A Danger to Herself and Others(23)
Or anyway, it wasn’t just because he hated his roommate.
But he never broke up with Agnes. He said he couldn’t do that. He said she wasn’t strong like I was. It would hurt her too much. I didn’t argue because if I argued he might stop, and I didn’t want to stop.
So like I said, he was a good guy.
sixteen
Okay, I know: He never actually said that he wanted to break up with her. But he didn’t have to. I mean, if he really wanted to be with her, he wouldn’t have been cheating on her with me. So obviously he wanted to break up with her, but Agnes was the kind of girl (a sweet girl) whom a guy would go out of his way not to hurt. So we had to keep our relationship a secret.
By now, Jonah probably knows I’m here. But he can’t come visit me because it would look too suspicious. But if he’s at the hospital with Agnes’s parents, I’m sure he’s dropping careful hints so they’ll realize I would never have hurt Agnes. He’s probably subtly explaining what a good friend I was, what a good person I am, how much I care about Agnes. After all, I never told her what was going on between Jonah and me either.
Lightfoot probably wouldn’t let Jonah see me if he showed up here anyhow. Maybe it’d be like something out of a movie: He’d storm into Lightfoot’s office (wherever it is, I’ve never been there) and insist she let him see me. He’d bang his fist on her desk, stomp up the stairs to the third floor, shake the door until the magnets that hold the locks in place disconnected. Then he’d rush inside and take me in his arms and kiss me.
No. That’s the kind of fantasy Lucy would have. She’s the sort of girl who wants her boyfriend to save her. I’m not the damsel-in-distress type. And anyway, Jonah isn’t my boyfriend.
Plus, I wouldn’t want him to see me here. There’s no mirror in this room, so I haven’t actually seen my reflection since I arrived. (Unless you count the occasional glimpse in the window when it’s darker outside than it is inside. Which isn’t often, given the automatic lights going on and off around dawn and dusk.)
But reflection or no reflection, I know I look terrible. I haven’t had a proper shower since I got here. There’s only so much a sponge bath can do. Before they brought me to this place, I washed my hair with expensive shampoo that lathered like bubble bath, then soaked it with conditioner for sixty seconds, and blew it out straight with a blow-dryer every day.
I should get shower privileges.
Just in case.
“This stinks,” I complain the next time Dr. Lightfoot comes for therapy.
“What do you mean by that? That you’re frustrated by your current situation?”
“No.” (Except yes, of course I’m frustrated, who wouldn’t be frustrated, you don’t need a degree in psychology to know that human beings don’t like being locked up.) “I mean that these clothes stink. They smell.” I press my nose against my shoulder and gag. Maybe Lightfoot is resigned to the stench after years of working with patients who don’t shower regularly, but I’m not.
“Don’t they bring you fresh clothes every other day?”
“Like that’s enough to make a difference,” I scoff. The smell is coming from inside me. They changed my sheets while I was at lunch the other day, but my hair is so greasy that the pillowcase already smells again. I reach up and run my fingers through my hair, struggling to untangle the knots. They don’t allow us hair ties or rubber bands, so I can’t even pull my hair back and try not to think about how dirty it is. I’m beginning to understand why in old movies they always shaved prisoners’ heads, or at least cut their hair short. “You say you don’t want me getting distracted from the work we’re doing.” In my head, I underline the word work to show her that I’m taking our sessions seriously. “But how can I concentrate when I feel this gross?”
Dr. Lightfoot nods. She opens her mouth, and I brace myself to swallow my anger when she explains that I shouldn’t be worried about my appearance, that our focus isn’t on the way things look but instead on the way things truly are. Maybe making me dirty is part of her method—break me down and take away my humanity, so she can build me back up again the way she thinks I should be.
But much to my surprise, Lightfoot says, “I can certainly see how that would be distracting.” She crosses and uncrosses her legs. I bet she took a body language class in med school. I bet they told her exactly which position they thought would make her patients most likely to open up to her: Spine not too straight (that makes you seem unapproachable), but don’t slouch either (that makes you seem bored). Don’t fold your arms across your chest (that makes you uninviting), but not too open (or your patients might take advantage).
“I’ll arrange for you to have a shower,” she says, tucking her feet beneath her chair.
Lucy isn’t here. She’s has art therapy now. (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, she says. How she keeps track of the days, I don’t know.) If Lucy were here, I’m pretty sure she’d be staring at Lightfoot’s feet. Today’s she’s wearing a fresh pair of ballet slippers. Black, instead of pink. She points and flexes her toes.
Her movements don’t look graceful the way Lucy’s do.
“You’re granting me shower privileges?” I try not to make it sound like a question, but I can’t keep my voice from going up an octave at the end of the sentence.