circle.
Becca makes a gagging gesture, sticking her tongue out and pointing a finger down her throat. “They tubefed me.” She grins sheepishly.
There’s another long silence.
“You don’t think I look fat?” Becca giggles again.
Debbie jumps out of her chair and heads for the door.
“No, Debbie,” says Claire. “You need to stay here.”
Debbie turns around. Her jaw is clenched; a vein is pulsing in her neck.
Claire is pointing to Debbie’s empty chair. Debbie harrumphs across the room and flops into her seat.
No one moves.
Becca flips her hair over her shoulder. “So, what?” she says. “Are you guys mad at me or something?”
Sydney coughs. Then nothing.
“Yes,” comes a tiny voice from across the circle. It’s Tara. She’s looking out at Becca from under her baseball cap.
Becca grins, like she can’t believe it, like it’s a big joke. “Why?” she says. “I’m OK. See?” She clamps her teeth together and smiles hard.
No one says anything.
“Besides, I don’t see what the big deal is,” Becca says. She looks at Claire, then back at the group. “It’s not like I did anything to you guys.”
Debbie snorts.
“Yes,” says Tara “Yes, you did.” She looks down at her lap, cracks her knuckles. “What you did affected all of us. Me. Debbie. Callie. All of us.”
Us. This is the first time I’ve been included in us. My cheeks flush.
Becca’s gaze travels around the circle; she looks hopeful and doubtful at the same time.
“We…” Tara can’t finish.
“We were scared,” says Sydney, all in a rush. “We…you know, we want you to get better. That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? To get better?”
I check to see how people are responding to this question. Tara nods. Debbie nods. Tiffany shrugs. Amanda checks her watch.
Becca looks stunned.
Claire finally says something. “Becca? How are you doing?”
Becca doesn’t answer.
“You look upset.”
Becca nods, then says to Claire, “Is it OK if I go back to the infirmary for a while?”
Claire says that’s fine, that maybe this is a lot to take in on her first day back; then she goes to the door and signals an attendant. Marie comes, releases the brake on Becca’s chair, and wheels her away.
When Becca’s gone, we all sit there looking at Debbie. Mascara is running down her cheeks and a muscle is working in her jaw, but she’s staring off into space.
“You OK?” says Sydney at last.
Debbie nods vacantly.
People look around, not sure what to do.
“Are you sure?” says Tara
“Yeah,” Debbie says, finally breaking off her stare. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m fine.”
Then she turns to me.
“What about you?” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Are you OK?”
I can feel heads turning around the circle to look at me. “Sure,” I say. “Yeah.”
Debbie smiles, then claps a hand over her mouth. “I did it again!” she says. “Taking care of everybody else. What do you call it, Amanda?”
Amanda’s face is a mixture of surprise and mischief. “Co-dependent,” she says. “You’re being co-dependent again.”
Debbie laughs. It’s a nervous laugh, but everyone laughs too, out of relief. All of us.
Now that I’ve been upgraded to a Level Two, I can escort myself places. Tonight I’m on my way to the game room, even though I don’t really feel like playing Connect Four, and even though everyone else is in the dayroom. I really feel like watching TV because I haven’t seen a single show since I got here, but I’m not sure I can just walk in and sit down with everybody after all this time. I walk past the door and notice Tara’s baseball cap turning as I go by.
“Callie?” I turn around and see her running down the hall behind me. She scuffs along in her slippers, then slides to a stop when she gets to me, like one of Sam’s hockey players.
“Hey!” She’s panting. The thought crosses my mind that Tara could have a heart attack if she doesn’t get better. I stop and wait for her to catch her breath.
“Whew!” She smiles. “We were wondering if you wanted to watch TV.” She tips her head toward the dayroom. “You know, with the group. Unless you don’t want to. It’s OK if you want to be alone.”
She’s still breathing hard.
“Sure,” I say, looking at her hopeful, embarrassed face. “Sure.”
Sydney and Debbie are on the couch. Tiffany’s on the floor, flipping through a magazine and watching TV at the same time. Sydney looks up when I come in, slides down the couch, and pats the seat next to her. “S.T.,” she says. “Sit here.”
The couch is a big bumpy overstuffed thing and when I sit back my feet don’t touch the floor. Tara sits down next to me and I notice that her feet don’t touch, either. They’re watching Jeopardy; it’s time for the daily double. A contestant named Tim has chosen Silent Film Stars for $500. The host asks the big question: “This actress, dubbed America’s Sweetheart, starred in the original film version of Heidi.”
“C’mon, Tim,” Sydney chants.
“Shirley Temple?” suggests Debbie.
“No,” says Tiffany. “It’s a silent film star.”
I know this one. I know the answer. I know it from watching TV with Sam on Saturday afternoons when our mom is resting. “Mary Pickford,” I whisper. Then louder, “Mary Pickford.”
Tim hits his buzzer. “Who was Mary Pickford?”
The daily double alarm goes off. Tim jumps up and down. Sydney thumps me on the back. “Way to go, S.T.! You win the daily double!”
The next morning at breakfast, Tiffany announces flatly that she’s going home. “The insurance ran out,” she says, pushing her scrambled eggs around on her plate. “They thought I could stay for a couple of months, but now they say they’ll pay for only a month—which is over today.”
“You lucky dog,” says Amanda.
Tiffany grunts.
“Aren’t you happy?” says Tara.
Tiffany puts salt on her eggs, pushes them around some more, then sets her fork down. “No.”
“Why not? I thought you hated it here.”
Tiffany shakes her head. “You think this place is crazy you should try living with my family.”
A couple of people nod. No one seems able to eat.
“What will you do?” says Sydney after a while. “You know, to get better?”
“They’re sending me to some outpatient thing. Some group that meets after school every day.” Tiffany waves her hand like she’s brushing away a fly.
“Why can’t you go to school and come to Group here in the afternoon?” says Sydney.
“It’s too far, I guess,” Tiffany says glumly. Then, quietly, “It won’t be the same.”
The chimes ring; no one moves. Then Claire comes over and tells us our group doesn’t have to go straight to our usual appointments; we’re allowed to walk Tiffany to the front door.
We all stand around in a circle in the reception room, waiting for Tiffany’s cab and not talking about her leaving —all of us except Amanda, who didn’t come out of her room when it was time to walk to the front door. Tiffany’s belongings hardly fill a plastic bag and she looks small somehow, fingering the latch of her purse and
