and grabbed his coat.
Once we got in the car, I realized I was cold. Cold and wet. “Could you put on the heat?” I said.
He didn’t say anything, just flipped the heater on. It blew out cold air at first and I had to hug my arms to my side to keep from getting even colder. When the car started to warm up, he turned the heater off, unzipped his coat, and tugged on his collar.
All the things I’d passed on my way there—the fast-food places, the video rental store—went by the window in slow motion. How could it take so much longer to drive home than it had to run there? But it must have just seemed slow, because we still got there before my mom did.
I remember exactly, but I don’t tell you. I just sit there and stare at the stain on the carpet until finally you sigh and say that’s all the time we have for today.
Something wakes me up in the middle of the night: the quiet. I sit up, listen for the squeaking of Ruby’s shoes, for the sound of someone crying into a pillow, for the far-off laugh track from the attendants’ TV. But for once it’s absolutely silent in here. The room is filled with a milky white glow; I sit up and see then that it’s snowing. I listen to the snowflakes hitting the window, making a faint scratching sound. Then I lie down, roll over, try to go back to sleep. In the distance, car tires spin, then stop.
I remember a talk show about people who had trouble falling asleep; some expert told them to get up and read or have a glass of milk instead of trying to sleep. Still, I try to sleep. I play the inhale-exhale game. It doesn’t work. Finally I get up, feel around for my slippers, and decide to see if Ruby’s at the desk knitting or something.
Outside each dorm room, near the floor, are a pair of childproof night-lights; I think about telling Ruby that this makes the hallway look like an airport landing strip. She’ll like that. We’ll talk. After that, I’ll be able to sleep.
Down at the end of the hall, Rochelle is at her post, on the lookout for late-night barfers and illegal laxative users. As I pass Becca’s room, something in the dim glow of the night-light catches my eye. It’s Ruby, sitting on the edge of Becca’s bed. I decide to wait for her so I can tell her about the landing strip.
Ruby glances up, gives me a half-worried, half-annoyed look; I shrink back against the wall, then tiptoe back to my room and count the snowflakes until, somehow, it’s morning and Sydney’s making her bed.
The cafeteria is more insane than usual. Maybe it’s the snow, maybe it’s the pancakes; the clatter and the laughing and the talking are worse than ever. I’m in line, waiting for my breakfast, when Debbie cuts in front of me. She’s apparently back for seconds; an empty, syrup-streaked plate is in her hand.
“What’s taking so long?” she yells over the counter to a kitchen worker in a hair net.
The woman smiles nervously; Debbie hands her plate across the counter.
“I need more,” she says.
By the time I get my juice and sit down, Debbie’s almost finished. Tara’s sitting across from her, watching, practically terrified, as Debbie eats one mouthful of pancake after another. Amanda regards Debbie with something like awe.
“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.
