by Spencer Hyde
Leah glanced at me again. I could see her in my peripheral vision, this eager blur of energy waiting to come materialize before me, uncomfortable and fidgety and rubbing her hand back and forth over her incredibly short hair.
“What’s up?” I said.
“You said your teacher was a doctor, so why isn’t he here? My mom is a doctor. She does family practice.” Leah shifted in her chair. I guess I took too long to respond because she spoke again while she tapped her book in a rhythmic pattern with her fingers. “We moved from Uvalde, Texas, when she got the job. I miss my family. I miss Texas. Last memory I have is of our visit to Corpus Christi for Dia de Los Muertos, right before we moved here. We went to the beach every year to celebrate. Tamales. Silly jokes. Lots of laughter. But that was the day I started seizing and they found the first tumors. Now everybody in the family has started calling it ‘Dia de Leah.’ My mom thinks it’s hilarious. I get it—she’s a real barrel of split sides.”
“Nice. That’s a good one,” I said, appreciating her word game.
“Thanks,” she said with a grin.
“Anyway, she said the best doctors are here, so that’s why I came. But why isn’t your friend here if he’s a doctor?”
I set the book down. In that moment I imagined some dude collapsing in a restaurant and a waiter yelling, “Is there a doctor in the room?” and Dr. Morris running over all eager and being like, “I’m a doctor—what can I do?” and the waiter saying, “He’s not breathing. I don’t know!” and Morris replying, “I’m a doctor of philosophy, man! We’re all trying to understand the things that take our breath away!”
It was dumb, but I had those moments in my mind and they always made me laugh.
I think Leah thought I was laughing at her because she got all timid and kind of hunched her shoulders, like she was curling into herself, and I didn’t know how to pry her back open. I touched her shoulder.
“I was laughing about something else, not you. Split sides of barrels and all. My teacher is a doctor of school stuff only. He studied books. He doesn’t do medical stuff like the doctors here or like your mom.”
“Oh. K. Thanks,” she said. She turned back to her book.
I turned back to my own homework and looked through Morris’s lesson plan. Apparently the play was, like, Samuel Beckett’s big breakthrough. Beckett was trying to say less with more, so there are these long procedurals where nothing much happens, but it all happens with the sense of something. Kind of cool, really. Maybe that’s all I was doing in the hospital. I read on. I had to. Morris had given me more of Beckett’s works to read, and I found myself going back to the last line from one of his books: “You must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.” I felt like everyone was shouting the first phrase at me, but I was living in the middle phrase, and I was afraid I’d never reach the last.
I was halfway through Morris’s notes when I realized I was late for my cognitive behavioral therapy session with Dr. Ramirez. Cognitive behavioral therapy is like personal training for brain muscles—only imagine that your personal trainer has a gorgeous face and a huge ego. Not a great combination. You can’t say he needs to be more humble because his face is so perfect. Anyway, that afternoon Dr. Ramirez told me I should try to expose myself to more uncomfortable situations. He told me to try not blinking for two minutes at a time, or to not wash for a day, even after I used the bathroom. Ugh. Gross. Even without OCD I felt that would be nasty.
He also told me to try doing things I’d never do. Like becoming a different person just for short bursts. His last challenge was about thinking more about someone else than about myself.
“Just for one day, Addie,” he said, his face bright with those dimples dipping as he smiled. He sent me on my way to dinner. It was Monday night, so we’d also get to watch a movie before heading off to what the hospital apparently called “beds.” I thought about Ramirez and his beautiful mug as I wandered the halls, wondering if Fitz was going to show for the movie.
He was there and wearing another ridiculous yoga T-shirt—Highly Meditated. I was glad he was there, and his shirt made me laugh because it was so fitting for the psych ward. All of his shirts were lame, but the kind of lame that made them almost hip. Like, a meta way of saying that he was cooler than the popular phrases because he could wear them and make them cool even though everyone knew they were only popular because obnoxious people liked to wear them to show off that they worked out. Whatever. I was thinking too hard about it, probably.
I almost sat next to Leah because she had her head bent over her food and looked sad, but she was already sitting by Junior, so I took one of the awful, cold metal chairs next to Fitz. Martha was up front giving us the usual reminders about movie rules: no touching other patients, whisper if you need to communicate something, ask Jenkins at the door if you need to leave to the restroom.
I wasn’t sure if Fitz would talk to me or what he’d say if he did because I was still confused about how he’d left me after playing Boggle. I had been replaying that scene for days, wondering if I’d offended him in some way. I wanted to let him know I was sorry for whatever had happened, but I didn’t have the chance.
“I’m sorry,” he said first, bumping me with his shoulder. He stared intently at me and gave me a half-smile.
“Why do you have such ridiculous shirts? Did you buy all your shirts at the same yoga store or something?” The orderlies were in the room so I whispered, but they usually ignored things until it got to a low roar. They were just as lazy as everybody else.
“That’s exactly what I did,” he said.
“Such a guy thing to do.”
“Are you stereotyping based on gender, Addie Foster?”
“Mostly. Thanks for noticing.”
“I try,” he said. “No, I just do yoga to relax. And because the first shirt I bought at this place was comfortable, I returned to get more. That’s that. Stick with what works. Path of least resistance. Now move your asana a little closer. See what I did there?”
He smiled and slouched. I had seen him doing yoga in the exercise room a couple times during the week, but I was still apprehensive about approaching him. I figured he’d come see me when he was ready.
“Is that why you ran off on me after Boggle? Path of least resistance?”
He sighed heavily and sat up again, then put his hands on his knees. “I have to make it quick. This is one of my favorite movies.”
“By all means,” I said.
“I can’t use all means, Addie. I can use words, though.”
“Smart aleck.”
He smiled and took off his bandana, winding it around his hands.
I could tell he didn’t feel like talking about it, and I tried not to be angry about his silence. I mean, we were in a psych ward, so I should not have expected any straightforward answers, or relationships for that matter. Still, it was frustrating and kind of annoying.
“It’s about San Juan Island,” he said quietly. “I made a promise to someone, and the anniversary is this fall and I’m in here and the island is out there. I have to be there. I have to.” He clenched his fists around his stupid bandana. “And yes, to answer your question—path of least resistance.”
“That’s lazy,” I said.
“This place makes me tired.”
“I’m not this place. I’m in this place, but it’s not me,” I said.
“You’re right. I’m just not in the right place to be talking about it, is all.”
He seemed sincere, and I didn’t want him to get into something too heavy if it wasn’t a good time. I looked up to see two orderlies sitting on either side of the TV.
Martha was my favorite orderly. She wore scrubs every day and a smile that always said that life was hitting her just as hard as the rest of us, if not harder, so why not look for the good stuff, the real thing? She often talked with us about our treatment, and it seemed li
ke she used those moments to try to improve her own situation, whatever that was. She was sincere and kind, and I appreciated her candor. I could tell she didn’t love the job, but her sarcastic commentary made it enjoyable to be around her.
The lights dimmed, and the pale walls of the entertainment room spilled into one another, creating a deep gray.
“Fine. But you better tell me more during free time this week,” I said, whispering again because Martha gave me a glance as the lights went out, and I realized I’d been talking a little loud.
He gave me a goofy grin.
Just then, I heard Didi yell “Britney Spears’ earlier work!” right as the movie title appeared. I figured Didi either hated the movie or his Tourette’s was getting to him. When he yelled it again moments later, Fitz responded with, “‘Hit Me Baby, One More Time’!”
Martha, sitting at the front of the room, looked our way with raised eyebrows.
I hit Fitz on the arm. “What are you doing?” I said in a half whisper.
“I’m trying to make it so Didi doesn’t feel so bad about his outbursts. Imagine if everyone yelled things they’re not supposed to be proud about knowing and liking—it could really help, right?”
I was beginning to really like Fitz. I mean, like, I really, really liked him. Whatever. It’s not like anybody needed to know, but I was definitely falling for him. How often do you find someone who is willing to embarrass themselves to make someone else feel better? Not very often. That’s the answer.
“So what’s this movie about?” I said. “Why are you geeking out about it?”
“It’s incredible,” he said, rubbing his bandana into a ball and smiling, looking at the screen at the front of the room.
“Let me guess,” I said. “There’s a single girl in the big city who is clumsy but beautiful and really into cooking and she meets a guy in an accident—like, she drops something on him in the bakery or something—and they smile at each other over the cream from the pastel macarons that fell all over his new suit or something.
“Then they meet up a couple more times and end up having spats over insignificant minutiae, but gradually they become attracted to one another. Oh, and one of them was lying to the other one about something. Gotta have that hidden thing about how they actually knew the person and the accident was not all that accidental, if you catch my drift. Hilarity ensues because of the lie, but then the one finds out about the lie and is sad. Then they chase each other down after they realize they are really in love and the lies were only meant to help fate with the rocky process of love. They kiss in the middle of the street. Credits roll. Am I close?”
Fitz leaned forward in his chair with his face in his hands, mocking my plot outline, shaking his head back and forth. “Not all movies follow the same plot. Plot doesn’t matter as much as the ideas.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“It’s called Aguirre, the Wrath of God. It’s a German film about conquistadors looking for El Dorado in the 1560s.”
“A foreign film?”
“Hey, I like B-grade movies and fast food, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a passion for the really good stuff as well, Addie,” he said.
I guess I had been a little shallow in assuming he liked the simple stuff because that’s how he acted, and most of his comments were jokes. Then I realized I did the exact same thing and felt like a jerk for not noticing that he was probably a lot deeper than he let on, just as I hoped I was. Whatever. I was not going to let him in that easily. Maybe he was playing the same game.
“So they look for El Dorado the whole time? Maybe they get lost and think they’re doomed, then reluctantly give up, but on their way back to the trail, they find some sign that leads them to the city, and they end up rich, with palm fronds and grapes for ages—gold to last eons. Am I close this time?”
“Not even a little,” he said. “They travel in a large part at the order of Pizarro. Just a little aside, Addie—Pizarro is not a pizza or calzone brand.”
I punched him in the arm pretty hard, and he smiled and rubbed where I’d hit. Just then, Wolf shushed us. I’d met him right after Mom dropped me off that first afternoon. He had been standing against the wall by the fake plants and staring out the hospital entrance saying “I want my horse” on repeat. Wolf was so earnest and calm; I liked him. Apparently, though, he was enjoying the movie. We quieted down again. It was tough regulating the volume.
“So things aren’t looking too hot for our conquistadors, but they forge ahead rather than count their losses. One of the leaders is shot by a dissenting officer named Aguirre, who is dead set on continuing. Aguirre declares one of the nobleman in their party the new emperor,” said Fitz. “Shut up, Lyle! That’s not how it goes.” He looked to his right where nobody was sitting. “Sorry,” he said to me. “So they carry on into the jungle and everybody dies, either by disease or unseen natives or drowning or a number of other things, until only Aguirre remains on their raft, which is now covered by monkeys. He declares himself the wrath of God. It’s pretty epic.”
I sat for a minute and thought about the plot. I looked around the room and realized Leah had left, which made me happy in a way—I didn’t want her watching such a depressing film after the day’s therapy session. Martha often took Leah out of movies when they had grown-up themes. That usually meant any type of violence. I often forgot how young she was.
Earlier that day, after Tabor had finished talking to her, I noticed her curled up in the reading nook with these books her mother had dropped off for her about dinosaurs and what they ate and stuff. She looked the happiest I’d ever seen her.
Fitz started laughing, and then told Willy to shut up. I asked what the joke was about, and he said it wasn’t funny and he shouldn’t have laughed.
“This movie sounds so uplifting,” I said, lathering on the sarcasm.
“Not everything has to be uplifting to have meaning,” he said.
He was right. But I wasn’t about to give him that kind of validation, so I shrugged my shoulders. “We’ll see.”
“Harsh critic, eh?”
I didn’t respond, but instead looked forward and let my leg drift closer to his. I hoped Fitz would notice and let his leg drift closer too. It felt childish, but then I noticed that he set his hand close to mine. The warmth of our hands was exciting. So stupid, I know, but it got my heart racing. I felt like I was in elementary school or something, but with all the rules surrounding us there was this weird kind of excitement that came with breaking them.
That was the problem though—as soon as my heart started racing, I had to put my hand up to it and check my watch. The heart of a great blue whale can weigh over a thousand pounds, and the aorta is big enough for a human to crawl through. Its heart beats only eight or nine times a minute, but the sound can be heard for like, forever. That’s the part I always think about when I set my hand on my chest. I wondered who could hear my heart, how far that sound traveled.
The movie was actually pretty good. It felt like found footage, very surreal at times. At one point Fitz nudged me.
“Watch this,” he said. “Junior is a know-it-all. I like to tease him about stuff just to get him going.”
I looked at Junior sitting two rows ahead. It was kind of dumb they had so many chairs set up. I mean, there were only like five or six of us in the ward, so we didn’t need that much space. Then again, maybe it was pretty packed at other times. That was depressing to think about.
“Pretty cool that Pizarro was born in Portugal. I wish I could go to Portugal,” Fitz said, obviously too loud for a conversation between the two of us. “I’ve always wanted to visit South America.”
Junior’s head twitched, and he sat up. He didn’t turn around, but spoke with his eyes still on the screen. “He was from Spain. And Portugal is in Europe.”
“Pretty sure it was Portugal,” said Fitz. “And Brazil speaks Portuguese
, so it must be in South America.”
Junior breathed heavily. He had these really large features and broad shoulders, and he always looked like he was on his way to some important meeting. He walked a little rigidly and carried himself with a lot of confidence, like an overeager soldier. He seemed so certain of everything. I wondered if that may have been what led to some of his anger problems.
“Spain,” said Junior. “Europe.”
Fitz left it at that.
“I don’t want to make him too mad,” he said, whispering my way. “I think he’ll find the ending of the movie frustrating as is.”
Seeing Junior upset made me anxious for some reason, so I started tapping my feet, then my hands on my knees, then I alternated my blinking and cleared my throat seven times. I liked that Fitz didn’t ask me questions when I was in the middle of a ritual. He knew I counted my heartbeats and had other ticks, but he didn’t bring it up or bother me about it. He just watched the movie and ignored my fidgeting. I guess he also had his own demons—all those voices constantly in his head.
I got lost in the movie after that, consumed by the story, glad that movies and books had the power to almost completely remove me from my obsessions and my hummingbird-heart-paced thinking.
Hummingbird hearts. I placed my hand on my heart again and counted. Hummingbird hearts can beat over twelve hundred times a minute. I guess that’s kind of how Fitz made me feel. Not like I was going to tell him that, though. He already had a big enough head. Seriously, it was pretty big, but fit his muscular body. Whatever, don’t get me started on his body.
“Shut up, Toby. I don’t want to hear about it. Yes. No. I’ll tell you later if you just shut up for a minute!” Fitz said, standing and shouting at the wall behind us. He kicked his chair over and then crouched and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t crying, but he looked sad as well as furious. “I’m sorry, Quentin,” he said, whispering to nobody.
I hadn’t seen this side of him, really, so I didn’t know how to react.
