Because We Are Bad

by Lily Bailey

  A nurse comes in with a thimble-size paper cup of water and a pill.

  “Take this.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “It’s best you take it.”

  I am too tired to fight. I sit up to swallow the pill and lie back down. Everything becomes wobbly and slower, and I feel a dull numbness setting in.

  I sink down in the bed and sleep.

  Frankie bursts in around 4:00 p.m.

  “Oh my gawd can you pull yourself together I’ve had such a boring day without you!”

  I sit up groggily.

  “Okay, it’s fun time now. So I did some exploring while you were drugged up. Turns out there’s this whole layer of offices in the attic that we didn’t know about.”

  We wait for the nurses’ changeover time. Engrossed in paperwork, they don’t see us walk off the ward. We walk with purpose up to the attic. The offices aren’t locked. Once inside, Frankie starts rifling through drawers.

  “Holy shit, look, office scissors! Tell you what, they could slash some wrists in the wrong hands! It’s pretty terrible that they’ve just been left out like this, I mean, imagine if someone who self-harms found them.” She furrows her forehead in concern. “They could be useful though, if we’re careful. I’m going to take them.”

  “But you don’t self-harm, and neither do I, so what use do we have for scissors?”

  “For collaging.”

  Frankie and I have started making collages out of magazines on our ward. And she’s right. It would be a lot quicker if we didn’t tear all the pages by hand.

  I’m sweeping the desks, when I notice a yellow Post-it on the wall and realize what the numbers written on it mean.

  “Frankie!” I’m so excited I grab her arm, before regretting it, because unsolicited contact could make me a PERVERT. “Frankie, stop!”

  I take the Post-it from the wall and wave it at her.

  “Look! You know how we never knew how to get through all those doors with codes? Well, this is the door code. They’ve written it on a Post-it note so they don’t forget it! Let’s find out what we’re missing!”

  We dash down to a separate wing, trying to look inconspicuous when passing orderlies. Frankie punches in the code. The door swings open onto a corridor, but neither of us have the guts to go down it, for fear of meeting any mad people. Change direction then—back where we came from and then up a few flights of stairs and along a corridor, a new door beckons. This one isn’t coded, and it opens onto a staircase, which we run up. At the top, there is a white door to a fire escape. More to the point, a white door, ajar.

  We cannot believe it. Here, right in front of us, is a chink of real life.

  “Bingo!” I squeal. “Where should we go?!”

  I’m still not allowed to join the walks in the park, or go on an escorted walk to the corner shop, because I am “too high-risk.” Frankie has no chance of being allowed outside after her previous escapade. The only fresh air we’ve had has been in the outdoor smoking area.

  “Lily, you know how pissed off you were about your Coke?”

  Three days ago, it was decided I was drinking too much Diet Coke, and the six-packs Mum had brought for me were confiscated. They are now being held under lock and key in the nursing station, and I get dispensed one a day by knocking on their door and groveling.

  “There’s a corner shop down the road,” Frankie says in a rush. “I know because the nurses escorted me there with the others to buy fags when I was still allowed out. We’ll go and get you a ton of Coke, and then you can drink it secretly.”

  We push the door open. It’s only 6:00 p.m., but it’s already dark. I inhale the swirling wind in private ecstasy. We creep down the fire escape onto a thin layer of snow.

  We plod to the corner shop, shivering in our T-shirts. I thought the man behind the till would spot us crazies a mile off, but he doesn’t give us a second look. For the first time since my arrival, I feel like a normal human. Frankie, whose trusted handbag is at hand, pays for as much Coke as we can carry.

  We could escape for good now, get a cab to the airport and buy one-way tickets to America (Frankie says she has enough money on her card to pay for tickets); we could go clubbing, or just kill ourselves like we wanted to in the first place.

  But we don’t. We turn around, walk back to the fire escape, and go quietly through the door and back to our rooms like nothing has happened.

  “Fuck it!” yells Paula. “The remote doesn’t work again! I don’t know why they can’t just get some bloody batteries. It’s not like we’re not paying enough to stay here!”

  “How much does it cost to stay here?” I ask, trying to sound offhand. I know it isn’t cheap, but I’ve never managed to ascertain the figure.

  “Like £900* a day, I think. That’s right, isn’t it, Annabel?”

  “Something like that, yeah,” she replies distantly, munching on some loose skin around her forefinger.

  My stomach drops. Since my arrival, my medication has been messed with so much I feel like a human experiment, and I haven’t had a single one-to-one CBT session. I’ve basically mucked around with Frankie all day, smoked, and watched TV, all at a cost of just under £900 a day. I need to get out of here. It’s time for a distress flare.

  I go back to my room, take my mobile out of the drawer, and write Dr. Finch an e-mail asking if I can talk to her. I hit Send—Mayday, Mayday, Mayday: a blast of red sparks sent up into the sky.

  It is 1:18 p.m., and I am expecting a call from Dr. Finch at 1:30. Based on past experience, she will ring at 1:35 or 1:45. In preparation for this momentous occasion, I have finished all of the day’s routines so I can give the conversation my full attention. Unfortunately, I time everything wrong. I finish my routines at 1:06, which leaves around half an hour for new routines to generate. In a desperate attempt to stop this, I revert to Upper Ock tactics. I go to the hospital gym and set the running machine to full pelt.

  For the first time ever, Dr. Finch rings ahead of schedule.

  My phone, which I’ve slotted in the treadmill’s cup holder, is buzzing. Fuck.

  I panic, pressing the emergency stop while reaching to take the call. The machine drops from twelve miles per hour to a standstill, and I fly off the back. My mobile spins across the waxed floor. I crawl over and grab it, cradling it in my hands like an injured baby bird. I dash into the corridor, collapse into a sweaty heap, press green, and put the receiver to my ear.

  “Hi, it’s Lily,” I pant.

  “Hi, Lily. It’s me, Dr. Finch. You said you wanted to talk?”

  “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve just found out how much it costs, and I feel awful because that is a crazy amount of money to spend on this treatment. And I was wrong. You’re the only one who can help me. And I can’t just walk out, so you have to get me transferred. I’m sorry about all the stuff I said. I didn’t mean it. I was just . . . Everything was messed up. If you take me back, I promise to be good and do everything you say and—”

  “Wait, wait, slow down. You can’t see me at Fieldness—the inpatient unit has closed down now. But I also practice at the Leneston Hospital in Ashleaves. You could be admitted there. Are you sure this is what you want, though?”

  “Yes, yes, definitely.”

  “Okay. I’ll get it sorted. I’ll talk to your parents and the hospital and arrange a transfer.”

  “Okay, thank you. Thank you so much. Bye.”

  “Bye, Lily.”

  The line goes dead. Relief and joy pulse through my body, surging to my heart like an electric current earthing itself.

  Now all I have to do is tell Frankie.

  I am waiting on the porch with my bag when my mum pulls up in the Beetle. The nurses don’t come to see me off, but Frankie and Delia do. Hugging is obligatory.

  “Good-bye!” I call from the front seat, to which Delia grins and replies “Ciao.”

  “I don’t do good-byes. This isn’t good-bye,” says Frankie, the smile fading from her face. She
turns around, grabs Delia by the arm, and walks back into the grand entrance hall. The double glass doors swing shut behind her, and I watch until she disappears.

  I will miss Frankie. She was constant and unavoidable in a way even my routines couldn’t destroy. She fizzed with life and a lust for fun. She stretched her hand out to a version of myself I thought I’d lost forever, held me tight, and then, when I least expected it, pulled me back from the brink.

  · 25 ·

  Ashleaves

  In the Beetle with my mum, I feel my stomach pancake-flip. I want to yell to stop the car, pull over, turn around, go home, or head in any direction that isn’t bound for Dr. Finch.

  We travel in companionable silence, leaving London behind with a jolt as we hit the M25. Around us, a cloudless cool blue morning potters on with its business, oblivious to the nervous chill evoked in me by the route I associate with returning to school and visits to Dr. Finch.

  It’s strange—wanting but not wanting. Wanting: to run to Dr. Finch and spend forever with her. Let me orbit you, I could say; be my star and let me go round and round until either I’m better or you love me too. Not wanting: to see her and glimpse the truth. She doesn’t care for me in that way. She can’t, she never will. She sees me for what I am, every flaw apparent. Lifts me close to her face, but only for scientific inspection. I’m her bug in a glass paperweight, held fast whether it likes it or not.

  And yet still hoping, that maybe, one day . . .

  Ashleaves offers a brief attempt at something resembling a city, but it’s over as soon as it has begun. Soon we find ourselves on a steep road that cuts through fields, winding up to a gate that opens onto a ridiculously long driveway, which points like an arrow toward Dr. Finch’s second home, the Leneston Hospital. It looks like it was probably a cheery country house until quite recently.

  A blond woman on reception directs us up a floor. We arrive on the ward, where head nurse Bob introduces himself and shows us my new room; I let Mum do the talking and nod. We have to walk past the nursing station, the door of which is open.

  I glimpse Dr. Finch perched against one of the desks in a red wool V-neck and brown pencil skirt, sporting characteristically untamed hair. She is chatting intently to one of the other nurses, but her gaze shifts subtly to us as we walk past. I cannot meet her eyes yet, so I stare ahead, putting off the point when I will have to acknowledge her for a few more minutes.

  My room resembles a rural B&B that’s had a contemporary interior face-lift. It has a functional en suite, window seat, and country views. Bob passes me forms to fill in that ask me to assess my self-risk and suicidal ideation. A nurse called Mary goes through my luggage. The usual suspects are confiscated, and this time my soap, shampoo, and conditioner are also removed.

  The initiation talks take about fifteen minutes, and then Bob, Mary, and Mum leave. I sit on the edge of my bed, listening to Mum and Dr. Finch chatting in the hallway, realizing that the fact that they have crossed paths means that Dr. Finch is on her way to see me. Routines spin. My head fuzzes with all the mistakes I’ve made since arriving.

  She knocks on the door, and I tense so hard I strain the muscles in my left leg. I cannot speak. The words will not come. She lets herself in, pulls the chair out from under my desk, and drags it so it is directly opposite me. Then she sits down.

  “Hello.” She smiles.

  “Hi,” I squeak.

  “How are you?”

  “Okay.”

  “How are you really?”

  “Bad.”

  Silence.

  “Do you need a minute?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Finch folds her arms and sits quietly, patiently allowing me to finish the routines she knows are getting in the way of me talking to her. She is the only person who does that.

  I love her.

  I’m going to cry.

  Except tears no longer come. When was the last time I cried? It’s been months.

  Stop! Focus. Finish the routines.

  I tidy up the loose ends for a couple of minutes and then nod, signaling that I am done. I say done—I’m never really done when I only have two minutes, but I am done enough to attempt to engage in a conversation for a small window of time. Bursting point has been delayed.

  “You’re in a bit of a mess, aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  “Okay. Let’s try and disentangle a few things.”

  A new regime is implemented. My medication is stabilized, with sleeping pills added to stop me staying up all night with my routines. I don’t have to go to groups, but I do have to engage with my treatment. Dr. Finch visits me three times a week, often staying for indefinite periods of time, while I perch on the edge of my bed and we work things out. These CBT sessions can go on for over two hours, as I confront whichever compulsions are the order of the day. Afterward, I am so exhausted that I crawl under the covers and sleep. When I wake up, Mary will have brought me chocolate ice cream and put it in the kitchen fridge to make up for the meals I have missed.

  Three other patients, Elizabeth, Catherine, and Sue, are on my ward. Catherine and Sue are in their forties, and Elizabeth is sixty-five. They cluster together in the living room, happy to be herded and looked after by Mary. I keep my distance, sticking to my room and taking meals at my desk alone. When after four days I decide to go down for a meal in the dining room, it is a victory.

  The dining room is vast and filled with lots of unused but immaculately laid tables. The hospital seems to have the capacity to house lots of patients, yet it has been almost empty since I arrived. I wonder if it is always that way. The four of us have lunch in a far corner with Mary. Mary tells us about the eating-disorder wards she used to work on, where patients who flatly refused food were held down and force-fed through tubes. We cannot believe it. In this day and age? How was it allowed?

  “You don’t understand,” says Mary softly. “These people, they were killing themselves. We had to. We did it to save their lives. But it was too much. I ended up getting hurt a few times when people lashed out. That’s why I work here. The pace is much slower.”

  There is one critical problem with being here. Because I care about Dr. Finch more than anyone, everything seems to be of life-changing importance. Even the slightest interaction with nurses, therapists, or other patients could be reported back to her, and so my lists expand and multiply by the second. I fear they are spying on me, waiting for me to do something bad so they can regale her with tales of my horrible nature:

  BITCH:

  MARY IN CORRIDOR: I heard Dr. Finch talking to Mary in the corridor. I thought Mary said “Did you just visit Princess Lily?” and was worried that they call me that because they think I am spoiled. Mary came in, and I asked her. She looked hurt and said “I would never say that. I said ‘Have you finished visiting Lily?’”

  PHONE CHARGER: I wanted my phone charger, but the nurses wouldn’t give me it. I said “But you couldn’t hang a dormouse with this.” This demonstrated an attitude problem and obnoxious nature.

  BODILY FUNCTIONS:

  SHOWER: Mary said “I think you should have a shower, put your PJs on, and start relaxing so you sleep well tonight.” Was she trying to tell me that I smell and should shower more?

  PILLS: A male nurse I haven’t seen before approached me in the corridor to give me my pills in a little paper cup. Then he took a step back. Did he do this because my breath smelled? Will he report to Dr. Finch that I have a body odor problem?

  POO: It’s been several days since I did a poo. I have been holding it in because I don’t want to risk anyone knowing and telling Dr. Finch. Tonight I had to go. Are there cameras in the bathroom, and does anyone know?

  PERVERT:

  KISSY KISSY MUG: Bob had a mug in the nursing station that said “kissy kissy” on it and my eyes accidentally landed on it and stared at the words for a few seconds.

  BRA AND PANTS: Mary came into my room, and I was in my bra and pants because I was about to have the shower sh
e advised me to. Will she think I am a pervert who had been standing there waiting for someone to come in so I could expose myself?

  VAIN:

  NURSING STATION WINDOW: Caught reflection in the window when asking for charger.

  COMPACT MIRROR: Another nurse called Elina came into my room, and my compact mirror was on the bedside table from earlier because at the moment I spend a lot of time checking there is nothing in my teeth. Did Elina see it and think I’m vain?

  And on and on and on. I am on my seventh notebook. They are hidden in the drawer under the desk, with sweaters and T-shirts wrapped round them.

  I wake up with a jolt, trying to shake off the sleeping-pill-induced fug. Something is wrong. I open my eyes to work out what is going on, but the room is filled with a blinding light. I force myself to focus.

  Dr. Finch is standing by the window, drawing my curtains like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  I scramble to sit up straight. I am wearing my pajamas. I haven’t washed, brushed my teeth, or aired my room. What if the stench is unbearable? Dr. Finch pulls the chair out from under my desk and sits opposite my bed. I am scrunched up in a ball against the headboard, looking at her in horror.

  “What time is it?” I whisper.

  “It’s ten. What’s wrong? Do you want me to give you a minute?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay, no problem.”

  She stands up and leaves my room, shutting the door quietly. I sit staring at the wall in shock, allowing the silence to settle for five seconds. Then I go into overdrive. Luckily, I requested my wash bag from Elina yesterday and she forgot to ask for it back, so at least I have some weapons. I shower, open windows, spray the room with perfume, and brush my teeth until they bleed.

  It is bad enough when the nurses come in in the morning to check I am alive: if something is disgusting, they might notice and tell Dr. Finch. But Dr. Finch herself has just come within a meter of me in an unwashed state. I feel sick. It has been ten minutes. She will be back soon. I grab my notepad and frantically start writing down the possible things she might have found repulsive and—