A Danger to Herself and Others(66)

“Depression wasn’t part of my diagnosis.”

Lucy complained when they put her on antidepressants even though she wasn’t depressed.

Wait. Lucy wasn’t real.

I wonder how long it will take before I don’t have to remind myself.

I take a deep breath, blow it out slowly.

“Trying to hurt yourself can be linked to depression.” Lightfoot smiles. A real smile, not a medical-school smile. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to go home soon.”

I try to sit up, but the restraints keep me lying prone. The ice pack on top of my elbow slides off, and Lightfoot leans forward to put it back in place. I can feel the warmth of her body near mine.

“You’re still sending me home?” I ask incredulously.

“Of course.”

“But I tried to hurt myself. I’m depressed. You said so.”

Lightfoot smiles again and leans in close like we’re old friends sharing secrets. She’s wearing her glasses again, not her contacts. “Believe it or not, this isn’t all that unusual; plenty of patients with diseases like yours experience periods of depression. And let’s not forget, your entire world has been rocked by this diagnosis. It’s normal to feel sadness or anger before finding acceptance.”

Doesn’t Lightfoot understand that nothing about my situation is usual or normal?

Lightfoot pats my leg and stands.

“Even though you’re getting better, you lost a friend.”

“It’s been months since I lost Agnes.” I’ve had plenty of time to get used to being without her.

Lightfoot shakes her head. “Not Agnes,” she says. “You lost Lucy.”

I look at Lightfoot in surprise. “But Lucy wasn’t real. You’re the one who made sure I knew that.”

“She was real to you.”

Lightfoot makes it sound simple, as though it’s perfectly reasonable to miss a hallucination.

I hate that she understands me. I hate how she seems to know that I can’t stop thinking about Lucy. Every time I think of her, I have to remind myself she isn’t real. I’m like an elderly person with Alzheimer’s who keeps forgetting her husband died, who has to mourn all over again each time someone reminds her.

I never missed any of my other friends, those real girls. When those friendships ended, I was always ready to move on to someone new.

I wasn’t ready with Lucy.

“Don’t worry,” Lightfoot repeats. “I’ll make sure your doctor back home is aware of what happened last night.”

“I don’t have a doctor back home. Not a psychiatrist, I mean.”

I have a general practitioner—the same one my mom goes to. (My parents stopped sending me to a pediatrician as soon as I turned fourteen.) I have a dentist, and I once saw a neurologist when I had a headache that lasted three days. He prescribed some codeine and it was gone like that.

“Your parents and I have already found someone to take you on,” Lightfoot explains. It’s strange to think of her having conversations with my parents that I’m not a part of. “Everything’s all set.”

All set.

Game. Set. Match.

I can’t believe my plan to stay failed, and my plan to leave succeeded.





forty-five


They escort me back to my room. There’s no sign of last night’s temper tantrum (my first). I never succeeded in breaking the glass, so the window looks exactly the same. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t crack it after all. If I had, they might have brought me to some other room, at least until the window in this room was repaired.

I’m not, obviously, in restraints anymore, but my left arm is in a sling and bandaged so tightly I can feel the blood throbbing underneath. I can see the bruise, already shifting from pink to purple, peeking out from either end of the bandage. I didn’t complain when the nurse—the one from last night—wrapped the arm, but the pain must’ve been written on my face because she murmured, “I’m sorry, honey, but we need to keep it tight so you can’t move it enough to do any more damage.”

So, in a way, I’m still being restrained.

An attendant comes later to take me to shower. She unwraps then rewraps my arm so the bandage won’t get wet. I shower alone with the attendant watching me, but this time it doesn’t feel like group showers are a privilege I haven’t yet earned. She’s watching to make sure I don’t hurt my arm any more.

At dinnertime, instead of bringing me food on a tray, I’m led down to the cafeteria with the other girls. Cassidy—QB—waves when she sees me coming, gesturing at the bench across from her. No hard feelings, I guess. Maybe Lightfoot told her I was working hard to go home too. I could sit with her, become the newest member of her clique, even if only for a day or two.

Maybe she’s already smuggled in another phone. Maybe I could finally text Jonah—no, I can’t text Jonah. Jonah doesn’t have a phone. Jonah doesn’t have a pocket or a hand or fingers.

I look across the room at the E.D. girls: three tables, no more than four girls per table, and each table has its own attendant keeping watch. It all looks exactly like it did when Lucy sat there. Except, of course, Lucy never sat there.

Eventually I sit next to Annie. Her hair is greasy again—she lost shower privileges, she says, though she doesn’t say why and I don’t ask. She sinks into her usual chatter. I wonder if the drugs they give her make her more energetic.