by Carla Damron
She parked in front of the two-story structure made of pale coral brick. Dark green shutters flanked tall windows, a wide tongue of porch led to a front door with gleaming stained glass insets. Four bedrooms? Five? Maybe a fireplace in the den that blazed on winter evenings, Mr. and Mrs. Hastings sipping brandy. At Christmas, was there a towering fir tree laden with lights and glass ornaments? Had they ever had an artificial hand-me-down tree like she and John used?
The Hastings home was twelve blocks from hers but may as well have been in a different country. She and John would never belong here. John’s career was not on this path. Maybe he had the drive once but too many disappointments had eroded his ambition. Now it seemed like he worked for the beer at the end of his day rather than their future.
Still, it seemed unfair that the Hastings had so much while they had so little. Just because Mitchell Hastings got his start when the economy was stronger, when hard work was rewarded with a decent income, and years of success led to a brick house with a lush front lawn and a horse-shoe driveway. He probably paid for his kids’ college. She and John would never have this.
The paralegal, Carol, had seemed confident they would get money from the wreck. Was it right to profit from Mitchell Hastings’s death? It sure wasn’t right that she and John and Byron struggled to make it to the end of the month. She looked at the big house again, and thought of their tiny two-bedroom box that needed new carpet and a new roof, and the Visa bill she’d yet to pay.
BECCA AWAKENED TO WHITE. White walls, white sheets, white trim on the narrow window. A white tray poised beside her, holding a covered plate.
“Hey.”
The familiar voice came from the left, but turning her head took effort. Her body felt stiff as metal. The woman stood, leaned over, and tucked the sheet around her legs. It was Sandy, the nurse who had taken care of Dad. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Sore.” Images flashed, the emergency room, needles pricking her arms, Dr. Burnside asking a bunch of questions and shaking his head, worried brothers looming close to a blue curtain. None of the family was there now, though, for which Becca was relieved. Sandy pushed a bed table over her and lifted the lid from a tray. The smell of overcooked chicken made Becca want to barf right there on the pristine sheets.
“Lunch time,” Sandy said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I work here.” Sandy unwrapped a knife and fork and placed them by the plate. “Your mom called my floor and told me what happened. She went down to get a bite to eat.”
“And left you to babysit?”
“She didn’t want you to be alone.”
Great, there’d been another bedside vigil. Lena, the dutiful wife had become Lena the devoted mother. Though that might not be fair, since Mom had looked like she’d been struck by a baseball bat when she arrived at the ER. Becca remembered little else from those moments.
As Becca lifted the fork, the place where the tube attached to the needle tugged at her flesh.
“Careful.” Sandy pulled the metal pole a little closer. Becca glared up at the clear plastic bag it held.
“That’s food,” Sandy said. “Parenteral nutrition to supplement what you eat. But you do need to eat.”
This Becca knew, as it had been harped on by every adult she’d seen over the past . . . “How long have I been here?” she asked.
“A little over twenty-four hours. Your numbers are looking good. You’re lucky.”
“Right.” She was many things: fat, ugly, Virgo. But not lucky.
Sandy stood over the bed, her arms crossed. “What you need to do is eat that delicious-looking lunch.”
The meal included a small, pale brick of chicken, a puddle of potatoes, and flaccid, overcooked carrots. How could she eat that? Becca held a spoon over the jiggly orange Jell-O that didn’t have many calories.
“Okay, that’s a start. Looks more edible than the rest of it,” Sandy said.
“Can I go home today?”
“I’m not sure. Depends on how you’re doing. Your nurses will have to report what you ate.” She pointed to the plate.
Becca squished an orange cube and watched it reformulate. “I’m not hungry.”
“No, I suppose not.” Sandy sat in a vinyl armchair like the one that had been in Dad’s room. Becca wondered how long she planned to stay. As soon as she left, Becca could bury the lunch in the trash can and nobody would be the wiser.
“I promised Lena I’d stay till you were done.” Sandy was apparently a mind reader. “That’s going to be a recurring theme for you over the next few months.”
“What do you mean?” Becca felt an uncomfortable flutter in her stomach.
“You’ve been good at keeping the secret, Becca.” The corners of Sandy’s lips tightened.
“What secret?” Becca narrowed her eyes, feeling a profound dislike for the smug looking nurse beside her.
“About your weight loss. About your eating disorder.”
“I don’t—look. I went for a run, and I hadn’t eaten much, and I got kind of crampy in the park, and then . . .” her voice trailed off because she had no clue what happened next. She had blurred images of a big dark man who smelled bad and a car honking and being wrapped in something bulky and wool.
“Then you ended up here. But it wasn’t just a cramp, was it?”
“My potassium, and electrolytes, blah, blah, blah.” Becca punctuated the blahs with thumps on a Jello cube.
“All that stuff tells us what you’ve been doing to yourself. Believe it or not, that’s a good thing. So eat.”
Becca stabbed at the wedge of chicken, flaked off a chunk, and put it in her mouth. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
It felt like a dried up worm on her tongue and almost made her gag. Sandy opened a carton of milk—whole milk—and poured it into a glass. “This will help it go down.”
Becca reached for the empty plastic cup and held it up. “Could you get me some water?”
As Sandy carried the cup to the pitcher across the room, Becca clawed the chicken and squeezed it in her napkin, an old habit. She’d keep it under the sheet until she could sneak it into the trash. Sandy spun around. “Where’d the chicken go?”
Becca shrugged. “I ate it. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?”
Sandy placed the tumbler on the bed table, pulled back the sheet, and lifted Becca’s hand gripping the chicken. “Seriously?”
Busted. Becca threw it on the tray.
Sandy kept a hold of her arm, turning it so the pale underside gleamed in the light. “These little circles of blue. You pinched yourself, didn’t you?”
She jerked back her hand, embarrassed and even more pissed off. Sandy needed to mind her own damn business.
“I’ll take that as a yes. So for how long have you been on this course?” Sandy asked.
Becca ignored her.
“How long have you been dieting and exercising? Counting every calorie?”
Over a year, yet with barely noticeable results. She had so much further to go, and it would be harder now with everyone watching. “It’s not such a big deal.” She let out a sigh. How many times would she have this conversation? And who was Sandy to bring it up? She wasn’t even Becca’s nurse. She didn’t know Becca.
Sandy smoothed down her sheet. “How long has it been since you’ve had a period?”
Becca shifted. “Seven months.” It had been weird, but also good, because she didn’t have to deal with the mess and the tampons, but then she started to feel freakish.
“You’ve been seriously underweight for that long and successfully hid it. That wasn’t easy. You are highly skilled at being sneaky.”
Seriously underweight? Did she look like one of those African kids in the “Feed the Children” commercials? Was she a size one or even a size three? Becca wanted this conversation to end, and Sandy to leave. And most of all, she wanted that disgusting plate of food gone.
Sandy cocked her head as she studied Becc
a’s expression. “You don’t believe it, do you? You don’t think this is serious. Jesus, Becca.”
“Don’t you have something else you need to do?” Becca squeezed as much venom as she could into her words.
Sandy shook her head. “You’re a lot like me, you know.”
The wave of anger swelled again and took hold of Becca’s tongue. “I am not. You’re fat.”
Sandy’s brows arched. Becca closed her mind against a tang of guilt and held her gaze, confident that this would get Sandy out of her room. But then, Sandy surprised her. She laughed.
“I guess I am. But that’s better than what I was doing to myself before. My problem isn’t eating, but it took a similar path to your eating disorder. And yes, that’s what you have. An eating disorder.”
Becca swallowed, her anger and guilt replaced with something different. Fear.
“I got myself in trouble, too,” Sandy went on. “I kept big secrets. I lied to everyone, especially myself.” Sandy scrubbed a hand through her hair. “The lie you’re living can kill you. You’re so damn smart. You can fool your family if you want. Pretend to eat. Sneak into the bathroom to release the food. Hide how much you’re exercising.”
How did Sandy know about all that?
She went on: “But don’t. Don’t become a casualty of this disease.”
Sandy sure was melodramatic. Becca jiggled the Jell-O again.
“You’ll be going to therapy,” Sandy said. “I hope they get you somebody good—you’ll outsmart anybody who isn’t.”
This scared Becca. What if people at school found out she was seeing a shrink? What if Kayla or worse—Dylan—knew? Becca had met a psychiatrist that morning. Dr. Owens was young and asked a lot of questions Becca didn’t want to answer. Mom said Becca would see her three times a week once she got out. Her punishment. She looked at Sandy. “So you got over your problem?”
A shadow crossed her face. “It’s a battle I fight every day. I have people who help me. You’ll have help, too.”
People like her mom? Not likely. Dr. Owens and all her nosy questions? Know-it-all Elliott?
Sandy eyed the uneaten food on Becca’s plate. Becca pierced a carrot with her fork and put it in her mouth, let it moisten her tongue, let sweet juices slide down her throat.
“There you go. That’s a start.” Sandy reached in her pocket and pulled out a small notepad. She scrawled something down and handed it to Becca. “I’m not supposed to do this, but here’s my cell phone number. I have someone I call when things get rough. Maybe I can be that for you for a little while.”
CHAPTER 20
Humans were complex creatures, Sandy thought, as she approached the elevator. That girl, with the bruises up and down her arms, with the gnawed cuticles, with ribs and cheekbones protruding like exposed tree roots, deserved a future she might not have. Sandy had violated hospital policy when she gave Becca her phone number, but if there was a way she could help she would. She didn’t understand why, but she had to.
“Can I speak with you?” A petite woman with latte-brown skin in a white physician’s jacket stepped between Sandy and the opening elevator door. “Just for a moment.”
Sandy knew better than to argue with a doctor. She watched the doors slide shut.
“Sandy Albright,” the doctor read her name badge. “I’m Lillian Owens. I’m Becca Hastings’s doctor. You were in there with her a good while.”
“I know the family. Sort of.” Sandy offered a little shrug.
Dr. Owens had short hair, styled in a short fro like a black aura around her head, her ears protruding like little handles. New docs looked so young these days. “Tell me your take on her?”
“She’s a mess. Really struggling with her dad’s death. Some minor self-injury—chewing at her cuticles till they bleed. Little bruises up her arm from pinching herself, but no serious scars that I could see. I think that’s been going on a while. But she’s not a cutter—at least, not yet.”
Dr. Owens nodded. “I didn’t pick up on the bruising. Glad you told me.”
“The problem is she’s so damn shrewd. Hid a chunk of chicken faster than I could catch her.” Sandy shook her head. “It’s like a game. She doesn’t get how serious this is.”
“Most don’t. Not without treatment. Some even then.”
“This is your specialty?”
Dr. Owens nodded.
“Tough gig.”
“No kidding. Most psychiatrists avoid working with these kids. It’s a lethal illness and the liability is huge. Anything else you can tell me?” Dr. Owens asked.
Sandy thought about her conversations with Lena in her husband’s hospital room. The guilt. The secrets. “Every family has its skeletons. I know Lena had breast cancer, and there were problems before that. Becca may have gotten lost in the shuffle.”
“She’ll be front and center now.” Dr. Owens pushed the elevator button for Sandy. “That’s how it works.”
“She was very close to her dad. Losing him cut deep.”
“Thanks for the consult, Sandy. You know your stuff.”
Five minutes later, Sandy escaped the hospital, Dr. Owens’s compliment putting a new spring in her step. She was a good nurse. A damn good one. Nice for someone to notice.
“I’m surprised you made it back.” Nathan Capers appeared beside her, dressed in scrubs and white Nikes, gray hair ponytailed down his back. The very devil himself.
“It wasn’t easy.” She picked up her pace.
Nathan wore no jacket, his long arm covered with silver hair like cobwebs. A pager blinked in his hand.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?” she asked.
“It’ll keep.”
She wondered if the page was from the physical therapy department, where he worked as an aide, or from one of his drug clients. For three years, Nathan had dealt Sandy and a few dozen other hospital employees whatever pills or recreational substances they wanted. Just hook up in the hospital laundry and all your prayers were answered.
“How was rehab?” he asked.
“A blast.” She kept moving to get away from him, but he matched her stride.
“More power to you,” he said.
Her car was at the outer edge of the lot. She had thought the exercise of walking the length of the parking area would do her good, but she felt winded, drops of perspiration dampening her forehead. Her prick of a dealer right beside her.
“I admire what you’re trying to do here,” Nathan said. “Trying to go straight. Ain’t nothing harder. Coming back here to work after your rather stellar exit—not sure if that’s brave or a little twisted.”
He had a point. Coming back to Mercy General was a stupid decision, but she didn’t see other options. To reclaim her life, she had to reclaim her career.
“Where the hell were you, anyway?” she spun to face him, ire from that day flaming up. “I wouldn’t have taken anything from the med cart if you hadn’t disappeared.”
He curled a lip back in a smug grin. “Cruising through Scandinavia.”
“You might have mentioned you were leaving.” That had been the first domino. Her stash, empty. Cash but a missing dealer. Panic and a missing dealer. Desperation and . . . Twenty-four hours later, a single room at Brook Pines. She raged at him those first few days, until another patient noted, “He did you a helluva favor.” Sandy wasn’t sure, even now, if that was true.
“The cruise was fantastic,” he said. “Gotta love the fjords.”
Sandy clutched her “Today I Won’t be a Screw Up” bracelet.
“I’m gonna leave you alone.” Nathan stroked his chin with hairy tan fingers. “It ain’t my way to fuck with someone’s recovery. But if you need to come back, I’ll understand.”
“What do you mean?” She froze. She wished she didn’t sound so fragile.
“I mean if this doesn’t work out the way you want it to. I don’t want you ever going to the street for your fix. You have my numbers. You need me, you call. But I ain’t coming unless I hear from
you.” He accented his comment with a wink.
Now she understood her fury. She wanted to hit him. She could picture the son of a bitch’s teeth scattered at her feet.
Nathan wasn’t looking at her, though. His gaze was fixed on a man approaching from a small cluster of trees. He was large, as dark as midnight, wearing a vivid red cap.
“Friend of yours?” She didn’t like the looks of him as he wove through the cars coming towards them.
“Let’s just say he’s a business associate.” Nathan waved the beeper at her as he backed away. “You remember how to reach me? You know, when it’s time.”
TONYA PLACED THE LAST of the groceries in the pantry, stacking the fiber bars atop the oatmeal so she could squeeze the Smart Start cereal on the narrow shelf. She needed to clean out the pantry, something that John had mentioned last week. She’d add that to the long list of things-Tonya-needed-to-do according to John. Maybe one day he’d start on the list of chores she had for him, like mowing the front lawn so that the house didn’t look abandoned, or fixing the screw on Byron’s sliding board, or changing the light bulb in the linen closet or—
No. That was focusing on the negative, and she’d promised herself not to do that. Dr. Allaway had stressed the importance of “putting one’s thoughts in light,” during lesson four of the self-help podcast she’d just re-listened to.
“Be proactive,” Dr. Allaway had said. “Take action. You control your life.”
She glanced around the cluttered, unkempt kitchen. The dishes from this morning lay stacked in the sink. A half banana sat on the counter, brown-edged and circled by fruit flies. She spotted three Cheerios from Byron’s breakfast on the floor, which was better than yesterday, when she’d found a dozen. Her toddler was getting better at breakfast.
Tonya grabbed the broom, swept up the cereal and crumbs from John’s toast, and dumped the mess into the trash. The trash stank. John was supposed to take it out . . . no. Tonya could do it. She’d be proactive.