by Nancy Thayer
Emily loved people. She was an extrovert and an optimist. She didn’t want solitude, she wanted the giggles of her girlfriends and the rumble of boys’ laughter, the jolt and thud of music from a boom box, the smell of sweat and shampoo and chewing gum and illicit cigarettes in the hallway. She wanted the sight of boys’ bodies, their crooked grins, their ambling figures coming toward her down the hallway. Linda knew what her daughter wanted.
Thought she knew. Obviously she was wrong. It seemed she didn’t know her child at all.
Bruce heard the siren when he was running toward the fieldhouse, but it didn’t signify anything to him until the moment he stepped out of the shower to find Coach Parker waiting by his locker.
“Bruce. Lorimer wants to see you. Now.”
“What’s up?”
“Something about Emily.”
“Emily? What about her?”
“You’ve gotta see Lorimer right away. That’s all I know.”
Bruce yanked on his khakis and striped shirt and sweater, slid his feet sockless into his shabby loafers, then set off at a run toward the dean’s office in the administrative buildings, turning things over in his mind. If the siren had meant an ambulance, and that had come for Emily, well, what could have happened? She wasn’t a jock, she wouldn’t have gotten hurt playing. He took the steps up to the entrance to Tuttle Hall two at a time. In the lobby he stopped to brush back his hair and tuck in his shirt.
The dean’s secretary, Mrs. Echevera, sat at her desk, pounding away on the computer, but the moment Bruce stepped into the office, she swiveled her chair toward him. “Hello, Bruce. Go on in, dear. He’s waiting for you.”
Dear, Bruce thought, there was an ominous sign. After rapping sharply at the door, he went in.
Dean Lorimer was six foot three and had a Teddy Roosevelt kind of gruff charm. “Bruce. Sit down,” he growled. “How are you?”
“Fine. I’m fine, sir.” Bruce settled uneasily on the edge of the chair facing the desk.
“We’ve got a little problem you should know about. I wanted to tell you before you heard it elsewhere. Your sister’s been taken to the hospital. If appearances don’t lie, she attempted suicide this afternoon.”
“Emily?” Bruce asked, incredulous.
Lorimer nodded. “Her roommate Cordelia found her. In time, I should add, thank God above for that. An ambulance came immediately and she should be in the hospital right now. I want you to know I’ve called your parents. They’re on their way to the hospital. I thought you might like to go over there, too, later on. I’m giving you permission to be off grounds for the rest of the day.”
“Well, thank you, sir,” Bruce said, automatically polite. “But—are you sure it was a suicide attempt?”
“Unfortunately, yes. She had a bottle of vodka and a variety of pills with her. Seems she waited until the dorm was empty after lunch.”
“But she’ll be okay?”
“We think so,” Lorimer replied cautiously. After a moment he asked, “I don’t suppose you can help shed any light on what would be bothering Emily?”
Bruce shook his head. “She’s two classes behind me. Well, you know that. I hardly ever see her.”
“Can you remember when you did see her last?”
Bruce thought. “Probably at assembly. She seemed all right then.”
Lorimer shook his head. “It’s not like her.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I’ll walk you to your dorm,” Lorimer said, rising. “Something like this … I need some exercise.”
“I, uh, I’m not sure I’m going to my dorm right now,” Bruce told the dean. “Unless you think it’s necessary.”
Lorimer looked at him.
“I’d kind of like to talk to a friend right now,” Bruce explained.
“Of course, son,” Lorimer said. He waved his hand. “Go on.”
“Well, uh, thank you, sir,” Bruce said awkwardly. He left the room, making a polite grimace to Mrs. Echevera, then hurried down the hall. When he stepped out into the cold freshness of the day, he began to run toward Shipley Hall, Alison’s dorm.
From his window, Bob Lorimer stood, watching Bruce run.
Emily felt like shit. Was made of shit, actually. The stuff they called charcoal kept making her run for the john. She was sure every sound she made could be heard throughout the ward. People must think she was really disgusting.
Her intestines were cramped, her stomach hurt, her mouth was dry, and her face felt swollen. She lay on her side on the bed, finding what relief there was in sleep.
Then she heard the door open. Someone entered the room.
“Emily? Do you know where you are?”
Someone was looking at her. A woman.
“Emily?”
“Hospital.”
“Good. Do you know what day it is?”
The woman smelled like the incense Zodiac liked to burn in their room, against dorm rules. Sandalwood and cinnamon. A clean smell.
“Monday. Thanksgiving week.”
“Good. I’m Dr. Travis. I thought you might like something to drink. I’ve brought a 7UP for you. With ice.”
Emily rolled over, sat up, rubbed her eyes, reached out for the paper cup. “Thank you.” She could not believe how great the first sip tasted, cool and wet and soothing to her throat.
“I thought I might stay here a while and talk with you.” Dr. Travis settled into a chair at the other end of the room. She was a heavy woman, fat like the “before” photos you’d tape to your refrigerator to keep you on a diet, yet pretty in spite of it all. Her clothes and jewelry, even her hair was sort of beautiful in a rococo way. “Rococo” was a new vocabulary word in English, one of Emily’s new favorites; she was surprised it popped up in her brain just now.
Dr. Travis continued, “You’ll stay in this room overnight. It’s comfortable enough, don’t you think?”
As if now her comfort mattered. She snorted. “Right.”
“The door does not lock, as you may have noticed. Nurses will be checking in every so often during the night, just to see how you’re doing. Tomorrow we’ll start talking about how long you might like to stay here. And we can wait until then to talk about what brought you here.” She paused. “Unless you’d like to start talking about that now.”
Emily snorted again. “I fucked up. That’s what brought me here.”
“Fucked up how?”
“Didn’t take enough pills. Didn’t do a good job.”
“A good job of …”
Emily flashed the woman a look of impatience. “A good job of killing myself, what do you think?”
“Why would you want to kill yourself?” Dr. Travis spoke as if she were discussing a book Emily had chosen, or a dress. Her voice was calm.
Emily sipped the rest of the 7UP. Dr. Travis sat quietly. After a while, Emily said, trying to be as calm as Dr. Travis, “Because I don’t want to go on.” Then the words came out as if they were entities on their own, moving from her throat without her consent. “Because I don’t deserve to go on. Because I’m too gross to live.”
“And why is that?”
Emily looked at Dr. Travis’s face. “Why should I tell you? You’ll tell my parents and then everyone will be miserable. Why can’t people just leave me alone? There are too many people in the world, anyway.”
“Oh, I see. It was a philanthropic act.”
A talent for sarcasm had always appealed to Emily, and now she looked at the doctor again, more carefully, surprised that such a barbed statement would come from such a plump, mild-looking woman.
Dr. Travis continued, “As far as telling your parents anything, I won’t, unless you give me permission. I’m here to help you. I’m here as your advocate. Whatever you tell me is entrusted into my safekeeping, and I am obligated by my oath to keep your secrets safe.”
Emily looked back at the floor, finishing the 7UP.
“Unless,” Dr. Travis went on, “you make another suicide attempt, or try to leave the ward wi
thout permission.”
Emily’s eyes flashed up at Dr. Travis. “I’m imprisoned here?”
“Not at all. You have been brought here involuntarily, of course, since you were unconscious at the time and the emergency room physician treated you and referred you to us. You are not obligated to remain, but if you do remain, we will want you to sign a form stating that it is your voluntary act, and we’ll want a commitment from you that you will work on the problem that brought you here.”
Emily was listening carefully.
“You will also pledge that while you are on this ward, you will not attempt to harm yourself, and that if the urge to do so arises, you will tell us, so that we may help you.”
“How?”
“A number of ways. Medications often help. Often it’s sufficient to know that the nurses are alerted and will keep a fifteen-minute watch on your room, to be sure you’re not doing anything harmful.”
“This place must be expensive.”
“Is that relevant? If it is, it might help to know that your school health insurance will probably cover everything.”
After a moment’s pause, Emily got it. “You’ve had Hedden students here before. You know the drill.”
Dr. Travis only smiled and recrossed her legs, sending her voluminous skirts into a flurry. “If you decide to stay with us, you’ll have a complete physical checkup tomorrow. You’ll meet the various people on the team who will be helping you. You’ll be given a schedule that we’ll work up for you. You’ll be restricted to the ward until the team decides you’re ready for other privileges, such as—”
“You mean I can’t go back to school?”
“Do you want to go back to school?”
“What about Thanksgiving?”
“I’m sure the dining room will serve turkey, cranberries, and pumpkin pie on Thursday.”
“So you’re saying I have to stay here for a while.”
“You have committed an act that indicates that you can’t function on your own right now. Something is bothering you. We’re here to help you work on that. There are other adolescents on this ward who are working on their own problems and you might find it helpful to hear what they have to say.”
“No one can help me.”
“I know you feel that way now. But if you’ll give us a chance, I think you’ll find that we can help you. You’re not hopeless. You are not without choices in your life. We might help you find a new way to look at your problems, or a new way to defeat that which seems to be defeating you.”
Emily stared at the psychologist, then bent her head over her 7UP, making a gross sucking noise as the straw hit ice. She flushed with embarrassment.
“Emily, your parents are going to be here fairly soon. As you can imagine, they’re worried about you.”
“I don’t want to see them.”
Dr. Travis waited for Emily to say more, and when she didn’t speak, continued, “I’m sure they’re worried about you. I’m sure they want just to see that you’re okay. I’ll be with you when they come in. The important thing you need to do now is to decide whether or not you’ll sign yourself in, voluntarily, for treatment here.”
“For how long?”
“We don’t know yet. I can say that it often takes a while to work things through.”
“I’ll sign the form,” Emily said.
Chapter Three
Basingstoke Hospital stood at the outskirts of the historic town of Basingstoke, home of Hedden Academy. A small building, only five stories high, it was constructed from stone and cement and glass, very practical and no-nonsense looking. A sign directing traffic to it from 93 North pointed the McFarlands toward a long driveway and instructions to a parking garage that was as large as the hospital and apparently as automated. Owen stopped the Volvo and took a ticket from a machine, then steered upward through the dark, low-ceilinged, Stygian aisles until he found a space.
Linda’s door was open before Owen had the key from the ignition. He ran to catch up with her and together they passed through the sliding glass doors and into a lobby bright with color and people and sound. While Linda spoke to someone at a desk, Owen looked around. An elderly woman nodded off in a wheelchair, head drooping on her chest. A couple sat side by side on a vinyl sofa, staring out in terrible shock. A pair of blissfully ignorant children fussed over a bag of candy while their parents consulted each other in sharp whispers.
“This way,” Linda said. “She’s already in the psychiatric unit.”
They found the elevator, ascended three floors, walked down a long yellow hallway until they were halted by wide double doors bearing a sign in huge red block print:
STOP. NO ONE ALLOWED ON WARD WITHOUT DOCTOR’S PERMISSION. THIS DOOR LOCKED FROM MIDNIGHT TO 8 A.M.
Pushing through, they entered a world of glass-walled cubicles. They couldn’t hear the people inside talking, but they could see them seated on plush sofas and chairs, sipping coffee. Everyone was wearing street clothes; the only thing that differentiated patient from doctor was that one person held a clipboard and pen while the other sat empty-handed, or with a wad of tissues.
They found the nurse’s station.
“We’re Emily Scaive’s parents,” Owen said to the nurse.
The woman was small-boned, with feathery light brown hair and bright tiny black eyes; she looked like a sparrow. “Oh, right. I’ll get Dr. Travis for you. Just a moment.” Smiling, she left them and disappeared toward an area of offices walled off from view.
As the McFarlands waited, another nurse came around the corner pushing an old man down the hall in a wheelchair. He was dressed in a suit, with his white hair carefully combed. Around his neck hung a stethoscope.
“Where are my charts?” he yelled.
“The other physicians are consulting them,” the nurse answered.
“He’ll need a tracheotomy!” the old man declared.
“They’re setting up the operating room now, Dr. Martin,” the nurse assured him. Smiling at Linda and Owen, she wheeled by, mouthing, “Alzheimer’s. We’re just going for a little stroll.”
“Where’s my black bag?” Dr. Martin whined querulously.
“In your office, Doctor.”
“Where’s my office?” he demanded as they went around the corner and out of earshot.
Sparrow-nurse reappeared followed by a short woman, nearly as wide as she was tall, flowing toward them in a flurry of loose silky tunics and beads.
“Mr. and Mrs. McFarland? I’m Tina Dr. Travis. I’m the ward psychologist who will be coordinating the team that will be working with your daughter.”
Linda asked, “How is she?”
“Subdued at the moment. It’s natural. She’s had her stomach pumped and she’s had to ingest charcoal, so she’s not feeling too good right now.”
“Did she tell you why—” Linda began and could not finish.
“She’s said very little. But again, remember, she feels physically out of sorts.”
Owen asked, “Can we see her?”
“Of course. I’ll take you in now. First, I need to tell you that I will be in the room with you when you see her. Hospital rules. I suggest that you remain calm and especially that you ask her only what you need to know. For now. Only what you need to know.”
Meekly, Owen and Linda nodded.
Dr. Travis lead them to a room, opened the door, ushered them in, entered behind them, and shut the door.
It was a small bland room with blue walls, no windows, three chairs, and a narrow bed. On the bed lay Emily, eyes closed, hands crossed over her chest, fully dressed in loose sweatpants and a plaid flannel shirt. No shoes. White socks with dirty soles.
“Oh, Emily,” Linda whispered, going toward her daughter, sinking down on the bed next to her.
Linda and Owen last saw Emily when they drove her and Bruce to begin the new year at Hedden in mid-September. Since then Emily had hacked off her lovely long golden-brown hair and dyed it dead black. Tufts sprouted jaggedly in all directions fr
om her scalp. The skin around her eyes looked strained and shadowed. Her lips were chapped. Her fingernails were peeled and bitten to the quick.
“Emily,” Linda said again. Emily didn’t open her eyes but her eyelids quivered. “I love you, babe.” Gently Linda put her hand on her daughter’s. Linda’s hand was warm; Emily’s, cold, and Linda realized with a start that in addition to all the other physical changes, Emily had gained weight. Her thighs, hips, belly, and bosom were pudding soft beneath her loose clothing. Even her hands were fat: soft and plumply yielding, like bread dough.
Weight was such a volatile issue with young women, Linda knew; the necessity of being thin was hyped in magazines, on television and movie screens, in ads. It could not be ignored, but Linda had tried to deflect it by joking about it, and by pointing out standards of beauty in other societies and ages, while at the same time taking care to serve reasonably healthy meals with plenty of fruit and few junk foods.
Emily had never before been fat. When she was about eleven her body took on an odd Humpty Dumpty amorphousness for several months and then almost overnight her breasts sprouted, her period began, and she shot up three inches and developed a long, lithe waist. Not really athletic, this summer on the farm she’d swum and ridden the horses, and as always the sheer expense of energy on talking and giggling and whispering with her friends seemed to use up each day’s calories with ease.
So this new plumpness was unusual. A sign?
“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in a chair,” Dr. Travis suggested, seating herself in the one chair near Emily’s bed.
