“If I were to ask you to walk through this door, how would you rate that same feeling, compared to the one on the day you fainted being a ten?”
. . . “An eight, but with the door I’ll just count and the feeling goes away.”
“And without counting?”
I shudder.
“Okay, Milly, I do think you can leave the acute room and join the other patients.”
A flush of dread pours through me. An eight. Eight crows for I can tell you no more.
“Your fainting yesterday likely was due in part to lack of food and dehydration. We’re going to work on this first.” The whole time he’s speaking he’s looking me over, like his eyes are feeling me up. When my leg twitches, he glances toward the motion and makes a mark on his page. What if he’s a pedophile? Would you go into children’s psychiatry, if you were? You betcha. “You’ll have someone sit with you at a few more meals, just to ensure that you’re eating. He’ll stay with you for half an hour after and you won’t be able to use the washroom for an hour, so be sure to go before your meal.”
. . . “This sitter thing is creepy. I’m not anorexic. Just slow. Are you crazy? A man watching me while I eat is not going to speed me up. It’s—”
“Romila—” It’s my stepmother at the door.
First rule: Don’t interrupt me.
I growl a little and start again. One, two, three . . .
The doctor checks his chart. “Good morning, Mrs. Malone?”
Dark smudges shadow Adriana’s eyes like she was partying all night. She seems smaller somehow, even though she’s trying to appear indignant. “I thought the next meeting was this afternoon.” Her hands clutch her hips.
“I’m sorry, I always start privately with the person who will be staying and then speak to the family,” the doctor says.
Her lips thin. “Romila’s only fifteen, an adult should be present.”
“At this stage, we’re going over notes from the ER doctor and nurses, clarifying, explaining how meals will be served. Making sure she’s taking in enough food is our first order of business. We’ll help Milly settle in and then try to figure out what’s making her life a struggle, before trying new interventions to see if we can help Milly build a more liveable life for herself.”
“She skips meals at school. It seems pretty obvious what’s wrong. She’s anorexic and she’s losing weight like crazy.”
He begins to write and I’m shaking my head, counting madly. See, Adriana likes to control the message. Go off message and she grows angry.
Adriana’s flying along. “At home she uses her counting to get out of everything. Meals, chores, homework, talking to me. But it’s out of control now, that’s why we’re here. But you have more doors than rooms in this hospital and with so many people, I can’t see how she’ll improve until you start actually doing something to help her. What am I supposed to tell her father?”
“We’re here to help Milly become healthy,” Doctor Balder replies.
I hear the emphasis on Milly and I’m sure she does too.
“I just want my life back! I want her to be normal,” she says.
Normal.
I’m done my count, but I’m speechless. This is the real Adriana, and I’m glad the doctor was here to recognize it.
“I’m sorry,” Adriana says. “I’ve tried everything.”
Adriana breaks down and disappears somewhere to compose herself. To my surprise the doctor doesn’t follow after her and remains focused on me. From the chart he pulls a sheet of paper with two columns and lays it flat on my desk.
“Okay, Milly, what I’d like you to do for me is to map out every time you feel the need to count, hop, shut your eyes, anything that would be out of the ordinary for, say, one of your friends. Next to that, write a number. That number will be a rating of how anxious you feel.”
How close the wolf is . . . .
“Do you think you can do that?”
I nod.
“Good, that’s your homework. You can meet your bunkmates after lunch.”
Adriana doesn’t return, but a short man with no neck and bulbous eyes appears, carrying a tray of eggs smothered in cheese with another can of Ensure that says it’s chocolate flavored, but I know isn’t.
“Sitter,” he says.
Todd is written on his nametag. Without another word, he sits on my bed and points to my food. I hesitate, and he points at my fork.
When I finish counting and only take a nibble of egg, he harrumphs. I don’t like having him here and will slow-eat in protest. I work on my crazy-map between bites.
When do I feel anxious? When do I need to count? Crossing doorways, before I take each bite, to chew, before I speak or dial lock combos, when I open a book, or dial a number—these are all doors of a sort. As for ratings, they’re pretty much sixes and sevens, except real doorways. Those are eights.
It’s not much. Not really. I have to hop through while I close my eyes and hold my breath, but who doesn’t lift their feet and hold their breath while passing a graveyard? How else are you supposed to keep the evil spirits from possessing you?
After an hour of watching me touch cheese to my tongue, Todd leaves with my tray. I smile after him. Milly: 1. Todd: 0.
It’s too late to call Bill, but what would I say anyway? I spend the rest of the morning reading. When I stop, I remember where I am and can’t believe I’ve fallen so far. I’m on a psych ward. Anger at Adriana builds and then burns off just as quickly. I can never hold on to rage long. The ward is the worst place for me. It can’t make me better, but somehow I feel as though I shouldn’t be surprised it’s come to this.
Nurse Stenson takes me to my new cell.
Chapter 7
3A.
The room’s empty with the exception of the comatose blonde I met earlier with Nurse Abby. Everyone else is in some sort of group therapy about managing anger. The blonde’s still sleeping and, from the look of her, she’s been here a while. Over her bed hang get-well-soon cards chock-full of angel wings and crosses. The cards are an anomaly; every other wall is entirely blank—the same forest green of the halls. An empty IV bag droops on a rack near her bed. The sheets on my cot are so taut I need to use all my weight to untuck them. Adriana would be impressed. My bed’s beside the sleeping girl’s, pushed up against the windows. I can hear the sleeper’s breathing—long, quiet breaths.
This room has windows that look out over the park, the Dark Wood. They don’t open. I assume it’s so that no one can throw themselves out.
Four beds. One occupied. I wonder who my other two bunkmates are. Two tables with four chairs and four chests of drawers are all the furnishings that can be crammed in here. One table has English work spread out, and I realize that they still want us to be doing homework. This is like the most awful, boring camp ever. I bump into a chair. It doesn’t move, nailed to the floor. So is the table. I’m so screwed.
I sit at the homework table. The chair is just far enough away that I can’t sit comfortably while I read over the top pages. The essay is on fairy tales as a way of communicating fear. Wolf as the devil. Wolf as the pedophile. Wolf as the stranger. The work is a loose scrawl full of grammatical errors and half thoughts. I can’t stop myself from slipping commas and semicolons into a dozen places. It passes the time. When I’m done, I fidget and pick at the skin on my arms until they redden.
On the table opposite me lie a few doodled-on pages, but no work. Ink drawings of the skeleton of a house, what looks like a graffiti tag, which could read RED, but it’s hard to decipher, and a loping wolf that starts out small at the tail but expands until half the page is its jaws. I swallow at that. I can hear it growling, and the more afraid I grow, the louder it growls. I shudder, rubbing at the gooseflesh on my arms. My mother had lots of stories with wolves. Now I remember the stories better than I remember her.
She told me one about a country devastated by a terrible wolf. One day, the king proclaimed that whoever killed the wolf would have his daughter
’s hand in marriage. Two brothers accepted the king’s challenge and entered the forest from opposite sides. When the younger brother came upon the wolf, he slew it with an arrow shot and placed the wolf around his shoulders to show the king. As he left the forest, he came upon his elder brother, who had given up his hunt. Seeing the success of his brother, the elder waved the younger over and begged him to share a skin of wine. They drank late into the night until they both lay down to sleep.
At the midnight hour, the elder brother crept from his bedroll and slit his brother’s throat. He buried him near a stream where the earth was easy and then took the wolf to the king, who fulfilled the promise of his daughter’s hand.
Years later, the course of the river changed and the waters uncovered the bones of the younger brother, which were come upon by a shepherd. The shepherd took the bones to the magistrate, who had the power to speak with the dead. Soon the identity of the killer was known. The king executed the eldest brother and hung his skeleton for all to see beside the wolf’s pelt.
How handy would it be to be able to speak to the dead? I think the skeleton was supposed to be a reminder. That the truth always comes out. Does it, though? Everyone here sees me as the problem. No one sees the truth. The whole thing reminds me of what Vanet said about prescribing me a bow and arrows.
Not being particularly artistic, I leave the drawings alone and keep snooping through the room. I run the tips of my fingers across the tops of the drawers but don’t open any. The sleeper’s breathing hitches, and I shuffle over to investigate.
The breathing is so shallow her chest barely rises and falls. Soft breath tickles my palm as I hold it over her mouth. Unbidden, an image flashes into my mind of my hand pressed down hard on her mouth, fingers pinching her nostrils. I count to a hundred to banish the thought. I’m so messed up. I wonder if she’d wake.
Everyone pictures this. Stabbing your mom as you hold the knife. Throwing your brother over the edge of the cliff, picturing him cartwheeling on the way down. Or stepping off after him. Twisting the steering wheel so that the car slams into the concrete barrier. We all have urges. Right? I’d wondered the same thing, thinking about holding a pillow over my mother’s face as she lay dying. When she wouldn’t just go. Guilt flushes through me, hot and nauseating. Bile burns in my throat.
Someone’s at the door. I snatch my hand away and sit back on my bed. At first I think it’s a boy because she’s bald and squarish shaped, but I’d pretty much look like a boy if I had no hair too. He’s a she. Tattoos of flame tongues twist up from her chubby wrists, disappear under a really old T-shirt with more holes than fabric, and then lick out of her collar.
The girl walks in wearing jean shorts, her thick legs sporting way more hair than her head. Her nose, brow, lip, and ears have enough hardware to set airport security on edge. As she enters, I see that the stains on her pants and shirt aren’t stains. The edges of the holes are blackened, and I smell a touch of char on her. She looks me up and down and says, “I hear you’re the new nut. Welcome to the nut club.”
I count as I observe her.
“You may be mute, but it doesn’t mean it’s okay to stare—I might snap.” She jerks forward, making me flinch. Already it’s unclear how much she’s benefiting from the group therapy session on controlling anger.
“I’m Pig,” she says.
I’m not surprised by the nickname. She’s porky, short, and bald, but not on-chemo-bald; she has a thin fuzz of hair all over her scalp. Her nose isn’t piggish, but she watches me with hungry, beady eyes that remind me of a pig’s.
“No staring, remember,” she says, and when my gaze swings away from her to the comatose patient, she adds, “Sleeping Beauty. She doesn’t do nothing. Just takes drugs. We decorate her sometimes.”
“I watched Stenson stick a needle in her neck.”
I turn at the new voice. The girl at the door is drenched in crimson clothing. Dark bruises have settled into the wells of her eyes and a stitched cut on her forehead has scabbed over. “The syringe didn’t have anything in it. The nurse did it just to see if she’d wake up.”
“Liar,” Pig says. “This here’s Red.”
Red’s shoulders are up near her ears as if she’s trying to fold in on herself, but she twitches every so often and her head pokes out higher and her back straightens. Even though I’m sitting, I can see she’s way taller than me. The twitching reminds me of a pump-action shotgun. Her stringy, brown hair is shaved on one side and drapes down the other side of her face.
“Want to try poking her?” Red nods over at the sleeper, whose thin lips have puckered upward as if she waits for a kiss. Red’s dresser and desk have a settled-in appearance with photos, the nubs of pencils, and bits of eraser dotting the surfaces.
I’m halfway to a hundred.
“Check out her lips,” Red says, squinting at mine.
“She retarded or something?” Pig asks.
“Skinny, real skinny, I’m guessing anorexic.”
“Score,” Pig says. “Finally I might get a decent meal.”
It’s like they’re skinning me. . . . “I’m Milly. I’m not a retard. I have to count to a hundred before I can say anything, or walk through a doorway, or eat. So I usually say a lot all at once and then shut up for a while. I don’t want to be here and think I’m going to try to escape. My stepmother dropped me here and my dad’s traveling, so I’m not sure where I’ll go. Why do you have no hair? What are you all in for?”
“What did she say her name was?” Pig asks.
One, two, three . . .
“Oh, I get how this works.” Red’s voice is flat and emotionless.
“How what works?” Pig’s eyes lock on mine.
“She’s counting. Like she’s stuck,” Red explains.
“That’s stupid. Can she still hear us? GO TO YOUR REAL MOM, IF YOU HATE YOUR STEPMOM SO MUCH,” Pig shouts.
Red shrugs. “I don’t want to talk about any crap anymore, who cares, she might not be here long enough to make all of this waiting pay off. I’m so tired of this sharing shit anyway.”
Pig cracks her neck, still looking at me. “I burn it,” she says. “My hair. So they cut it short. I like to burn stuff. I got until the weekend here and then—” She smacks her palms together and then makes as though her hand is taking off, all without breaking our stare. “Burning rubber.”
Burning, I realize, finally catching on. Pig’s here because she burns things. And she’s about to get out.
I finish my count. “I’m Milly. My mom’s dead,” I say. “Died a few years ago.”
“You were right, Red,” Pig replies. “I’m not sure the waiting is worth it.”
She sits down at her table and evidently decides to give me another shot. “I’m a prisoner,” she adds. “It’s this or juvie. But once I’m outta here, I’m the daughter to the McDonald’s family. Richie, rich, rich. If you’re all nice to me in here, I’ll make sure you’re cool once I’m out. Free milkshakes and nuggets for my hos.”
She’s lying. What’s not obvious is what she’s hiding.
“Christ, you both need help.” Red buries her head beneath her pillow and pretends she’s asleep.
“Thoughtful of them to put an Ana in with me,” Pig says. “My complaints about the lack of food have borne fruit. Or at least extra French fries and chewy Jell-O. On the escape front, good luck buttercup.”
The smell of cigarette smoke wafts through the doorway and triggers the patter of footsteps.
Pig runs back to the door and draws deep breaths.
“It’s a conspiracy of the gum companies!” a voice calls out. It’s Vanet—the fake doctor. “The gum companies paid for all those studies against nicotine and they injected people with cancer cells when they were sleeping. You’re all part of it. Do you own gum stock? Do you?”
Pig looks back. “He’s so crazy. Craziest. After you, I’m thinking. But so hot. I don’t smoke. But I love the smell of it. If you smoke, bum them from Vanet there, his brother sneaks th
em in.”
I catch the grin on her face as she peers down the hallway as if hoping to catch a glimpse of Vanet.
. . . one hundred. “Don’t think I can escape, Pig? I almost did yesterday morning. You’re a pyromaniac, aren’t you? You’re here because you burn everything.” I lift my hands to the ceiling. And that makes me so not the craziest person here.
Pig shakes her head. “Way to go, Sherlock. You’re pathetic. Close to escaping? I saw. Too bad you freeze every ten seconds.” She steps close to me and whispers in my ear. “The only thing that escapes is Wolfgang from his acute room, slips like smoke through the crack under the door.”
From beneath her pillow Red growls. My eyes fly wide, and I nearly trip on my count. Wolfgang?
“Wolfgang doesn’t try to really escape the ward though, it’s just to get to us. Or you.” Pig snaps her jaw open and shut.
My hundred count is up and terror flows thick in my mind. Wolfgang’s room is only forty feet down the hall. Did Vanet tell them about my wolf after our little interview? My eyes narrow.
. . . “No wolf’s going to eat me in favor of you, Pig. Even I get a little hungry looking at your thighs.”
Pig swings her butt around as if she’ll sit on me, and then bursts out laughing. She laughs until tears stream down her face. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she says. “One day I’ll be caught in a fire and roasted, and everyone’ll want a piece of me. You’re all right . . . What do we call you?”
She waits me out, never breaking eye contact.
. . . “Milly, I said already. Milly.”
Chapter 8
“Feedback group!” Tink bounces at the door. “You don’t have to come, Milly, but you can if you want. No pressure!”
From beneath her pillow, Red groans and then throws it off. “Actually I do have something to say. Why is it that I have to go when Sleeping Beauty over there can fake sleep and get away with—”
“At group!” Tink springs away. Following her is Peter, who flaps his arms like wings and drags his broken leg behind him across the floor.
Counting Wolves Page 4
