You smile a little more.
“She made me sit on the examining table. She felt my forehead. She took my pulse. Then she dropped my arm and said, ‘Oh wow.’ She said she’d be right back. I lay down on the table and the next thing I remember, she was shaking my shoulder to wake me up. My mom was standing there, pressing a tissue to her lips.”
I check to see if you are pleased with all these words. You look concerned.
“You know what?” I say. “I’ve thought about her a lot since I’ve been here.”
You tilt your head.
“About… what’s her name?” I say. “The substitute nurse.”
“Shelly Magee.”
“Yeah. I’ve thought about sending her a postcard.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“You know—‘Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.’”
“Are you?”
I don’t understand.
“Are you having a wonderful time?”
I pick a piece of fuzz off the couch, roll it between my fingers, flick it into the air.
“Do you wish she was here?”
“No.”
“Callie, let me ask you something.” You sit forward in your dead-cow chair. “How exactly did Shelly Magee see your scars?”
“She took my pulse.”
“You didn’t try to stop her?”
A sudden heat washes over me. I can feel my cheeks reddening, my throat getting tight. I pull my arms to my sides and sit very still.
“I’m glad you didn’t try to stop her.” Your voice comes across the space between us, gentle but sure.
I take in the sight of you in your leather chair, so calm, so normal, so pretty in your long green skirt.
“You don’t think I’m crazy?” I laugh.
You don’t laugh.
“You don’t think I’m insane for doing this?” I hold up my arm, my sleeve pulled safely over my bandage.
“No, Callie,” you say matter-of-factly “I don’t think you’re crazy at all.”
I blink.
“I think you’ve come up with a way to deal with feelings that you find overwhelming. Overwhelmingly bad, overwhelmingly frightening.”
I sink back into the cushions on your couch. It occurs to me that I sit up perfectly straight the whole time I’m in here, that my back has never actually touched the back of the couch.
“Really?” I say.
“Really.”
The clock says it’s time to go.
“So, can you make me stop?” I say.
“Make you? No. I can’t make you.”
“Well, then, can you, you know, help?”
You tap your lip. “Yes,”you say, “if you want to stop.” Then you stand up and say we’ll talk more tomorrow.
I say OK, but what I really want to say is that I’m not sure I can stop.
Everyone else must still be on the smoking porch because Claire’s the only one in the room when I get to Group. Her glasses are in her hands and she’s pinching the bridge of her nose; there are two red spots where her glasses usually sit. She looks up when she sees me at the door and smiles. I don’t exactly smile back, but I don’t not smile either. We sit there a while, me reviewing the new order of cars in the parking lot and Claire blowing on coffee in a paper cup, until the other girls file in.
The room is suddenly full of talking and laughing. Sydney is at the end of one of her stories. “That proves I’m the sanest one in the family,” she says, flopping down in her chair.
“Me too!” Tara practically cries out. Then she stops cold in the center of the circle: Amanda is back and she’s sitting in Tara’s seat.
Tara gives Claire a pleading look. Claire doesn’t respond; Sydney pats the seat of the chair next to hers, and Tara slips in beside Sydney.
Suddenly Group is a game of musical chairs. Tiffany comes in, surveys the situation, looks to Claire for help, then plunks into the nearest seat. Becca and Debbie arrive last.
Becca darts into the seat next to Tara Debbie huffs, then takes the last seat, the one next to me.
I draw my arms to my side to make room for her.
There’s a long silence. Somebody complains about the food. Then more silence. Somebody else complains about the bathrooms, then about how nosy the attendants are. More silence.
“So?” Sydney says to Amanda “Where were you?”
“When?”
Sydney looks around the group for help.
“At breakfast,” Tara says. “You weren’t at breakfast.”
Amanda smirks. “Room service.”
Tiffany laughs. No one else does.
“Seriously,” says Sydney.
“You really care?” says Amanda “That’s so co-dependent of you.”
Sydney looks confused, then hurt.
“I was in the infirmary,” Amanda says.
“Really?” says Debbie.
“Really,” Amanda says sarcastically.
“I heard you had to get a shot,” Debbie says.
Amanda arches an eyebrow.
“Didn’t they give you a sedative?” says Debbie.
Amanda laughs. “Tetanus,” she announces. Then she leans forward and winks at me. “Right?”
I can’t answer, but I can’t stand to have everybody looking at me either. I nod. Then I go back to looking out the window and wondering whatever happened to that fly that was caught between the glass and the screen.
After Group, Ruby waves to me from her desk. “You have a package,” she says. “Priority Mail.”
I know, as soon as I see it, it’s from my mother. The mailing box is covered with cat stickers, the address is written in calligraphy; I wonder what the Sick Minds postman must have thought.
I tuck it under my arm and start to head back to my room.
“Hold on,” says Ruby. “You have to open that under supervision. Standard operating procedure.”
Ruby uses a key to slice through the mailing tape. Inside, nestled in a sea of pink Styrofoam peanuts, is a quilted calico thing. She holds it up. It’s my name, in puffy calico letters.
On the back is a suction cup. She hands me a note that was lying among the peanuts. Dear Callie,Here’s a little something to brighten your room at Sea Pines. The suction cup on the back is so you can hang it on your door. (I checked with the office, since you girls aren’t allowed to have thumbtacks.) Let me know if the other girls would like them. I can make them up in a jiffy.They said you’re doing better there. That’s good.Get well soon.Love,Mom
I take the calico name thing and start to walk back to my room.
“Wait,” says Ruby. “There’s something else.”
I try to act like I don’t care what it is, like I’m not interested, like I’m not hoping for anything good, anything from my dad, as Ruby hands me a small white envelope.
I know as soon as I see the front, with my name in blue marker, it’s from Sam. Inside is a hockey card. Not just any card, though, it’s his Wayne Gretzky his favorite. There’s no note, just the card.
I check to make sure no one’s around. Then I hold the card up so Ruby can see. “My little brother,” I say. “He loves hockey.”
