Page 14 of Starve
So far all Hattie has done is stare at the ceiling and mouth things I can’t quite make out, and whenever the woman next to her touches her arm, she flinches and pulls back, looking like she’s seen a ghost. That ends the situation quickly, and the therapist, whose name I think might rhyme withRatbut really could be anything, turns her eyes on me. “What about you, Miss…” She glances down at her clipboard, and I wait for her to go through the names.
I suppose I could help her out, but the last time someone interrupted her this morning, she seemed less than pleased. So we all just sit there while she counts through names until she finds mine penciled in somewhere near the bottom. “Fern? You’re Fern, right?”
I press my lips together to avoid asking who else would be the person she added hastily this morning to her group, but I force it to look more like a smile and nod. “Yep. That’s me. I’m Fern. And uh, could you repeat the question?” I ask, having forgotten what we’re talking about while she focused on getting through Hattie’s haze and figuring out my name.
“I want to know if any of your memories, any past events of your life, are really affecting you right now. I want to know what things you think of the most, or memories you reflect on more often than others. Do you still feel the effects of any past events on you now? Especially now that you’re here?” She repeats the question by reading it off of her clipboard, giving it a false, plastic quality that doesn’t make me more inclined to answer.
But I don’t respond right away. I fiddle with my nails, hands still wrapped around the cheap styrofoam while my coffee steams in the cool air of the room. My toes curl in my sneakers, and again I get the feeling of not being comfortable in my shoes without the laces. But I hadn’t wanted to accept the ‘gift’ of grippy socks, like most of the other women in here are wearing.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I mean, I’m pretty happy most of the time.” That’s not quite true. But it’s not something I really want to whine about here. “I live on my own down in Whippoorwill. I have a nice little house, and my mom comes to visit sometimes.” Though I wish she wouldn’t.
“Really?” She writes something down, though I can’t read it from this far away. “And what would child-you think of where you are now, Fern?”
The question catches me off guard. My smile fades, and I’m hit with memories of learning to play the piano with my dad and trying everything to gain my mom’s approval. Not that I ever succeeded. Sinking back in the chair, I have to fight off the white noise in my head of them fighting at night, when they thought I was asleep and couldn’t hear them.
I remember my father begging my mother to at least try to love me, but thankfully I snap out of it before her response plays out like a bad record in my head. Not that it would be the first time.
Child me just wanted to be loved unconditionally.
Now I know better.
“I think she’d be interested to know where I live. And a bit disappointed that I didn’t move to Alaska.” I offer the therapist a small smile, and before she can ask me to go on, I explain, “When I was younger, I watchedBaltoa few too many times. I could probably recite the whole movie by now, and I thought I could grow up to train sled dogs. Child me thought for sure I would’ve won the Iditarod at least twice by now, and live with my thousand huskies up in Wasilla.”
A few of the women, including Sam, snort or chuckle. At least my story is good for that much, I figure. The therapist seems satisfied as well, and moves on to her next victim. She goes through everyone with varying degrees of success and even asks Hattie again to say something; trying to rephrase the question to get through to her. But Hattie only shakes her head, staring at nothing.
By the time she gives up, it’s almost ten. While I ate before group therapy, I still wish there were better options here than tasteless scrambled eggs and burnt bacon. The coffee in my cup is mostly gone, since desperation meant I drank it all, and as we’re dismissed, I move to the side of the room with the trash can to chuck it away.
Still, I’m not the last out of the room. Sam stays, talking to the therapist about God knows what, and when I’m out in the hallway, the reality of drinking way too much coffee hits me. Or more specifically, hits my bladder. Hard. The bathroom is only a few yards away, down the other end of the hallway from where I intend to head down next to check out the library or the outside courtyard. Such is the advantage of wearing shoes instead of grippy socks, is how I’m choosing to look at things. I can go where others cannot.
The bathroom is empty, and just as hollow-feeling as every other part of Bluebone Ridge. The shower stalls have no curtains and limited privacy, explained to me as a way for us to be checked on at all times. Already I’ve decided I willnotbe showering here. There’s no way I want to be worried about the possibility of an orderly strolling by to make sure none of us are drowning ourselves under the shower head while I’m naked.
When I go to leave the bathroom, the door suddenly opens inward, forcing me to stumble backward and nearly trip over myself. I gasp, arms flailing, and catch myself on a stall, though I end up jabbing myself in the shoulder with the door painfully.
“What—Hattie?!”I yelp as the woman steps inside; when she registers my presence, her eyes focus on my face in a more lucid way than she could manage earlier.
Without warning, the woman hugs me. Her arms wrap around my shoulders and she drags me tight against her, with a grip strong enough that I can’t pry her off.
“It’s okay,” she coos with a sigh, her head on my shoulder. She’s acting like she’s comforting me, and I have no idea why. But she’s holding onto me strongly enough to choke out an elephant, if she really wanted to, and my flailing arms seem to have no effect on her, nor do my staggering attempts to keep us both upright.
“It’s okay,” Hattie says again. “I know it hurts, but it’s not that bad. You’re okay.” Something in her voice is so genuinely kind and caring that it makes me more confused than afraid. Any thoughts of screaming for an orderly immediately fade, and I force myself to go still until I’m leaning against the stall behind me. It isn’t like she’s trying to hurt me, after all.
“Areyouokay?” I ask, my voice soft. I hope it’s clear that I’m asking her in a genuine way, and not to make fun of her.
She hums a reply, and I feel her shake her head against my shoulder. “I’m so tired,” she tells me in a quiet, conspiring way. “I’m always so tired these days. But that’s not important, Fern.” It surprises me that she knows my name, since I’m not sure how much the things going on around her really sink in. Most of the time, it seems like she’s not really here at all.
But apparently I was wrong to think that.
We stand still in our awkward, one-sided embrace for another minute, my arms coming up to brace her elbows just in case she suddenly falls. I have no idea what to expect, but it isn’t for her to draw back to press her forehead to mine. “They’re coming,” she whispers, her eyes on mine. “You understand that, right? They’re coming, and they’re already here.”
Suddenly my whole being goes cold, and the bathroom seems so unsafe and empty. I draw away from her as much as she lets me, and I shake my head. “I don’t know what you mean,” I whisper, at the same volume as she spoke. “Hattie, what are you talking about? Who’s?—”
The bathroom door opens, admitting another patient in blue scrubs I’ve never seen before. She gives us a quick, surprised look, then mentally shrugs it off and heads for a stall. I watch her go, wondering if I should try to explain the situation before she gets the wrong idea. But then again, I’m not even sure what therightidea is. Instead, I right myself, prepared to ask Hattie again what she means, so I can puzzle out her answer.
But she’s no longer in front of me. Just before the door swings shut, I see the hint of her blue shirt as she goes off to terrorize some other part of the sanitarium or do whatever it is she does.
Leaving me confused and shaken in the third floor bathroom, wishing I could be anywhere but here.
When I finally make my way outside, the courtyard proves to be anything but the refuge that I hope it would be. How can it be, with Moro the wolf dog being neglected nearby and me just sitting here, not helping?
