“Hello, welcome to Willow Creek. How may I help you?”
“My daughter is here to be checked in,” my mother stated, stepping up. “Kinsley Simmons.”
Nodding, she pushed a clipboard across the counter at us. “Of course. Please sign in, and I’ll escort you back.”
After scribbling their names and times of arrival on the sheet, my parents followed the receptionist with me on their heels. She ushered us into a space made up like a living room, with couches, patterned throw rugs, and a coffee table strewn with health magazines.
“Please wait here,” she said, that same wide smile still plastered across her face. “Dr. Swanson will be with you shortly.”
I plopped onto one of the couches, beginning to feel lightheaded from barely eating anything all day. Fatigue had become a mainstay for me, and most days I barely had the energy to scale the stairs in my apartment. It was no wonder I had flunked my last semester of college—walking to class had become an undertaking my body could no longer handle.
Dad sat across from me on the other couch, while my mom paced the perimeter of the room and tried to pretend he wasn’t in it. My stare locked on a second door on the opposite end of the room, and found myself wondering what lay beyond it.
A moment later, that door opened to admit a black woman in a business suit and kitten heels. A short, neat afro softened her appearance, as did her friendly smile.
“Hi, you must be the Simmons,” she said, extending her hand to first my mother, then Dad, then me. “I’m Dr. Sarah Swanson, the clinical director here. I oversee all staff and treatments, and that includes the team who will be assigned to work with you. This afternoon and evening will be all about getting Kinsley settled into her temporary home, and showing her around. First thing tomorrow morning, we will begin assessments to judge her state of health, after which her team will meet to create an action plan which will be implemented to get Kinsley on a path to wellness. Every thirty days, that plan will be re-assessed and adjusted as needed. At the end of your ninety-day stay, your team will meet one more time to decide if you require additional time here. Of course, if you do, our recommendation is just that—a recommendation. You are free to leave whenever you wish. If, when your time is up here, the team decides you’re ready to go home, you’ll be sent with a new plan for your aftercare, to be implemented as long as needed. For some, this means therapy for a short time, or permanently. For others it means a regimen of medication. Sometimes it means both, as well as regular health assessments to ensure you’re receiving adequate nutrition.”
She paused, seeming to wait for me to respond. So I nodded. “Sounds good.”
Clearing her throat, she opened a file with my name on it, and retrieved a stack of forms. “These forms will need to be filled out and signed before we proceed. Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, I’m afraid now is the time for good-byes. We do not allow family members past this door except on family days. We look forward to seeing you again in thirty days.”
After reading over the forms—mostly consent and insurance stuff—I handed Dr. Swanson the paperwork and stood. My mom hugged me, though the motion didn’t last very long. My dad held me like he didn’t want to let go, but eventually did.
“We look forward to seeing your progress when we return,” Mom said.
Despite her deadpan tone, I could see this was hard for her. She might not be the best when it comes to emotion, but living with her for twenty-one years had taught me to search for the right cues. Tears formed in her eyes, though she didn’t shed them, and her pinched mouth caused her to look older than her years.
“Can’t wait to see you next month,” Dad added. “Take care of yourself, Kinsley. We want you well again.”
Giving him a smile, I nodded and waved them off. They disappeared the way we’d come, leaving me alone with Dr. Swanson and my luggage in a room which had quickly lost its warmth. After arranging my signed paperwork back in the file, the doctor gestured for me to follow her.
“Right this way.”
I grabbed my suitcase and rolled it behind me, following the doctor through the second door and into another living area, this one larger. An ancient big-screen TV was shoved against one wall with couches and chairs surrounding it, some of them holding people. In one corner of the room, a pool table sat, around which a group of guys stood crowded. Across the room, a little nook with more chairs boasted a small library of books, arranged on several shelves.
Several pairs of eyes landed on me, and I found myself feeling like I was in high school again. I half-expected Dr. Swanson to stand me up in front of everyone and give a speech about the ‘new girl’. Fortunately, she simply smiled and greeted a few of them by name while leading me through the room.
“This is the recreation room,” she announced. “It is where our patients spend a lot of their time when they aren’t at appointments, attending therapy, or engaging in exercise.” Pointing toward a refrigerator I’d somehow overlooked, she continued. “That’s the snack fridge. We keep it stocked, and you’re allowed to help yourself between meals. We don’t monitor what you eat, or how much—we aren’t that kind of facility. However, we do ask that you refrain from taking food into your room, for sanitary reasons, and also to avoid the compulsion for hoarding.”
I could understand that. Anytime I was on a binge back home, I would keep bags of chips and packages of powdered doughnuts in a box under my bed. Whenever Chloe wasn’t around, I would gorge myself ’til the point of sickness before purging. This was before I’d learned which foods were easier to get rid of, and cut out flour and sugar altogether—too hard to bring back up.
As we neared the double doors, I took a cursory glance around the room, taking in its occupants. Two things struck me on first glance. First, how different they all were in size. I’d expected to find a bunch of emaciated waifs like me. I was surprised to find many who appeared ‘normal’ and others who could be classified as overweight or obese. The second thing I noticed were the number of guys in the room. I counted about ten—half the number of girls, but still more than I’d expected.
As we neared the doors, I stopped staring and forced myself to pay attention. The walk had already worn me out and we were just getting started.
The doors opened into a cafeteria lined with long tables and chairs. A buffet-style serving area sat against one wall, and a kitchen behind a set of swinging doors lay beyond it. A station set up for coffee and tea sat along an adjacent wall, beside a dispenser for juice, soda, and tea.
“This is the dining hall, where we serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Mealtimes can be found in the little booklet waiting for you in your room. That booklet also contains our rules, regulations, and the various amenities available to you.”
A long hallway stretched away from the cafeteria, leading to another room that looked like a clinic.
“This is the nurse’s station,” Dr. Swanson confirmed. “If you’re ever not feeling well, or need first aid, this is where you’ll come. Any medications you are prescribed will be delivered to your room by a nurse’s aide at the appropriate times and administered under their watch.”
Leaving the clinic, we went back down the same hall, but before we could reach the cafeteria, Dr. Swanson turned and opened a door I hadn’t noticed before. It led to a staircase and bay of elevators, which I found myself grateful for in my state of fatigue.
“All living quarters are on the second floor,” she said while pushing the button to summon the elevator. “Boys in one wing, girls in the other. Our physical training and examination facilities are on the third floor. Therapy takes up the fourth floor.”
Curiosity creased my brow as I followed her onto the elevator. “An entire floor dedicated to therapy?”
Smiling, she pushed the button for the second floor. “We conduct many types of therapy here, so we need the space. Aside from one-on-one sessions with our psychologists, we also provide group therapy, adjunct therapy which includes art, music, and other activities. We even offer nutriti
ous cooking classes, as many of our patients benefit from learning to channel their control over what they eat into preparing their own healthy meals. It’s our belief that a holistic approach to therapy can be so much more beneficial than traditional means—though we implement some of those as well. We hope they’ll be helpful to you.”
I wasn’t given a chance to respond as she led me down a long hall lined with doors. Pausing at the next to last door, she pushed it open, and led me into a simple room. The small square space held a twin size bed with calming blue comforter and stark white sheets. A small bedside table held an alarm clock and lamp. A dresser stood with open drawers waiting for my clothes, and an armchair sat near a window overlooking the tennis and basketball courts.
Dr. Swanson opened a door to offer me a glimpse of a white-tiled room with shower, toilet, and sink. “Your bathroom is through here. You’ll share it with your neighbor. I believe you’re next door to …” She trailed off, seeming to try to remember. “Oh yes, Dawn. Be sure to knock before entering. These doors don’t have locks … for obvious reasons.”
Right. Another regulation that made sense, though I’m sure the doctor knew as well as I did that nothing could stop a bulimic from purging if they really wanted to do it—not even the threat of someone walking in to catch them in the act.
“That’s it for now,” she said, tucking my file beneath one arm and turning to give me a bright smile. “Dinner will be served in the next hour, so you can take that time to rest, unpack, or go acquaint yourself with the others. A nurse’s aide will come for you in the morning and escort you to the third floor for testing. I won’t lie to you, Kinsley, we test everything here … it’s thorough and rigorous. Depending on your state of health, it’s going to take a lot out of you. I suggest you get as much rest as you can tonight.”
Wrapping my arms around myself and glancing around the plain but cozy room again, I nodded. “Thank you.”
Making a hasty exit, Dr. Swanson left me alone in my new room, closing the door behind her. Now that I was here, I felt a bit less panicked. The doctor’s warm welcome had helped tremendously, though I was a bit nervous about this testing. Since I could avoid thinking about that until tomorrow morning, I pushed it to the back of my mind. I turned to find my suitcase resting at the foot of the bed, and decided to start there.
Lifting the heavy thing onto my bed wasn’t going to happen when I was so weak and underfed, so I laid it down on the floor and knelt to open it. Finding a folded slip of paper stapled to a plastic bag sitting on top, I frowned. I definitely hadn’t packed this. I lifted the parcel, finding the sexy purple and lavender lace panties with matching bra inside. Lips quivering with laughter, I opened the note and found Chloe’s neat, girly handwriting.
Kins,
You forgot these. If you meet a hot guy and catch his eye, don’t hesitate … get some!
J/K. But seriously, I always feel a bit sexier when I wear my prettiest lingerie. Try it on a day when you’re feeling low. No one other than you will know you’re wearing it, but the effect on your confidence will amaze you. Get better and come home!
Love you,
Chloe.
Laughing, I folded the note and carried the baggie holding my undies to the dresser. After throwing them at the bottom, I then filled it with the rest of my—less sexy—underwear, bras, and socks. I’d just begun stacking my folded T-shirts in the second drawer when the connecting door to the bathroom opened.
A skeletal girl in an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one bony shoulder appeared in the doorway. The heavy garment draped on her as if she were a coat hanger, falling almost to her knees. If she wore anything under it, I couldn’t tell. A pair of Converse sneakers covered her feet, and her hair had been pulled into a messy, blonde topknot. Her blue eyes were startling—too large in her gaunt face and far too bright against her grayish skin.
Is that what I look like?
I reached up absently and touched my collarbone, wincing as I realized it protruded just as sharply as hers.
“So, it’s true,” she murmured, leaning against the doorframe and studying me back just as closely. “I’d heard we were getting a new inmate on Bulimic’s Row.”
Frowning, I made myself stop staring and get back to unpacking. “Bulimic’s Row?”
She shrugged, stepping into my room, hands braced on her narrow hips. The motion drew up her sweatshirt, revealing the denim shorts she wore underneath.
“That’s what I like to call it. They group us all on one side of the hall … makes it easier for the nurse’s aides to remember which rooms to search for contraband. Speaking of which …”
Crouching by my suitcase, she reached into the side pocket and retrieved my toiletry bag. Crossing the room toward her, I reached out to take it from her, but she moved it out of my grasp with a giggle.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, highly annoyed with this stranger pawing my stuff.
Ignoring me, she unzipped the little bag and began rifling inside. When she lifted out a nail file, she raised an eyebrow.
“They’ll take this for sure. Wouldn’t want the newest inmate to perforate her esophagus.”
While I knew many bulimics used objects like nail files and letter openers to induce vomiting, it was a length I hadn’t yet been tempted to reach. My fingers still did the trick, but I knew eventually they wouldn’t. My mother had sought out horror stories of girls nearly killing themselves sticking foreign objects down their throats in an attempt at scaring me straight. Unfortunately, it hadn’t helped much.
“I brought that for my actual nails,” I snapped, grabbing it from her, then retrieving my bag.
Shrugging one shoulder, she stood. “Sure, honey. Whatever you say. If you want to keep it, find someplace to hide it. When they’re done invading your privacy, they’ll take anything they think you can use to hurt yourself.
Glancing around the room, I found very few hiding places. Sighing and rolling her eyes as if I must be the biggest idiot she’d ever met, my neighbor crossed to my armchair and lifted the cushion. After showing me the zipper, she gave it a yank, exposing the foam inside. Holding her hand out for the file, she waited until I put it in her palm before using the sharp end to cut a perfect slit in the cushion. She slid the file into it, then closed the cover and replaced the cushion.
“There. Out of sight, out of mind … until you need it, of course.”
“Thanks,” I said grudgingly. “I’m Kinsley by the way.”
Wrinkling her nose, she laughed as if I’d just told her the joke of the century.
Scowling, I went back to unpacking. “What’s so funny?”
“Your name … what’s up with that? Kinsley is so … white.”
Rolling my eyes, I brushed past her to stash my toothbrush in the bathroom. “Right, because all black girls are named Bon-Queishia and La-Wanda? I’m also half Indian by the way.”
“Damn, twice as much potential for a cool name and you get screwed. Anyway, I like Bon-Queishia and La-Wanda. Both names are far more interesting than Kinsley … or Dawn.”
“I take it you’re Dawn?”
“Guilty,” she replied. “I’ve been here longer than anyone else on this floor, so if you need to know the ins and outs, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks,” I replied, unsure of how to proceed with this chick. One second she’s insulting the name given to me by my very non-white parents, the next she’s offering to show me the ropes. “How long have you been here?”
Sighing, she flopped onto my bed. It was clear her short time standing to talk to me had taken a lot out of her. “Nine months.”
My eyes widened. That was certainly longer than my recommended ninety days. “No wonder you refer to this place as a prison.”
“I know! It’s insane, right? I mean, my stay here is completely voluntary, but still …”
I frowned. Why would anyone willingly stay in a place like this for an entire year?
“Because it beats home,” she said in ans
wer to a question I could have sworn I never asked out loud. “Besides, it’s like a mini vacation. My meals get cooked for me, my clothes get washed, there’s a pool in the basement level, and I get free therapy. Despite the fact that their crappy plan for me isn’t working, they keep letting me stay. So … if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?”
“I guess,” I replied, more confused than ever by this girl. Here she was treating this facility like some sort of day camp or spa, and I was ready to do whatever it took to get the hell out of here and never have to come back. More than that, I was willing to do everything I could to get Aaron, my life, and my friends back.
“I’m headed down for dinner,” she said, standing. “Wanna come?”
Without giving me a chance to answer, she looped one arm through mine and practically dragged me toward the door. Remembering my key card, I grabbed it on the way out, slipping it into the pocket of my sweatpants as Dawn maintained her death grip on my arm. For such a tiny person, she turned out to be pretty strong.
Chapter Four
My first night at Willow Creek turned out to be pretty uneventful. Dawn took me to the dining room and introduced me to just about everyone. Being there the longest meant she was acquainted with our fellow patients. I sat with her and a group consisting of three other girls and a guy. Despite the tempting aromas coming from the buffet—where we were allowed to choose our fill of food from a variety of offerings—I ate only a handful of lettuce drizzled with a vinaigrette.
Dawn filled her plate with various foods, but I noticed she did more talking than eating. The other girls at our table seemed to sit on various degrees of severity on the scale of anorexia or bulimia—some gorging themselves to the point of bursting, others only eating a few bites of their meager offerings.
The lone guy at our table, Derek, filled his plate with various desserts and nothing else. Polishing off every single bite, he smiled when noticing my raised eyebrows.
“I’m three hundred pounds and eating everything in sight, so I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here,” he said with a laugh. “According to the doctors, I’m starving and dying of malnutrition. I have a food addiction … a sugar problem mostly.”
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