could signal something serious. Maybe even schizophrenia.
Hermione broke the moment. "Mr. Dickson, stay for lunch. Isabella's heading back this afternoon—it'll be harder to see her again."
Donny's eyes went to Isabella, and the warmth there was impossible to hide.
Rodolfo leaned close, muttering with a grin, "If you like her, don't waste time. When I chased my wife, I didn't care how thick-skinned I looked. You've got to be bold."
Donny's mouth curved. "You're right. I should be."
In the kitchen, Isabella worked beside Hermione. Donny helped where he could, drawing a laugh from her with stories from their school days. The air was easy, bright—Isabella felt a rare, pure kind of happiness.
For a moment, it was like being a child again, with her grandmother and sister still near.
At the table, Hermione urged them to eat.
Isabella ate with quiet focus. Donny noticed something—she picked up an egg. Back in school, everyone brought eggs for breakfast except her. She couldn't stand them, said they smelled too strong. Boiled, fried, scrambled—it didn't matter, she wouldn't touch them.
Now she ate it without hesitation, even smiling in a strange way, as if it wasn't really her eating.
"Isabella," Donny said softly, "I remember you never ate eggs."
Hermione's brows lifted. "That's right. You never touched them. Your grandmother used to scold you, worried you'd never grow tall."
Regret tightened in Isabella's chest. Why hadn't she eaten them when her grandmother was alive? Her sister had loved them—how could she not?
She smiled faintly. "I've grown up. I'm not picky anymore." She took another bite, chewing happily.
Hermione beamed. "Good girl. Eat as much as you like."
Isabella nodded. Donny's unease deepened.
It got worse—she kept eating. The elders were delighted, piling her bowl high, and she finished everything they gave her. Three full bowls of rice. For someone so slender, it was impossible. Yet she seemed fine, as if she could have kept going.
Only when the plates were empty did she say, "I'm full."
Donny wasn't convinced. It looked like she could have eaten more. That was the strangest part.
His suspicion hardened—something was wrong.
After lunch, Donny left for an errand. Isabella began packing for the trip to the bus station. But her stomach churned violently. She rushed to the bathroom and vomited, over and over. She bit her lip to keep quiet, terrified they'd hear.
By the end, she was dizzy, slumped on the floor.
Half an hour passed before Hermione knocked, worried. "Isabella? Are you all right?"
Isabella drew in a steadying breath. "Just a bit of an upset stomach. I'll be out soon."
She didn't want Hermione to worry. She forced herself up, splashed cold water on her face, and stepped out looking composed.
Hermione's eyes searched her face. "You sure you're okay?"
Isabella smiled. "I'm fine. Your cooking was too good—I overate."
Hermione considered that, then nodded. "Next time we won't let you eat so much. Mr. Dickson can take you to the station—then we'll know you're safe."
Isabella didn't argue. She knew they wouldn't rest until they saw her off.
"Thank you," she said.
Outside, Donny was waiting, expression tight. Rodolfo had called him, saying Isabella had been in the bathroom for a long time and they thought they'd heard her being sick.
It fit his worst suspicion—bulimia. The compulsion to eat until she couldn't, then purge. It wasn't just physical—it was pressure, pain, something she carried alone.
He took her bag. "How are you feeling? Want to stop at the hospital?"
She shook her head. "I'm fine. Just ate too much."