Thin

by Alicia Michaels

  Gesturing toward it, I stepped aside. “You want to sit?”

  After laying her purse on my nightstand, Mom lowered herself into the chair, maintaining her perfect posture and crossing one leg over the other. She watched me with an expectant gaze as I sat on the bed a few feet away from her and folded my hands in my lap.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, breaking the silence that had settled between us. “Is something wrong?”

  A rough, dry laugh fell from my mouth, and I shook my head. “Nothing’s really wrong, it’s just … this isn’t easy, Mom. I want to tell you something, but it might make you mad.”

  For the first time, her expression softened, and she sighed, sitting back more comfortably in the chair. “Listen, the things that have happened over the last year have been hard. On you, most of all, but also on our family as a whole. Whatever you need to tell me, we can get through it together.”

  It all sounded good in theory, but I knew my mother well. Despite what she said now, she wasn’t going to like this.

  “I want to change my major.”

  A flicker of surprise showed on her face, before being wiped away. Clearing her throat, she shifted in her chair and uncrossed her legs.

  “I see,” she replied. “What brought this about?”

  My hands began to shake, and I clenched them together in my lap. “I need change, Mom. I can’t go back to my old life.”

  “You were stressed, and that is understandable. Perhaps fewer extracurricular activities would help?”

  Nodding in agreement, I took hope in the fact that she hadn’t immediately hit the roof. “I do plan to cut back. No more cheerleading for sure. I don’t need the pressure to conform. Dr. Iverson and I have discovered it has had a lot to do with triggering my … my issues.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I can see how the demands of competitive cheerleading might have an impact on your self-image. This is a wise decision. But changing your major is quite another thing. Have you decided what you might wish to study?”

  My throat constricted, and I had to force my tongue to come unglued from my mouth. I darted my gaze toward the two paintings on the wall, and found comfort in them. Nothing had felt better for me the past sixty days, than watching those two pieces come together. This was the right decision.

  “Art,” I whispered.

  For a long while, she didn’t reply. The silence became unbearable after the first thirty seconds, yet it was impossible for me to determine how to fill it. Her expression gave no indication of her feelings one way or the other. She simply stared straight ahead without blinking. I lowered my eyes and waited for her to speak, wishing for my father’s presence now more than ever.

  Finally, she stood, folding her hands behind her back and taking a few steps toward the canvases hanging on my wall. She studied them for a moment, her back to me. I stared at the tight ponytail at the nape of her neck, hanging down in a black, straight line between her shoulder blades.

  “You’re a talented artist, there is no disputing that,” she said, keeping her back turned. “Perhaps we should have allowed you to continue art classes, and cut some of your other extra-curricular activities. There is nothing to be done about it now. It is clear that painting has been a crucial part of your therapy, and of course continuing that after you leave this place might be best. However, I fail to see how you could think art would ever be a viable career for someone as intelligent as you.”

  There it was. I had expected this from her.

  “Just because someone’s good at something, doesn’t mean it needs to become their whole life,” I argued. “I’m good at math … maybe that means I’ll be really good at doing my own taxes and can help my kids with their homework all the way up until they graduate college.”

  Turning to face me, she shook her head. “It is a waste, of both your brilliant mind, and the influence you could command. Do you know what people see when they look at you?”

  I blinked back tears and forced myself not to look away. I couldn’t afford to back down on this one. The speech I knew was coming had been recited to me before, so I had tried to prepare for it.

  “Depending on which side of your bi-racial heritage they pick up on first,” she continued when I didn’t answer, “they will either see a black girl, or an Indian one. In the eyes of so many people, you will seem like nothing more than a ghetto welfare queen or a terrorist. What have I always told you about living in a world where you are seen as different? You must do … what?”

  “Work twice as hard,” I whispered. “To be seen as half as good.”

  She nodded once, in a precise motion. “Do you know how few women of color there are in my field? How hard I had to work to make them take me seriously? Or how many of them treated me as if I had the plague after the planes hit those towers in New York?”

  “I understand all that, Mom,” I managed.

  “Do you?” she challenged. “Maybe you’ve had a taste of it in college … the way those coaches were so hard on you as opposed to the other cheerleaders. Or maybe some boy you met didn’t date ethnic girls. That’s only the tip of it. How seriously do you think anyone will take you if you’re living on scraps and living in some hovel? Because, that is what you’ll be living on as an artist. It isn’t a viable career, Kinsley! You are capable of so much more, and the world is in need of people like you doing important things.”

  “I’m dying!” I yelled, rising up to my feet.

  My mother started, her mouth falling open at my tone of voice. I had never raised my voice at either of my parents before.

  “I know what you’ve been through, and I hate that this world can’t see how smart, and strong, and capable you are,” I continued. “I admire you so much for all that you’ve done, and I know you want me to be a force just like you. But trying to live up to your expectations is killing me. I can’t do it anymore. And art may not be the same as keeping a corporation from going bankrupt, but it is important. Art is in everything, and it is all around us. I could teach it to others, or become known for my work through paintings and murals. There’s museum curating, and a host of other careers related to art I could pursue. It can be viable. I can be a force too, but maybe in a different way than you.”

  Arcing one eyebrow, she pursed her lips. “So, I am to blame for all of this? Is that what your therapist has taught you … to blame Mother for everything?”

  I sighed, running a hand over my face. The short time we’d been behind closed doors had already taken a lot out of me. I felt as if I stood in a boxing ring being pommeled by Floyd Mayweather.

  “Of course not,” I replied. “This is all on me, because I’ve been trying so hard to be what everyone else thought I should be. In the end, it was too much, and I crumbled under it. I’m not doing this to hurt you, or get back at you. I just need to discover what it is I want. I’ve spent too long doing what you want for me, and it’s not working anymore.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and paced toward my only window, glancing out at the tennis court and sunny afternoon.

  “Perhaps a semester off will help you gain some perspective. You simply need more time to rest, away from school and other pressures. Why don’t you come home for the rest of the summer once you are done here? Maybe you could even stay through the fall semester. School isn’t going anywhere, and you can finish when you’re ready.”

  I couldn’t hide my shock at her offer. Her bringing me that envelope one month before caused me to think she expected me to return to school promptly in the fall.

  “And if I come home, and decide after the summer is over that I still want to change my major to art?”

  She clenched her jaw, nostrils flaring as she drew in a breath. “I cannot support the decision. You earned a scholarship to study mathematics, and you’ve done that. You have spent four years working toward a degree, and now you want to throw it all away?”

  “The scholarship is lost now, anyway,” I argued. “I flunked out of my last semester, there’s no
more money coming my way from that end. And it’s not a complete waste, because my core credits still count toward the art degree. I would need two more years, maybe two and a half.”

  “And I suppose you want your father and I to pay for it?”

  “I … I actually hadn’t thought about that part. I had hoped you would help me figure it out.”

  Scoffing, she shook her head. “Further proof that you have not thought this through.”

  “I have! Maybe not well enough for you, but I have. There’s time to figure this out, but I need you. I’m certain this is the right decision, but I’m so scared of the change. I need you to help me do this the right way, and make plans. Please, Mom.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but the sound of a scream from the next room stole both our attention. Turning in the direction of the bathroom door, I realized it had come from Dawn’s room. My heart dropped swiftly into my stomach, and I felt my limbs moving me in that direction before I could give it a second thought.

  I dashed through the bathroom, finding Dawn’s side of it open. Faltering in the doorway, I choked on a scream at the sight of her splayed on the floor with blood streaming from a gash in her throat.

  Tracy, the nurse, knelt beside her, using a towel to stop the bleeding. Glancing up at me with tears running down her cheeks, she sobbed.

  “Hit that button on the wall,” she wailed, her voice hoarse from screaming.

  Finding the alert button near the room’s door—identical to the one in my own room—I slammed my palm against it, filling the room with a loud siren-like sound. A blue light flashed out in the hall in time with the wail.

  Running back to kneel beside Dawn, I stared down at her and couldn’t choke back the sob burning in my throat.

  “What happened?” I asked, taking in the gray pallor of her skin, contrasting with the dark crimson of her blood.

  “I was just here an hour ago,” Tracy replied. “I came back and found her like this. I don’t understand … we checked her for contraband several times, but somehow she snuck a nail file past us.”

  “A nail file?” My voice came out on a hoarse gasp.

  Glancing down at Dawn’s limp arm, I found her fist clenched around the nail file she had stashed in my room. Now I knew why the seat cushion of my chair had been on the floor.

  “Oh, Dawn,” I cried, swiping at my eyes with the back of one hand.

  Through my tears, I watched my mom kneel on the other side of Dawn’s body. Reaching out, she took the nail file and set it aside, before grasping the girl’s hand in hers.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked in a rough, thick voice. I’d never heard her sound this way before.

  Tracy glanced toward the door. “Someone’s coming but … maybe some gauze. It’s at the nurse’s station, end of the hall. I need to keep pressure on the wound.”

  Nodding, she grabbed my hand and forced me to take Dawn’s. “Comfort your friend,” she commanded before standing to run from the room.

  The sound of her heels faded, then sounded off in the hall again. I helped Tracy replace the bloody towel with a stack of clean gauze pads, keeping a fist-tight hold on Dawn’s hand.

  Despite her eyes being closed, I could see her chest rising and falling, though her breaths seemed a bit week.

  “Come on, you little bitch,” I whispered between sobs. “Don’t you dare die on us. Derek would never forgive you.”

  Tracy gave me a puzzled look, but no one would understand my calling her a bitch at a time like this aside from Derek. After another minute—which felt like an hour—a gurney was rolled into the room, with Dr. Swanson and a few of the other nurses on her heels. She gasped once she realized what was happening, but quickly jumped into action.

  “An ambulance is on the way,” she declared. “Let’s get her up on here, we can keep her stable until they get here.”

  Kicking off her pumps, she ran barefoot across the room, pulling one end of the gurney. In seconds, they’d lowered it, and she assisted the nurses in lifting her onto it. In a few more seconds they were gone, wheeling her out of the room and leaving me alone with Tracy, kneeling in a pool of Dawn’s blood. The nail file gleamed against the tiles, the light accusing me by caressing it’s stained, sharp edge.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hours after Dawn had been taken away in an ambulance, I found myself in the art studio staring at my latest project. Now that I’d finished my collage, Joy had challenged me to attempt a self-portrait.

  “It helps many patients to project the way they feel about themselves onto a canvas,” she’d said, indicating many of the portraits she’d hung on one of the studio’s far walls. “Some of my students paint another self-portrait on their one-year anniversary of recovery, and send them to me. I like to display them, to show the people who come here what a difference time can make.”

  Having inspected the ‘before and after’ paintings lined up side-by-side, I saw what she meant very clearly. I’d begun work on mine, with a mirror placed on my easel for reference. I had underestimated how hard it would be. Despite having gained weight and becoming healthier over the past sixty days, I still saw myself as the hollow, rail-thin ghost I had been when I first arrived at Willow Creek. In my eyes, my cheeks were still caved in, the bones in my face jutting far too sharply. It made the project difficult, making my pace slower than it would typically be.

  However, tonight I sat at a standstill, unable to think past the guilt and worry gnawing on my stomach. I wasn’t certain how long I’d been sitting there, staring at the canvas until my vision began to blur, before a warm hand came down on my shoulder.

  I knew it was him without even having to turn around.

  “What do you want?” I mumbled, not even bothering to turn around.

  Clearing his throat, he moved to stand next to me. I could feel his stare against the side of my face. “I thought you might want an update on Dawn.”

  Drawing in a sharp breath, I finally turned to look at Royce. “Is she …”

  “She’s stable,” he replied. “But it was a close call. That nail file did a lot of damage.”

  My throat began to burn and hot tears splashed my cheeks. His face became indiscernible, and I felt my body go limp. The floor careened toward me as the first sob tore from my chest. Royce reached out to steady me, sinking to one knee while I fell toward the floor. Arms tight around me, he didn’t let go, even as my cries echoed from the walls and ceiling of the empty room.

  “It’s all right,” he said, his hand stroking up and down my back in a soothing gesture. “She’s okay … she’s going to be fine.”

  Shaking my head, I pushed away from him and struggled to stand, bracing one hand on my stool for leverage.

  “No thanks to me.”

  Royce frowned, rising to his feet as well. “If it weren’t for you and your mom going into that room, she might have bled to death.”

  “The nail file was mine,” I confessed, slumping back onto my stool. “My first day here, she took it from my bag and hid it so it wouldn’t be confiscated. I let her …”

  Sighing, Royce grabbed another one of the nearby stools, and pulled it close to mine. Sitting down, he propped his feet on the bottom rung and folded his hands in his lap.

  “You couldn’t have predicted this would happen. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Do you think Dr. Swanson would blame me if she knew?”

  Running a hand over his hair, he shook his head. “Of course not. And even if she did, you should know that this wasn’t Dawn’s first suicide attempt. Even if you’d told someone about the nail file and had it taken away, she would have found a way. Dawn has been through a lot, and recovery is harder to come by for people without the kind of support system you have … or the kind I had.”

  Sniffling, I tried to let his words bring me some sort of comfort. Yet, I couldn’t help but wonder what else I might have done.

  “What will happen to her now?” I asked. “She’s due to leave here soon, but she’s ob
viously not ready.”

  “I went to the hospital with Dr. Swanson, and we spoke with her parents. They don’t think there’s anything else we can do for her here. She’ll remain in the hospital while she recovers from this, then her parents are taking her home to Dallas. There’s a facility there with a program that’s a bit stricter than ours. They specialize in the most severe cases.”

  I worked to wipe away the last of my tears and bring my breathing under control. “I hate to think of her stuck in some new place around people she doesn’t know. They won’t understand her like we do.”

  Royce nodded. “That’s true, but maybe at this point what Dawn needs is exactly that. People who know and love her haven’t been hard enough on her, and it’s not making her any better. A fresh start someplace else might be just what she needs.”

  As we lapsed into silence again, it occurred to me that he might be right. It didn’t make me feel any better about the fact that I might never see her again, or know what would become of her.

  “Did your mom get off okay?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  Remembering her last words to me, I fought not to cry again. It had been a long, emotional day.

  “I looked at that girl today, and I saw what you meant,” she’d said. “Is that what you were trying to tell me when you said you were dying?”

  Unwilling to let her think the fact that she’d been hard on me would make me want to hurt myself, I shook my head. “Maybe not exactly like that. But, I can’t say Dawn and I aren’t the same, or that I could never be her. I came really close last year when I overdosed on those pills.”

  Falling silent for a moment, she’d studied me intently. I had been acutely aware of the blood staining the cuffs of her crisp, white dress shirt.

  “I cannot pretend that I understand your need to pursue art as a career,” she’d said. “However, I am willing to consider it, and have a conversation with your father about how the three of us might find a way to pay for it. All I ask is that you take more time to really think about this, Kinsley. My offer to take you home with me for what’s left of the summer still stands.”