Cut

  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 togeth
er 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.