by Spencer Hyde
“Junior broke it,” he said. “Sorry. Don’t worry. I’ll get another one soon.”
Doc wrote down a few more things and then closed the folder and checked his watch. Maybe he was determining just how long he was going to let me sweat it out before he confronted me.
“You have plenty of time for breakfast before the visit. We can talk later this evening. I unfortunately have to be somewhere right now. I just wanted a few moments to see how you were doing.”
“Peachy,” I said.
“Good.”
Doc stood, and I realized he was ushering me out of the room. Whatever. That was great news. Maybe he didn’t know anything about the note. And I was hungry. Yes, I’d put on a couple more pounds. I told myself not to worry about it, but that was only to keep myself from throwing chairs into walls like Junior. How was I to keep from noticing my weight? C’mon.
I ate quickly and didn’t talk much. Everybody seemed pretty tired that morning. Leah was eating slowly. She looked defeated, but she also looked like she wasn’t in the mood to talk. Didi wasn’t there.
Junior was slopping up some applesauce. I never really noticed how bad Junior’s acne was until the sun hit his face. I felt sorry for him, having to deal with that kind of thing when people were so judgy about appearance.
At least in the psych ward he didn’t have to worry about that too much. Whatever. It’s not like the psych ward was some haven of no judgment when the doctors were constantly pointing out things we needed to work on. Actually, no, I was horribly mistaken. The whole place was set up to judge us.
Fitz walked in just as I was finishing up my yogurt. I didn’t want to be late for Parent Visit. Then I remembered what Junior had said about Fitz and his mother, and I felt awful. If you ever feel really low about your own life, just look around, right? Get a little perspective.
“I’ll be waiting at the Boggle board,” he said. “For the rematch.”
“Difficult road there,” I said.
“Leading to a beautiful destination,” he said.
I had to hurry or I would’ve asked him more about his plan, but it didn’t make sense to talk about it then and there. He looked sleepy, and his hair was a mess, which made me snigger as I made my way to the meeting room.
Dr. Tabor was there, helping the parents find their seats. Leah, Didi, and Junior walked in right after me, and each one hugged their parents. I didn’t see Wolf. He was probably at the front desk, asking about his horse. I was the only one with one parent there. Well, I guess Fitz only had one parent, but she never showed up.
“Did you get the goods?” Mom asked me.
“I got the goods,” I said in a horrible attempt at a Brooklyn accent. “The goods is real nice. The goods is exactly the kind we been after. They gonna sell big. Get me a new load when yous gets a chance. And hurry on that—we gotta get the money to Vinny the Face before we’re out on the street.”
I had no idea where the made-up narrative was going, but I kept rolling with it because it made Mom smile.
“I see you haven’t lost your penchant for tall tales.”
“Well, you asked me that like we were in some gangster movie from the ’50s. What do you mean, ‘the goods’?”
Mom smiled and rested her purse on the table. She had really big brown eyes and short-cropped blonde hair with a streak of purple in the front. She was all about trying new hairstyles, despite my guiding comments. I liked that about her. She had this rebellious side that I was still learning about. Yes, learning about in her, but also learning about in myself. Maybe I was more like Mom than I realized.
“I mean the materials Dr. Morris had me drop off. I think he also had copies of his notes in there. Did Dr. Riddle get you the books and the assignments?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Mom. I’ve really enjoyed the reading and the notes. Sounds nerdy, but it keeps me thinking about more important stuff.”
“You’re getting better, Addie. That is what’s most important,” she said.
She went on to tell me about her current batch of students and how none of them knew what the Civil War was about or who’d won. I couldn’t believe the things she told me about her classroom. Were video games really winning out over the more important stuff, or even the most basic of facts?
I wished I could go back in time to the first Civil War reenactment. Not the real battles, just the reenacted ones. I know it sounds odd, but it would be way better than the real thing because the recreation would have all of the dedication and commitment and none of the death.
Then I started thinking about those late-night infomercials and imagined one for those reenactment types: The commercial would open on someone tripping over an Enfield rifle-musket and cursing, then the screen would go to black-and-white and a giant red X would cover everything and a voice would say, “Tired of having nowhere to store your Civil War memorabilia? Tired of tripping over reenactment weapons and enlisted shell jackets?” Then it would come back into color and show a guy happily sitting in a study with a shelf behind him and all of these prearranged hooks for his Civil War gear. “Those days are over with the new Civil War Shelf-Mate made with military-grade steel!” The ad would have gone on if Mom’s face hadn’t pulled me from my ridiculous thoughts.
Maybe I really was an outlier, in that I preferred reading to watching movies or playing video games. But I didn’t want to assume that—it felt too depressing. Whatever.
Mom had me recount the previous week and what I’d discussed in my various therapeutic sessions. What a snooze fest.
“Does it look like I’m gaining weight?” I said, nervous. I needed to know if she saw it; she was the only one honest enough to tell me.
“You look wonderful,” said Mom.
“She says, lying,” I said. “You used your Mom voice when you said that, which parents only use when they’re trying to protect the child. I get it. You’re nice. Whatever. Thanks.”
“Honestly?”
“Please,” I said.
“Well, I knew you’d be growing up in here,” said Mom, leaning back from the table and looking down at my stomach. “I just didn’t expect that you’d be growing out.”
We both started laughing. Only Mom could say that to me and not totally throw me for one. I wiped tears away from my face, and we held hands on the table.
“Thank you for your honesty.”
“It’s not much. You’ll lose the weight in a beat once you’re back at it. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Don’t dwell on it. You still look wonderful. And I mean that,” she said. “Honestly.”
“Would you mind grabbing another play for me?” I said, wanting to change the subject so I would stop focusing on my appearance. “I think it will help with what I’m doing for Dr. Morris.”
“Sure. What is it called?”
“The Real Inspector Hound,” I said. “Oh, and grab the two on either side of it. I’ll need those three for this essay I’m working on.” Truthfully, I had no idea what the two books on either side were, hence my vague request.
She agreed to bring me the books. Luckily I’d remembered that I had stashed a few hundred dollars inside the play, months before, when I was trying to save up for my senior trip. Mom said that she’d fly me wherever I wanted to go, within reason, but that I had to pay for anything I wanted to buy while I was there. Considering I was probably going to be in the hospital instead of on that trip, it didn’t really matter what that money was used for. And Fitz could use it instead.
Mom was happy to help. She came around to my side of the table and basically lifted me out of my chair and hugged me tight. I sank into that hug. I think she was worried I was sad.
“What’s the matter?” she asked me.
“Mostly atoms,” I said. “And they’re made of subatomic particles.” I squeezed her tight to let her know I was doing fine.
“Still my Addie,” she said
.
I sometimes forgot how lucky I was to have a parent who cared that much. She went on and on about how much progress I was making in such a short time and how proud she was of me and about all the other things going on at home that I’d missed and how I shouldn’t worry and that I’d catch up on everything in no time. Honestly, The Great British Baking Show was the last thing on my mind.
Six
Junior was in the exercise room sitting on a stationary bike, but not pedaling. He was stationary on a stationary. I’d been in that position before, and I knew how he felt. I should’ve talked to him, but I guess I wasn’t ready to do what Ramirez was asking. Not just then, anyway.
Mostly because I was on my way to defend my Boggle prowess.
I thought about Fitz waiting for me and wondered if I was just interested in him because there were no other options. I mean, I figured outside of the hospital I would still be interested in him, but we didn’t go to the same school, so we probably never would have met so maybe it wasn’t fair to say at that point. And maybe that’s why he liked me. I didn’t know.
I figured we were both just having fun and not really looking at what we might have to face outside of these hospital walls. Maybe we’d just walk away from one another after it was all over. Maybe we’d never talk.
No. I don’t believe the universe is that lazy. I don’t believe meeting Fitz was a coincidence. He was someone I was supposed to meet. Or the other way around. Or both.
Soft light was playing on the coffee table at Fitz’s feet. He was leaning back in a beanbag chair and staring at the ceiling. A small overhead fan spun quietly, sweeping short shadows in a soft circle. He didn’t notice me walk in, but he looked up when I jumped into the beanbag on the opposite side of the table, throwing up dust all around us.
“What’s with the bandana? I need to know,” I said. “I keep meaning to ask, but I always forget.”
“Apparently not always,” he said.
“I mean, I can get by with the yoga shirts because they’re funny—sort of—but I don’t understand the tie-dyed bandana. It makes you look like you’re trying to be a rebel from, like, the eighties. And that doesn’t work. Then again, you don’t own a fanny pack. If you did, I don’t think we could be friends.”
Fitz smiled and sat up. “Addie Foster. So superficial.” He toyed with the fabric of the beanbag, avoiding eye contact with me for some reason. “It’s something I had on the day I was admitted. I guess I wear it because it’s kind of like a security blanket. I feel weird not wearing it. Stupid, but it’s true.”
I sat for a minute, thinking about security guards walking around with giant blankets. Stupid. Whatever. I didn’t know what to say, and the silence was awkward.
“You know, we have tons to talk about, Addie,” he said, shifting in his seat and looking more spirited. “I already asked Dr. Riddle for a day in the chapel this Sunday. He was surprised, but the docs—plural—are never here on Sundays, and it will give us time away from the orderlies and everybody else.”
“Chapel?”
“Yeah,” said Fitz. “Pastor Michaels offers a sermon in the hospital chapel every single week, even though we always turn it down. I told Doc I wanted to go this week to figure out the cosmos or whatever.”
“Why can’t we just talk at lunch?” I said.
“Orderlies. Word of this gets out, and it won’t work,” he said.
“I don’t think Martha would care.”
“She might. And it’s not Martha I’m worried about,” he said. “Jenkins almost caught us the first time because we blabbed in public instead of somewhere quiet. He has his eye on us at all times.”
“True,” I said.
Fitz grabbed the Boggle square and shook the blocks around in the small, encased plastic box like he was playing the maracas.
“Dance won’t help you beat me,” I said. “That rhythm will only increase my prowess.”
“Addie Foster. I can tell I’m in your head. Your palms are sweaty. You’re shaking in your slip-resistant booties. I’m going to redeem myself.”
The letters fell into place, and he tore the sheet from the top and we started writing. I hesitated before writing my first words. Spring. Tailor. Sailed. I didn’t want to upset Fitz, and I still wasn’t sure if it was his competitive nature that made him split the first time, or if I had done something wrong. He said warbler was just a word, but I believe in the power of one word. I let it slide and kept writing.
“Time!” I yelled, shaking the blocks so he couldn’t keep writing.
“Methinks the lady doth end the game too soon,” said Fitz, writing down protest as his final word. He set his pencil aside and sat back in the beanbag chair. I figured we would compare words later, though I could tell by the amount of words alone I’d whooped him, which made me not want to say anything. Fitz was too caught up in the plan to care about the score, and I was too caught up in Fitz to care about much else.
“So Pastor Michaels leaves a half hour at the end of the sermon for people to pray. I also heard that he leaves the room, though he’s not supposed to, to allow for the best spiritual experience or something. I don’t know. Sounds like the perfect place to talk, right? If we all say we want to go to the sermon, we can discuss the plan without fear of word getting out. Leah can make sure we sound legitimate—she knows the scriptures.”
I leaned back and watched the fan spin for a moment before responding. I had always been impulsive, but I’d never gone that far off the path in life. I mean, I watched baking shows with my mom for fun. Maybe that was sad. Maybe it was safe. Or maybe it was just perfect. I couldn’t say.
“I don’t want to guilt you into this, Addie,” he said. Then he started laughing. “That’s disgusting.”
“What?”
“Shut up!” he yelled to his right, leaning away from me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Not you. You know how Willy gets. Such a jerk sometimes. Trying to distract me from the real thing, right here, right now.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
I started blinking in an alternating pattern because my anxiety was through the roof at the thought of going to a chapel and lying to a pastor about why we needed prayer time or whatever. Lying—to a pastor. C’mon.
My mind felt like an unsettled Boggle board. I kept looking for words.
Church. Prayer. Cheat. Legality. Sin.
I tapped my fingers on my knees and counted, but quickly pushed those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the moment with Fitz.
“A great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do,” I said.
Fitz looked over his shoulder, like I was reading directly from one of those annoying quotes posted below the big windows in the hallway.
“It’s not from a sign,” I said.
“I was gonna say,” he said. “I mean, it sounded way better than something on the walls in here.”
“That’s because it’s from an essayist. And it’s a thing I’ve never experienced. I guess it’s time to start living the words instead of just reading them.”
I was surprised by my own desire to rebel, to run, to seek beyond the walls of the hospital. I was surprised by how much I wanted it. I thought of Mom and the purple streak in her hair and figured I was just allowing my genes to work their way in to my soul, that double helix of DNA spiraling through my chest and curling its way around and through my heart.
“One thing you don’t know about me is that my OCD makes me incredibly compulsive,” I said. Fitz stared at me, waiting. “So I know this is all going to happen, whether it works out or not.”
“Um. It’s part of the name, Addie,” he said. “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.”
“Well, it’s not like it’s about the obsessions. Not just that. I’m compulsive about everything. If I say I’m going to do it, I always follow through.”
“Tell me where to sign.”
“What?”
“Sounded cooler in my head,” said Fitz. “Like one of those things they say in the movies when things seem to be working out and you want to say something that supports what is being talked about, but in a cool way.”
“Very far from cool,” I said.
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
“Nope.”
“Addie Foster,” he said. “Why such a Conversation Czar? Cut me some slack.”
“I’m the epitome of cool,” I said.
“That sounds more like a Didi comment,” said Fitz.
“True. Where is Didi?”
I picked up the Boggle board and turned it in my hand. After shaking it a few times, I set it down and looked at Fitz. I held my hand over the pieces, thinking about Junior sitting on the stationary bike in the exercise room. All alone.
“Why don’t we get together with the others and start working this thing out?”
“Because we all have therapy on different schedules,” he said, mimicking a British accent.
“Not really a linguist, are you?”
“Give me a break! I’m trying. Besides, that’s why the Sunday sermon is the perfect time to meet. Group Talk, movies, food—they all bring us together, but none of them bring us together in the safe way that we need. Also, no orderlies.”
“Speaking of all of us,” I said. “I didn’t see you during Parent Visit.”
I didn’t want to let on that I’d been given information on the sly, so I tried to pretend like I had no idea why Fitz hadn’t been there. I wanted to see what he’d say. Like, maybe he’d let on more about San Juan Island or something.
“Yeah,” said Fitz. “My mom couldn’t make it this week. And by next week we should be out of this place.”
He looked defeated. I felt awful. I wondered why Fitz would lie like that. We were all dealing with some pretty heavy stuff, even if it was just waiting for a horse or whatever, but it seemed odd he’d lie about his mom when we’d been so open about everything so far.