Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  I had an inkling. Sure enough, Mom said, “We have close friends whose daughter was admitted to a psychiatric hospital—a different one, not here—for depression. Shortly after she was released, she went back in. My friend, the girl’s mother, told me that she thought her daughter was trying to avoid real life. That she was using the hospital as an escape.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Wexler turned to me. “Jennifer? What do you think?”

  “Dude. It’s totally fine,” I said.

  “But I would suspect you would want to come here. Since it’s familiar—”

  “Seriously,” I interrupted. “It’s fine. It’s not an issue. Let’s move on.”

  He looked incredulous. “All right, then…”

  “Anyway, I thought you said there’s no doubt I would make it.”

  He shifted in his seat, but he had to concede a small smile.

  “You know what?” I said to Sophia. “I need a lunch box. For going back to school.”

  Mom had taken Sophia and me out. I wanted them to meet, so Mom drove up separately from Rich and Dad, and after family therapy, the boys went home and Mom took us to the Penn-Can Mall.

  While Mom went to the department store to get boxers for Dad and Rich, Sophia and I poked around the drugstore, looking at lotions and mousses, magazines and greeting cards.

  “Do you really want a lunch box?” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Not paper bags? A lunch box is so conspicuous. And kind of…young. Although I like the thought of you packing your lunch. That’s good. Meet those exchanges. Be a recovery hero.”

  “Do you remember what a high school cafeteria is like?”

  She shuddered. “I’ve blocked it out.”

  “Let me remind you, then. The cafeteria is nothing less than a torturous agony of torment. Maybe they’re over this way? School supplies.” We walked to the next aisle. “I’m already going to feel conspicuous. So I might as well embrace my conspicuousness.”

  “It’s going to be hard, huh?” she asked, getting serious.

  “Yeah.”

  We found the lunch boxes. “Okay,” Sophia said. “Wait. Let me pick one out for you. Close your eyes.”

  I closed them. “Just don’t give me Smurfs. I hate the Smurfs.”

  “Good Lord. Who hates the Smurfs? You need therapy.”

  “Clearly.”

  I could hear her moving around, shifting things on the shelf. “Hm…G.I. Joe? No. Ninja Turtles? No. Looney Tunes—”

  “From the loony bin.”

  “Appropriate, but no. Barbie? No way. What the heck are Dino Riders?”

  “No idea.”

  “Star Trek: The Next Generation…”

  “I do like Captain Picard.”

  “No.”

  “Too geektastic?”

  “It’s just not the right fit,” she said. “I’m looking for something more…yes. Yes. This is the one. Hold out your hands. But keep your eyes closed.”

  She set the smooth, hard plastic box in my hands.

  “Okay, you can look.”

  I opened my eyes. “Transformers.”

  “For your transformation,” she said. “From eating disorder Jen to recovery Jen. Do you like it?”

  “Oh my gosh, Sophia.”

  “You can pick something else if you don’t like it.”

  “Sophe. I love it. It’s perfect.”

  Sunday, January 15, 1989

  Reverend Stanley from home: the world’s coolest minister. Never the You must accept Jesus and confess your sins sort of minister. Always the Let’s paddle a canoe and hang out and feel peaceful in nature sort of minister. Except, were there enough canoe-paddling minsters to warrant an entire category?

  He arrived just before snack. He was my first nonfamily visitor to enter my EDU bubble. When people had started requesting to visit me in the hospital, I realized it would be too hard to mix my Norwich life with my EDU life. So Mom had run interference. She deflected visiting requests by suggesting folks send mail instead. Kelly understood that I needed to keep my two worlds separate. But Reverend Stanley was different. He was relaxed and easy, and full of that warm, unconditional kind of love.

  It was so nice to see his smile and get a solid Reverend Stanley hug. We sat in my room, me on the foot of my bed, him in the chair. Sophia was in the lounge.

  “I’m so sorry I haven’t been to visit sooner, Jenny.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, and I meant it. “The holidays are probably a busy season for a man of God.”

  He laughed. “Yes, they can be. So. How are you? How has it been here?”

  I shrugged. “I’m doing okay.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Really,” I assured him. “It was hard at first, really hard, but it was the right thing, for me to come here.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Well, I’m proud of you, then.” He looked around my room. I could see his eyes take in the big Print Shop banner my bio class had sent, and my posters, and all the cards from friends I’d taped on the wall, including several from him. “How’s the roommate situation?”

  “My first roommate was terrible. But my new roomie is the best. Except her insurance is going to kick her out.”

  He shook his head. “Insurance companies can be so harmful to the very people they’re supposed to protect.”

  “My insurance only covers half of the hospital costs,” I said. “My parents are using my college savings for the rest. So Dad says I’ll have to go to a state university. But it’s a good investment, I figure. This place, I mean.”

  “Do you know when you’re getting out?” he asked.

  “Not sure. My tentative discharge date is February first. But they could change it.”

  “You’re looking healthier.”

  “Er, thanks.” I tried not to cringe. Translation: Wow, they’ve really fattened you up.

  “How’s the food here?”

  “Nightmarish!”

  He laughed. “Oh, Jenny. I do always love your choice of words. Hey! How about I go out and get you a milkshake?”

  “Thanks, but we’re not allowed outside food.”

  He slumped in disappointment. Then he brightened. “Wait, I almost forgot. I brought you a present.”

  He reached into his satchel. “It’s not a milkshake, I promise.” He handed me a package wrapped in smiley face paper. It was the size of a hardcover book.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Open it.”

  I knew I should be grateful and excited, but my stomach lurched with apprehension. Had he told the staff about this gift, like visitors were supposed to? Not likely. If he thought he could bring me a milkshake, it wouldn’t have occurred to him to get staff’s approval for bringing a present.

  I told myself to relax. How bad could it be? I slid my finger under the tape and unfolded the paper. Pulled the box out. My heart sank. “Oh, um, thanks.”

  He scooted forward in his chair. “I know you like to put things together, and you love art. It’s a mobile to hang from your ceiling. Peace doves, see?” He pointed to the picture on the box. “I thought it would cheer you up, make your room more…Jenny.”

  “It’s really beautiful. Thanks.”

  The box pictured a cluster of silver birds, hung with invisible fishing line. They looked metal, and sharp. I opened the box. Yup. Thin, pointy metal strips.

  The man had given me a box of sharps.

  “You don’t like it.” Reverend Stanley tried to smile, but he looked crestfallen. “Shoot. I’m sorry, Jenny. I thought it would brighten things up for you. I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and—”

  “No, no, I love it,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “I do, I love it. I’ll put it together as soon as I can. Thank you
.”

  “Good. Oh good. I’m so glad.” He laughed. “And relieved. You had me worried. I thought I’d really messed up.”

  “No, it’s so thoughtful, thank you.”

  He stayed a little longer, asking about my nurses and tutors. I tried to hold up my end of the conversation, but I couldn’t concentrate.

  A box of sharp metal and strong fishing line. Could he have given me anything worse? A bottle of whiskey, maybe? A bag of cocaine?

  He was just totally clueless about this kind of hospital. No, not clueless; innocent. It was nicer than clueless, more well-intentioned.

  When Reverend Stanley got up to leave, he gave me another hug. Then he patted my shoulders. “You be tough, Jenny. Keep up the good work. We’ll see you at home soon. We’ll go for a paddle. Or a hike to the quarry.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said.

  The minute he walked out of my room, I shoved the gift in my dresser.

  Holy cat turd.

  What should I do?

  Turn it in?

  Declare my contraband. That was what I should do.

  But who was on shift?

  Bosom, Trendy, and Ratched.

  Any single one of them would freak.

  If they found out that a visitor had brought in contraband, they would definitely start searching all visitors. Which would be a huge pain in the ass for everyone. Monica had made staff wary of sharps. Thriller had snuck in laxatives. Charlotte had been purging. Staff was already on red alert. I didn’t want to be the one who instigated massive visitor shakedowns.

  If only Chuck were here. I could tell him. He would

  believe me. But he wasn’t coming back for a week. He was taking time off because he had worked all the big holidays.

  Why didn’t I just tell Reverend Stanley that I couldn’t have metal? Or mobiles? And have him take his gift back?

  Because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, that’s why.

  People pleasing, that’s what Dr. Prakash would call it.

  Getting me into trouble again.

  I would just…I’d wait until Mom came. When would that be? Family therapy on Friday. She’d smuggle it out for me. Friday. Five days.

  I could hide it for five days, couldn’t I?

  Oh my God. I felt so guilty.

  It was like “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allen Poe. The box of sharps was pulsating from deep within my dresser.

  I was breaking the rules. Did that mean I wasn’t working the program?

  But I was working the program! I was completely dedicated to recovery.

  Following the rules just to follow the rules wasn’t the point. Was it?

  “What should I do?” I asked Sophia in our room after snack.

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “Your best bet is to give it to your mom.”

  “You don’t think Mom will freak out about me sneaking around and lying to the nurses?” This was a new worry I’d had during snack.

  “I don’t think so. You’ve been doing so well. And she knows your minister?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said.

  “So she probably knows he was just oblivious to the rules.”

  “Okay.” I nodded, trying to calm down. “Okay.”

  “You hid it well?”

  I glanced at the door to be sure no one was around. “In my dresser. Where else is there?”

  “Here, give it to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Put it up high in our closet. Most people don’t think to look up, above their sight line.”

  “What are you, a Soviet spy?” I dug through my drawer and gave her the box.

  “Give me a couple of sweaters, too,” she said. “And keep a lookout.”

  I handed her my Christmas sweaters and went to the door.

  “Okay, I’m wrapping it up in this sweater, and I’ll make a little stack up here.” She slid things to the back of the overhead shelf in our closet. “That should do for the time being. Have you told anyone else about it?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” she said. “Don’t.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m serious, Jen. Not Monica or Bronwyn or anyone.”

  “They wouldn’t say anything,” I said.

  “Just please, Jen. Promise, as a favor to me, that you won’t tell them.”

  “They wouldn’t—”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” I said reluctantly.

  “Pinkie swear.” She held out her pinkie.

  I took it in mine. “I pinkie swear.”

  “I know you’re friends, but I don’t trust those girls any farther than I can throw them.”

  “You could have thrown them farther, before they hit maintenance.”

  “Jennifer Hope Johnson,” she warned.

  “All right, okay. I promise.”

  Monday, January 16, 1989

  Well, she did it.

  Monica wrote her 72-hour letter.

  Despite the fact that she had tried to kill herself, or at least given two major cries for help. Despite the fact that she was backsliding, and unhealthy, and wasn’t ready to live outside the EDU, she did it.

  She would be gone Thursday.

  Tuesday, January 17, 1989

  Monica wouldn’t talk to me. I tried, but she was determined to leave.

  At first I cried.

  Now I was mad.

  How could she sign herself out? She had helped me, urged me to work the program, told me she believed in recovery. She had helped me be strong—or fake being strong until I started to actually feel that way. Fake it ’til you make it.

  Now Monica needed to be strong. She needed to work the program. Her life was at stake.

  But she wouldn’t. She was unreachable.

  What was she going through, that she could change so much from my first days here? It was like she wasn’t even the same person.

  Or…was it me who had changed?

  Was I seeing her in a different way?

  Had I ever really known her? The real her?

  So many questions. So much anger. And so, so worried about my friend.

  Great, I had a private room again. Only this time, I didn’t want it.

  Sophia got the boot. Her insurance company cut her off. It was so unfair—Monica could stay but was choosing to leave, while Sophia wanted to stay but couldn’t.

  Sophe refused to sign my journal, because she said she’d be back. Hopefully in less than a week. Dr. Kanduri promised to put her back in our room.

  “I’ll call you tons,” she said.

  “But what if the pay phone’s busy? Which it is, all the time. My mom has never once gotten through.”

  “I’ll write down all my numbers: my dad’s, my mom’s, Rob’s, my apartment in Ithaca. I’m sorry, Jen. I’m just not sure where I’ll be.”

  “Don’t go to your apartment. I don’t think you should be alone.”

  “You’re right. It will be my last resort. I promise.”

  “At least you’re not family.”

  She frowned. “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”

  “I’m allowed to call you every day because you’re not a blood relative.”

  “It’s a good thing soul sisters doesn’t count.”

  “Maybe not to treatment planning. But it counts to me.”

  “Aw, shucks.” She gave a sad smile.

  When I came upstairs from CD with Bronwyn, Sophia was gone.

  Wednesday, January 18, 1989

  “Special Community Meeting,” Baldy said as he walked from room to room, rounding us up. Everyone settled onto couches and chairs in the lounge. Staff sat together in a clump.

  Heart pounding all the way up in my throat, I found a seat.

  Oh Go
d oh God oh God.

  What was this about?

  Had they found my box of sharps?

  Ratched cleared her throat. “Staff has some concerns. That’s why we’ve called this meeting.”

  “It’s come to our attention,” Baldy said, “that some of you are doing diseased behavior.”

  “Enabling others,” Trendy added.

  “Specifically, we are talking about what’s going on downstairs, in the dining hall, during breakfast and lunch,” Ratched said.

  My heart leapt: not sharps.

  But: meals downstairs.

  That meant me, Sophia (who was gone), Bronwyn, Amanda, and Monica, who had gotten breakfast downstairs back.

  No one said anything. Staff waited, trying to smoke us out.

  “Do any of you have anything to say for yourselves?” Ratched asked.

  Still nothing.

  “Fine,” Ratched said. “I’ll do the talking, if you girls won’t. Amanda, Bronwyn, and Monica. You have been seen pouring most of your milk into your Sanka and leaving it on your tray.”

  Say what?

  “Coffee is an optional,” Bronwyn said.

  “Yes. But milk is not an optional,” Ratched said. “And you’ve been hiding food under your napkins. All three of you.”

  Unreal. This had been happening right under my nose?

  Monica, Bronwyn, and Amanda all looked down at their hands.

  Monica took a deep breath and said, “It was just me. I was doing the milk trick, and it was my food.”

  “Nice try, Monica. I don’t believe you, first of all,” said Ratched. “Bronwyn and Amanda were seen doing it, too. But even so, even if it was only you, we need to figure out who was aware of it. Because if you’re aware of diseased behavior, harmful behavior, and you don’t confront it or tell staff, that is enabling.”

  More silence.

  “Jennifer, did you know about this?” Ratched asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” Ratched asked. “Are you telling us the truth?”

  “I swear I didn’t know.”

  “Okay,” Baldy said.

  Ratched leaned forward. “Wait. I want to know—”

  “We believe you, Jennifer,” Baldy said, like he was trying to thwart Ratched from coming after me.