Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  Chuck didn’t say anything about the room rearrangement, so Beverly must not have written us up in her notes. Yet.

  When she hobbled in for night shift, my stomach sank. She had a removable Velcro cast/bootie-thing on her foot. Her toe was, indeed, broken.

  Sophia and I looked at each other, then motioned Beverly to come with us into our room.

  “We are so, so sorry,” I said.

  “We really are,” Sophia added.

  “We should have thought about you, how it would affect your night checks,” Sophia said.

  “We totally should have,” I agreed.

  “Well,” Beverly said, “to tell you the truth, girls, if I were stuck in this place, I’d probably want to rearrange my room, too.”

  It was a bighearted thing for her to say.

  “We’re still really sorry,” Sophia said.

  “Are you going to tell how it happened?” I asked. “I mean, I’m sorry. I don’t want to sound selfish. The main thing is that you got hurt, I know that. But I’m worried. Are we going to have consequences?” I felt like such an ass. “Sorry. Never mind. It was my idea. Give me the consequences.”

  “You know, I’ve thought about it,” Beverly said. “I’ve had a lot of time to think—when I was getting X-rays, and then later, trying to sleep with this stupid thing on.” She looked at her foot. “And I think no.”

  “No?” I asked, brightening.

  “No,” Beverly said. “It was an accident. You two are good girls, and you didn’t mean any harm. If I report it, it’ll get blown out of proportion. So, no.”

  “But…you shouldn’t have to lie for us,” Sophia said.

  I wanted to scream, Yes! Lie for us!

  “I told my supervisor I stubbed my toe and left it at that,” Beverly said.

  “Thanks, Beverly,” Sophia said.

  “We owe you one,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said. “Really, don’t mention it ever again.”

  So we didn’t.

  But too bad I couldn’t tell Dr. Prakash, because I realized later: the rearrangement was damned spontaneous. Maybe she would have been impressed.

  Saturday, December 31, 1988

  “He told me he won’t refund our money from last summer,” Mom said as soon as we sat down in Dr. Wexler’s office for family therapy. “Partly because the camp would just lose that tuition and partly because, after interviewing other campers and counselors, they think your accident was preplanned.”

  “How does that make you feel, Jennifer?” Dr. Wexler asked. He passed me the tissues.

  “Ashamed. Embarrassed.”

  “I was embarrassed, too,” Mom said.

  Which made me feel worse. I was the lowest slime on earth. What kind of person threw herself down stairs to get sent home from summer camp?

  “And how about you?” Dr. Wexler asked Rich.

  Rich shrugged and shook his head a little, like this wasn’t any of his business and he wanted to stay out of it. I wished I could stay out of it, too.

  “And you?” Dr. Wexler asked Dad.

  “Extremely embarrassed,” Dad said.

  Which, for some reason, made me furious.

  “You should be embarrassed!” I said. “Of your own self!”

  Dr. Wexler looked surprised. “You seem very angry, Jennifer. What’s going on?”

  “I’m sick of talking about everything that’s wrong with me. I’m not the only one who screws up and does embarrassing things. Why don’t we talk about that?”

  Dr. Wexler lifted his hands. “Go ahead.”

  “I just think my parents are being phony half the time they’re here. Maybe subconsciously, maybe not. But ever since that first session, Dad acts all proper and doesn’t let on about how vicious he can really be.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  “I sure can. On Christmas, at the movies—”

  “Oh, here we go,” Dad said, rolling his eyes. “I’m the bad guy again.”

  “Can I finish?” I looked at Dr. Wexler. “Aren’t I allowed to talk without being interrupted?”

  “Will you give your father a chance to respond afterward?”

  Dad snorted. Mom looked uncomfortable. Rich looked like he wanted to disappear.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Dr. Wexler said, “Then yes, Jennifer, continue.”

  “On Christmas day, at the movie theater, I wanted to have a Sprite as one of my optionals, and Dad wouldn’t trust me that I could. And he was totally mean about it, and loud, and embarrassed me for being in the hospital.”

  Dr. Wexler nodded. He turned to Dad. “And how do you respond?”

  Dad sighed. “This is absurd. I explained to Jennifer that I had no basis for trusting her. And she blew it out of proportion, as usual.”

  “No. You’re the one who brought my entire past into it! Like I can’t make a fresh start here? Try to build up trust?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Dad said.

  “Ridiculous? How about the fact that you were also basically bingeing in front of your daughter who has an eating disorder!”

  Dad jabbed a finger at me. “You’re jealous because you have problems and I don’t. And that’s just tough shit for you!”

  “Jealous!” I said. “Of what! Of being someone who thinks he doesn’t have issues when he’s completely self-deluded?”

  Dr. Wexler held his hands out like a referee. “Please. Slow down. There’s clearly a nerve being touched here.” He turned to Mom, then Rich. “I’d like to hear from Richard.”

  Rich shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I wasn’t there.”

  “He was in Colorado,” I said. “It was just Mom and Dad and me.”

  “Okay, then.” Dr. Wexler looked at Mom. “What is your perspective? You were present for this disagreement?”

  Good. Maybe she would finally stick up for me.

  “I came in at the end of it,” Mom said.

  I said, “Dad told her to butt out—”

  “Jennifer, please. Let your mother talk,” Dr. Wexler said.

  Mom frowned. “Well…I…I could see they were disagreeing about something, and I was concerned, but…” She trailed off.

  “You were concerned, but…,” Dr. Wexler prompted.

  “Earl asked me to stay out of it, so I did.”

  “Like always,” I huffed.

  Dr. Wexler ignored me. “And what was that like for you? Being told to stay out of it?”

  “It was upsetting. Jenny looked distraught, and Earl looked angry. But I know I’m not supposed to get in the middle of things. Isn’t that right?” She looked at Dr. Wexler plaintively, like she was a kid looking for guidance from her teacher.

  Dr. Wexler leaned forward, fingers on nose.

  “I—” Mom started crying softly. “I’m not supposed to team up with Jenny against Earl. That’s been made clear. So I let it be.”

  Everyone was quiet.

  “Can I say something?” I asked.

  Dr. Wexler nodded.

  “Well, okay. You and Dr. Prakash have been telling me not to gang up with Mom, against Dad. But that’s so Mom doesn’t use me as a confidante, not because she’s not supposed to get in the middle of me and Dad. I don’t know exactly how to say it. But isn’t that a big difference?”

  “Parse out that difference for me a bit more,” Dr. Wexler said.

  “It’s the difference between Mom not teasing Dad with me, and Mom sticking up for me when Dad is mean. Sticking up for me and Rich.”

  “They’re both ways your mother gets in the middle of things so you don’t have to grow up and be mature,” Dad snapped.

  I grit my teeth. I was trying so hard to be reasonable. “I…I don’t know. It feels different to me. Something about it is different. The power, or som
ething.”

  “The power?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  “I’m the daughter, right?”

  Dad rolled his eyes. Again.

  “I’m the daughter, Rich is the son, and you guys are the parents. So if one parent is being unfair to me, or Rich, shouldn’t the other one stick up for us? Isn’t that what parents do? Protect their children?” I started crying hard.

  “Jennifer,” Dr. Wexler said. “You’re very upset. What’s going on?”

  “I feel like they haven’t protected me at all. From any of the important things.” I couldn’t look at my parents. The sadness and hurt that had come over me was unexpected and intense.

  “Say more about that, Jennifer,” Dr. Wexler pushed.

  “They think they protect me, but they don’t. It’s all the wrong stuff. Dad gets radon testing for our basement. Mom makes me carry a whistle when I walk somewhere alone, to call for help if I get mugged. But they don’t know the real stuff. They’ve been blind to how sad and sick I’ve been since like, the second grade. They haven’t protected me from what I really needed help with!”

  Mom started crying. “I’m sorry, Jenny. I’m so sorry.”

  “We do everything wrong, is that it?” Dad asked.

  “No,” I sniffed. “Well, yes.”

  We sat in silence until Mom and I stopped crying so hard.

  Then Dr. Wexler said, “Richard. What is this like for you?”

  Rich shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know. Jen has problems, and she’s dealing with them, so that’s good.”

  “And what about this conversation about protection? Does any of this ring true for you?”

  Rich said, “I don’t need protection. I’m fine.”

  “Hm.” Dr. Wexler looked at me. “Jennifer, do you have anything to say about your brother’s point of view?”

  Oh, man. Dr. Wexler was prompting me to voice my concerns about Rich using drugs.

  Dr. Prakash would tell me to be spontaneous, say what was on my mind.

  But why was the onus on me to bring things up? What good did it do? It just pissed Dad off. Made Mom sad. Made Rich uncomfortable.

  What was it Mom had said in T.J. Maxx? You are the truth teller of our family.

  The truth teller of our family.

  But she also said she knew it was a burden. And that I shouldn’t have to carry all that responsibility myself.

  Besides, I wasn’t sure what the truth was. I didn’t know for certain whether Rich was smoking weed, or using other drugs, or putting himself at risk. So why upset everyone and alienate my brother?

  “I think if Rich feels like things are okay for him, then that’s good. I’m glad,” I said.

  “That’s it?” Dr. Wexler said.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  My family had had enough truth for one day. And I was sure tired of being the only one telling it, killing myself trying to make them listen.

  Sunday, January 1, 1989

  1989. A new year. And my third major holiday in the hospital.

  In honor of the beginning of the end of the decade, I made not just one, but two New Year’s resolutions: (1) Recovery. (2) Never ever spend another holiday in a psychiatric institution, ever again ever.

  After breakfast (French toast, yay), I solved the mystery of why my treatment-planning meetings changed from Wednesday to Friday, thereby unfairly delaying any new privileges for two extra days. It was because Dr. Prakash was leaving for a twenty-day vacation to Greece.

  Happy New Year.

  She pulled me in for individual, even though it was the weekend and a holiday. She was all business.

  “First, Jennifer, I want to check in about how you are doing on your Norpramin.”

  “Okay, I guess.” I shrugged. “It hasn’t really been the miracle drug I was hoping for.”

  “You have been on it, what, two weeks now?”

  “Three weeks, as of today.”

  She wrote a note in my file. “You have not noticed a shift in mood or attitude?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. My dreams are more vivid, though. That’s pretty cool.”

  “With luck, you should be feeling some benefit soon. Are you experiencing side effects? Not so sleepy, I hope?”

  “Not so sleepy.”

  “Constipation? Dry mouth?”

  “Uh, nope, I’m fine.” I tried not to show my embarrassment. I truly did not want to discuss bowel movements with my therapist.

  “Have you noticed, Jennifer, that over time, you have become a bit more animated? Cracking a few jokes? Smiling and laughing more?”

  I scrunched my nose, thinking. I hadn’t noticed. “Really?”

  “Yes. It can be difficult to parse whether that is the Norpramin, or whether it is the process of becoming renourished. Either way, it is nice to see.”

  “Huh.” Was it true? Could being fed actually change me that much?

  She tapped her cigarette ash into the heavy glass ashtray. “Now, Jennifer. While I am away, you need to tell your mother that you need a mother, not a best friend, not someone who picks on her husband in front of you. Do that in your next family therapy session, yes?”

  “I already tried,” I said. “I brought it up yesterday and it went nowhere. My family acted like I dropped a dead fish in their punch bowl. I also talked about needing Mom to stick up for me when Dad gets mean. She should do that, right?”

  Dr. Prakash nodded thoughtfully. “I want you to understand that the dynamics between your mother and father may require a longer process of change, one which you do not, and will not, have control over. So, you must focus on your direct relationships with your parents. That of you and your father. And you and your mother.”

  “Oh. Okay.” That was disappointing, to say the least. I wanted an ally when Dad got angry. But it made sense. Why hadn’t Dr. Wexler explained it to me like that?

  “You have been working hard here. I hope you will continue to work hard, with Dr. Kanduri, while I am away. Will you do that?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Now. I want you to request breakfast downstairs at your next treatment planning. Then next week, I want you to request lunch downstairs and snack out.”

  “Got it.”

  “The week after that, request meal out and regular trays and to learn your weight.”

  My weight. Yikes. “Do you think I’ll be ready for that?”

  “Dr. Kanduri will advise against it if she observes significant regression or backsliding. But barring that, yes. I am confident you will be ready.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You will not forget?”

  “Are you kidding? I live for privileges. Besides, Chuck gives me advice about what to request.”

  “You have a nice relationship with Chuck, do you not? You have forgiven him for not being able to tell you about Heather’s condition?”

  “I never held that against him,” I said. “He’s the best nurse. You should give him a promotion.”

  She chuckled. “That is good. It makes me feel less guilty.”

  “Guilty! Why? You deserve a vacation.” I would miss her, of course, but I didn’t begrudge her a break from what had to be a fairly intense job.

  “That is generous of you to say. But I find myself feeling quite guilty, leaving you, surrounded by all this…muck.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged. “You mean everyone constantly complaining and threatening to sign themselves out.” The mood of the EDU had gone downhill fast since Christmas.

  Dr. Prakash exhaled, letting out a big trail of smoke. “Among other things. Yes.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty sucky.”

  She looked intently at me. “You have a nice friendship with your roommate?”

  “Yup,” I said. “Sophia’s solid. But she’s worried her insurance will run out.”r />
  “Oh dear. Would she qualify for Medicaid?”

  “I think so? I’m not sure. I don’t understand a lot of that stuff.”

  Dr. Prakash stubbed out her cigarette. “Well, hopefully it will work itself out. In the meantime, be careful about…just…” She trailed off. “Jennifer, have you heard the saying, Not my circus, not my monkeys?”

  I shook my head.

  “No? It is an old proverb. Polish, I think. Can you guess what it means?”

  “Keep your nose out of other people’s business?”

  She smiled. “Partly. Also, it means to recognize when a problem is not your own. It means do not get swept up in all the”—she circled her hands around—“in all the hullabaloo.”

  “No hullabaloo. Yes ma’am.” I saluted.

  “Keep working hard, and I think you should be home in about four weeks.”

  My heart took flight. Home! “Really?”

  “Indeed. I think you will most likely be in your last week when I return. Will you still be working hard toward your goals?”

  “Of course.”

  “Please stay committed to your recovery, Jennifer. And remember: Not my circus—”

  “Not my monkeys.”

  Monday, January 2, 1989

  “I hate Mondays,” Bronwyn groaned as Baldy set down her breakfast tray. “It always messes up my shit schedule.”

  “Thank God for unsupervised bathrooms,” I said.

  “Amen,” Bronwyn said. “Praise Jesus they didn’t take that away from me.” Staff had revoked her meals downstairs privileges for weighing herself, but since she hadn’t purged, they let her keep bathrooms.

  Sophia lifted the lid off her Styrofoam cup, put it back down, and stared at it. “What is that?”

  “Prune juice.” I sighed in commiseration. “We have it every Monday. And then, every Monday, we all have to poop after breakfast. Like clockwork.”

  Sophia looked sick. “We did not have that last Monday.”

  “No?” I tried to remember.

  “You didn’t notice?” Amanda asked.

  I shrugged. “I guess it was our Boxing Day miracle.”

  Sophia’s face was nearly green. “I can’t drink that.”