Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  Trendy said, “Bronwyn, Amanda, and Monica. We’re pulling you back upstairs for all meals.”

  “Are you changing my discharge date?” Bronwyn cried.

  Amanda was crying, too. Monica was stoic.

  “We’ll certainly need to discuss it, Bronwyn,” Ratched said. “Amanda, we’ll need to discuss your discharge, as well. And Monica…again, we strenuously, strenuously object to you signing yourself out.”

  “Don’t do it, Monica,” Baldy said.

  Monica looked at the nurses. You could see her jaw muscles working. She looked at Amanda and Bronwyn. Amanda was sobbing, Bronwyn was swiping at her tears.

  Someone passed a box of tissues down the line.

  I stared at Monica. Enabling. Diseased behavior. And suddenly I was picturing Heather’s final night on the EDU: Monica with her arm around Heather in our room. She had encouraged Heather to come clean. But how long before that had Monica known Heather was stealing from me? Had she ever bothered to tell staff?

  Trendy looked at the rest of us. “Do any of you have anything to say about this?”

  “I don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Charlotte said.

  “It’s scary,” someone blurted out.

  It took me a minute to realize: I was the one who’d said it.

  “Scary? Why?” Baldy asked.

  I didn’t even bother to take a deep breath or gather my thoughts. “It’s scary because you all talk about loving and helping each other, but then you do something like this? Enable each other? And you tell each other it’s fine to sign out even though you’re still sick? That’s not love. That’s not help. You say you’re friends, but you’re helping each other stay sick. And what about all the recovery advice you’ve given me? I’m following it. So is it all bullshit? Do any of you believe anything you’ve ever told me?”

  All eyes were on me.

  Oh my God. What had I done? They would be so mad. They would hate me.

  But what was the point? What exactly was the point of all this, if I didn’t speak up now?

  “And what does it say about how you’ll do when you get out of here? I’m so worried about you guys.” My tears started to fall. “And what does it say about the integrity—the actual meaning—of this program? Of achieving stage three?

  “This is bad, you guys. This is so terrifying. And I’m already scared. I’m so scared of falling back into my eating disorder, and I’m scared of you guys falling back into yours, because…because what if it’s really that hard? What if it’s basically impossible? Or what if it’s contagious, this enabling, sick behavior?”

  Amanda, Bronwyn, Monica, Patty, Charlotte. Narrowed eyes. Flared nostrils. Like bulls about to charge.

  I wished Sophia was here. But I held the line. “This stuff, this hiding food, and the milk trick, as you call it? It’s bad. This is you gaming the program that’s my life. It’s all of our lives! We’re supposed to be here to get better, to help each other fight our diseases. I just…I just…I can’t believe you would do this together.” I was running out of steam. “So yeah, it’s scary. I mean, I’m sorry. But it’s scary.”

  Dead silence.

  “Excellent, Jennifer!” Trendy clapped her hands sharply, once, twice. “Well said. Anyone else have anything to add?”

  Silence. They looked so angry.

  “I’m sorry, you guys,” I said. “I care about you. I just said what I was feeling. We’re supposed to do that, right?”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Monica said.

  I had been holding my breath, but now I exhaled in relief. We could get through this.

  But Monica’s voice was snide. “I’m sorry we’re not all as perfect as you, Jennifer.”

  My cheeks burned. “I’m not perfect! I’m not perfect. But at least…I mean, I’m trying. And I’m just expressing my feelings. I love you so much. All of you. I want you to get better. I want us all to get better.”

  “So we should all just try to be more like you,” Monica said.

  “I’m not saying—”

  “Be like you?” Monica spat. “And hide a box of sharps in our rooms?”

  Oh my God.

  How did she know?

  “Excuse me?” Ratched asked.

  Trendy looked from Ratched to Monica to me. “What is this about?”

  Monica crossed her arms. “Little Miss Perfect is hiding a box of sharps in her room. A visitor gave it to her. So why didn’t she just declare it? What’s she hiding it for? To hurt herself? Or to enable others?”

  Ratched cocked her head. “Jennifer. Is this true?”

  “I…I…”

  “Just look in her journal if you don’t believe me,” Monica said.

  So. Monica had read my journal.

  Sophia had been right. Monica was dangerous.

  Who else had betrayed my trust? Who had read my journal, my most private thoughts? Bronwyn? Amanda? Others?

  “We need to search your room.” Ratched stood and motioned for me to follow.

  “Wait.” Baldy put up his hand to stop her.

  “What!” Monica said. “You’re not going to search her room?”

  “Relax, Monica,” Baldy said, “Let staff handle this.” He turned back toward Ratched and said, quietly, “I’ll do the room search.”

  Ratched looked none too happy. But she acquiesced.

  “Jennifer, come with me,” Baldy said.

  “Please sit right here.” Baldy moved my chair to the center of the room, between the two beds.

  I sat. Snorting, hiccupping, crying. Betrayed and terrified.

  He started with my dresser. One drawer at a time, emptying everything.

  I watched.

  Should I just tell him? Show him the box? Confess, and get it over with?

  Or was there still hope he wouldn’t find it?

  I kept my mouth shut. It had gotten me in enough trouble.

  He looked under my bed. Lifted my mattress, checking between it and the box springs.

  Next, my nightstand.

  Then, the closet.

  Sophia’s side was empty. Baldy pawed through my shoes: snow boots, slouchy suede boots, button shoes, sneakers. He lifted each pair, looked inside, shook them upside down. Took the quarters out of my boots and set them on my bed. He searched through my puffy down coat. My Navy surplus peacoat. Patting them, turning out the pockets.

  He reached up and lifted my sweaters off the top shelf.

  I held my breath.

  He took them down.

  He shook them over my bed.

  Nothing.

  He emptied the whole closet.

  Nothing.

  Nothing?

  Nothing!

  Where was the box?

  It was just…gone. Disappeared. Like magic.

  Baldy kept searching—the bathroom, Sophia’s empty dresser and nightstand.

  Ratched came in to “help.” She looked everywhere Baldy had searched. He watched her; he looked irked.

  At long, long last, they stopped searching. They looked at each other. Baldy raised his eyebrows and lifted his shoulders in a mild shrug.

  “Jennifer,” Ratched said. “You need to tell us right now. Are you hiding sharps?”

  I kept quiet.

  “We need to see your journal,” Ratched said.

  “Um,” I said, looking from her to Baldy. “Do you really need to?”

  Ratched tapped her foot impatiently. “Monica said she saw something in your journal about sharps. Should we have her show us what she meant? Or do you want to show us, right now?”

  “It’s better if we just resolve this, okay?” Baldy said. “Can you work with me on this, Jennifer?”

  I picked up my journal and flipped through pages.

  When had I written about Reverend Stanley
and his fateful box of sharps? Sunday.

  I flipped to Saturday, January 14.

  Monday, January 16.

  There was no Sunday. It had been neatly—so neatly you’d never notice—ripped out.

  I snapped my journal shut and offered it to Baldy. “You can look through it if you want.”

  Ratched intercepted the journal.

  Baldy sighed heavily. “No, Jennifer. That’s okay.” He took my journal from Ratched, which didn’t look easy. He handed it to me. “I think we owe you an apology, Jennifer.”

  Ratched didn’t say anything. She looked mad. Possibly disappointed.

  Trendy tapped on the door frame. “How goes it in here?”

  “I think we might have been given the runaround,” Baldy said.

  “You think Monica sent us on a wild-goose chase?” Trendy asked.

  “Let’s put it this way,” Baldy said. “If we had to choose someone’s word to put faith in at this point—”

  “It wouldn’t be Monica,” Trendy finished. “Well, Jennifer, I apologize. I’m very sorry we doubted you. And I’m proud of you for speaking up. You did good.” She left.

  “Do you think Monica made this whole thing up? Just to spite you?” Baldy asked me.

  I wiped my eyes and shrugged. Maybe a better person would have said, “No, Monica wasn’t lying.” Maybe that would have been the right thing to do. But if getting my privileges taken away because my minister had given me a gift—when I was truly trying to get healthy, doing my best to work this program—if that was the right thing, well…then I wasn’t someone who did the right thing. Not in this case, at least.

  Baldy motioned to Ratched, who mercifully took his hint. She followed him out of the room. I watched the door close partway. Baldy knew I would want privacy.

  Monica. I thought she was my friend. My good, bighearted, close friend.

  I looked at Sophia’s bare mattress.

  I felt so lonely.

  I went to the doorway to make sure no one was lurking outside my bedroom. Then I slid a chair over to the closet and looked up high.

  Nothing.

  I took a deep breath.

  I set to work putting all my stuff back.

  I lay on my bed with Bearibubs until Trendy called snack time. Then I walked slowly back into the lounge.

  Everyone glared at me. Mean, evil looks.

  I ate my Fig Newtons and drank my milk alone at a table.

  I didn’t even try to talk to Bronwyn or Amanda. They were huddled with Monica and Charlotte and Patty. Maybe if I could get one of them alone, I could apologize. I’d meant what I’d said, but I hadn’t meant to be so harsh. I wanted to smooth things over. But I couldn’t do it with them banded together like an army platoon.

  As for Monica? She could go to hell.

  Charlotte turned on the TV the moment that Amanda, still and always the last one to finish eating, handed her empty milk carton and wrapper to Trendy.

  I ran to the phone. Punched in my calling card number.

  “Jennifer,” Ratched said from across the room. “Who are you calling? It isn’t your day to call your family—”

  “Sophia,” I answered, wedging the handset between shoulder and ear. I held my journal in one hand, open to the list of phone numbers Sophia had given me.

  I dialed her father’s house. No answer.

  I called her mother’s house. The answering machine clicked on. I left a message, trying to sound cheerful, trying not to sound desperate.

  I hung up the phone. Patty was waiting. I had to give her a turn.

  Growing Pains was on. I sat. I tried not to cry. I wanted to go back to my room to escape the glares. But I wanted to talk to Sophia even more. If she called, if she managed to squeeze through the busy signal, no one would make the effort to find me. I needed to stay put.

  The phone rang during Head of the Class. Patty, who had just hung up, answered. “Jennifer,” she said. “It’s for you.”

  I took the black handset. “Hello?”

  “Hi, stranger!” Sophia said.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. It was so good to hear her voice. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay. It’s weird, being free.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At my dad’s.”

  “I tried to call you there. Fifteen, twenty minutes ago. No one answered.”

  “Dang it. I’m going to kill my sister. She doesn’t believe in call waiting. She probably ignored your beep.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Okay. Kill her for me, too.”

  “You got it.”

  “Did you meet your exchanges?” I asked. As bad as my day had been, hers had been worse.

  “Yes, Mommie Dearest!” She laughed. “I did. Although I felt like I was eating way too much. I feel like a blimp.”

  “You weren’t eating too much,” I said. “Just stick to your meal plan, okay? Hang in there until you come back.”

  “Ergh, enough about me,” she said. “How’s life in the loony bin?”

  Quietly, hand cupped around mouth and phone, I told her about the meeting, the milk trick, Monica. “They searched our room,” I whispered. “But they didn’t find anything.”

  “Well, of course they didn’t,” Sophia said.

  “How do you know—”

  “When I was packing up, the nurses left me alone for a minute. So I grabbed your little gifty and took it with me. Ha, that rhymed.”

  “Sophe!” It was all I could say. I breathed, “Oh, Sophia. Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “You saved my ass,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “And, oh, wait. Does that mean—”

  “Yes, I took your journal page, too. Sorry about that. I didn’t want to invade your privacy, but I had a feeling you’d write it down.” She said the last bit in a teacherly tone.

  “How did you know they would look?”

  “I told you, I don’t trust those girls. Not one bit.”

  “Oh my God, Sophe,” I said. “You saved my life. You truly saved me.”

  She laughed. “Don’t mention it,” she repeated.

  “But Sophe, you took a big risk—”

  “Jen,” she said. “Stop. That’s what friends are for.”

  Thursday, January 19, 1989

  Monica left. Deep down, I partly forgave her for ratting me out.

  Most of my anger and hurt was overtaken by massive concern. I was so afraid Monica would crash and burn.

  We never talked before she left. We didn’t sign each others’ journals. But I cried during the song circle.

  I cried because I didn’t know if we’d ever be friends again.

  I cried for the end of my first, lifesaving, complicated friendship in this place.

  I cried because it was good-bye.

  I talked to Bronwyn. It took all my courage.

  “Are you okay?” I asked after snack.

  I knew she must have been missing Monica.

  She sighed, lifted her shoulders to her ears.

  “Can we talk?”

  She shrugged again.

  “I just wanted to tell you, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I really didn’t mean to say anything hurtful. I was just…I was just trying to share my feelings.”

  “Well, you did that.”

  “I know, but I could have been nicer about it. I just…I was surprised. And scared. But I value our friendship so much. I’m really sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  Something changed in her eyes, something in her shoulders loosened. “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to let you down.”

  “You didn’t let me down,” I said.

  But this was a lie. She had let
me down.

  “And I don’t agree with what Monica did,” Bronwyn said. “Trying to drag you down. Reading your journal. That was a low blow.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So, we’re good?” Bronwyn asked.

  “We’re good.” But the air between us still felt chilly. And awkward.

  “You’ll always be my Chiquita Banana.”

  “You’ll always be my healthy lunchtime snack.”

  It made it better. Not all the way better. But enough.

  Friday, January 20, 1989

  Treatment-planning Objectives for Jennifer

  Patient request for snack out with staff—approved.

  Patient request for dinner out with staff—approved.

  Patient request to weigh self and learn maintenance range—approved.

  Patient request for regular trays—approved for January 25–28.

  Patient request for menu planning—approved.

  Patient request for weekend passes—approved.

  Patient should maintain family phone calls every other day.

  Patient should begin terminating with staff.

  Patient’s discharge date is set for Saturday, January 28. Notes:

  Patient has been very competitive with other patients regarding discharge date.

  Patient has been “homesick” with ongoing difficulty with separation/individuation.

  “I have something to address before Jenny comes home,” Mom said, once we had settled down for family therapy.

  “And what is that?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  She hesitated, then said, “I think Jenny manipulates me before I go on business trips.”

  “Do you go on business trips often?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  I sighed, “Yeah. She travels all over the country to teach people how to teach Caring Parenting courses.”

  Mom looked at the floor. The irony of teaching parenting skills while her daughter was in a psychiatric hospital was not lost on her, on me, on anyone. “I do think you try to manipulate me,” she said quietly.

  “To what end?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  “To try to keep me home,” she said.

  “Can you say more about that?”

  “It seems like Jenny comes to me the night before most of my trips. While I’m packing, and preparing, she comes and tells me something upsetting.”