Believarexic

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Believarexic Page 12

by J. J. Johnson


  He starts a new pile.

  “And The Violent Femmes?

  Probably not the best choice, either.”

  Jennifer says, “You sound like my brother.”

  “Your brother must be a smart man. Let’s see.”

  He pulls another tape out of the box.

  “The Cure. That’s not too bad.” He adds it to the first stack.

  “Crowded House, eh.” He adds it to the disapproval pile.

  “What are you doing?” Jennifer says. “That tape’s

  not depressing.”

  “No, it’s just not good.” Chuck smiles.

  “You’re judging my musical taste?”

  “Of course,” he says mildly.

  “Oh, I see you have INXS, too. Going Australian, are we?

  Hm. Terence Trent D’Arby?”

  He sets it on top of Crowded House and INXS.

  “Wait!” Jennifer says. “That’s a great album.

  So good for dancing.”

  “Dancing, maybe. Listening, I don’t think so.

  I have to say, this second stack, these are worrisome.”

  “I’m not supposed to care what you think,” Jennifer says.

  “I do not seek outside approval.

  I’m supposed to work on my self-esteem.”

  Chuck laughs. “True. You’re learning quickly.

  Wait. Oh my God, is this Enya?”

  With his fingertips, like the tape case is contaminated,

  he holds it up. “You know what? This is not okay.”

  He sets it far apart from the first two piles.

  “What! It’s soothing.”

  Jennifer’s face cracks into a happy, unforced smile,

  which she quickly changes into a dramatic fake pout.

  “I’m feeling very judged right now.”

  Chuck says, “That’s because you are being judged.

  Oh dear bearded Lord in heaven.

  Tell me my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

  Jennifer says, “Oh, come on! That’s on the Billboard charts.

  He’s a good singer.”

  “No,” Chuck says. “No, I wouldn’t be a good secondary

  if I didn’t confront you about this.

  I think we need to call a meeting. An intervention.

  At the very least, I’m going to have to

  confiscate this to your basket.

  You should have to sign this out.

  I’m making it a treatment-planning goal:

  Patient will listen to good music.

  And that most definitely does not include Rick Astley.”

  It’s nice to laugh, Jennifer thinks,

  before she starts crying again.

  Friday, November 25, 1988

  Jennifer finishes tying her shoes.

  It feels like a momentous occasion.

  Like there should be a trumpet fanfare.

  At 11:10 a.m., Jennifer Johnson laced up her sneakers

  instead of wearing slippers all day.

  Not that she can leave the unit.

  She’s not medically cleared.

  Still, changing slippers for real shoes

  seems like a metaphor for the fact that she’s powering on.

  A decision that she will continue to live while she’s here.

  That the EDU is not an alternate reality

  or a parallel dimension.

  This is actually her life right now.

  And she’s going to be here a while.

  A fact that still flips her stomach and makes her chest ache.

  She can’t stand the idea of staying here.

  Every hour, she wants to run away.

  Except she can’t. The doors are locked.

  She’s confined to the unit:

  her bedroom, with hostile roommate,

  or the lounge, toxic with cigarette smoke and sick patients.

  Jennifer wants to scream.

  But screaming

  would provide a wonderful chance for Ratched—

  or any other nurse, really—to write her up,

  and ruin her already slim chance for passes next weekend.

  Telling staff you want to get out of here

  because you’re not crazy

  would only guarantee they’d keep you here longer,

  because it would make them think you’re crazy.

  Isn’t that the definition of a Catch-22?

  There is a knock at her half-open door.

  Eleanor stands in the doorway,

  pulling her fingers through her long, dark hair.

  “Can I come in?” she asks.

  Jennifer hesitates a moment before she says, “Sure.”

  Monica and Bronwyn are still upset with Eleanor

  because of her accusation in group,

  the thing about avoidant behavior.

  Jennifer doesn’t want them to think she’s a traitor.

  But Eleanor’s done nothing bad to Jennifer.

  Actually, Jennifer doesn’t see her that much;

  Eleanor is on stage three,

  so she eats breakfast and lunch downstairs

  in the main dining room,

  and she’s out on passes a lot.

  Eleanor stands near the foot of Heather’s bed.

  “Where’s your roommate?” she asks.

  “In individual, I think,” Jennifer says.

  “I feel sorry for you, having to live with her.

  She’s so…diseased.” Eleanor looks around.

  “And messy.”

  “You should see our bathroom after she uses it.”

  “No thank you. Anyway. I just wanted to say

  that I found out my discharge date. It’s next Friday.”

  “Congratulations,” Jennifer says,

  swallowing the lump in her throat.

  “Oh, thanks,” Eleanor says.

  “But that’s not why I’m telling you.”

  “Okay,” Jennifer says.

  Eleanor looks exasperated.

  “Jennifer, I wanted to tell you because

  I’ve heard other girls saying

  you’ll have to be here three or four or five months, like them.

  But you don’t. You don’t have to be like them.

  I’ll be in and out of here in less than two months.

  That’s why I’m telling you.”

  Jennifer nods. It is, indeed, hopeful information.

  “Fifty-one days, Jennifer. That’ll be it for me.

  And I can see you’re really homesick, so I just wanted

  to give you hope. If you work the program,

  you can get out of here fast. Like me.”

  Jennifer asks, “Did you have to gain weight, though?”

  Eleanor frowns. “No, I didn’t. And you probably do,

  so that might mean you’ll be here a little longer than me.”

  Jennifer’s stomach sinks with disappointment,

  but of course she’s perversely proud

  that Eleanor thinks she needs to gain weight.

  “People like you and me, who

  work the program from day one,

  we get out of here quicker than these other trifling losers.”

  Eleanor waggles her thumb toward the hall.

  Jennifer is confused. “You think I’m working the program?

  But Nurse Ratched accused me of—”

  “That lady is one sick puppy,”

  Eleanor says matter-of-factly.

  “Everyone knows it.” She seems to reconsider.

  “Well, not everyone yet, but it’s just a matter of time.”

  Eleanor comes closer
, lowering her voice.

  “Look. I know you didn’t tank.

  And I know you didn’t shove quarters up your coochie.

  I can tell by how you eat your meals, and

  how you talk to people.

  And I’ll tell you something else.”

  Eleanor plops down next to Jennifer on her bed.

  “I wanted to come here, just like you.”

  “You did? Really?” Jennifer’s heart gives a little lurch.

  because this would mean she’s not the only one.

  Everyone else says they were dragged here,

  kicking and screaming, like in the specials.

  Fighting treatment is a point of pride for every patient,

  including Monica, Bronwyn, and Amanda.

  “You wanted treatment?” Jennifer asks,

  almost unbelieving.

  “Sure did,” Eleanor said. “After my esophagus went kaput,

  I told myself I would do anything to get better.”

  “Your esophagus?” Jennifer’s eyes go wide.

  Eleanor nods, fingers in her hair, inspecting it for split ends.

  “Did it rupture?” Jennifer asks. “Like in Kate’s Secret?”

  “Yeah,” Eleanor says.

  “Oh,” Jennifer says. “So…did blood come out of your chest?”

  “Use your brain.

  Do you think if your esophagus ruptures,

  the blood magically passes through your ribs and skin

  and comes pouring out your chest?”

  “That did seem weird.” Jennifer feels dumb.

  “They just did that to look dramatic on TV,” Eleanor says.

  “Right.” Jennifer nods, like she knew this.

  “Right. Well, um. What happened with you?”

  Eleanor shrugs. “I started seeing blood when I purged,

  and it hurt really bad. I mean, purging never feels good,

  but this hurt really, really bad.”

  “Whoa,” Jennifer says.

  Eleanor sighs. “I had to have surgery. And a transfusion,

  because I lost a lot of blood. Which of course

  made my parents worry because of Ryan White.”

  Jennifer recognizes the name, but can’t quite place it.

  Eleanor studies Jennifer’s face. “Elton John’s friend?

  The kid who got AIDS from a blood transfusion?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jennifer says. “He was on the cover of People.”

  Then she stiffens, terrified. Does Eleanor have AIDS?

  They say you can’t get it from touching someone,

  or from sitting on public toilet seats,

  but what if they’re wrong? What if—

  “I don’t have AIDS,” Eleanor snaps,

  “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I wasn’t,” Jennifer says.

  Uncomfortable silence.

  Jennifer takes a deep breath, blows it out.

  “So…wow. Your esophagus. Oh, wait, is that why

  you have to take that medicine?”

  The nurses make a big deal out of it at dinner and snack.

  “Yeah. It’s an acid blocker. The doctors say I have to take it

  every time I eat, probably for the rest of my life.

  And if I start purging again,

  it would be really bad. I could bleed out, or something.

  Internal bleeding,” she clarifies.

  “Not Kate’s Secret chest bleeding.”

  A surge of pity rushes through Jennifer, but, as usual,

  there is also a more sordid feeling at the core.

  She’s envious.

  Jennifer is jealous that Eleanor

  had an emergency room drama.

  “That’s horrible,” Jennifer makes herself say.

  Eleanor pushes her hair off her shoulders.

  “No one to blame but myself.

  I just really didn’t think I’d done that much damage.”

  “It must have been pretty scary,” Jennifer says.

  “It made me want to stop purging, that’s for sure.

  I came here straight from the hospital.

  The medical hospital.”

  “How much did you purge?” Jennifer asks.

  “Like, how often?”

  Eleanor shrugs, “Couple times a day.

  No more than other people here.

  But listen, Jennifer. I want to tell you something else.

  I want to tell you not to get caught up in

  these other girls’ dramas.

  Call them on their crap if you need to,

  like I did the other day,

  but really, work the program for yourself.

  You are here for your own recovery, not theirs.

  You know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  But Jennifer can’t imagine confronting other patients,

  not if it meant they would be angry with her.

  The only people she lets herself be confrontational with

  are Mom and Dad and Rich, because they are her family,

  so they are obligated to love her.

  Every other relationship is too tenuous.

  People can drop right out of your life if you’re not careful.

  “All right. Cool,” Eleanor says. “Hug.”

  She opens her arms.

  Jennifer leans in.

  She tells herself not to worry about AIDS.

  Eleanor is strong.

  Her hug is strong, her arms are strong,

  her words are strong, and her voice is strong.

  There is no ambivalence about her.

  Did Eleanor have a monster inside?

  Did it rupture along with her esophagus?

  Is that how she killed it?

  • • •

  After lunch, Jennifer has an individual session.

  Dr. Prakash sits in her big leather chair

  and takes off her high heels.

  They tip over without feet in them.

  She lights a cigarette

  and crosses her legs at the knees,

  wrapping one calf around the other

  like a snake twining itself up a tree.

  Instead of the expected questions about

  the dramas with Ratched,

  Dr. Prakash says, “Jennifer. I would like you

  to tell me about your drinking behavior.”

  Jennifer blinks, struggling to readjust.

  “My drinking behavior?”

  Dr. Prakash inhales smoke, nods. “Yes.

  Your screening and admission interviews indicate that

  you consume alcohol on a regular basis. Is this correct?”

  Jennifer frowns. “Not totally regularly.”

  “Tell me, then,” Dr. Prakash says.

  “How often do you drink?”

  “Most weekends. At night.”

  “Both nights?” Dr. Prakash asks.

  “Friday and Saturday nights?”

  “Sometimes not on Fridays, because I go to the Y—

  it’s a dance at the YMCA—

  and you get expelled for life if you drink.

  But most Saturday nights, I go to a party and yeah, I drink.

  And over the summer, I drank almost every night.”

  Dr. Prakash exhales smoke.

  “And when you drink, you become intoxicated?”

  Jennifer nods.

  “Always?” Dr. Prakash asks.

  “Is it safe to say that you drink to get drunk?”

  “Yes,” Jennifer says, incredulous at the question.

  Why does anyone drink?


  Why else would she consume all those calories?

  “And how does intoxication feel to you?”

  Jennifer pulls her shoulders to her ears again,

  lets them drop, heavy.

  “Sometimes bad, but mostly good.

  It makes me feel…happy.”

  “Ah. You feel happy when you are intoxicated?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be honest now, Jennifer. Think. Is it a sense of happiness,

  or is it a sense of looseness? Of freedom?

  Loss of inhibition, if you will?”

  Jennifer’s gut answers for her: “Yes.

  That’s exactly what I feel.”

  “And do you feel this loose and free and uninhibited

  at any other time, besides when you are drinking?”

  Jennifer shakes her head slowly, as she begins

  to understand. “Even dancing isn’t as good.

  Drinking is the only time I can just…be.”

  “Just be what?” Dr. Prakash asks.

  “Just be myself,” Jennifer whispers.

  Tears drop from her eyes.

  “And not worry all the time.”

  “Worry? What do you worry about?”

  “Everything. Constantly. I worry about

  what people think of me.

  And whether I’m acting the way I’m supposed to.

  And I worry about why I always worry.

  Why can’t I ever just enjoy myself?

  Why can’t I ever enjoy anything?

  And of course I worry whether I’m thin enough.”

  Dr. Prakash stubs out her cigarette

  and hands Jennifer tissues.

  “Can you tell me more about

  not being able to enjoy yourself?”

  “I can’t describe it,” Jennifer says.

  “Just do your best. Please.”

  “I’ve tried to explain it before,

  but no one understands.

  It just makes me feel worse.”

  Dr. Prakash says, “Tell me about a time

  you’ve tried to explain it

  and it made you feel worse.”

  Jennifer doesn’t have to search her memory;

  there is already an image in her mind.

  “A few months ago,

  I was at the tennis courts with my friend, Megan.

  We were hitting balls to each other,

  waiting for some boys she said were going to meet us.”

  Jennifer picks at her jeans.

  “I’m not a very good tennis player.”

  “Continue, please,” Dr. Prakash says.

  Jennifer hadn’t realized she’d stopped.

  She had been back at the tennis courts.

  “Sorry. Megan was laughing, and I was smiling,

 

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