Believarexic
Page 11
She…believes Jennifer?
Just like that?
Impossible. It can’t be this easy.
Dr. Prakash doesn’t say anything else for a while.
Her circles on Jennifer’s back turn into small, maternal pats.
“And your quarters are still missing?”
A sob shakes loose from Jennifer
at the mention of her lost money.
Dr. Prakash says, “I think I might know
what happened to your quarters.
We will see if anything can be done about it.”
Jennifer can’t stop crying now.
“Goodness,” Dr. Prakash says.
“The disappearance of your quarters is this troubling?”
“I need to call my mom!” Jennifer wails.
“Now I don’t have money for the pay phone!
I was supposed to be able to use the phone at 2:00!
And now I can’t! And Mom won’t even know why!”
Jennifer hates how whiny and pathetic she sounds,
but she can’t manage anything better.
“Ah,” Dr. Prakash says.
“Calling home is important?”
Jennifer sniffs, “Yes!
I’ve been waiting and waiting!”
“Well,” Dr. Prakash says, “then it makes a good deal of sense
for you to be distraught. I have an idea.
How about we make a plan for you to use the phone
in my office today at—
what time did you say? Two o’clock?”
“Two,” Jennifer confirms. “Really?”
Cautious relief washes through her.
“It will be a temporary accommodation,” Dr. Prakash says,
“until your money turns up,
or your family can send you some new quarters.
Or perhaps a calling card?
Those can be quite useful in this sort of situation.
You can have a secret PIN code. It is safer that way.
That is what I give my own daughters
when they are away from home.”
“Okay,” Jennifer sniffs. “Thank you.”
Her voice is the peep of a hatching chick.
“You are quite welcome,” Dr. Prakash says.
“Do you think you can come out
from under the covers now?”
Is this a trap?
But Dr. Prakash is…nice.
She is going to let Jennifer use her phone.
Slowly Jennifer pulls the quilt off her head.
She must look unimaginably disheveled, red-eyed, staticky.
She sits up, bunching her pillow onto her lap,
hugging Bearibubs.
Dr. Prakash smiles, pats Jennifer’s foot.
“That is better,” she says. “That is much better.
I can see that your first few days have been difficult.”
Dr. Prakash gets the tissue box from Heather’s dresser
and sets it within easy reach.
“But Jennifer, I need you to understand
something very important.
Can you listen carefully to me?”
Jennifer nods, pulling tissues from the box.
Dr. Prakash says, “It happens, sometimes,
that our nurses make honest mistakes.
They are only human.”
Jennifer’s heart whips with anger. “But it’s not fair!”
It sounds stupid and childish, but it’s also exactly true.
“You are right, Jennifer. It is not fair,” Dr. Prakash agrees.
“But it is the human condition to make mistakes.”
“She shouldn’t be my primary,” Jennifer snaps.
Then, slowly, she asks, “Can you change it?
Can you make someone else my primary?”
Dr. Prakash purses her lips and squints slightly,
like she’s considering the request.
“Jennifer, if I were to change
your primary nursing assignment,
I have to wonder, what road would we find ourselves on?
What would then happen when I make a mistake?
Will you say that I should no longer be your psychiatrist?
Will you want to swap me for someone else?”
Jennifer shakes her head. “That’s different.
Nurse Ratch—I mean Sheryl—she’s horrible.
She hates me for no good reason.
She accuses me of doing things,
things I would never do,
and she doesn’t believe one word I say.”
“Sheryl is human and fallible,” Dr. Prakash says.
“She is doing her best.”
Jennifer takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“Her best is pretty crappy.”
Dr. Prakash laughs. “You are one tough customer, Jennifer.
Are you as hard on yourself as you are on other people?”
This question hits Jennifer in the gut.
She wipes her nose and eyes.
These hospital tissues are rough as sandpaper;
they scrape her puffy, tender skin.
Dr. Prakash touches Jennifer’s knee with three quick pats.
It feels like a signal that they are finishing up.
But Jennifer needs to know her fate.
She searches Dr. Prakash’s face for answers.
“Sheryl said I’m going to have consequences?”
“I do not believe that
you have done anything that requires consequences.”
“I had a tantrum,” Jennifer says
before she can think better of it.
“You certainly did.” Dr. Prakash raises her eyebrows.
“That is something I would like you to work on.
Communicating your needs, asserting yourself
in a reasonable manner, yes?”
Jennifer nods.
“Good,” Dr. Prakash says.
“Now, scoot off quickly to breakfast.
And do not let this ruin your whole day.”
“I’ll try,” Jennifer says.
“Do, or do not,” Dr. Prakash says.
“There is no try.”
Even if Jennifer hadn’t been inclined
to like Dr. Prakash before,
she would now.
Her psychiatrist just quoted Yoda.
• • •
Jennifer calls home at 2:00,
using the phone in Dr. Prakash’s office,
bursting into tears the moment she hears Mom’s voice.
It’s too quiet here without you, Mom says.
Rich says, Take care, nerd. Spike misses you.
Dad says, We’re proud of you, JJ.
They talk about what they will do for Thanksgiving.
They make plans to visit Jennifer Monday evening at 7:00,
which is five extra hours from one week exactly,
but it’s the soonest her parents can manage.
Jennifer has parked herself in Dr. Prakash’s chair,
swiveling as she talks,
while Dr. Prakash sits on the couch, writing notes in files.
Jennifer borrows Dr. Prakash’s pen when Mom
gives her the numbers of an old calling card,
just a few minutes left on it,
but enough for tomorrow, at least.
Mom promises to send a fresh calling card,
which should arrive in the mail Friday,
Saturday at the latest.
When Jennifer says good-bye, and hangs up the phone,
she feels as if her ribcage
has been
pried apart with a crowbar,
her ribs cracked and jagged.
The phone call makes her miss home even more.
Thursday, November 24, 1988
Thanksgiving.
Weigh-in is mercifully unremarkable.
But the unit feels like a ghost town.
Everyone leaves after breakfast (powdered eggs),
comes back for lunch (spongy turkey slices),
and hightails it out again as soon as they can.
In the empty lounge, bereft of Bronwyn and Monica,
Jennifer stays at the lunch table with Nurse Chuck.
He is one of two male nurses on the EDU.
The other is older, middle-aged, and completely bald.
Jennifer likes Nurse Chuck better than Nurse Baldy.
Chuck is younger than most of the other nurses,
about the same age as Trendy,
twenty-five or twenty-six maybe.
He’s tall, with a slight potbelly.
He dresses in that nondescript way most guys do:
T-shirts, Levi’s, high-top Nikes.
He reminds Jennifer of a more likeable version of
Cameron from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
Slightly dweeby. But he plays guitar in a band,
and his eyes have a lighthearted twinkle,
and he laughs a lot.
Chuck is similar to Dr. Prakash
in that they both treat her like she’s human.
And, like Dr. Prakash, Chuck seems
happy to give Jennifer a chance.
He acts like he wants to get to know her before he decides
whether to believe Ratched’s view
that Jennifer is a horrible, conniving little snot.
Last night, after she met him,
Jennifer attempted to describe Chuck in a letter to Kelly,
but it sounded all wrong.
She is afraid Kelly will think she has a crush on Chuck.
She tried to write that she has no romantic feelings for him,
because (1) she is not into boys right now—
here in the hospital,
her focus on survival is all-encompassing—
and (2) Chuck is way too old, and professional, and married.
And (3) even without the first two reasons,
nothing could kill a crush faster than the massive indignity
of unsupervised bathrooms.
Yes, male nurses flush female patients’ toilets.
She had tried to explain to Kelly that Chuck is like an uncle,
or a big brother—except a nice big brother.
He doesn’t make the bathroom situation worse
than it already is,
doesn’t make her feel like a jerk,
seems to actually enjoy hanging out with her,
despite the fact that he has to because it’s his job.
Jennifer had written all this,
and then she tore up the letter into tiny pieces
and sprinkled them into the garbage.
It sounded like she was trying too hard to convince Kelly,
which would make Kelly suspicious.
Even though it’s all true.
Jennifer is Chuck’s first secondary.
He’s never had a patient specifically assigned to him before.
Nurses have to work on the EDU a while
before they get specific patient assignments.
If they do well as a secondary,
they can get promoted to being someone’s primary.
Chuck seems proud to be a secondary,
which makes Jennifer feel good.
It’s not a one-way transaction. She’s helping Chuck.
Maybe if she does well, so will he.
Not that Ratched would believe Jennifer wants to do well.
Ratched, Jennifer’s primary. What a joke.
As if she could ever be Jennifer’s confidante or advocate.
But Ratched’s got today off,
and maybe she’ll fall off a bridge while she’s gone,
so Jennifer never has to see her again.
Thank merciful heaven Chuck is better than Ratched.
Thank merciful heaven Ratched has other primaries
to divert her attention.
Not Chuck. Sure, he has to keep an eye on things,
but he has one, and only one, specifically assigned patient.
He is Jennifer’s own private friend. Uncle. Nurse.
She has been crying all morning.
Of course she has been crying all morning.
Everyone else is out with their families.
“Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help,” Chuck says,
but there is empathy in his voice.
He opens drawers in the cabinet behind him,
digging out construction paper and markers.
“Here,” he says.
She wipes her eyes and nose with her sleeve,
shifts her slippered feet.
“What’s this for?” she asks.
“Make a card or something. It’s Thanksgiving.
List the things you’re thankful for.”
Jennifer considers rolling her eyes,
but it would take more energy
than she can muster.
“All right, I’ll start,” Chuck says. He uncaps a marker
and spreads his left hand over a sheet of blue paper.
He traces around his thumb, up and over his index finger,
roller-coastering up and down fingers
until he gets to the outside of his pinkie,
back to his wrist.
“What are you doing?” Jennifer asks, as if she doesn’t know.
“Duh. I’m making a turkey.”
“Duh. I’m not in kindergarten,” she says.
“Come on. It’ll make you feel good.”
He says this in a singsong voice,
like they’re in an ABC Afterschool Special
about peer pressure.
He slides the construction paper and markers toward her.
“Fine,” Jennifer sighs. She selects a pink piece of paper.
She refuses to trace her hand.
Instead she draws a cartoon turkey.
And then adds platform shoes for its turkey feet.
“Do we have glitter? And glue?” she asks.
“Do bears poop in the woods?” Chuck asks.
He digs in the cabinet, then
hands Jennifer a bottle of Elmer’s glue
and three small plastic pots of glitter.
She squishes glue into a circle, shakes glitter onto it.
“Whaaat it is?” asks Chuck.
“Duh. It’s a disco ball.” She smiles.
“You’re grateful for disco?” Chuck asks.
“That’s going to be a problem for me.”
“No, not disco specifically,” Jennifer says.
“I’m grateful for dancing.
School dances, dance classes.
At home there’s a dance every Friday night at the Y.”
“You set your calendar around that?” he asks.
“I do,” Jennifer says.
“You feel good when you’re dancing?” Chuck asks.
It’s starting to sound like a counseling session,
but Chuck is still working on his turkey,
keeping his focus on his construction paper,
which helps it seem more conversational, less therapeutic.
“I think dancing is the only time I feel good,” Jennifer says.
“Except when I’m drunk.”
Her turkey is done,
but she doesn’t feel any better.
“Is my after-lunch hour up?” she asks.
He looks at the clock. “Yup.”
“I want to go to my room, okay?”
“Sure. Allow me to escort you.”
She curls onto her bed.
Chuck doesn’t leave; he sits in the chair by Heather’s dresser.
“Who is that?” He lifts his chin to indicate her teddy bear.
“Bearibubs.”
“He looks like he’s seen a fair amount of combat time.”
She hugs her bear. “Don’t you dare insult him.”
“Take a chill pill. I would never insult
a patient’s stuffed animal.
That’s PNA lesson number one.”
“PNA?”
“Psychiatric Nursing Assistant.”
“Oh,” Jennifer says. “Do you like your job?”
“I sure do.” He stands and wanders around her room.
“Why do you have all this stuff?” he asks.
Her eyes are closed. They’re sore from crying.
“What stuff.”
“All these books.
None of the other patients have so many books.”
“Maybe none of the other patients read enough.
Knowledge is power,” Jennifer says.
He chuckles. “Aha. Yes.”
She opens one eye.
He’s looking at her plastic case full of cassettes.
“May I?” he asks.
“Can I stop you?”
“Probably not.”
He takes the cassette bin to Heather’s bed,
then takes the first tape out.
“Prince, Sign of the Times.”
He sets it on Heather’s nightstand.
“U2, The Joshua Tree.”
He stacks it on top of Prince.
“Let’s see…” He picks out some others.
“Sting, Nothing Like the Sun.
James Taylor, Never Die Young.
James Taylor, Greatest Hits.
Points deducted
for a greatest hits album, but still. JT is classic.”
He stacks James Taylor and Sting on top of U2 and Prince.
“Paul Simon, Graceland, yes.
The Traveling Wilburys, good.
Eurythmics, okay.
Talking Heads, good.
These”—he runs his finger down the stack he’s made—
“these are acceptable.”
“Thank you for your validation,” Jennifer says.
Her voice drips with sarcasm.
But she is deeply pleased he approves.
“You’re welcome,” Chuck says.
“But these?” He holds up a tape.
“The Smiths? No, too depressing, kid. Not good for you.”