Body of Stars

by Laura Maylene Walter

  I skidded down the hallway in my slippers. The sliding motion reminded me of ice skating, which I’d only attempted once, a few years prior. I’d fallen hard and bruised my knees, which put me off it. Now it seemed silly, to be afraid of falling. The ice was hard, but it was just water. It was there to hold us up.

  At the nurses’ station, I ducked under the desk and found the drawer marked Transcripts. I slid it open and rifled through the thick manila folders inside, letting the names—the true names—of the other girls wash over me. I did not know them. They were not real. I stopped only when I came upon my file, my name written in thick black marker, the word CONFIDENTIAL printed on the front. When I opened it, pages scattered across my knees and fluttered to the floor. I grabbed at them and started to read.

  First there was the police report. Victim unable to provide sufficient description of perpetrator. Victim has no memory of the crimes. Victim appears to have gone willingly with a pair of trappers; trapper identities and whereabouts unknown. Victim claims she was drugged (unconfirmed). At the bottom of the page, in red ink, was one final line: Case suspended barring further evidence. Recommendation for closure following a sixty-day period.

  I set the police report aside, turning instead to the medical report. No one had briefed me on this. No one had briefed my family, either. These cases were confidential, which meant that neither the hospital nor the police would turn over my records to anyone, including my parents, without my consent. The nurses had explained it all during our first therapy session. But when I applied for jobs in the future, or if I had the audacity to apply to university despite all of this, I’d have to sign a waiver granting access to my file. The same would go for the courts when my future husband and I applied for a marriage license—because I was still fated to one day marry, even if just then I couldn’t stand the thought of being close to a man. Any time I tried to take a new step in my adult life, this file would be opened, my secrets released.

  But for now, no one aside from the doctors, police, and nurses had seen my file. No one else could see the description of my injuries (extensive bruising on arms and legs, minor internal injuries consistent with sexual imposition), which I flipped through slowly, in wonder, as if I were reading about a stranger. I studied the list of medications I’d been given, the record of the programs I attended within the Reintegration Wing, and the recommendation for release following the minimum four-day period (no additional therapy is anticipated or recommended).

  When I arrived at the final pages in the back of the file, I was confronted with drawings of my own markings. My adult markings, including the moles on my left side. While I’d never had my changeling inspection, my body had been recorded upon my arrival at the hospital. During my entry examination, the doctors used a special light to see beneath the bruises, and an inspector must have been on call to record my predictions. Nothing was a secret from the people who worked here, not even my brother’s fate.

  My hands started to sweat. I shoved the papers back into the manila folder, which I held to my chest like a shield as I hurried back to my room. My first thought was to lock myself in the bathroom and flush the pages one by one down the toilet, but I worried the noise would draw attention. Maybe I could pass the night carefully ripping each page into tiny pieces and then toss those pieces out the window, like little bits of snow. I even considered swallowing the records. I could consume my ruined future bit by bit, making it more a part of me than ever before.

  I sat on my bed with the folder. I was still thinking through my options when a nurse swung open my door. She panted slightly, as if she’d run a great distance to reach me.

  “Good thing I was the one to see you.” She paused and gulped for breath. “If security had been watching the cameras like they’re supposed to, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now. You’d get the police instead.”

  I had forgotten about the video surveillance. How foolish I must have looked on camera, lurking behind the nurses’ station in my pajamas.

  The nurse held out her hand. “Come,” she said. “Give it to me.”

  It was over, and yet I couldn’t make myself hand her the file.

  “Maybe you can pretend you didn’t see me,” I said. The nurse’s expression—sympathy, anguish—made me push on. “If you helped me, you could change my entire life.”

  The nurse let out a breath. She came over to the bed and sat with me. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t move the file out of her reach. I thought she might offer to help.

  “You know that’s not the only copy, right?” she said. “Even if I wanted to change it, or throw it away, it wouldn’t do any good. What’s marked down is forever. I’m sorry.”

  I knew she was right, but I still wouldn’t let go of the file. I clutched it desperately, molding the manila folder into a new shape.

  The nurse put a hand on my arm. “You’ll be all right,” she said. “Really. I see a lot of girls come through here, and it’s always bad at first. But then they grow up. They get married and even get jobs, sometimes. Not the best jobs, but jobs. They live their lives. They have babies. They find a way to be happy.”

  As she spoke, I loosened my grip on the folder. When the nurse finally reached for it, I gave it to her without argument. Afterward she stroked my hair, helped me into bed, and promised she wouldn’t tell anyone what I’d done.

  I curled into the fetal position. The mattress was so uncomfortable; the hospital saved the real bedding for the other wings, for the patients who were actually ill. I believed, then, in that line of thinking. That I wasn’t sick. That once my bruises healed, I’d be fine, more or less.

  That once my mandated days in the hospital came to an end, I could go home as though nothing had changed. Not even myself.

  Strategies for Reintegration: A 7-Stage Guide for Recovery and Rehabilitation

  Stage 3: Confronting Family. Prior to leaving the Reintegration Wing, you will have the opportunity to meet privately with your family. Expect this meeting to be tense, perhaps even unpleasant, as your family members struggle with the new reality thrust upon them. Be patient and deferential during this meeting. You are the victim and catalyst alike of this new dynamic, and as such, you owe it to your family to confront their grievances.

  16

  By my final morning in the hospital, the last of my bruises had paled to a sickly yellow. They faded from the inside out, leaving dark rings that made me feel dirty, like my skin was covered in stains I couldn’t erase. Each bruise still ached if I pressed it hard enough, which I did, several times, during the special last-day breakfast I shared with the other girls. We sat in the programming room and watched without joy as an orderly served us waffles on paper plates. The waffles were lukewarm and rubbery, but there was coffee, plus a plate of succulent red grapes. I popped a few grapes into my mouth, only to discover too late that they were full of seeds, a swarm of daggers piercing my cheeks.

  After breakfast drew to a merciful conclusion, we headed back to our rooms. A new girl arrived just then, so we paused in the hallway to watch her roll past. She was strapped on her back on a gurney, and although her eyes were open, I got the sense that she was not awake. Her parents trailed behind stiffly.

  Next to me, Glory watched this scene with intensity.

  “Are you all right?” I asked her.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the gurney, which the staff was maneuvering into an empty room.

  “Something is wrong with that girl,” she said.

  “Of course something’s wrong. She was abducted.”

  Glory shook her head. “I think maybe she tried to hurt herself.”

  I took a step back, like what that girl had was catching.

  “When I was a kid, I knew a girl who tried to end it after she was returned,” Glory said. “She managed to get her hands on a bottle of pills while she was still in the hospital. The staff must have been so lazy to let that happen. It’s n
ot a surprise, though, is it. That they don’t care.”

  Her eyes had a shine to them, a greedy look, like she delighted in the possibilities of destruction. I knew nothing about her—not what kind of life she had before she was taken, or what she had to return to. I didn’t even know her real name.

  “That girl’s the lucky one, if you ask me,” she added, nodding to the end of the hallway, where the new girl had disappeared from sight. “She’s not awake to face all this.”

  Without waiting for my reply, Glory offered a vicious half smile and retreated to her room. For a few moments I stood there, stunned, until my shock solidified into a desire for control—for the power to stop at least one of the disasters careening toward me.

  I went to the nurses’ station. My legs were shaking, and I had to steady myself by leaning on the counter. I explained to the nurse that I was worried Glory was thinking of harming herself. The nurse narrowed her eyes as I spoke, then called two more nurses to the station. They huddled together, whispering. I would learn later they were making plans to ensure Glory wouldn’t be left alone for the rest of her stay in the hospital. But I didn’t need to know the details—it was clear that they intended to protect her, and that was all that mattered to me.

  I watched the nurses work and told myself that order was being restored. Maybe, I dared to imagine, my actions had shifted a tiny bit of fate. I thought of Julia’s metaphor with the tree and imagined roots deepening, branches growing, leaves unfurling. By ensuring Glory received help, perhaps I’d directed her toward a brighter path. The mere prospect was intoxicating. I felt dazzled, like I’d just pulled off a magic trick.

  Maybe I could do it again.

  * * *

  * * *

  In the hours to come, we were meant to gather our things and wait for our families to arrive for our final therapy session. Back in my room, I found one of the battered suitcases from home on my bed. Inside was a set of clothes: jeans, a pink V-neck T-shirt, canvas sneakers, socks, and a bra and underwear. My mother had delivered the suitcase to the front desk the night before in preparation for my last day.

  I dressed. I combed my hair one last time with the plastic comb, and then I threw the comb away. After a moment of hesitation, I bunched up my pajamas and shoved them in the trash can, too. Maybe the staff planned to wash those pajamas and give them to another girl later, but I hoped not. Every girl in that place deserved something new and untouched.

  Following an interminable wait, a nurse knocked on the door and peered inside. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, fully dressed and packed, waiting for all this to come to an end.

  “It’s time,” the nurse told me. She smiled a little.

  I stood up and trailed her down the hallway toward one of the small meeting rooms. When we arrived, she paused with one hand on the door.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  Before I could respond, she pushed the door open.

  * * *

  * * *

  I took it all in: the overhead lights, blazing fluorescents that made everyone’s skin burn. The plastic chairs arranged in a semicircle. My family in those chairs, alien, sickly.

  Miles wore a shirt I didn’t recognize, which was disorienting; I wondered if he’d gone shopping while I was missing. He sat with his right ankle crossed over his left knee, and I tried to puzzle out his expression: distant, aloof, maybe angry. His black eye was nearly gone, but because I knew where to look, I could still see the faint ring of it.

  Next to Miles, our parents waited stiffly. My father sat forward on the very edge of the chair. My mother was in her professional clothes, with her hair arranged into a bun at the nape of her neck. She appeared polished, everything neat and tucked away. I realized she must have needed time off from her job to be at the hospital for visitation hours.

  The nurse stood behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders.

  “Sir?” she said to my father. He was the only person not looking at me. “Sir, you should greet your daughter.”

  My father raised his head but did not speak. His hair was trimmed and damp, and I could smell his aftershave. I leaned slightly into the nurse’s hands so she could support me.

  “You should say something,” the nurse suggested. I didn’t know whether she was talking to me or to my father, but either way, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I sat across from my father and leaned toward him.

  “Dad,” I said. “You need to talk to me.”

  He brought his hands to the lower half of his face, as if he couldn’t bear for me to look at him full on.

  “I’m so ashamed,” he said at last. “Miles told us, Celeste. About those men in the alley, and how you went off with them.”

  “They took me, Dad. I didn’t want to go.” As I spoke, I wasn’t so sure. Hadn’t I pushed Miles away? I remembered what the police had said, about how I’d gone willingly. Maybe that was how the world would see it.

  “We know about that party you went to with your friends, how everyone was drinking rose sherry.” My father waved his hand through the air, like he was conjuring a vision of that night. “So maybe you went out, had a little something to drink, and two handsome men come your way, start giving you attention. Or maybe they gave Cassandra more attention than you, and you felt you had something to prove. It’s natural for a young girl just coming into her own to want to feel special.”

  “That’s not what happened.” I glanced at the nurse, hoping she might defend me, but she only gave me a tight smile.

  “Your mother and I should have known not to trust you,” he went on. “Girls run off all the time after passing to adult markings. They lose control. I should have kept that in mind and done more to protect you. Instead, I let myself get distracted by work.”

  “What about Miles?” I asked. “He led me into an alley. If he’d taken me straight back to Julia’s, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Miles looked stricken, but my father frowned.

  “You were responsible for yourself,” he said. “You have free will, just like everyone else. You made your own choices that night.”

  There was no way for me to win—I could see that now. The hospital was the first place where I glimpsed the truth of how things worked, not just within my family but on a far larger scale. The world was a sharp place for girls and women.

  “Celeste, your father loves you,” my mother said. She put a hand on his forearm, as if he were the one who needed comforting. “He was so distraught when you disappeared.”

  “She’s right.” My father’s voice cracked. “I regret so much, all the ways I could have done better by you. I was too wrapped up in my own problems. If I hadn’t been demoted, your mother wouldn’t have had to return to work, and we could have paid more attention to you. But you also should have been more careful, Celeste.”

  He took my hand and pulled me toward him. I let him hug me. I let him cry against my neck and hold me like I was something precious and vulnerable. But I did not feel breakable. I was stone.

  “It’s always the most difficult for fathers,” the nurse said. “They tend to experience great anger and great shame after abductions.” She stood up and drew a stick-figure family on the chalkboard, making the father oversized and placing him in the center. “Sometimes it might seem that rage is directed at the daughter, but that’s not the case. Their reactions are always, always based in love. Please remember that, Celeste. Let your father feel what he needs to, and stay strong. Things will get better with time, I promise.”

  My father pulled back and wiped his eyes. The session carried on, a stumbling, halting endeavor. Most of it washed over me in an amnesic tide. Finally, from the corner of the room near the door, a timer dinged. We all turned to look at it. It was a little brass timer sitting on a table behind the nurse. I hadn’t noticed it when I came in.

  The nurse reached behind her and turned off the alarm. “Unless there
’s anything more you’d like to discuss, you’re free to go.”

  No one said anything. I supposed there was good reason for the thirty-minute limit. The staff in the Reintegration Wing saw hundreds of families a year; they’d probably given up trying to resolve anything a long time ago.

  We stood and marched from the room: my father first, then Miles, and then my mother, who held my hand but let me drift back a bit. We followed the nurse down the hall to the checkout desk. I looked for the other girls along the way, but they had vanished. Maybe their family sessions weren’t so disastrous and they were already on their way home, back to normal lives. Or maybe not.

  At the checkout desk, the nurse handed me some paperwork and a pen.

  “You’re almost free,” she said brightly. The form she gave me to sign was insultingly simple. It stated the date and the time and that I would be leaving of my own will.

  “Does this mean I could have left earlier, if I’d asked?” I was embarrassed that I’d never thought of it. Adults had placed me in this hospital, had told me I was injured and had to stay. It didn’t occur to me that I might have refused.

  “Well,” the nurse said. She seemed as staggered by my question as by my realization that I could ask it. “We’ve never had a girl leave before her four days are up. It’s a federally sponsored program, you know. We’re here to make sure girls recover.”

  I stopped asking questions. I signed the form.

  * * *

  * * *

  During the drive home, I sat in the back seat, next to Miles, and leaned my face against the window. I watched the world pass by: the trees changing color, the houses still standing. The hospital was located on the opposite side of town, so we had a long drive.

  We were about halfway home and passing through a part of the city I didn’t recognize when I saw it: a flyer dangling from a telephone pole. One of its staples had come loose and it flapped desperately in the wind, but I could still make out the photocopied image it bore.