Stand Alone

by P. D. Workman

  “You listen to the police?” Em challenged.

  Justine hesitated, wondering how much Em really knew. Sometimes Em kept secrets. She brought them out suddenly when Justine was least expecting them. Other times, Em completely closed her eyes to what was going on. She was wildly unpredictable.

  “Usually,” Justine hedged.

  Em rolled her eyes.

  “Unless you think you know better. Or unless you want to,” she summarized.

  It was true, but that wasn’t what Justine wanted to hear. Em just couldn’t understand how it was. Justine was different. Justine wasn’t the same as everyone else. Things were different for her. Not as clear-cut. She had to take care of herself, because no one else could be trusted to.

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?” she growled.

  “Because you’re my daughter and I love you. It’s my job to raise you, to teach you how to get along in society. I’m just not sure anymore that I’m cut out for it.”

  Justine ran one finger through the swirls of her messy blanket. This was the point at which she would normally leave. But she was in hospital, and she couldn’t just walk out. Em seemed to understand that for once she had a captive audience, and she was determined to have this out.

  “Justine.”

  Justine shook her head.

  “Look at me.”

  Justine raised her eyes to glance in Em’s direction.

  “No, look at me. At my face. At my eyes.”

  Justine looked back down, stubbornly refusing. Em put her hand on Justine’s arm.

  “Look at me,” she repeated.

  Justine pulled away from the touch.

  “Don’t touch me!” she insisted.

  “Then do what I tell you to. Look at me.”

  Justine raised her eyes to Em’s, smoldering. Em’s eyes were piercing.

  “What?” Justine demanded.

  “We can work this out,” Em said earnestly. “I know that you’re growing up, and we’ve only got a few more years together. But they can be good. We can be friends. We can communicate like adults and treat each other with respect. Can’t you try and work it out with me?”

  Justine’s face twisted in a scowl. She tried to smooth it out, to keep her feelings hidden better. She bit the inside of her cheek, grinding her teeth and trying to maintain a cool exterior.

  “Are you still going to be telling me what to do? When I can go out and what I can eat?” she challenged, in a cool, flat voice that she hoped conveyed that she didn’t really care what Em’s answer was.

  Em grimaced, trying to find an acceptable answer. But her expression had already told Justine the answer.

  “We’re not friends and adults if you are trying to run my life,” Justine pointed out.

  “I think we could be, if you would cooperate. Just be reasonable, meet me half way on some things. Compromise.”

  “You say compromise,” Justine snapped, “and that just means do it your way. Compromise means I have to give in.”

  “We can both give a little. Meet half-way,” Em repeated lamely.

  Justine shook her head. Em tried to take her hand.

  “Leave me alone!” Justine screamed, her anger boiling over at Em’s grasp. “Just leave me the hell alone!”

  Em withdrew, her expression startled and mortified.

  “Justine,” she whispered sharply.

  It was too late. There were approaching footsteps, and a couple of nurses hurried in, with a security guard.

  “Everything okay in here?” Nadine, the pretty black nurse questioned, deftly inserting herself in between Justine and Em to check Justine’s vitals.

  “Make her leave!” Justine insisted. “She won’t keep her hands off of me. Just make her leave!”

  “Okay,” Nadine soothed. “Don’t get yourself all worked up, honey.”

  Em’s eyes met those of the security guard, who was sizing her up, assessing the situation.

  “I wasn’t hurting her,” Em said briskly. “She’s just overreacting.”

  “Maybe it would be best to give her a break for a while,” the guard suggested. “Give her a little bit of space.”

  Em snorted. Nadine caught the eyes of the other nurse, Chambers, and she jerked her head minutely toward the door.

  “Why don’t we step outside the room to discuss this,” Chambers suggested, reaching out her arm toward Em and encompassing the guard with her gaze.

  Shaking her head angrily, Em left the room with the guard and the nurse, and they spoke in low, clipped voices in the hall outside the door.

  “Will you be okay now?” Nadine questioned, her fingers light over Justine’s pulse.

  “She just wouldn’t leave me alone,” Justine reiterated. She could feel her heart pounding hard, pumping fast, and she knew the nurse would be able to feel it too. “I don’t want her in here.”

  “We know that you have filed a complaint about her,” Nadine said. “The Social Worker said to keep an eye on things. If you don’t want her in here, we can tell her to stay out.”

  Justine nodded, rubbing her eyes.

  “She won’t keep her hands off of me. I just want to be left alone.”

  “I hear you, honey,” Nadine agreed. “I’ll talk to security. We’ll ask her to leave.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” Justine sniffled.

  Em returned to the hospital the next morning to find Justine’s room empty, and the nurses remarkably antagonistic.

  “I need to know where my daughter is, and what her status is,” she said evenly to Nurse Kim, the woman manning the nursing station at the moment.

  Nurse Kim looked her over thoughtfully.

  “Your daughter is having some tests run right now,” she said. “To see if we can find out what’s making her sick.”

  “I wasn’t consulted on this. She doesn’t need any more tests, she’s just acting out for attention.”

  “The Social Worker told us to go ahead with the tests. Is there a problem with that?”

  Em breathed, trying to keep her temper under control.

  “The Social Worker does not have custody of her. I do. She hasn’t been removed from my custody. So yes, there is a problem with you taking your instructions from him instead of from me. I’m the parent. I make the decisions regarding testing and treatment.”

  “I see,” Nurse Kim raised her brows. “Would you have objected to her having the tests? She hasn’t been able to keep her meals down. That could be life-threatening if left untreated.”

  “Why don’t you talk to her psychologist? I left his information here last night. He’ll confirm that she is just attention-seeking. Surely you get people through here like that. People who just want to be treated, even though they’re not sick.”

  “Occasionally,” the nurse conceded. She looked through the papers on the desk. “I can have the doctor give the psychologist a try, before pursuing any further course of treatment.”

  Em didn’t fail to notice that the nurse didn’t suggest that the doctor talk to Em herself.

  “That would be helpful,” she said. “Dr. Morton will be here this afternoon to talk with Justine, see if he can sort out what’s going on with her. I assume that she’ll be here, so he can talk to her?”

  “She should be back from all of the tests shortly after lunch.”

  Em nodded and looked at her watch.

  “Well, I guess if I can’t see her, I’d better get in to work. No point in waiting around here.”

  The nurse nodded her agreement.

  Justine stretched and wiggled around in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. She was too restless to sleep or lie still any more. Her body was sending her a couple of very strong messages. One, that she was hungry. Very hungry. The other was that she needed to get up and do something. The feeling of malaise that had kept her in bed for the first couple of days was gone. She didn’t want to be sick any more. She wanted to go out and skate. She wanted to have her normal life back again. Her TV, her bed, being able to get
out on her board again.

  On the other hand, Justine liked the hospital. She liked the way that the doctors and nurses took care of her and lavished her with attention. She liked the attention and the tests and the pampering she got. The thought of going from that back to Em’s domain was depressing.

  There was a light tap at the door, and Justine looked up and saw Dr. Morton.

  “What are you doing here?” Justine questioned, surprised by his sudden appearance.

  “I understand you’re having some problems. I’m here to help.”

  He came into the room, and made himself comfortable in the visitor’s chair.

  “Who called you?” Justine questioned. “The doctor? Or Em?”

  “I’ve had several calls, actually,” Dr. Morton said, smiling and shaking his head slightly. “Your mother, your doctor, a social worker  … it seems that you’ve been a busy girl.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Justine disagreed. “I just got sick. That’s not my fault.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?” he said, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling.

  Justine found it irritating that he wasn’t looking at her. It was like he’d already tuned her out, and was just putting in time in order to be able to bill Em. He didn’t really seem concerned, not really interested in her, like the other doctors Justine had seen at the hospital.

  “I just  … got tired,” Justine said. “I stopped to rest at a house—I didn’t break in, it was open—and I fell asleep. There was a big storm, and the firemen were evacuating, and they found me there.”

  “So you weren’t really sick?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “I didn’t hear you say anything in that narrative about being sick. I was tired, I fell asleep, they found me.”

  “Well, I was,” Justine said grumpily. “I fell asleep, and I was sick. I couldn’t leave because I didn’t feel good.”

  “Does that mean you’re dropping your story about your mother locking you in the basement?”

  “Nobody will believe it.”

  “No. Isn’t that odd? Why do you think that is?” he said with a repressed smile.

  “I’ve been sick since I got here,” Justine said, ignoring the jab. “I was hallucinating when I got here. And even though I’m not dehydrated any more, and have been resting, I’m still sick. I can’t keep anything down.”

  Morton nodded.

  “That must be frustrating. I’m sure you’d like to get home to your own bed.”

  Justine could tell that he didn’t believe it. He was teasing, knowing that she didn’t want to go home. She hated how he could see through her.

  “I want to get out if here,” Justine said evenly. “No one likes being sick, right?”

  “Some people like to be sick. Some people will even cut or poison themselves to be sick.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Justine said. “I never poisoned myself.”

  “You’d like to get out of here?”

  “Yeah, but they won’t release me as long as I’m throwing up.”

  “I’m sure we could work something out. Of course, if you want to go back home, you might have to recant your story about being locked up, though.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can go home. You wouldn’t want to go back somewhere you’ve been abused, would you?”

  “CPS puts kids back in abusive homes all the time.”

  “I know you think you’d like to be out on your own. But do you really want to go into foster care?” Morton questioned.

  Justine was still, thinking about it. She didn’t like Em’s smothering presence, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to go anywhere else. Somewhere with two parents to get after her all the time? Other kids to share with? She’d spent years working around Em. Starting fresh on a new parent? Someone who wouldn’t be as easily influenced as Em? Who knew what kind of a home she might end up in?

  “I don’t know  …” Justine said. “Not really.”

  “Then you have a decision to make, don’t you? Tell the social worker that you made it up, get released, and go home  … or hold to your story, and end up  …?” he shrugged.

  Justine scowled. Things were not turning out as she had hoped. She closed her eyes.

  “Why don’t you just fix everything?” she suggested to Morton.

  “And what would ‘fixing everything’ look like to you?”

  “Just put everything back to normal. I’m getting  …” Justine squirmed anxiously, her stomach feeling hollow and squirmy. “I’m just getting really freaked out now. This isn’t  … this isn’t what I want.”

  “You want to get out of hospital,” Morton said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And go back home to your own room and your own bed.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Here’s what I need from you, then. I need you to stop making up stories, and just sit tight. No more accusations. If Em comes to see you, you visit with her calmly and don’t make a scene. If the social worker comes, you tell him you were mistaken. You keep your head down, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “But I can’t go home if I’m sick,” Justine reminded him.

  “You can go home. You’re not sick. You’ll be fine.”

  She looked at him, frowning. Morton smiled slightly and raised his brows.

  “You’ll be fine,” he repeated, with an encouraging nod. “Right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Justine repeated dutifully.

  “Attagirl. Now, no more nonsense. By the end of the day, you’ll be home.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE NEXT MORNING CAME too soon.

  “Time to get up,” Em called to Justine, banging on the door. “Up and at’em, kid.”

  “Lemme be,” Justine groaned, “I’m still tired.”

  She hadn’t slept well at the hospital, and napping during the day had thrown her sleep schedule off.

  “You’ve had plenty of sleep,” Em said unsympathetically. “Up you get. What do you want for breakfast?”

  Justine rolled over and sniffled, thinking about it. It was rare that Em let her choose what she wanted for breakfast. Especially lately. Every meal was a fight.

  “I want pancakes,” she said finally. “It’s been forever since we had any. But not crap pancakes. Real ones. With butter.”

  “Pancakes it is,” Em sang out, and retreated down the hall.

  Justine sat up, rubbing her eyes with her palms. “Pancakes it is.” That’s what Em had said. So she was going to make pancakes. But would they be real ones? With butter? Em hadn’t agreed to that, and she’d been all too ready to agree to Justine’s first choice. It didn’t bode well; Em must have some secret plan.

  Justine got to her feet, stretching. She pulled a pair of jeans and a t-shirt out of the dirty clothes hamper and pulled them on. The vintage pink shirt had a splotch of sauce smack in the middle of the left chest. Just the thing to drive Em mad. Justine undid her braid and finger-combed her long, thick hair, stretching it way out. She massaged her scalp. She really should have a nice hot shower. But her hair would take hours to dry, and she didn’t have the patience. Without looking, she busily braided the top into a French braid, then twisted it into a knot at the base of her skull, and let the rest fall loose in messy waves down her back.

  By the time she made it downstairs to the kitchen, she could smell the sweet pancakes frying on the grill. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively. The real maple syrup was out on the table. That was one of the few things that had become better with the crazy healthy diet—real maple syrup instead of fake bottled sugar with nasty flavoring in it. Ditto the fruit sauces that Em had arranged on the lazy Susan in the middle of the table. But there was a suspicious lack of butter on the table. And when Justine walked into the kitchen, Em quickly grabbed the bag of pancake mix off of the counter and shoved it into the cupboard. So chances were, this was some sort of gluten-free pancake substitute.

  “Did you at least make real eggs?
” Justine demanded.

  “Not yet. They’ll be on in a couple of minutes, when I put the last pancakes on the griddle.”

  Justine sniffed. The pancakes didn’t smell bad. They didn’t smell like buttermilk pancakes, but they had a nice sweet, hearty smell.

  “What kind of pancakes are these?” she demanded.

  “Buckwheat.”

  “Buckwheat?” Justine repeated suspiciously. She looked at them again, then at Em. “Real buckwheat?”

  “Real buckwheat,” Em laughed.

  Justine sat down at the table.

  “Where’s the butter?”

  “You don’t need butter.”

  “Yes, I do!” Justine insisted. “You gotta put butter on them, when they’re nice and hot, and the butter melts on the top and prevents the syrup from soaking into the pancakes and making them too soggy. You have to have butter.”

  “How about some peanut butter? Or some nice cashew butter. It was incredibly expensive, I wish you would at least try it.”

  “Peanut butter on pancakes?”

  “You put peanut butter on sandwiches, what’s the difference?”

  “You don’t put peanut butter on pancakes,” Justine insisted.

  She got up and looked in the fridge for some butter. There wasn’t any. She looked for a butter substitute, and found one lonely container of soy spread that was almost all gone, and had toast crumbs in it.

  “Is this all you have for butter?” she questioned, “’cause it’s gross.”

  “You can eat your pancakes without butter.”

  “Don’t you remember what the social worker said?” Justine demanded, folding her arms across her chest. Em looked up at her quickly.

  “What?”

  “The social worker. What’s his name? Burmese.”

  “Burma.”

  “Burma. He said that the diet was no good. He said to just feed me normal food, and not to try to force all of these weird diets on me.”

  “It’s not a weird diet. It’s good, healthy, whole food. And it was recommended by Dr. Morton. He’s a doctor. Mr. Burma isn’t.”

  “He said that there’s no proof that any of these weird diets have any effect on behavior. And he said they are a danger to people predisposed to eating disorders. What if I have an eating disorder? This could be a death sentence.”