Cut

II

I must’ve slept all morning, because the next thing I know, Marie is shaking my shoulder and saying something about lunch. “C’mon,” she says. “The doctor gave you special permission to be in your room unattended today, but now you’ve got to get up. Or else you’re going to miss lunch.”

I don’t understand. Then it comes back to me, dimly at first, that something’s different, although I can’t remember exactly what it might be. I brush my hair out of my eyes and see a flash of white gauze around my wrist. In an instant, everything—my fingers gripping my wrist, Ruby folding her hands over mine, wet tissues heaped in my lap—comes back to me.

“We don’t want you missing your meals,” Marie says. She lowers her voice. “We got enough skinny girls in this place already.”

I sit up and realize I’m hungry, really hungry.

Even the noise and the steamed-vegetable smell of the cafeteria doesn’t spoil my appetite. I pick up a tray and let a cafeteria worker with fogged-up glasses shovel a grilled cheese sandwich onto my plate. I remember Sydney calling them chilled grease sandwiches once and I head out of the food line hoping she’ll be there.

But the dining room is practically empty; the only ones left at our table are Debbie and Becca I grip the edge of my tray and imagine myself walking past my usual seat at the end of the table, sitting down next to Debbie. I’ll give her a practice smile, the way Ruth did, and start talking, like everybody else does. Debbie will say, “That’s great, that’s really great,” the way she does when Becca eats all of her fruit and cottage cheese, and Becca will be impressed, she’ll agree with Debbie that it’s great, and when we go to Group later on, she’ll run ahead and tell everyone the news. But before I even get to the table, they’ve left.

A few minutes later, Tara comes in and sets her tray down at the other end of the table. Her nose is red and her face is blotchy and as soon as she sees me watching her she pulls the brim of her baseball cap down. She picks up a piece of lettuce and wipes the dressing off with her napkin.

Finally I stand and pick up my tray, keeping my sleeve pulled down over my wrist, the hem wrapped around my thumb, and sit down across from her.

“Hi,” she says.

I try to give her a practice smile, but I’m not sure anything happens on my face.

Then we both sit there pretending to eat. I try to remember how people start conversations, but all that comes to mind are phrases from sixth-grade French. “Bonjour, Thérèse. Ça va?” says Guy, a boy wearing a black beret. “Ça va bien, merci. Et tu, Guy?” Thérèse responds.

I decide to take a sip of water and then just say hi. Hi. It’s just two little letters. I ought to be able to get that much out. I reach for my glass. My sleeve creeps up and we both see the white bandage sticking out. The water in my glass jumps as I pull my hand away and tuck it safely in my lap.

“Oh,” is all she says.

I peek out at her from under my bangs.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” Her voice is gentle, the way it was in the bathroom the day she asked if I wanted her to leave me alone.

I shake my head.

“We all do things.”

“Where would you like to start?” you say that afternoon.

I notice that you’re wearing your delicate little fabric shoes again today.

“Callie? Why don’t you tell me about things before you came here?”

“Don’t you—” My voice deserts me. “Don’t you know?”

You tap your pen against something in your lap; I see then that you didn’t throw my file away after all.

“No,” you say. “I don’t. All this tells me is what other people have to say about you.”

I squint at the folder, wondering who these other people are and what they have to say.

You open the folder, then close it. “That you’re fifteen, a runner—”

“Was.”

“Pardon me?”

“I was.” I cough. “A runner.”

You pick up your pen.

“Are you going to write everything down?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.” You hold your pen in midair. “Will it bother you if I take notes?”

I shrug.

“If it bothers you, I won’t.”

For some reason, I think of how Mr. Malcolm, my algebra teacher, used to hand out test paper with lots of blank space and tell us we wouldn’t get credit for right answers unless we showed our work. I imagine you working on me as an algebra problem, reducing me to fractions, crossing out common denominators, until there’s nothing left on the page but a line that says x = whatever it is that is wrong with me. You fix it. I get to go home.

“Would you rather I didn’t take notes?”

“It’s OK.” You bend over your notepad a little; I study the part in your hair, which is perfectly straight and tidy You straighten up. “So, where do you want to start?”

I shrug.

You wait.

“I don’t care,” I say.

You cross your legs, not taking your eyes off me. The minute hand on the clock twitches forward once, then once more.

“My little brother, Sam,” I say finally. “He’s the one who usually gets all the attention from doctors and stuff.”

Instantly, this sounds wrong.

“I don’t mind,” I say. “He’s sick.”

“What’s the matter with Sam?”

“Asthma.”

You don’t say anything.

“Really bad asthma.”

You don’t move.

“He’s in the hospital all the time.”

You still don’t move.

“That’s why he’s so skinny and why we have to keep everything clean. But he’s OK for a brother.” I know I’m supposed to say more, but I’m exhausted, out of words. “That’s all, I guess.”

You fold your hands in your lap. “What’s that like for you?”

“What?”

“Having a brother who needs so much attention.”

“I’m used to it.”

You open your mouth to say something, but I cut you off.

“My mom’s the one who has a hard time.”

“Your mom?”

“She worries a lot.”

“What does she worry about?”

I try to get comfortable on the couch. This is tiring, all this talking.

“Callie,” you say. “What does your mother worry about?”

“Everything.”

You look like you want to ask something else, so I go on.

“She doesn’t drive anymore. She’s terrified of trucks. My dad has to take us everywhere.”

“I see.”

I wonder if you do see, see us sitting in the car, strapped in our seats, the windows rolled up tight, even if it’s a nice day, especially if it’s a nice day, so no pollen or spores or dust mites or pollution or anything can get into our car, our quiet, antiseptic car.

“Can you tell me about that?”

“About what?”

“About the times Sam was in the hospital.”

I blink. Were we talking about the times Sam was in the hospital? Or did you say something and I missed it? I pinch the edge of my bandage, tugging ever so slightly A single, sterile white thread comes unraveled.

“Like what? What do you want me to tell you?”

“Well, what do you do when your parents are with Sam?”

I roll the thin piece of thread into a tiny, tiny ball.

“I don’t know. Clean.”

You don’t say anything. The ball is microscopic now.

“I dust. Wash things. Vacuum. We have to vacuum a lot.”

You still don’t say anything. The ball is so tiny I lose it.

“Clean the lint filters. We have special filters on all the air vents because of Sam. One time I organized all my mom’s coupons. That’s it. Boring stuff.”

There’s a long silence. I feel around for the ball, listen to the hum of the UFO, check the clock.

“Sometimes if they have to stay over, I watch TV.”

“What do you watch?”

“Um. I don’t know. The Food Channel.…Rescue 911.”

“Why do you like those shows?”

“I don’t know.”

The minute hand lurches forward again while you wait for me to come up with a better answer.

“Rescue 911…” you say. “Is there something in particular you like about that show?”

I shrug. “No.” Then, “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I guess it’s because… I guess usually when people get saved it’s because some little kid is the one that notices that something’s wrong. Or the dog. Or a neighbor.”

You write something in your notebook.

“There’s always a happy ending; after the person gets rescued, everything turns out OK.”

I listen to the traffic, far away, on the highway and I study a crack in your ceiling. Like the crack in the ceiling of the hospital where Madeline went to have her appendix taken out, this one also has the habit of sometimes looking like a rabbit. I rhyme habit and rabbit in my head over and over until I can’t tell which came first—the habit or the rabbit.

“How long has Sam had asthma?”

Your voice startles me. I’d almost forgotten you were there.

“What?”

“When did Sam develop asthma?”

I jump, the way I always did at a track meet when the ref would cock the starting gun and yell, “On your mark.”

“Callie?”

My thigh muscles are twitching, my feet are sweating. I press my hands to my thigh legs to still them. It’s no good. “A year ago, maybe a little more.” I try to sound casual, bored even.

“A year ago,” you repeat.

I slide forward on the couch, ready to go.

“And while your parents were at the hospital, who took care of you?”

I’m sitting on the edge of the couch now. “I take care of myself.”

You uncross your legs, cap your pen, and say I did good work. I check the clock. Our time was up five minutes ago.

On the way back from your office I pass the dayroom. The TV voice of a talk-show host competes with the tick-tock of a Ping-Pong game. I tuck my head down and slink by. As I pass the door, a tiny white ball skitters out into the hallway and rolls to a stop at my feet.

“Hey, S.T.,” Sydney calls out. “Bring it here, will you?”

I consider the ball at my feet, then Sydney’s flushed, happy face.

“Please?” She smiles a wide smile.

I bend and pick it up. It’s like picking up air, it’s so light. I take baby steps across the hall, then into the day-room, eyeing the ball every second, watching it wobble back and forth in my open palm, waiting for it to fall out of my hand and bounce down the hall, out the front door.

Sydney plucks the ball out of my hand. “Thanks,” she says over her shoulder.

My palm is suddenly empty. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.

Sydney notices. “Wanna play?” She holds out her paddle.

I scan the room. Debbie and Becca are sitting on the armchair, Debbie in the chair, Becca perched on the arm. Tiffany’s at the other end of the table, holding a paddle, still wearing her purse. Tara’s standing by the chalkboard, keeping score.

“You can just watch if you want,” says Sydney. She gestures to an empty chair.

“Please,” says Tara

Walking across the room to the empty chair seems like it would take a lot of steps. The door is much closer. I shake my head and turn to go, knowing, even as I walk away, that I was wrong. Getting to the door takes forever.

“Where would you like to start today?” you say.

I consider. “With Sam. Could we talk about Sam some more?”

“Sure.”

But I can’t think of what to say about Sam.

“Did I tell you about his hockey cards?”

You shake your head.

“He has this huge collection of cards. He gets a new pack whenever he gets sick. He loves those cards. He sorts them into piles all the time.”

You don’t say anything.

“According to teams or positions or statistics or whatever.”

You don’t move. I trace a triangle on the couch.

“My mom sits there with him after school. At the breakfast nook. She tats.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Tats?”

I stop tracing. “Tatting. It’s where you make lacy things like doilies and angels and things out of string. She tats and he sorts.”

Telling you about my mom and Sam at home in the breakfast nook feels wrong somehow, private.

“They have to take it easy,” I explain. “They have to rest a lot.”

“What do you do?”

“What do I do?”

“While your mother tats and your brother sorts, what do you do?”

“Oh.” I trace and retrace the triangle, stop, then start again. “Nothing. Watch TV.”

You wait for me to say more.

“I keep it on mute if they’re resting.”

You wrinkle your brow.

“I can read the captions if my mom and Sam are resting.”

“You watch the TV on mute?”

“I’m good at it.”

You shake your head slightly. “I don’t understand, exactly.”

I picture the big soundless TV in our family room, subtitles scrolling by at the foot of the screen. “The words at the bottom, they’re always a few seconds behind what the people on TV are saying. I can usually predict what they’re going to say.”

You seem like you’re going to ask a question.

“It’s kind of like a hobby,” I say.

You write in your notebook. “Do you have any other hobbies?”

“Not really.” I button my sweater. I unbutton it.

“What about running?” you say.

I can see myself running—not my whole self, just my feet beneath me, each one appearing, then disappearing, then reappearing, over and over and over. “What about it?” I say.

“Well, what does it feel like when you run?”

“I don’t know.” I pick at a hangnail. “I don’t feel much.”

You tap your finger to your lip.

“That’s sort of why I like it.”

Your dead-cow chair creaks. You lean forward and open your mouth to speak.

“My mom never liked it,” I say. “She always thought I was going to get hit by a car or something.”

You sit back.

“She said she was always waiting to get a call from the police,” I say. “Whenever I came in from running, she looked sort of mad.”

I picture my mom sitting in the breakfast nook, tatting and frowning, while Sam deals out his hockey cards in neat piles. She doesn’t look up when I come in, she just keeps tatting. Sam shows me his cards, pictures of hockey players smiling, hockey players skating, players with their helmets on, with their helmets off. “Don’t you want to take a shower?” my mom says. “Don’t you have some homework to do?”

You’re staring at me intently; you must have asked me a question.

“What?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” you say. “Why would your mother be angry at you?”

“I don’t know. As soon as I come in she always says. ‘Don’t you have some homework to do?’ So I usually just go upstairs and leave them alone.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Is that how it feels?”

“What?”

“That your mother doesn’t want you around so she can be alone with your brother?”

I don’t know how exactly, but somehow I’ve said something I didn’t mean to say. Something that’s not quite true. Or maybe something that’s sort of a little bit true.

I spend the rest of the hour staring down the clock.

Study Hall is a completely different place at night. Everybody has to be there from seven till eight, since we all have to keep up with our schoolwork during our stay at Sick Minds. We’re supposed to be silent, but people whisper and pass notes all the time; whenever the attendant steps out, the room erupts.

Right now, though, it’s quiet. Tara’s painting her nails, Tiffany’s writing a letter to a friend out in the real world, Becca’s asleep, and Debbie’s tracing a magazine picture of a model in a ball gown. Only Sydney is actually doing homework.

The new girl, whose name is apparently Amanda—I checked the chalkboard—is stretched out in a chair in the last row, doing an imitation of being asleep. Her head is leaning against the wall, her eyes are closed, her mouth is curled in a half-smile. I know she’s awake, though, because I can see her bumping the inside of her wrist against the edge of the chair in a rhythmic motion.

Watching her bugs me, so I go back to my French assignment, which is to memorize vocabulary words that might come in handy on vacation, words for things like bikinis, rental cars, and restaurants. Since we aren’t allowed to use pencils here, even for math (they’re considered “sharps”), I have to write with a felt-tip pen, which smears; I crumple the page and start again.

The attendant gets up and says she’s going to take her empty soda can to the recycling bin down the hall. She says she expects us all to behave.

She leaves; instantly, the room comes to life.

“Can I have the nail polish when you’re done?” Sydney asks Tara

“If I can borrow your Walkman,” says Tara

While they’re busy making the switch, Tiffany turns around to check out Debbie’s drawing. Debbie cups her hand over it, too late.

“Why do you do that all the time?” Tiffany says to Debbie.

“Do what?”

“Draw pictures of thin people?”

The attendant comes back, clearing her throat loudly. Tiffany whips around in her seat; everyone goes back to what they were doing.

Debbie’s stunned. She pulls back the tracing paper and studies the model in the magazine. Then she thumbs through her notebook. Pictures of tall, slender women in fancy clothes go by. She gets to the last page and looks up. No one sees but me. Debbie has tears in her eyes.

I turn away, quickly, but Debbie knows I saw. When I look back a few seconds later, she’s draping her sweater over Becca, tucking the fabric around her, the way a mother would. When I first got here, Debbie tried to talk to me; she even offered me a piece of cake her mother sent her. By now, though, I’ve probably scared her away.

Debbie pulls the sweater up around Becca’s neck, which is unbelievably white and fragile, closes her notebook, and stares into space until the attendant says we can go.

Rochelle, the bathroom attendant, is bent over her magazine when I go in to brush my teeth that night. Someone in the toilet stall behind me jiggles the handle. The toilet wheezes, then roars. The sour smell of vomit fills the air.

Becca comes out of the stall, wearing a bathrobe with puppies printed on it and brown furry slippers that are actually shaped like puppies. The stall door bangs in her wake. Then her face is next to mine in the mirror. She dabs the corner of her mouth with toilet paper.

As Becca breezes out, I watch Rochelle out of the corner of my eye. Her lips are moving as she reads; she doesn’t even register Becca going by.

Amanda’s missing at breakfast the next day. This is a big deal because meals are mandatory, even if you’re not a food-issues person. Debbie’s gone over to the cafeteria attendant to find out what’s going on.

“Debbie should butt out,” says Tiffany

“She’s just trying to help,” says Becca

Tiffany rolls her eyes; I run my finger along the metal strip at the edge of the table and notice that it’s ever so slightly loose.

The chimes sound; breakfast is over. There’s a lot of clattering and complaining as people nearby get up to go wherever they’re going. Our group stalls, waiting for Debbie. She hurries back to our table and everyone leans in to hear what she has to say.

“She got caught,” Debbie whispers. “Cutting.”

My cheeks flame. I pull my sleeves down and stare at my lap.

“Eeuww,” says Becca “That’s so gross.”

“Shut up,” says Sydney I don’t look up, but I think she said that for my sake. “So where is she?”

“Hammacher, probably,” says Debbie.

“How do you know?” says Sydney.

“I heard she had to get a shot,” says Debbie. She lowers her voice dramatically. “A sedative.”

The cafeteria attendant comes over and tells us we better get moving, that she’s handing out demerits today. We gather up our trays and head toward the dishroom. I’m by myself, as usual, tagging along behind Tiffany and Sydney.

“They say we’re nuts because we like to get wasted,” Tiffany says, shaking her head. “What that new girl, Amanda, what she does, is crazy.”

Sydney turns around to see if I’ve heard; I turn back to the breakfast table, pretending I’ve forgotten something. Getting a demerit for being late would be better than having to see the worried look on Sydney’s face.

You sit down in your chair, a fresh sheet of paper at the ready.

“I don’t feel like talking today,” I say

You nod. “All right,”you say.

We sit there a while, me studying a shaft of weak winter sunlight, you studying a file.

“Is that mine?” I say.

“Yes.”

I go back to looking at the patch of sun; I decide it’s a rhomboid. “What’s it say?”

“Your file? Not a lot.”

I sit very still.

“There’s some basic information about you, an intake evaluation, a school report.”

A cloud passes by outside; the rhomboid disappears.

“Who wrote the school report?” I say.

You open the file. “A Miss Magee,”you say. “The school nurse.”

“She was a sub.”

“Oh.”

Sun pours in through the window again; the rhomboid is now just a basic parallelogram.

“She was the one who discovered that you were cutting your arms, wasn’t she?”

“She called me sweetie,” I say. Immediately I wish I hadn’t said this.

“Sweetie?”

“Never mind.”

I look for the rabbit crack on the ceiling, but I can’t quite find it.

“She wore socks and sandals,” I say.

“What else do you remember?”

“She said her regular job was at a drug rehab. She said, ‘We let it all hang out there.’She was sort of a hippie.”

You wait to see if I’ll say more.

“I used to get these stomach aches. The regular nurse always sent me back to class.”

“And this substitute nurse? This Miss Magee?”

“She said, ‘Is something bothering you, sweetie?’”

You smile ever so slightly.

“I just kept staring at the eye chart behind her after that. I can still remember the first line: E F S P D.”

You smile a little more.

“She made me sit on the examining table. She felt my forehead. She took my pulse. Then she dropped my arm and said, ‘Oh wow.’ She said she’d be right back. I lay down on the table and the next thing I remember, she was shaking my shoulder to wake me up. My mom was standing there, pressing a tissue to her lips.”

I check to see if you are pleased with all these words. You look concerned.

“You know what?” I say. “I’ve thought about her a lot since I’ve been here.”

You tilt your head.

“About… what’s her name?” I say. “The substitute nurse.”

“Shelly Magee.”

“Yeah. I’ve thought about sending her a postcard.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You know—‘Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.’”

“Are you?”

I don’t understand.

“Are you having a wonderful time?”

I pick a piece of fuzz off the couch, roll it between my fingers, flick it into the air.

“Do you wish she was here?”

“No.”

“Callie, let me ask you something.” You sit forward in your dead-cow chair. “How exactly did Shelly Magee see your scars?”

“She took my pulse.”

“You didn’t try to stop her?”

A sudden heat washes over me. I can feel my cheeks reddening, my throat getting tight. I pull my arms to my sides and sit very still.

“I’m glad you didn’t try to stop her.” Your voice comes across the space between us, gentle but sure.

I take in the sight of you in your leather chair, so calm, so normal, so pretty in your long green skirt.

“You don’t think I’m crazy?” I laugh.

You don’t laugh.

“You don’t think I’m insane for doing this?” I hold up my arm, my sleeve pulled safely over my bandage.

“No, Callie,” you say matter-of-factly “I don’t think you’re crazy at all.”

I blink.

“I think you’ve come up with a way to deal with feelings that you find overwhelming. Overwhelmingly bad, overwhelmingly frightening.”

I sink back into the cushions on your couch. It occurs to me that I sit up perfectly straight the whole time I’m in here, that my back has never actually touched the back of the couch.

“Really?” I say.

“Really.”

The clock says it’s time to go.

“So, can you make me stop?” I say.

“Make you? No. I can’t make you.”

“Well, then, can you, you know, help?”

You tap your lip. “Yes,”you say, “if you want to stop.” Then you stand up and say we’ll talk more tomorrow.

I say OK, but what I really want to say is that I’m not sure I can stop.

Everyone else must still be on the smoking porch because Claire’s the only one in the room when I get to Group. Her glasses are in her hands and she’s pinching the bridge of her nose; there are two red spots where her glasses usually sit. She looks up when she sees me at the door and smiles. I don’t exactly smile back, but I don’t not smile either. We sit there a while, me reviewing the new order of cars in the parking lot and Claire blowing on coffee in a paper cup, until the other girls file in.

The room is suddenly full of talking and laughing. Sydney is at the end of one of her stories. “That proves I’m the sanest one in the family,” she says, flopping down in her chair.

“Me too!” Tara practically cries out. Then she stops cold in the center of the circle: Amanda is back and she’s sitting in Tara’s seat.

Tara gives Claire a pleading look. Claire doesn’t respond; Sydney pats the seat of the chair next to hers, and Tara slips in beside Sydney.

Suddenly Group is a game of musical chairs. Tiffany comes in, surveys the situation, looks to Claire for help, then plunks into the nearest seat. Becca and Debbie arrive last.

Becca darts into the seat next to Tara Debbie huffs, then takes the last seat, the one next to me.

I draw my arms to my side to make room for her.

There’s a long silence. Somebody complains about the food. Then more silence. Somebody else complains about the bathrooms, then about how nosy the attendants are. More silence.

“So?” Sydney says to Amanda “Where were you?”

“When?”

Sydney looks around the group for help.

“At breakfast,” Tara says. “You weren’t at breakfast.”

Amanda smirks. “Room service.”

Tiffany laughs. No one else does.

“Seriously,” says Sydney.

“You really care?” says Amanda “That’s so co-dependent of you.”

Sydney looks confused, then hurt.

“I was in the infirmary,” Amanda says.

“Really?” says Debbie.

“Really,” Amanda says sarcastically.

“I heard you had to get a shot,” Debbie says.

Amanda arches an eyebrow.

“Didn’t they give you a sedative?” says Debbie.

Amanda laughs. “Tetanus,” she announces. Then she leans forward and winks at me. “Right?”

I can’t answer, but I can’t stand to have everybody looking at me either. I nod. Then I go back to looking out the window and wondering whatever happened to that fly that was caught between the glass and the screen.

After Group, Ruby waves to me from her desk. “You have a package,” she says. “Priority Mail.”

I know, as soon as I see it, it’s from my mother. The mailing box is covered with cat stickers, the address is written in calligraphy; I wonder what the Sick Minds postman must have thought.

I tuck it under my arm and start to head back to my room.

“Hold on,” says Ruby. “You have to open that under supervision. Standard operating procedure.”

Ruby uses a key to slice through the mailing tape. Inside, nestled in a sea of pink Styrofoam peanuts, is a quilted calico thing. She holds it up. It’s my name, in puffy calico letters.

On the back is a suction cup. She hands me a note that was lying among the peanuts. Dear Callie,Here’s a little something to brighten your room at Sea Pines. The suction cup on the back is so you can hang it on your door. (I checked with the office, since you girls aren’t allowed to have thumbtacks.) Let me know if the other girls would like them. I can make them up in a jiffy.They said you’re doing better there. That’s good.Get well soon.Love,Mom

I take the calico name thing and start to walk back to my room.

“Wait,” says Ruby. “There’s something else.”

I try to act like I don’t care what it is, like I’m not interested, like I’m not hoping for anything good, anything from my dad, as Ruby hands me a small white envelope.

I know as soon as I see the front, with my name in blue marker, it’s from Sam. Inside is a hockey card. Not just any card, though, it’s his Wayne Gretzky his favorite. There’s no note, just the card.

I check to make sure no one’s around. Then I hold the card up so Ruby can see. “My little brother,” I say. “He loves hockey.”

She puts a hand to her chest. “That’s sweet,” she says. “Real sweet.”

I slip Wayne Gretzky into my pocket and go back to my room.

“Where would you like to start today?” you say.

“I don’t care.”

You cross your legs.

“You decide,” I say.

“OK,” you say. “How are you getting along with the other girls in your group?”

I shrug. “Fine.”

You wait.

“Sydney, my roommate, she’s nice,” I say. “So is this other girl, Tara.” You look pleased.

“And Debbie, she’s this very heavy girl who’s kind of a know-it-all, but she’s OK. She tries to take care of this other girl, Becca.”

“Hmm,” is all you say.

“I’m not sure about Becca. She got so sick from not eating she had a heart attack. She acts like she wants to get better, but—”

“But…”

“Never mind.”

I wait for you to bug me to go on. You don’t.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” I say.

“Everything you say in here is confidential.”

“Well, she… I… she’s still throwing up her food.”

Your expression doesn’t change.

“And hiding food, too. She pretends to eat it, but she’s really throwing it away.”

You uncross your legs. “How do you know?”

“I watch.”

You nod.

“It makes me feel sort of weird that I know what she’s doing. It also makes me feel really bad for Debbie, since Debbie does nice things for her like covering her up with a sweater when she’s sleeping.”

Talking about Debbie and Becca and Sydney and Tara is surprisingly easy. I realize I know a lot about them; I guess I even sort of like them. I check the clock to see how long it is till lunch.

Your chair groans. “But I understand from the staff here that you’re not talking in Group yet.”

Yet. You say this like it’s simple, inevitable. My lips are chapped; I pull the corner of my lower lip into my mouth, then bite down a little.

“Can you tell me why?”

I shrug, for the millionth time.

You tap your lip.

“There’s this other girl,” I say. “She’s new.”

“Oh?”

“This new girl, Amanda, she wears shorts and flip-flops…”

You lift an eyebrow, ever so slightly.

“… like it’s the middle of summer.”

There’s a long, long hush. Far off, I can hear a plane boring through the sky.

“She does what I do.”

I watch for your expression to change, for there to be some slight shift from neutral to… to what? Disgusted? Disapproving? You wait calmly.

“She showed everybody her scars.”

I bite my lip some more. That’s it. I’m finished. I listen for the plane, but it’s gone.

“You think she should have kept them to herself?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think this new girl should have kept her scars hidden?”

“I don’t care.” Then, right away, “They’re gross.”

I pull on my sleeve, pinch the fabric tight, wrap it safely around my thumb.

“What’s wrong with letting people know what you’re doing, or how you’re feeling?”

“It’s not fair,” I say.

“Not fair?”

“It might upset them.”

You look puzzled.

“Can we change the subject?” I say.

“Of course.”

But I can’t think of what to talk about.

“My mom sent me this name thing,” I say at last. “I told you she does crafts, right?”

You nod.

“She made this thing for my door. It’s my name. In fabric. It’s quilted.”

The name thing seems silly, impossible to describe.

“It’s a decoration?”you say.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“My mom has to take it easy,” I explain.

“Yes,” you say. “You mentioned that before. That she needs a lot of rest.”

All at once, though, I’m the one who feels tired. Exhausted, actually.

“Is it OK if we stop now?” I say.

“Yes, of course,” you say, smiling a little. “Our time is just about up anyway.”

It’s almost the end of Study Hall. Debbie’s writing in her journal. Sydney’s listening to her Walkman. Everyone else is asleep. I’m memorizing chemistry terms: osmosis, reverse osmosis.

Sydney leans across the space between our desks, waving a folded note. She points to Tara. I know right away she wants me to pass the note to Tara; I take it without thinking. Then I see the problem. Tara is sound asleep, her head on her arms, turned away from me.

I watch Tara breathing for a minute, try to decide what to do, then lean across the row and slide the note under her elbow. She doesn’t move. I look over at Sydney, who’s giggling silently, her hand over her mouth. The corners of my mouth turn up; I bite down on the insides of my cheeks and turn back toward Tara.

I reach over and slip the note out from under Tara’s elbow. She still doesn’t move. Sydney is practically having a convulsion trying not to laugh; her face is beet red. My chest feels like it’s about to explode. I swallow, then burst out with a noise that sounds like air escaping from a balloon.

Tara jumps. Sydney laughs out loud, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen. All I know is that my hand is shaking as I pass Tara the note.

“Thanks,” Sydney whispers.

“Sure,” I say. Sure. It’s the kind of thing that comes out automatically. The kind of thing a person can say without really saying anything.

I close the door to your office; before you can ask me what I want to talk about, I show you the Wayne Gretzky card.

“It’s Sam’s favorite,” I say.

You smile. “You told me how much he loves those cards,”you say.

I sit back on the couch; my feet stick out. I sit forward; my back gets tight. “Yeah, but he doesn’t actually play. He just looks at the cards.”

You nod.

“He has this tabletop hockey game. I set it up for him. It has plastic players that you control with sticks, you know?”

I can’t tell if you understand what I’m talking about, but the words keep coming anyhow.

“He got it the Christmas before last. It had about ten pages of directions. Stuff like ‘Put bracket X in slot Z, post Y in hole 22.’”

“Sounds complicated,”you say.

“Yeah, the box said ‘Adult assembly required.’ But my parents were out. My mom was visiting Gram at the nursing home.”

“So you put it together by yourself?”

“No big deal.” This sounds somehow like bragging, so I tell you the rest. “I got mad at Sam, though. I hardly ever get mad at Sam.”

You tilt your head to the side.

“He put the stickers on crooked.” This sounds stupid, trivial. “The directions say that’s the last thing you’re supposed to do.”

“And that made you angry?”

“Maybe. A little,” I say. Then, “I was mean.”

“How were you mean?” You sound faintly disbelieving, like you can’t imagine me being mean.

“I yelled at him.”

I check for your reaction. You just look calm, as usual.

“He got sick.” I let the words fall in my lap, then look up.

You nod.

“He had to go to the hospital,” I say.

You give me a worried look; I want to make it go away.

“You know what Sam said? He still believed in Santa. He said he was mad at Santa for not putting the hockey game together. I said maybe Santa was too busy. So Sam said, ‘That’s what he has elves for.’” I smile, thinking how funny that was coming from a little kid.

You smile a little, too. I decide to tell you more.

“He put the stickers on when I wasn’t looking. They were all wrinkled. And he put the stickers that were supposed to go on the players’ uniforms on the scoreboard. I told him he was wrecking the whole thing. He hid the rest of the stickers behind his back, and then he started to cry.”

I don’t check for your reaction; I keep my eyes on the rabbit and go on.

“I didn’t pay any attention. I kept working on the hockey game. He kept crying, though. Then he pulled on my sleeve and said he couldn’t breathe. His eyes were really big and he made this scary noise, this wet sound that came from his chest, like he was drowning from the inside.”

I rip the tissue in my lap and decide to skip over the other part.

“They took him to the hospital. It was after midnight when they got home—”

“Excuse me a minute, Callie.” You’re leaning forward in your chair. “Who took him to the hospital?”

“My parents.” I glance at you, then away.

“So they came home?” You look confused.

“Yeah.” I go on, faster “It was after midnight when they got home, 12:12 in the morning. I remember. I decided that if they weren’t home by 12:34 I was going to call the hospital to see if Sam was OK. You know how on a digital clock 12:34 looks like 1-2-3-4? That was going to be the sign that I should call.” I don’t wait to see if you understand. “But they came home, so I didn’t have to.”

You exhale.

“My mom was upset. She wanted to know why I wasn’t in bed. She said Sam was in an oxygen tent. Then she started crying and it was like her legs gave out; she was kneeling on the floor, crying and saying, ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’ My dad had to pick her up under the arms and put her to bed.”

I check the clock. Time’s up, somehow. I squirm around on the couch. You don’t move. I inch to the edge of the couch. You still don’t move.

“That must have been very upsetting,”you say.

I stand up. “Yeah. For my mom. She told someone on the phone Sam almost died. It was after that, she stopped driving and stuff.”

I put my hand on the doorknob. “That’s it,” I say.

I don’t wait for you. I open the door and say, “See you tomorrow.”

That night when I go to take my shower, Becca’s standing at the sink wearing her puppy bathrobe and slippers. Until a while ago, I thought Becca was about my age. Then the other day in Group, when she told us they tried to force-feed her when she was in the hospital, she said they couldn’t do it because she was legally an adult. “No one can tell me what to do,” she said. “I’m eighteen years old.”

She’s holding a toothbrush and scowling at her reflection. Then, as if she’s just remembered she was in the middle of something, she starts brushing her teeth so hard it looks like it must hurt.

I head toward a sink at the other end, aware of the distinct smell of throw-up as I pass one of the stalls. Becca is spraying herself with perfume. Rochelle is oblivious.

I position myself so I can see Becca in the mirror. She catches me looking at her; we lock eyes for an instant. She looks embarrassed and proud at the same time. I grab my towel, pretend I forgot something in my room, and decide to come back later.

“I don’t have anything to say today,” I say as I sit down on your couch.

“No?”

“No. Not really.”

“Let me ask you something, then,” you say.

You don’t wait to see if it’s OK with me.

“The time Sam got sick, when you were putting together the hockey set—is there anything else you want to tell me about it?”

I study a stain on the carpet and try to decide if it’s shaped like a woman with a big nose or an amoeba “It was raining,” I say finally.

“Anything else?”

I don’t take my eyes off the stain. “Nope.”

“Well then, will you fill me in on one part I don’t understand?” You keep going. “Your parents were out, as I recall. Is that right?”

I don’t move a muscle.

“How did you let them know Sam was sick? Do you remember?”

I remember exactly.

I took the steps up from the basement two at a time, then ran out the front door, across the lawn, into the street. I glanced back at our house with all my mom’s Christmas crafts in the windows, then tried to put on a burst of speed. I stumbled, pitched forward, and found myself kneeling by the curb. I don’t remember getting up, I just remember running, watching my feet beneath me, first one, then the other, hitting the pavement as if they weren’t connected to me, as if they were just appearing and disappearing to give me something to look at while I ran.

I ran past the entrance to our development, out onto the main road. I must have gone past the Roy Rogers, the Dairy Queen, and the video rental place, although I don’t remember going past them. I just watched my feet appear, disappear, then reappear until somehow I was standing in front of Bud’s Tavern. I shoved the door open and stepped inside, but I couldn’t see a thing in the sudden dark. The place smelled like overcooked hot dogs and damp sweaters; I thought for a minute I was going to be sick.

There was a man at the bar. “Daddy!” I said. It came out sounding babyish and a little scared. The man turned around and gave me a bored look; he wasn’t my father. Another man came out of the restroom, whistling. “Daddy!” This time it sounded babyish and a little mad. And this time it was my father.

He looked like he couldn’t quite place me. “Callie?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s Sam,” I said, panting. “He’s sick.”

“You want a soda?”he said, then turned to face the bar; his back looked enormous. When he turned around, he had a beer in his hand. He took a swallow and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up, then down.

“He’s sick!”

He looked at me blankly.

“Daddy!” I stamped my foot. “I already called mom at the nursing home,” I said quietly. “She’s on her way home.”

He seemed to wake up then. “Why didn’t you say so?” He took out his wallet, put a few bills on the counter, and grabbed his coat.

Once we got in the car, I realized I was cold. Cold and wet. “Could you put on the heat?” I said.

He didn’t say anything, just flipped the heater on. It blew out cold air at first and I had to hug my arms to my side to keep from getting even colder. When the car started to warm up, he turned the heater off, unzipped his coat, and tugged on his collar.

All the things I’d passed on my way there—the fast-food places, the video rental store—went by the window in slow motion. How could it take so much longer to drive home than it had to run there? But it must have just seemed slow, because we still got there before my mom did.

I remember exactly, but I don’t tell you. I just sit there and stare at the stain on the carpet until finally you sigh and say that’s all the time we have for today.

Something wakes me up in the middle of the night: the quiet. I sit up, listen for the squeaking of Ruby’s shoes, for the sound of someone crying into a pillow, for the far-off laugh track from the attendants’ TV. But for once it’s absolutely silent in here. The room is filled with a milky white glow; I sit up and see then that it’s snowing. I listen to the snowflakes hitting the window, making a faint scratching sound. Then I lie down, roll over, try to go back to sleep. In the distance, car tires spin, then stop.

I remember a talk show about people who had trouble falling asleep; some expert told them to get up and read or have a glass of milk instead of trying to sleep. Still, I try to sleep. I play the inhale-exhale game. It doesn’t work. Finally I get up, feel around for my slippers, and decide to see if Ruby’s at the desk knitting or something.

Outside each dorm room, near the floor, are a pair of childproof night-lights; I think about telling Ruby that this makes the hallway look like an airport landing strip. She’ll like that. We’ll talk. After that, I’ll be able to sleep.

Down at the end of the hall, Rochelle is at her post, on the lookout for late-night barfers and illegal laxative users. As I pass Becca’s room, something in the dim glow of the night-light catches my eye. It’s Ruby, sitting on the edge of Becca’s bed. I decide to wait for her so I can tell her about the landing strip.

Ruby glances up, gives me a half-worried, half-annoyed look; I shrink back against the wall, then tiptoe back to my room and count the snowflakes until, somehow, it’s morning and Sydney’s making her bed.

The cafeteria is more insane than usual. Maybe it’s the snow, maybe it’s the pancakes; the clatter and the laughing and the talking are worse than ever. I’m in line, waiting for my breakfast, when Debbie cuts in front of me. She’s apparently back for seconds; an empty, syrup-streaked plate is in her hand.

“What’s taking so long?” she yells over the counter to a kitchen worker in a hair net.

The woman smiles nervously; Debbie hands her plate across the counter.

“I need more,” she says.

By the time I get my juice and sit down, Debbie’s almost finished. Tara’s sitting across from her, watching, practically terrified, as Debbie eats one mouthful of pancake after another. Amanda regards Debbie with something like awe.

“Where’s Becca?” Sydney says.

No one answers; Debbie keeps chewing as if she hasn’t heard.

“Deb?” says Sydney. “Where’s Becca?”

“Infirmary.” Debbie sounds bored, matter-of-fact; she doesn’t look at Sydney, she stares at some spot on the far wall.

Tara sets her juice glass down slowly. “What’s the matter with her?”

Debbie doesn’t answer; she chews, scoops up another piece, pops it in her mouth.

“Debbie?” Tara looks like she’s going to cry.

“Debbie!” says Sydney. “What’s wrong?”

She shrugs.

“Is it her heart?” Tara says.

Debbie gets to her feet hurriedly. Her lower lip is quivery. “I don’t know.” She grabs her tray and storms away.

Our table goes quiet. Then there’s a flurry of talking.

“I bet it’s another heart attack,” Tara says.

Sydney drapes an arm around Tara’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It can’t be that bad if Becca’s only in the infirmary. She’d be in the hospital if it were serious.”

Tiffany agrees, reaches in her ever-present purse, and hands Tara a tissue.

Amanda rocks back in her chair and smiles. “Intense,” she says with admiration. “That Becca chick is really intense.”

I feel for the loose strip of metal at the edge of the table, bending it a little. With no warning it breaks off in my hand. Everyone is so busy worrying about Becca, they don’t look at me. It’s an accident, this thing snapping off into my hand, but I slip it in my pocket. Just in case.

The chimes ring; it’s hard to leave.

“Remember that girl in my group I told you about,” I say as soon as you close your door.

“Which one?”you say.

“Becca, the really skinny girl, the anorexic who’s still throwing up?”

You nod.

“She… I…” Hot tears start to well up in my eyes; you become a blur of colors. “Something’s wrong.”

I look out the window, shading my eyes with my hands like the sun’s too bright.

“What is it, Callie?” I steal a glance at you; your hands are pressed together in a praying gesture. “Tell me, please.”

“We don’t know what’s wrong,” I say, suddenly conscious that I’ve used the word we. I can’t go on.

“She might have had another heart attack,” I say finally, the words coming out in stop-start bursts.

You slide the tissue box across the carpet and leave it at my feet. “Can you tell me why you’re so upset?”

“No.” I feel foggy again, lost. “I really can’t.”

You lean back. “Would you feel better if I tell you what I know?”

I nod, vaguely startled and yet not surprised somehow that you would know what’s going on with the girls in my group.

“It wasn’t a heart attack,” you say.

I sit forward and wait for you to tell me more.

“The doctor said she did have an irregular heartbeat last night,”you say. “And some palpitations.”

“She didn’t have a heart attack?” I need to be sure.

“No. They think she was probably just dehydrated.”

“From throwing up?”

“That’s a good possibility.”

I wad up a tissue, throw it in the trash can, and grab another one. “So she’s going to be OK?”

You blow out a long steady stream of air. “I can’t say. She will be, if she begins taking responsibility for her health, for her recovery here. If she doesn’t…” Your voice trails off.

“Debbie was really upset,” I say.

“Debbie?”

“The girl who takes care of her.”

“How could you tell?”

“She was eating pancakes,” I say. “A lot of pancakes.” I picture Debbie at the breakfast table, shoveling food into her mouth. And it dawns on me that seeing her eat like that might have grossed me out before—or annoyed me, or maybe even secretly pleased me. Now it just makes me sad.

“How do you feel?”

“Me? I don’t know.”

You don’t seem completely satisfied with this answer.

“Tara. She was upset too.” I want to talk about Debbie, about Tara, about everybody else. “The new girl,” I say. “She’s weird.”

You cock your head slightly.

“It was like she was happy it happened.”

“Callie,” you say. “What about you? How do you feel about what Becca did?”

Your eyes flick toward the clock, making a quick check. Without really thinking, I pat the outside of my pocket, feeling for the metal strip, telling myself it’s there if I need it.

How do I feel? I feel like cutting. I don’t know why. And I don’t tell you.

Everyone’s already there when I get to Group; the only chairs left are Becca’s old seat and the one next to Debbie. Debbie’s eyes are bloodshot, her eyelids painted with blue eye shadow, and her face is powdery white. She’s obviously been crying. I slide into the chair next to her.

Claire starts off by saying that it looks like Becca’s going to be OK, but that she’ll have to be in the infirmary for a while.

“She didn’t have a heart attack?” says Tara.

“Is she coming back?” says Sydney.

“Can I have her room?” says Tiffany.

Claire takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Becca hasn’t been eating; she was hiding her food, then throwing it away,” she says. She holds her glasses up to the light, rubs out a smudge with a tissue. “She’s also been throwing up what little she did eat.”

“Now,” she says, putting her glasses back on, “what we need to talk about in this group are your feelings about Becca’s actions.”

Tiffany chews on her nails. Debbie chews her gum. I chew my lip. Then the room is quiet—so quiet we can hear the muffled sound of voices from the group next door.

“No volunteers?” Claire says at last. “OK. We’ll go around the circle.”

My heart hammers; we’ve never done this before. What will happen when it’s my turn?

“Tiffany, why don’t you go first?” Claire says.

I breathe out; Tiffany’s four seats away from me.

Tiffany rolls her eyes, adjusts her purse strap. “It pisses me off,” she says. “I don’t know why, it just does.” She turns to Tara.

Tara shrugs. Then she starts crying. She throws her hands up and turns toward Amanda My heart beats double time; two more people and it’ll be my turn.

“I didn’t know her that well,” Amanda says. “I mean I don’t know her that well. It’s not like she’s dead or anything.” She flashes a cocky smile around the circle.

“But how did you feel about it?” Claire says.

“Feel? Oh, I think it raised some issues for me. Fear of abandonment, self-loathing, repressed hostility, that sort of thing. Is that what you’re looking for?”

Claire purses her lips; her gaze travels to Sydney. “Sydney, how about you?”

Sydney’s next to me, but I can hardly hear her, my heart is pounding so hard.

“It bugged me.” Sydney’s voice cracks. She clears her throat. “It bugged me that she’s, you know, doing that to herself. How could she do that to herself?” She starts crying, then turns to me.

I survey the circle. Tara gives me a teary smile from under the brim of her baseball cap. Amanda eyes me suspiciously. I pick at a hangnail.

Then Debbie leans over. “You don’t have to say anything, Callie.” She looks around the group. “Right, everyone?”

“Why can’t you leave people alone?” says Tiffany. “Why can’t you let her decide if she wants to talk? You’re so worried about her. About trying to make sure she doesn’t have to talk. I think you’re the one who doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Debbie ignores her, turns to Claire. “She doesn’t have to talk if she doesn’t want to, does she?”

Claire sighs. “That’s up to Callie,” she says. “Callie, are you ready to talk today?”

“C’mon, S.T.,” Sydney whispers.

I pull at the hangnail. Words take shape in my brain, a few, then a flood; then they’re gone. I shake my head, a little at first, then harder, as I watch my hair swing from side to side.

“OK,” says Claire. “Debbie?”

Debbie’s arm brushes mine as she shifts in her chair.

There’s silence, then the sound of more talking next door, then more silence.

“Scared.”

I have to look out of the corner of my eye to make sure it’s Debbie talking.

“Debbie,” says Claire. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

Debbie wrings her shirt in her hands. I don’t move. “You’re all going to be mad at me.”

“Why do you think that?” says Claire.

Debbie shrugs. Her arm brushes mine again; it’s soft and pillowy. I relax my grip a little.

“Debbie,” Claire says in a gentle voice. “Can you look at me a minute?” We all look at her. “Why would we be angry with you?”

Debbie twists her shirt into a knot. “I should’ve tried to stop her.”

People shift in their seats. Someone across the room coughs. Then nothing.

Tara raises her hand finally. “You couldn’t have known what she was doing.”

“I should have.” Debbie looks around the group. “I know that’s what you all think. I know you all hate me. You hate me for not taking care of Becca. I know it.”

No one says anything.

Debbie plows her fists into her thighs. “It’s not fair I try to do what people want. At home, I do all the things no one else wants to do. I sort the recyclables, I clean the litter box, I do the wash…”

There’s a long silence.

“Why?” says Sydney. Her voice is soft, curious.

Debbie shrugs.

“Why do you do things people don’t even ask you to?”

Debbie shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She sounds exhausted. “I really don’t.” She sighs a long, tired sigh; when she’s finished the room is quiet again. She sinks back into her chair, her arm resting against mine. I don’t move away.

“It’s not your fault.”

The words come out of my mouth. I aim them at my lap. But they’re for Debbie. From me.

I can hear people squirming in their chairs. Then the room is quiet again. I peer out from under my hair and take in the circle of feet. Everyone is wearing sneakers, except Amanda, who has on combat boots.

Debbie turns to look at me. “What did you say?” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “About Becca.”

I keep my eyes on Amanda’s boots; her legs are crossed and she’s swinging her foot up and down.

“It’s mine.”

Amanda stops swinging her foot.

“I…” My voice gives out. I clear my throat. “I saw her…One time I saw her put her brownie in a napkin. And in the bathroom, I knew she was throwing up.”

I lean back in my chair, feeling trembly and very, very tired. The silence is long and loud with things people aren’t saying. I can’t stand to look up and see their faces. To see how angry they are.

Footsteps echo in the hallway. They get louder and louder, then faint, then fainter, then they trail away.

“Hey, S.T.,” Sydney says finally.

I don’t budge.

She nudges me with her elbow. “You want to know something?”

I still can’t look up. But I nod.

“It’s not your fault, either.” She says this like it’s no big deal. Like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

Group is over then and people are standing, gathering up their books, heading to their appointments. I keep my head down, grip the edge of my chair, and hold on like my life depends on it. I don’t know what just happened in here, but I can’t leave.

“S.T.?” It’s Sydney’s voice. “You coming?”

She’s standing in front of me. Debbie’s there, too. And Tara And Claire. A semicircle of feet.

A weird strangling sound starts in my chest, then comes out my mouth. I’m crying—sobbing, actually, and gulping for air. I wipe my eyes; the feet are still there. But the crying won’t stop. I’m shaking and trying not to shake, but it’s no good. I can’t stop. Claire says something about going to get help.

Finally, a pair of white shoes pushes through the semicircle. Ruby’s there, rubbing my back, saying, “There, there, baby. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

Then you’re standing there, in your little fabric shoes, saying the same thing, that it’s all right now.

You shut your door; I notice that it’s getting dark outside and wonder if you’d be home walking your dog or making your dinner right now if I hadn’t freaked out.

“Can you tell me what upset you so much in Group?”

I shrug. “Debbie.” It’s all I can say.

“How did Debbie upset you?”

“No.” I blow my nose. “Debbie didn’t do anything. I…she…” I rip the tissue in two and start again. “She thought it was her fault. About Becca.”

I don’t dare to look at you.

“I thought it was my fault,” I whisper.

I glance at you, then away. You look worried.

“I think everything’s my fault.”

“What else is your fault?”

“I don’t know. Everything. Sam.”

“Sam?”

“It’s my fault he’s sick. Which means it’s my fault my mom’s not the same anymore and my fault my dad’s not around. It’s all my fault.”

“Callie.” Your voice is gentle. “How can all those things be your fault?”

“I don’t know. They just are.”

“How is it your fault that Sam is sick?”

“I made him cry? I got him upset?” I’ve always taken this for granted; as I say it out loud, though, it sounds stupid.

“Callie, I’m a doctor,” you say. “If I tell you that a person doesn’t get asthma from crying, from being upset, will you believe me?”

I shrug.

“Asthma is a kind of allergic reaction. People can develop it when they come in contact with certain substances, like pollen or dust. Sometimes a viral infection can trigger an attack. But you can’t give asthma to someone. The allergic response is already in their system.”

The fog is clouding my mind again. What you’re saying sounds like something from biology class; it doesn’t have anything to do with me or Sam or my mom being scared all the time and my dad being gone all the time. I look for the rabbit on the ceiling but can’t quite find him.

“Has anyone told you all these things are your fault?” you interrupt.

“No one has to. I just know.”

“Does anyone punish you for these things?”

I shake my head.

“No one?”

I look up at you. You still look concerned.

“What about you? Aren’t you punishing yourself? By hurting yourself?”

I don’t understand. “No.”

“Then why do you think you cut yourself?”

“I don’t know.” I tear the tissue to shreds. “It just happens. I can’t help it.”

You furrow your brow.

“I know it’s bad,” I say. “I guess I do it because I’m…bad.”

“How are you bad?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like I’m this bad person.”

“What have you done that’s so bad?”

“I don’t know.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. “I really don’t know.”

You look pleased and say that’s enough for one day.

Right before dinner there’s always a crowd of people on the smoking porch. As I go past, Sydney taps on the glass door. I stop and watch as she gestures for me to come out. Before I can decide what to do, she grinds out her cigarette and comes in to get me.

“C’mon, S.T.,” she says, grabbing my arm. “Come outside with us.”

I pull my sleeve down over my thumb and follow, trying to match her big strides as her ponytail bobs up and down in front of me.

“Guess I can’t call you S.T anymore.” She waits at the door for me to catch up. “Now that you’re talking.”

“It’s OK,” I say. “You can still call me that.”

There’s a blast of cold, smoky air as Sydney opens the door. I step onto the porch, take in the curious looks of the other girls, and jam my hands into my pockets.

“Want one?” Sydney waves a pack of cigarettes in front of me. I shake my head and watch the careful way she lights up, cupping her hand around the match to keep it from blowing out. “My favorite addiction,” she says, blowing out a fat white smoke ring.

Tiffany wanders over. “Does anybody else think it’s weird that we’re allowed to smoke here?” she says.

Sydney admires her smoke ring as it floats away. “Yeah,” she says. “No barfing, no bingeing, no inhaling fumes from the art supplies. But smoking’s OK.”

The other girls laugh and I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. I lift my sleeve to my mouth, but the smile stays as they make jokes about the rules, about the food, about Group. It’s cold outside and I wonder why no one ever wears a coat at Sick Minds. Mostly, though, I test out what it feels like to smile again.

I’m so tired that night that I fall asleep in my clothes. I’m sitting up in bed reading a story for English and the next thing I know Ruby’s leaning over me, telling me it’s almost lights out.

“You want to put this on?” She’s holding one of my nightgowns.

Then she’s gone, her shoes squeaking down the hall. The room is dark; Sydney’s on her back, sleeping. I get up slowly, then make my way down to the bathroom.

Rochelle’s in her chair and Amanda’s standing at the sink, although I hardly recognize her. She’s washed off all her makeup—her pencil-arched brows, her black eyeliner, her red lipstick—and she looks very young. She’s studying her face in the mirror, so she doesn’t notice me right away. When she does, she scowls.

I find a corner, turn my back, and begin the process of getting undressed for the shower without letting her see me. First I unhook my bra, tug the straps down, and pull it off from under my shirt. Then I drape the towel over my shoulders and take off my shirt, quickly pulling the towel around me, toga-style, as my shirt falls to the floor Next I step out of my jeans, holding the towel in place with one hand and tugging my pants off with the other I’m balanced on one foot, kicking off my pants leg, when something metal hits the tile floor with a tiny plink.

The metal strip from the dining room table: I’d forgotten it was still in my pocket. Instinctively I slide my foot across the tile, covering the piece of metal.

Rochelle’s head bobs up, but she looks in the wrong direction, over at the toilet stalls. But Amanda turns quickly toward me. She takes in my awkward position, the towel gripped to my chest, one foot half stuck inside my pants leg, the other stretched out uncomfortably far away, across the floor Then she nods slowly, approvingly.

“Rochelle,” she calls out, still looking at me. “Is there anyone down at the desk? I need something.”

I’m too startled to move. Is she going to tell on me, get me in trouble?

Rochelle’s gotten up; she’s banging the toilet stall doors open one by one, checking to make sure no one’s in there. When the last stall turns up empty, she gives Amanda an annoyed look. “What do you need this time of night?”

Amanda smiles at me, then turns to face Rochelle. “A tampon.”

I don’t understand. Then I do. Amanda’s sending Rochelle off on a fake errand so I can pick up the metal strip and hide it.

Rochelle sighs. “You two aren’t food-disorder girls, right? You’re not gonna throw up if I leave for a minute?”

We nod, almost in unison.

“OK,” she says. “I’m trusting you. No funny business.”

We nod.

Rochelle leaves. Amanda is next to me all of a sudden. I slide my foot back and the metal strip is lying there on the floor between us.

“Where’d you get it?” she says.

“The dining room table. It broke off.”

“Gutsy,” she says. “Real gutsy.”

She seems so delighted at the sight of the strip, I think maybe she’s going to take it. I picture myself grabbing it and just dropping it in the trash can right in front of her. Instead I pick it up, close my fingers around it, and head for the shower before Rochelle comes back. The hairs on my neck tingle, as if Amanda might grab me at any minute and pry the metal strip out of my hand. But she doesn’t.

I turn the water on high and listen while Amanda thanks Rochelle for the tampon. A toilet stall door opens, closes, then opens again, and I hear Amanda call out good night in a sing-song voice. Slowly I take off my towel, wrap the metal strip in it, and get in the shower. When it’s time to go back to my room, I put the piece of metal back in my pants, folding them carefully so it doesn’t fall out. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.

I feel suddenly shy when I sit down across from you in your office today. Something happened between us yesterday and I don’t quite know how to come back from it. You smile and a good warm feeling comes over me. I settle into the cushions of the couch, deciding that I’ll work hard today, try to come up with the right answers to your questions.

“How are you?” you say.

“Fine.” This is true, but it sounds inadequate. I give you a practice smile. You smile back.

“Callie,” you say, folding your hands around your knees. “What you did yesterday—speaking out in Group—that was a big step.”

“It was?” I want to hear more.

“It took a lot of courage.”

My cheeks get warm, an uncomfortable and at the same time not uncomfortable feeling.

“How did it feel to speak in front of the other girls?”

“OK.” I try to come up with a better answer. “A little scary, I guess.”

“What were you afraid of?”

“That people would get mad at me.”

“Hmmm.” You nod. “Who did you think would be angry?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Everybody?”

“Everybody?”

I shrug. The foggy feeling settles over me. I want to give you a right answer, but I don’t have one.

“Let me ask you this: do people get angry with you a lot?”

“Not really.”

You wait.

“My mom cries a lot but she doesn’t yell or anything,” I say.

“And your father…”

I chew on a hangnail. “He doesn’t get too worked up,” I say finally.

A car tire spins on the ice outside.

“I’ve noticed that you don’t talk about your father much.”

My leg muscles tighten, I feel ready to run. I cross and recross my legs, trying hard to just stay in my seat. “So?” I say.

“What can you tell me about him?”you say.

“Don’t you have stuff in your file?” I say after a while.

“I don’t really know much about him. I met with your mother on visiting day, but your dad wasn’t here.”

“He has to work.” I remember scanning the parking lot for him, watching somebody’s dad come up the sidewalk, banging on the window, and realizing it wasn’t him.

You tap your file. “He’s a computer salesman, is that right?”

Your file makes it sound like he works at RadioShack; for some reason, this makes me mad. “He sells computers to companies. He takes people out to dinner and stuff to get them to buy whole, big computer systems.”

You don’t seem to understand.

“He has to travel.”

You still don’t say anything.

“Well, he used to. Travel, I mean. Since Sam got sick, he changed jobs. Now he just sells to companies nearby.” I don’t tell you about how it seems like all the companies nearby already have computers, that for a while he took people out hoping they’d become customers and that now he mostly just goes out. “He has to work a lot.”

“Is that why he wasn’t here for visiting day?”

A muscle in my leg is twitching, my heart is hammering against my ribs. All I want to do is jump off the couch and run. I cross my legs again, winding one around the other to keep them still. “I don’t feel like talking about this anymore.”

I draw my mouth into a straight line and bite my lip. Somehow some of the good warm feeling from yesterday is gone.

“Callie?”

I chew on my lip, a little harder now.

“Callie, you’re biting your lip.”

I meet your eyes for a second, then look out the window at the bare branch of the tree.

“Do you know the expression ‘bite your lip’?”

“I guess so.”

“Tell me what you think it means.”

“Y’know,” I say my eyes locked on the branch. “To shut up. To not say something.”

“To not say something.” You recite my words.

I go back to biting my lip.

Your dead-cow chair groans as you lean forward. “Callie, I feel like there’s something you’re not saying.”

Now everything good from yesterday is gone.

We’re in the middle of Group and Tiffany is telling us about some guy she had sex with behind the dumpster at her school. She’s saying something about how it’s his fault she’s at Sick Minds, because he told his friends, who told some of her friends, who told the health teacher, who Tiffany then had to beat up.

The door opens. We all turn to see who it is. It’s Becca Becca being pushed in a wheelchair by an actual nurse, someone in a white uniform.

Tiffany stops in mid-sentence.

Claire nods. “Welcome back, Becca,” she says.

Becca wiggles her fingers hello. “Hi, everybody,” she says.

No one says anything.

“Becca’s going to continue working with our group,” Claire says carefully. “And eventually we hope she’ll be back with us full time, but for the time being she’s staying on another ward.”

We all know what this means: Humdinger

Becca giggles; everyone else squirms. The nurse wheels Becca’s chair into a space next to Amanda Amanda nudges her chair aside a little, then folds her arms across her chest and looks sideways at Becca. The nurse locks the brakes on the wheelchair and leaves.

Dead quiet.

“You look good,” someone says finally. It’s Sydney. Her voice is shaky, her eyes dart nervously around the circle.

Becca makes a gagging gesture, sticking her tongue out and pointing a finger down her throat. “They tubefed me.” She grins sheepishly.

There’s another long silence.

“You don’t think I look fat?” Becca giggles again.

Debbie jumps out of her chair and heads for the door.

“No, Debbie,” says Claire. “You need to stay here.”

Debbie turns around. Her jaw is clenched; a vein is pulsing in her neck.

Claire is pointing to Debbie’s empty chair. Debbie harrumphs across the room and flops into her seat.

No one moves.

Becca flips her hair over her shoulder. “So, what?” she says. “Are you guys mad at me or something?”

Sydney coughs. Then nothing.

“Yes,” comes a tiny voice from across the circle. It’s Tara. She’s looking out at Becca from under her baseball cap.

Becca grins, like she can’t believe it, like it’s a big joke. “Why?” she says. “I’m OK. See?” She clamps her teeth together and smiles hard.

No one says anything.

“Besides, I don’t see what the big deal is,” Becca says. She looks at Claire, then back at the group. “It’s not like I did anything to you guys.”

Debbie snorts.

“Yes,” says Tara “Yes, you did.” She looks down at her lap, cracks her knuckles. “What you did affected all of us. Me. Debbie. Callie. All of us.”

Us. This is the first time I’ve been included in us. My cheeks flush.

Becca’s gaze travels around the circle; she looks hopeful and doubtful at the same time.

“We…” Tara can’t finish.

“We were scared,” says Sydney, all in a rush. “We…you know, we want you to get better. That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? To get better?”

I check to see how people are responding to this question. Tara nods. Debbie nods. Tiffany shrugs. Amanda checks her watch.

Becca looks stunned.

Claire finally says something. “Becca? How are you doing?”

Becca doesn’t answer.

“You look upset.”

Becca nods, then says to Claire, “Is it OK if I go back to the infirmary for a while?”

Claire says that’s fine, that maybe this is a lot to take in on her first day back; then she goes to the door and signals an attendant. Marie comes, releases the brake on Becca’s chair, and wheels her away.

When Becca’s gone, we all sit there looking at Debbie. Mascara is running down her cheeks and a muscle is working in her jaw, but she’s staring off into space.

“You OK?” says Sydney at last.

Debbie nods vacantly.

People look around, not sure what to do.

“Are you sure?” says Tara

“Yeah,” Debbie says, finally breaking off her stare. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m fine.”

Then she turns to me.

“What about you?” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Are you OK?”

I can feel heads turning around the circle to look at me. “Sure,” I say. “Yeah.”

Debbie smiles, then claps a hand over her mouth. “I did it again!” she says. “Taking care of everybody else. What do you call it, Amanda?”

Amanda’s face is a mixture of surprise and mischief. “Co-dependent,” she says. “You’re being co-dependent again.”

Debbie laughs. It’s a nervous laugh, but everyone laughs too, out of relief. All of us.

Now that I’ve been upgraded to a Level Two, I can escort myself places. Tonight I’m on my way to the game room, even though I don’t really feel like playing Connect Four, and even though everyone else is in the dayroom. I really feel like watching TV because I haven’t seen a single show since I got here, but I’m not sure I can just walk in and sit down with everybody after all this time. I walk past the door and notice Tara’s baseball cap turning as I go by.

“Callie?” I turn around and see her running down the hall behind me. She scuffs along in her slippers, then slides to a stop when she gets to me, like one of Sam’s hockey players.

“Hey!” She’s panting. The thought crosses my mind that Tara could have a heart attack if she doesn’t get better. I stop and wait for her to catch her breath.

“Whew!” She smiles. “We were wondering if you wanted to watch TV.” She tips her head toward the dayroom. “You know, with the group. Unless you don’t want to. It’s OK if you want to be alone.”

She’s still breathing hard.

“Sure,” I say, looking at her hopeful, embarrassed face. “Sure.”

Sydney and Debbie are on the couch. Tiffany’s on the floor, flipping through a magazine and watching TV at the same time. Sydney looks up when I come in, slides down the couch, and pats the seat next to her. “S.T.,” she says. “Sit here.”

The couch is a big bumpy overstuffed thing and when I sit back my feet don’t touch the floor. Tara sits down next to me and I notice that her feet don’t touch, either. They’re watching Jeopardy; it’s time for the daily double. A contestant named Tim has chosen Silent Film Stars for $500. The host asks the big question: “This actress, dubbed America’s Sweetheart, starred in the original film version of Heidi.”

“C’mon, Tim,” Sydney chants.

“Shirley Temple?” suggests Debbie.

“No,” says Tiffany. “It’s a silent film star.”

I know this one. I know the answer. I know it from watching TV with Sam on Saturday afternoons when our mom is resting. “Mary Pickford,” I whisper. Then louder, “Mary Pickford.”

Tim hits his buzzer. “Who was Mary Pickford?”

The daily double alarm goes off. Tim jumps up and down. Sydney thumps me on the back. “Way to go, S.T.! You win the daily double!”

The next morning at breakfast, Tiffany announces flatly that she’s going home. “The insurance ran out,” she says, pushing her scrambled eggs around on her plate. “They thought I could stay for a couple of months, but now they say they’ll pay for only a month—which is over today.”

“You lucky dog,” says Amanda.

Tiffany grunts.

“Aren’t you happy?” says Tara.

Tiffany puts salt on her eggs, pushes them around some more, then sets her fork down. “No.”

“Why not? I thought you hated it here.”

Tiffany shakes her head. “You think this place is crazy you should try living with my family.”

A couple of people nod. No one seems able to eat.

“What will you do?” says Sydney after a while. “You know, to get better?”

“They’re sending me to some outpatient thing. Some group that meets after school every day.” Tiffany waves her hand like she’s brushing away a fly.

“Why can’t you go to school and come to Group here in the afternoon?” says Sydney.

“It’s too far, I guess,” Tiffany says glumly. Then, quietly, “It won’t be the same.”

The chimes ring; no one moves. Then Claire comes over and tells us our group doesn’t have to go straight to our usual appointments; we’re allowed to walk Tiffany to the front door.

We all stand around in a circle in the reception room, waiting for Tiffany’s cab and not talking about her leaving —all of us except Amanda, who didn’t come out of her room when it was time to walk to the front door. Tiffany’s belongings hardly fill a plastic bag and she looks small somehow, fingering the latch of her purse and pretending like she could care less about leaving.

Finally a cab pulls up and blows the horn. Sydney gives Tiffany a hug. Tara says she’ll write. Debbie tells Tiffany she’ll actually miss her. “You never let me get away with…you know, crap.” It’s a big deal for Debbie to say crap and I think maybe she’s going to laugh, but her eyes are brimming with wetness.

Tiffany punches me in the arm lightly and tells me I have to keep talking in Group. I nod. Then I realize that nodding isn’t talking. “OK,” I say. I want to say “I promise,” but my throat closes up on me.

Just when everyone, including Tiffany, looks like they’re going to start crying, Sydney says, “Hey, now that you’re leaving…why don’t you tell us why you always carry that darn purse?”

Tiffany fiddles with the latch. “You promise you won’t tell?”

We promise.

She opens the purse and pulls out a ratty piece of pink fabric. “My old baby blanket.” She grins and shrugs and then turns to go.

When the automatic doors slide apart, a warm, moist riffle of air floats in, lifting the hair around my face. The snow has melted; tiny green buds are forming on the tips on the trees. It dawns on me that soon it will be spring. Then summer. Kids will be riding their bikes on the sidewalk, dads will be rolling out barbecue grills, moms will be making pitchers of lemonade.

The doors slide shut and it’s winter again inside Sick Minds.

An ache fills my chest. I want something, but I can’t put a name to it.

Debbie, Sydney, Tara, and I shuffle back to the dorm, not saying anything. When we get to the attendants’ desk, we drift apart; no one’s in a hurry to go their appointments, especially me, since I have Study Hall. I see Ruby putting on her coat, going off duty.

“What day is it in the real world, Ruby?” I ask, when the other girls are gone.

“The real world? What do you mean, child?”

“Out there.” I point to the window. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“No, I mean the date. What’s the date?”

She looks over at the chalkboard. Tiffany’s name has already been erased. Sydney and Tara have been upgraded to Level Threes, along with Debbie. Next to Becca’s name it simply says “H Wing.” Our group is down to five: Sydney, Tara, and Debbie, who are going to graduate soon, and Amanda and me.

“March 27,” Ruby says.

She says it’s time for her to go home and get some sleep. She says they’re doing construction in her neighborhood, and she sure hopes they’re finished with the jackhammer. She appraises me, then smiles. She says not to worry and slips me a butterscotch candy. But the wanting feeling still doesn’t go away.

Later, after Study Hall, I escort myself to your office. The lights in the waiting area are off and the UFOs outside all the shrink offices are quiet. I sit down in my usual chair outside your door and wait. I check my watch. If this were a dentist’s office, there’d be old National Geographics to look at; here, there are only tissue boxes and more tissue boxes.

I check my watch again.

You’re late. Fifteen minutes late.

I count the tissue boxes and the UFOs. I do the math; there are 1.5 tissue boxes per UFO. I check my watch again and know that you’re not coming. That something’s wrong.

I must have made a mistake. The chalkboard probably says my appointment was changed. That happens sometimes. I decide to wait until you’re twenty minutes late; then I’ll check the chalkboard.

Then it dawns on me: Wednesday is your day off. I remember you saying See you Thursday, last time. You didn’t say See you tomorrow. You said See you Thursday. I feel annoyed for some reason, then scared. Thursday is a long time away. What will I do till then?

I decide to go to Study Hall and figure out how many hours till tomorrow. How many hours, then how many minutes, then how many seconds. That will at least help pass the time.

Study Hall’s closed, too. My only other choice is the dayroom. When I walk in, the TV’s on, but no one’s watching it; then I see Amanda lying down on the couch. She notices me before I can sneak out.

“So,” she says, “you were onto Becca’s scam?”

I don’t know how to answer. Her voice is cajoling, full of encouragement; I think I’m supposed to say yes, but somehow I don’t. I shrug.

“Cool,” she says, sitting up. “Very cool.”

I sit down on a chair far from her and act very interested in the show on TV, a rerun of Family Ties. Alex is trying to keep his mom from opening the closet.

“So, S.T.,” Amanda says. “What do you use?”

I don’t understand.

She pulls up her sleeve and points to a line of purplish bumps on the inside of her arm; she twists her hand so I can see that the bumps go all the way around her wrist, like a bracelet. “You know, scissors? Glass? Wire?”

I try to concentrate on the TV. The Family Ties mom turns her back and the person hiding in the closet opens the door; Alex slams it shut, looking innocent. I can’t exactly follow it with Amanda bugging me.

“I knew a girl who used her father’s credit card. Nice touch. Little hidden psychological message in that, don’t you think?”

I don’t say anything.

“My personal favorite?” Amanda maneuvers herself so she’s blocking my view of the TV. “A safety pin and hairspray Rubbing alcohol’s good, too. But hairspray’s the best. It makes your scars puff up.”

She lies down again. “By the way,” she says, “I found this staple. Underneath one of the chairs in the study lounge. It works really well.”

I remember the look on her face in Study Hall the day I saw her rubbing her arm on the seat of the chair while she pretended to be asleep.

“Third row, last chair,” she says. “Just thought you might want to know. In case they find your metal thing.”

On Thursday I don’t wait for you to ask me where I want to start. While you’re still closing your door, I ask if you want to see my scars.

Your face is neutral. “Do you want to show me?” you say.

I nod. I pinch my sleeve between my thumb and index finger, but instead of pulling it up, I pull it down. Until it covers my wrist. Until it covers my hand. Until my whole arm is hidden inside my sleeve.

“I use my mom’s Exacto knife.” I stare at my shirtsleeve. “Or her embroidery scissors. Once I used the paper towel dispenser in the guest bathroom here.” I feel the corners of my mouth turn up; I’m not happy but somehow I have to fight the urge to smile.

I check for your reaction. You’re expecting something, I can tell. Your normal, calm face shows a hint of waiting. Waiting, and something else, something like hope.

I roll my sleeve between my thumb and index finger, then deliberately, with a kind of reverence, I pull my sleeve back, all the way up to the elbow, and extend my arm to you.

You’re not disgusted or frightened or any of the hundred wrong things you could be; you look like yourself, serious, curious, and maybe, maybe, just a little bit proud of me.

I look at my arm. It’s crisscrossed with pink lines, lines that strike me as delicate and faint, lines I remember making.

I gently pull my sleeve back down and decide it would be good to make some kind of joke right about now.

“Guess I’ll never wear a strapless ball gown,” I say.

You look perplexed.

“Debbie, you know Debbie from my group, she’s always drawing fancy ball gowns. I’ll have to ask her to design one for me—one that has long sleeves.” I laugh. You don’t.

“What makes you think you’ll never wear a strapless ball gown?”

I shrug. I never planned on wearing fancy clothes, but for some dumb reason, now I really want to. In fact I want to so badly, I feel like crying. “I don’t know.”

“You might wear a ball gown someday.” You say this quite surely.

“I might?”

You nod. “I have every reason to believe you’ll do all the things every other girl does, all the things you want to do.”

I’m still stuck on the stupid ball gown that I never cared about until now. “With these arms?” I thrust my arms out, keeping my sleeves wrapped around my thumbs.

“Those scars will fade. It looks like some have already faded.”

I consider this.

“There are treatments, too, medical treatments that can help get rid of scars.”

I must look dubious because you go on.

“I knew a little girl who was in a terrible car accident. A beautiful little girl whose face was absolutely covered with cuts; she had nearly a hundred stitches in her face.”

I wince. I feel so sad, so sorry for this little girl, I want you to stop. But I need to hear more.

“She’s a model now,” you say. “She’s a very successful, very beautiful model. She had plastic surgery to get rid of her scars. You would never know what happened to her when she was younger.”

I like and don’t like this story, but I don’t know why.

A bird outside your window trills. Another bird, far off, answers.

“I may not want to get rid of my scars,” I say finally.

You nod.

“They tell a story,” I say.

“Yes,”you say, “they do.”

It must be the end of our time because you’re standing up. I wait for you to say Good work, see you tomorrow. But you just stand there with your hand on the doorknob. I get to my feet and look at the clock. Our time was up a few minutes ago. I tug at the hem of my shirt.

“Callie,” you say. “Is there something else you want to say?”

I shake my head. But I don’t move.

“You seem to be waiting. Can you tell me what you’re waiting for?”

I shake my head again. Then I nod.

You let go of the doorknob.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the metal strip. “It’s from the cafeteria,” I say.

You don’t seem to understand. I hold it out toward you.

“You’re giving this to me?”

I keep my eyes on the stain on the carpet and nod.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Not really.” I roll my feet onto the sides of my sneakers. “So I don’t…you know…” I know I have to say more. “So I don’t use it.”

I look up from the carpet to check your reaction. You’re tapping your lip with your finger.

“I’m glad,” you say finally. “I’m very happy that you don’t want to use this to hurt yourself.”

My arm is getting tired; the metal strip feels very, very heavy. Finally, when you reach out and take it, it slips from my fingers, weightless. You place it on the corner of your desk.

“I’ll keep it here until you’re ready to decide what you want to do with it.”

I don’t understand. “I get it back?” I look over at the small, dull square of metal sitting on the edge of your desk, so close I could just reach out and slip it back in my pocket.

“Callie.” Your voice is a little sad. “There are all kinds of things in the world you could use to hurt yourself. All kinds of things you could turn into weapons. Even if you wanted to give them all to me, it wouldn’t be possible. You know that, don’t you?”

I do know that, I guess. I nod.

“I can’t keep you safe,”you say. “Only you can.”

That night we see Becca in the dining room with her new group from Humdinger. Maybe I’ve been here too long— they don’t look that bad to me.

Becca walks past our table carrying a glass of water; behind her, another girl, who looks normal except for the twitchy smile on her face, is carrying two trays. They get to their table and the girl sets one of the trays down in front of Becca, pulls out a chair for her, then hands her a napkin.

Debbie is staring; then she shades her eyes, still watching Becca and her new friend. Finally she turns to Amanda “Guess Becca’s found somebody new to be codependent.”

We go back to our dinners, trying not to look at Becca anymore. The pasta tonight is especially bland. I consider going to the salad bar. I check first to see if the Ghost is there, waltzing. She’s not.

“Where’s the Ghost?” I ask Sydney.

“Home,” she says. “She went home.”

Tara and Sydney complain about the food, but I don’t really pay attention. I’m thinking about how people leave here: Ruth, Tiffany the Ghost. Some leave on schedule, some leave without warning. But everyone leaves eventually

Tara’s asked me a question. I can tell because everyone is looking at me.

“Huh?”

“Is it OK with you if we let Debbie have the remote tonight?”

“Sure,” I say. “Absolutely.” It’s a simple question, the kind of thing the group used to vote on all the time, but this time, I’m included.

Debbie flips through the channels so fast it’s hard to tell which shows she’s rejecting. She stops briefly at the Food Channel, where a woman in an apron is making apple brown betty in what looks like a real kitchen.

“No,” Debbie says, pushing the button on the remote. “Watching someone make dessert is not a good idea.”

She flips through a few more stations, then stops at a show where all you can see is the front door of a house. A scratchy voice comes on: “What is the nature of your emergency?” A subtitle repeating these words scrolls by at the bottom of the screen. A child’s voice, barely audible, comes next: “My mommy’s on the floor.” The child starts crying. The subtitle says: “(Child crying.)”

“Rescue 911!” Sydney shouts. “I love this show.”

Debbie is transfixed, watching the screen. “Me too.” She doesn’t even look over at Sydney.

“Oh, wow,” says Tara. “I used to watch this all the time.”

“Me too,” I say, aware that I sound surprised.

Sydney glances at me. “S.T.,” she says in the weary old voice Sam used when he was trying to get me to understand lateral thinking. “Everyone loves this show.”

“I don’t think I have anything to talk about today,” I say to you.

You nod.

“I mean, things are going really well,” I say.

You smile.

“I talk in Group, at dinner, I’m getting along with the other girls.”

“Good,”you say.

“We all watched TV together last night.”

You seem to be waiting for more.

“Oh,” I say. “We watched that show I told you about. Rescue 911.”

Your expression doesn’t change. I wonder if you’ve ever watched Rescue 911, I wonder, again, what your life is like outside Sick Minds, if you watch TV like other people.

“Everyone loves that show,” I tell you.

You don’t agree or disagree. I wonder if you think it’s stupid to talk about a TV show in therapy.

“It’s really good. But it’s also like a home video. You know, the camera is shaky sometimes, like when they show the paramedics carrying the person to the ambulance.”

You don’t seem especially interested; I want you to understand about this show.

“They make the ambulance sound really loud on the show. Sam says you can’t hear the siren in real life.”

“Sam rode in an ambulance?”

“Yeah.” Now you seem to be paying attention; I decide to tell you more. “Actually I gave him CPR before they got there.”

“Before the paramedics got there?”

“Before my parents got there.” I stop a second, confused. We’ve entered new territory here, talking about Sam and the ambulance and the paramedics and my parents; I can’t quite remember what I’ve told you before. I need to change the subject, quickly.

“You may have saved his life,”you say plainly.

“Huh?” The idea crosses my mind idly that saying Huh is bad manners; I should have said Pardon me.

“You may have saved Sam’s life.” You say this so simply, it almost seems sensible.

“No, I didn’t.”

You lean forward. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. That only happens to kids on TV.”

“Like the kids on Rescue 911?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You gave your little brother CPR. You got help. Why isn’t that like the kids on Rescue 911?”

“I don’t know. It just isn’t.”

“Well,” you say. I see a distinct glimmer of impatience in your eyes. “I disagree.”

I’m having trouble taking all this in: this new, sort of annoyed look in your eyes and this odd new idea.

It makes sense, then it doesn’t. It seems right—here in a shrink’s office in a loony bin called Sea Pines where there’s no sea and no pines—but it can’t be right in the real world.

“Callie?”

I try to focus on you. You seem very far away.

“What are you thinking about right now? Will you tell me?”

I’m thinking about the other day when you told me how people get asthma, how you said they can get it from having an infection.

“Sam had an infection,” I hear myself say.

You wait.

“He wasn’t feeling good that day. The day he got so sick.” I can picture him, wiping his nose and rubbing his eyes. “A cold or something. When my mom called about it, the doctor said to keep an eye on him.”

“The day Sam had his first asthma attack, he was already sick?”

I nod.

“And the doctor said to keep an eye on him?”

I wonder why you care about this so much. I nod once, slowly this time.

“But your parents went out.”

“My mom had to go see Gram at the nursing home.”

“And your father?”

I shrug.

“He was out?”

“Yes,” then quickly, “No. Well, I guess. He had to. It’s OK.”

“Where did he go?”

I bite my lip. “Out.”

“Callie, we’re out of time for today, but I want you to think about something.”

I glance at you, then away.

“Please,” you say. “Please try to see that day from a slightly different perspective. Try to imagine it as if you were on the outside looking in. Try to think of yourself in that situation as someone else, just a girl, a thirteen-yearold girl on her own, alone, with a sick little boy.”

I don’t see what good this will do, and I don’t plan to do it, I plan to forget about everything and go watch TV with the other girls, but I agree.

“Good,”you say. “Good work, Callie. Excellent.”

No one’s in the dayroom; the TV’s broken. I wander around and end up in Study Hall. No one’s in there either, except Cynthia, the attendant with the large multiplechoice workbook. She smiles, goes back to her work.

I take my old seat by the window and watch the dog behind the maintenance shed. He barks, trots to the end of his chain, barks, trots back down the dirt path to his doghouse. I wonder if he’s the dog I always hear barking during Group.

It’s cold in here studying. I wrap my arms around myself and wish Debbie were here with her sweater. I wish Debbie were here, and Sydney and Tara, even Amanda I pull my shirt close to me and think about going back to my room for a sweatshirt. I can do that now that I’m a Level Two; I could just get up and leave. I think about it, think about walking past the chair where Debbie draws her ball gowns, past the chair where Tara was sleeping when I slipped her the note from Sydney, past Amanda’s chair. Amanda’s chair: the one with the staple underneath.

I breathe out with a little shuddery sound. Cynthia looks up.

“You cold?”

I nod.

“Look at you, you’re shivering,” she says. “Why don’t you go get yourself a sweater.”

I don’t move.

“You’re a Two now, right? It’s OK for you to be on your own.”

I rise to my feet, but I don’t go anywhere. I’m thinking about you, about what you said about me being a girl on my own, alone, with a sick boy.

“Go on,” she says.

I wonder suddenly if you’ll tell my mom what I said about my dad being out when Sam was sick. My mom’ll get upset, then Sam’ll get upset, they’ll get sick. Sam could even die. He could be having an attack right now and I’m not there. What if Sam is having an attack right now and I’m not there?

“Go on,” Cynthia says again, insistent. “You’re always in here. It’ll do you good to get out of this place.”

I know what to do then. I know exactly what to do.