A Danger to Herself and Others(15)

I remember how Lucy turned her back to change in front of Dr. Lightfoot and Stephen and me. She probably hated being naked in front of four more people.

I shrug. “My stylist says I wash my hair too much.” I’m careful to use the present tense—my stylist says, not said, wash, not washed. “You know the less you wash it, the less you need to?”

Lucy shook her head. “I always got so sweaty and gross in class. I had to wash it every day.”

I don’t answer right away. Let her think I never had to do any physical activity to stay slim and trim. But then I remember I’m trying to befriend her, so I say, “Yeah, that makes sense.”



The second time Lucy leaves is lunchtime. When the attendant brings my meal, he holds the door open for Lucy.

I wonder if Lucy’s right about phone privileges. Maybe if she gains enough weight, they’ll let her call Joaquin. It takes four steps to get from my bed to the window. I stand on my tiptoes to look outside. I can’t have been here a month. If it had been a month, the days would be getting shorter. The sun would be setting earlier. It would be dark out.

Then again, it’s only lunchtime. No matter the time of year, midday is when the sun is at its peak.

When Dr. Lightfoot opens the door, I don’t turn right away. I won’t ask her what month it is or how long I’ve been here. I don’t want her to know how much I care.

But I really wish I knew how many days are left between now and September seventh.

People lose track of the days of the week all the time, even on the outside. My mother forgot my eighth birthday. When I asked her about it, she said she thought August seventh was the following week. So if I ask Lightfoot the date, she might not consider it a symptom or a weakness. But that would be giving me the benefit of the doubt, and I don’t think the benefit of the doubt is given to people in places like this.

Dr. Lightfoot speaks before I can make up my mind. “It’s pretty out there, isn’t it?”

Now, I turn. “I’ve seen prettier views.”

It’s the truth. I’ve seen the sun glittering on the Mediterranean through an enormous picture window at a glamorous hotel. I’ve seen the Swiss Alps in winter, covered in snow so white it makes clouds look gray. I’ve seen Machu Picchu and a great white shark leaping from the waters around South Africa.

My parents love to travel.

“Like where?” Lightfoot asks. I wonder if they taught her that in medical school too: Ask your questions casually to get the conversation going. Get your patient to open up about something seemingly innocuous, impersonal. Before you know it, she’ll be crying in your arms about the time her parents left her alone in a hotel room all night when she was four years old while they gambled their way across Monte Carlo.

No such luck, Lightfoot. I didn’t mind being left alone. I slept like a baby. I practically still was a baby.

But I have to come up with something to start winning the doctor over. I wish Lucy were here, so Dr. Lightfoot could see how well I’m interacting with her. But then, even if Lucy were here, the doctor would be too busy asking me questions—trying to get me to open up, let her in, to do the work of therapy—to see what a good friend I can be.

She has to see me being a good friend. Just hanging out. Like in the cafeteria.

Which means I have to earn some privileges. Clearly being calm and quiet (with the exception of the chair incident) hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Lightfoot wants me to dig deeper in the talk therapy part of my treatment. She wants to feel that she’s getting to know me.

Fine.

“Venice,” I answer. “The view from our hotel room in Venice was prettier than this.”

“I’ve never been.”

“I’ve been lots of places. Only child, you know. My parents took me with them everywhere.” I pause, then decide to offer her something more, so she can write that I opened up today in her notes. “I used to hate being an only child,” I offer.

Lightfoot still doesn’t have her chair, and she sort of sways as she stands in the center of the room, her scrubs wrinkling audibly when she moves. She’s nothing like Lucy, who’s so graceful that she moves without making a sound even in these paper clothes.

“I used to beg my parents for a little sister.” It’s a lie, but Dr. Lightfoot doesn’t know that. She probably thinks that all only children beg their parents for siblings who never come.

Lightfoot presses her lips together. I imagine she’s trying to choose a follow-up question: How did you imagine your life would be with a little sister? Did you dress up baby dolls and wish they were real girls?

Silently, I answer: No, I didn’t play with dolls. No, I didn’t imagine a life with a little sister. Eventually, I had real friends to play with.

Finally she asks, “What did your parents say when you asked for a sister?”

“Oh, you know, they said the usual stuff that parents of only children say. You’re all we need. We love you so much. Even the occasional, You’re enough of a handful on your own.” I smile a little, and Dr. Lightfoot smiles back, oblivious to the lie.

I wasn’t a handful. I was perfectly behaved. My parents’ friends complained about their children’s tantrums. My parents marveled that I never gave them any trouble.

Once, when I was five years old, we were having dinner with another couple whose babysitter canceled at the last minute. (My parents didn’t bother with babysitters.) We were going to a good restaurant, and my parents had to pull strings to change the reservation from five people to seven. The place didn’t have a children’s menu, so the other couple had to beg the chef for pasta with butter, and then the kids wouldn’t even eat that.