Cut

by Patricia McCormick

  “Where’s Becca?” Sydney says.

  No one answers; Debbie keeps chewing as if she hasn’t heard.

  “Deb?” says Sydney. “Where’s Becca?”

  “Infirmary.” Debbie sounds bored, matter-of-fact; she doesn’t look at Sydney, she stares at some spot on the far wall.

  Tara sets her juice glass down slowly. “What’s the matter with her?”

  Debbie doesn’t answer; she chews, scoops up another piece, pops it in her mouth.

  “Debbie?” Tara looks like she’s going to cry.

  “Debbie!” says Sydney. “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugs.

  “Is it her heart?” Tara says.

  Debbie gets to her feet hurriedly. Her lower lip is quivery. “I don’t know.” She grabs her tray and storms away.

  Our table goes quiet. Then there’s a flurry of talking.

  “I bet it’s another heart attack,” Tara says.

  Sydney drapes an arm around Tara’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It can’t be that bad if Becca’s only in the infirmary. She’d be in the hospital if it were serious.”

  Tiffany agrees, reaches in her ever-present purse, and hands Tara a tissue.

  Amanda rocks back in her chair and smiles. “Intense,” she says with admiration. “That Becca chick is really intense.”

  I feel for the loose strip of metal at the edge of the table, bending it a little. With no warning it breaks off in my hand. Everyone is so busy worrying about Becca, they don’t look at me. It’s an accident, this thing snapping off into my hand, but I slip it in my pocket. Just in case.

  The chimes ring; it’s hard to leave.

  “Remember that girl in my group I told you about,” I say as soon as you close your door.

  “Which one?”you say.

  “Becca, the really skinny girl, the anorexic who’s still throwing up?”

  You nod.

  “She … I …” Hot tears start to well up in my eyes; you become a blur of colors. “Something’s wrong.”

  I look out the window, shading my eyes with my hands like the sun’s too bright.

  “What is it, Callie?” I steal a glance at you; your hands are pressed together in a praying gesture. “Tell me, please.”

  “We don’t know what’s wrong,” I say, suddenly conscious that I’ve used the word we. I can’t go on.

  “She might have had another heart attack,” I say finally, the words coming out in stop-start bursts.

  You slide the tissue box across the carpet and leave it at my feet. “Can you tell me why you’re so upset?”

  “No.” I feel foggy again, lost. “I really can’t.”

  You lean back. “Would you feel better if I tell you what I know?”

  I nod, vaguely startled and yet not surprised somehow that you would know what’s going on with the girls in my group.

  “It wasn’t a heart attack,” you say.

  I sit forward and wait for you to tell me more.

  “The doctor said she did have an irregular heartbeat last night,”you say. “And some palpitations.”

  “She didn’t have a heart attack?” I need to be sure.

  “No. They think she was probably just dehydrated.”

  “From throwing up?”

  “That’s a good possibility.”

  I wad up a tissue, throw it in the trash can, and grab another one. “So she’s going to be OK?”

  You blow out a long steady stream of air. “I can’t say. She will be, if she begins taking responsibility for her health, for her recovery here. If she doesn’t…” Your voice trails off.

  “Debbie was really upset,” I say.

  “Debbie?”

  “The girl who takes care of her.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “She was eating pancakes,” I say. “A lot of pancakes.” I picture Debbie at the breakfast table, shoveling food into her mouth. And it dawns on me that seeing her eat like that might have grossed me out before—or annoyed me, or maybe even secretly pleased me. Now it just makes me sad.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Me? I don’t know.”

  You don’t seem completely satisfied with this answer.

  “Tara. She was upset too.” I want to talk about Debbie, about Tara, about everybody else. “The new girl,” I say. “She’s weird.”

  You cock your head slightly.

  “It was like she was happy it happened.”

  “Callie,” you say. “What about you? How do you feel about what Becca did?”

  Your eyes flick toward the clock, making a quick check. Without really thinking, I pat the outside of my pocket, feeling for the metal strip, telling myself it’s there if I need it.

  How do I feel? I feel like cutting. I don’t know why. And I don’t tell you.

  Everyone’s already there when I get to Group; the only chairs left are Becca’s old seat and the one next to Debbie. Debbie’s eyes are bloodshot, her eyelids painted with blue eye shadow, and her face is powdery white. She’s obviously been crying. I slide into the chair next to her.

  Claire starts off by saying that it looks like Becca’s going to be OK, but that she’ll have to be in the infirmary for a while.

  “She didn’t have a heart attack?” says Tara.

  “Is she coming back?” says Sydney.

  “Can I have her room?” says Tiffany.

  Claire takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Becca hasn’t been eating; she was hiding her food, then throwing it away,” she says. She holds her glasses up to the light, rubs out a smudge with a tissue. “She’s also been throwing up what little she did eat.”

  “Now,” she says, putting her glasses back on, “what we need to talk about in this group are your feelings about Becca’s actions.”

  Tiffany chews on her nails. Debbie chews her gum. I chew my lip. Then the room is quiet—so quiet we can hear the muffled sound of voices from the group next door.

  “No volunteers?” Claire says at last. “OK. We’ll go around the circle.”

  My heart hammers; we’ve never done this before. What will happen when it’s my turn?

  “Tiffany, why don’t you go first?” Claire says.

  I breathe out; Tiffany’s four seats away from me.

  Tiffany rolls her eyes, adjusts her purse strap. “It pisses me off,” she says. “I don’t know why, it just does.” She turns to Tara.

  Tara shrugs. Then she starts crying. She throws her hands up and turns toward Amanda My heart beats double time; two more people and it’ll be my turn.

  “I didn’t know her that well,” Amanda says. “I mean I don’t know her that well. It’s not like she’s dead or anything.” She flashes a cocky smile around the circle.

  “But how did you feel about it?” Claire says.

  “Feel? Oh, I think it raised some issues for me. Fear of abandonment, self-loathing, repressed hostility, that sort of thing. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  Claire purses her lips; her gaze travels to Sydney. “Sydney, how about you?”

  Sydney’s next to me, but I can hardly hear her, my heart is pounding so hard.

  “It bugged me.” Sydney’s voice cracks. She clears her throat. “It bugged me that she’s, you know, doing that to herself. How could she do that to herself?” She starts crying, then turns to me.

  I survey the circle. Tara gives me a teary smile from under the brim of her baseball cap. Amanda eyes me suspiciously. I pick at a hangnail.

  Then Debbie leans over. “You don’t have to say anything, Callie.” She looks around the group. “Right, everyone?”

  “Why can’t you leave people alone?” says Tiffany. “Why can’t you let her decide if she wants to talk? You’re so worried about her. About trying to make sure she doesn’t have to talk. I think you’re the one who doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  Debbie ignores her, turns to Claire. “She doesn’t have to talk if she doesn’t want to, does she?”

  Clair
e sighs. “That’s up to Callie,” she says. “Callie, are you ready to talk today?”

  “C’mon, S.T.,” Sydney whispers.

  I pull at the hangnail. Words take shape in my brain, a few, then a flood; then they’re gone. I shake my head, a little at first, then harder, as I watch my hair swing from side to side.

  “OK,” says Claire. “Debbie?”

  Debbie’s arm brushes mine as she shifts in her chair.

  There’s silence, then the sound of more talking next door, then more silence.

  “Scared.”

  I have to look out of the corner of my eye to make sure it’s Debbie talking.

  “Debbie,” says Claire. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

  Debbie wrings her shirt in her hands. I don’t move. “You’re all going to be mad at me.”

  “Why do you think that?” says Claire.

  Debbie shrugs. Her arm brushes mine again; it’s soft and pillowy. I relax my grip a little.

  “Debbie,” Claire says in a gentle voice. “Can you look at me a minute?” We all look at her. “Why would we be angry with you?”

  Debbie twists her shirt into a knot. “I should’ve tried to stop her.”

  People shift in their seats. Someone across the room coughs. Then nothing.

  Tara raises her hand finally. “You couldn’t have known what she was doing.”

  “I should have.” Debbie looks around the group. “I know that’s what you all think. I know you all hate me. You hate me for not taking care of Becca. I know it.”

  No one says anything.

  Debbie plows her fists into her thighs. “It’s not fair I try to do what people want. At home, I do all the things no one else wants to do. I sort the recyclables, I clean the litter box, I do the wash …”

  There’s a long silence.

  “Why?” says Sydney. Her voice is soft, curious.

  Debbie shrugs.

  “Why do you do things people don’t even ask you to?”

  Debbie shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She sounds exhausted. “I really don’t.” She sighs a long, tired sigh; when she’s finished the room is quiet again. She sinks back into her chair, her arm resting against mine. I don’t move away.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  The words come out of my mouth. I aim them at my lap. But they’re for Debbie. From me.

  I can hear people squirming in their chairs. Then the room is quiet again. I peer out from under my hair and take in the circle of feet. Everyone is wearing sneakers, except Amanda, who has on combat boots.

  Debbie turns to look at me. “What did you say?” she whispers.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “About Becca.”

  I keep my eyes on Amanda’s boots; her legs are crossed and she’s swinging her foot up and down.

  “It’s mine.”

  Amanda stops swinging her foot.

  “I …” My voice gives out. I clear my throat. “I saw her …One time I saw her put her brownie in a napkin. And in the bathroom, I knew she was throwing up.”

  I lean back in my chair, feeling trembly and very, very tired. The silence is long and loud with things people aren’t saying. I can’t stand to look up and see their faces. To see how angry they are.

  Footsteps echo in the hallway. They get louder and louder, then faint, then fainter, then they trail away.

  “Hey, S.T.,” Sydney says finally.

  I don’t budge.

  She nudges me with her elbow. “You want to know something?”

  I still can’t look up. But I nod.

  “It’s not your fault, either.” She says this like it’s no big deal. Like it’s nothing.

  But it’s everything.

  Group is over then and people are standing, gathering up their books, heading to their appointments. I keep my head down, grip the edge of my chair, and hold on like my life depends on it. I don’t know what just happened in here, but I can’t leave.

  “S.T.?” It’s Sydney’s voice. “You coming?”

  She’s standing in front of me. Debbie’s there, too. And Tara And Claire. A semicircle of feet.

  A weird strangling sound starts in my chest, then comes out my mouth. I’m crying—sobbing, actually, and gulping for air. I wipe my eyes; the feet are still there. But the crying won’t stop. I’m shaking and trying not to shake, but it’s no good. I can’t stop. Claire says something about going to get help.

  Finally, a pair of white shoes pushes through the semicircle. Ruby’s there, rubbing my back, saying, “There, there, baby. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

  Then you’re standing there, in your little fabric shoes, saying the same thing, that it’s all right now.

  You shut your door; I notice that it’s getting dark outside and wonder if you’d be home walking your dog or making your dinner right now if I hadn’t freaked out.

  “Can you tell me what upset you so much in Group?”

  I shrug. “Debbie.” It’s all I can say.

  “How did Debbie upset you?”

  “No.” I blow my nose. “Debbie didn’t do anything. I …she …” I rip the tissue in two and start again. “She thought it was her fault. About Becca.”

  I don’t dare to look at you.

  “I thought it was my fault,” I whisper.

  I glance at you, then away. You look worried.

  “I think everything’s my fault.”

  “What else is your fault?”

  “I don’t know. Everything. Sam.”

  “Sam?”

  “It’s my fault he’s sick. Which means it’s my fault my mom’s not the same anymore and my fault my dad’s not around. It’s all my fault.”

  “Callie.” Your voice is gentle. “How can all those things be your fault?”

  “I don’t know. They just are.”

  “How is it your fault that Sam is sick?”

  “I made him cry? I got him upset?” I’ve always taken this for granted; as I say it out loud, though, it sounds stupid.

  “Callie, I’m a doctor,” you say. “If I tell you that a person doesn’t get asthma from crying, from being upset, will you believe me?”

  I shrug.

  “Asthma is a kind of allergic reaction. People can develop it when they come in contact with certain substances, like pollen or dust. Sometimes a viral infection can trigger an attack. But you can’t give asthma to someone. The allergic response is already in their system.”

  The fog is clouding my mind again. What you’re saying sounds like something from biology class; it doesn’t have anything to do with me or Sam or my mom being scared all the time and my dad being gone all the time. I look for the rabbit on the ceiling but can’t quite find him.

  “Has anyone told you all these things are your fault?” you interrupt.

  “No one has to. I just know.”

  “Does anyone punish you for these things?”

  I shake my head.

  “No one?”

  I look up at you. You still look concerned.

  “What about you? Aren’t you punishing yourself? By hurting yourself?”

  I don’t understand. “No.”

  “Then why do you think you cut yourself?”

  “I don’t know.” I tear the tissue to shreds. “It just happens. I can’t help it.”

  You furrow your brow.

  “I know it’s bad,” I say. “I guess I do it because I’m …bad.”

  “How are you bad?”

  “I don’t know. I just feel like I’m this bad person.”

  “What have you done that’s so bad?”

  “I don’t know.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. “I really don’t know.”

  You look pleased and say that’s enough for one day.

  Right before dinner there’s always a crowd of people on the smoking porch. As I go past, Sydney taps on the glass door. I stop and watch as she gestures for me to come out. Before I can decide what to do, she grinds out her
cigarette and comes in to get me.

  “C’mon, S.T.,” she says, grabbing my arm. “Come outside with us.”

  I pull my sleeve down over my thumb and follow, trying to match her big strides as her ponytail bobs up and down in front of me.

  “Guess I can’t call you S.T anymore.” She waits at the door for me to catch up. “Now that you’re talking.”

  “It’s OK,” I say. “You can still call me that.”

  There’s a blast of cold, smoky air as Sydney opens the door. I step onto the porch, take in the curious looks of the other girls, and jam my hands into my pockets.

  “Want one?” Sydney waves a pack of cigarettes in front of me. I shake my head and watch the careful way she lights up, cupping her hand around the match to keep it from blowing out. “My favorite addiction,” she says, blowing out a fat white smoke ring.

  Tiffany wanders over. “Does anybody else think it’s weird that we’re allowed to smoke here?” she says.

  Sydney admires her smoke ring as it floats away. “Yeah,” she says. “No barfing, no bingeing, no inhaling fumes from the art supplies. But smoking’s OK.”

  The other girls laugh and I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. I lift my sleeve to my mouth, but the smile stays as they make jokes about the rules, about the food, about Group. It’s cold outside and I wonder why no one ever wears a coat at Sick Minds. Mostly, though, I test out what it feels like to smile again.

  I’m so tired that night that I fall asleep in my clothes. I’m sitting up in bed reading a story for English and the next thing I know Ruby’s leaning over me, telling me it’s almost lights out.

  “You want to put this on?” She’s holding one of my nightgowns.

  Then she’s gone, her shoes squeaking down the hall. The room is dark; Sydney’s on her back, sleeping. I get up slowly, then make my way down to the bathroom.

  Rochelle’s in her chair and Amanda’s standing at the sink, although I hardly recognize her. She’s washed off all her makeup—her pencil-arched brows, her black eyeliner, her red lipstick—and she looks very young. She’s studying her face in the mirror, so she doesn’t notice me right away. When she does, she scowls.

  I find a corner, turn my back, and begin the process of getting undressed for the shower without letting her see me. First I unhook my bra, tug the straps down, and pull it off from under my shirt. Then I drape the towel over my shoulders and take off my shirt, quickly pulling the towel around me, toga-style, as my shirt falls to the floor Next I step out of my jeans, holding the towel in place with one hand and tugging my pants off with the other I’m balanced on one foot, kicking off my pants leg, when something metal hits the tile floor with a tiny plink.