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There was very little that upset Michael more than this. You know, it feels like he’s the only fucking person in the house who knows. Who notices. Or doesn't actively ignore it— for a number of years, now. However long that this has been happening, with not much opportunity to intervene when it would have just been refused.
Tracey shook like leaves in the wind— her upper body clinging to the seat as more had come up, but not much more. It definitely wasn't good that she would always do this to the point of bile. Everything hurt, every time. She had become unnaturally skilled in keeping her volume down whenever she partook, even when there was little purpose to doing so. Amanda was out back doing whatever it was, most likely Yoga at the poolside, and Jimmy playing whatever incarnation of Righteous Slaughter it was that was out now with his headset turned up, with no room to hear anything else that was going on a few feet away from his room.
Her father on the other hand had the routine sound of her knees hitting the bathroom tile memorized, permanently etched into his head, and he’d always been able to recognize the smallest sounds of her retching— and he’d usually sit there, wherever he was, but sometimes he would hopelessly stand outside until it was over. But with the other two oblivious as to what was happening, there would be little consequence if he’d actually done something about it this time around.
Tracey heard his footsteps in the hall, and she’d really wanted this to be another one of those situations where she could pretend that he wasn't there, and he’d eventually leave, but this wouldn't be the case. Michael hesitates, but only just barely, taking the smallest pause right outside before he pushes the door open to actually enter the room and see her there, color visibly drained from her.
“Babe— you don't gotta do that,” He was louder than he intended it to be. At least it doesn't matter, he thought, with no chance of alerting anybody else to it, saving her some of her dignity, but her body made a little jump with the sudden sound, hugging the seat tighter, lowering her head to conceal that her expression had been twisting into her silent, ugly cry. His tone might not have been the best either. Whatever vague hostility there was in it, it was completely unintentional.
“I ate something funny,” her voice wavering with weakness, “It’s nothing more than that,” she assures, but her tireless defense of herself was hopeless when he was well aware of the truth. He knew. And she knew, that he knew. The culture of denial in the house was so strong with everything, with all of their issues, and she didn't know why this had to be different. Michael didn't know what he wanted to get out of this, now that he thought about it. He didn't know what he intended to do, coming in here. Shout her down? Scold her? Stop having an eating disorder?
“Go away—” She waves, swatting her hand in his direction with it being clear that he wasn't going to be taking any of her empty explanations, but he wasn't having any of it.
As long as Tracey was hiding her face from him, that meant she couldn't see him either. Of course, he wasn't openly weeping, or anything— but his breath, the way it exhaled through his nose certainly resembled the same pattern of a sob as he slowly got down, not quite to her level as he had almost expertly undone her ponytail, his fingers running through her hair and re-tying it back for her, all while she continued heaving fruitlessly.
“Baby, come on, there's nothing left—” Michael pleaded, a hand squeezing her shoulder, trying to edge her away from the toilet as his interference was getting to her, now audibly bawling, in a way she hadn't done since she was much younger than she was now. “Fuck—” his voice almost cracks, reaching out for tissues that sat by the sink, sort of crumpling them up in his hands as he wiped her mouth with them, proceeding to throw them into the bowl with what she’d regurgitated. “Let's go. Trace.” But her body has gone limp. It was killing him. This was killing him, but quite literally killing her, slowly.
“Daddy—”
“It’s fine.”
With an arm around her waist, he pulls her up from the floor, and she reaches over to flush the evidence, having to surrender to her father’s help. Her legs tremble, and Michael sweeps them up— she lets out another cry. It was only the smallest distance, but he carried his almost twenty-two year old daughter to bed. He laid her down, her body convulsing with a leveled wail, sitting on the edge of the mattress and trying to pry her hands from her face that she’d been covering, to instead hold it for himself.
“You're fine. You’re fine, sweetheart. It's alright—” His words to console with weren’t of any substance, they were just instinctual to him. He didn't know if they did anything for her, but he’d hoped it would at least get across the fact that he’d cared more than anyone who'd been actively ignoring her.
Michael’s hands were cold, and she’d actually found comfort in them when her face was burning with the heat of her previous exertion. This was the only thing that seemed to be settling her, and he was thankful. The only reason one of his hands leaves is to pull down, and then bring the blankets up over on top of her before returning to her. Maybe thinking that she’d tucker herself out in the same way she did as a toddler was much too hopeful of thinking, but nothing stopped him from praying that she would.
“I’m sorry.” The phrase shakes him to his core. He can't find it in himself to respond. His body doubles over a little to press his lips to her head in a kiss that was filled with the utmost sorrow, his hands turning to the other side to keep cooling her down— and when they became just as warm as her face, proceeding to instead stroke her hair.
He doesn't leave her side. Not until she falls asleep.