“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?”
Claire 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?”
