She has a sense of humor.
Mike: “So when can you go home?”
Amber: “Well, it’s my second time, so I have to stay longer. It’s like a rule. Last time I had a bed near the window. This time my bed is near the door. Sit down, will you? You’re making me nervous.”
Mike sits on a padded chair that looks soft but it’s like a rock.
Mike: “So this is the Sun Room.”
Amber: “It’s never sunny, by the way, but it’s usually empty and it’s good to have some alone time. I have a roommate. Her name is Deirdre. The staff calls her a frequent flier because she’s been here three times already. I’m so jealous of her.”
Mike: “Because she’s a frequent flier?”
Amber: “No! Because she’s so much skinnier than me.”
Mike: “Is she in the TV room?”
Amber: “I think so. She’s blond.”
Mike didn’t notice the color of her hair.
Amber: “Deirdre’s so beautiful. Anyone can have inner beauty. Not everyone has real beauty. She’s a size double zero.”
Mike: “How is that even possible?”
Amber: “Deirdre used to do ballet. She was good, too. But she can’t dance anymore. Whatever. She does a different kind of dance now. She dances between the raindrops in the rain.”
Mike: “Dances between the—what?”
Amber: “It’s an expression. Like, I want to stand in the sun and cast no shadow. Or move as lightly as a spider, not even disturbing a web.”
Mike: “I never heard those expressions.”
Amber: “Just because you never heard of something doesn’t mean it isn’t meaningful.”
Mike takes a deep breath.
You could at least smile at her. Stop acting like you’re at a funeral.
Amber: “So is everybody at school talking about me? Not that I care.”
Mike: “They say you had a heart attack.”
Amber: “See? That’s wrong.” She says something Mike can’t understand, so she spells it out: “A-r-r-h-y-t-h-m-i-a. It’s an uneven heartbeat. They say it can lead to a heart attack.”
Mike (thinking it sounds bad): “Isn’t that bad?”
Amber: “It’s not even why I came to the hospital. Didn’t my mom explain?”
Mike shakes his head.
Amber: “She’s such a bitch! You know what she did? She took away my red bracelet. She found out what it meant. Red for anorexia. A-N-A for short.”
Anna—the best friend. Who doesn’t exist. Just like Eddie. Mike’s getting freaked out by the fact that Amber doesn’t have a best friend or a boyfriend. It’s sad, he thinks.
It’s not sad. Amber has something better than friends.
She doesn’t have anyone, Mike thinks.
You are her friend.
Amber: “My wrist feels so naked. Can you get me another bracelet? You can only buy them online. You probably don’t have your own credit card, so you’ll have to use your mom’s.” She shivers. “It’s cold in here.”
Mike: “You want my jacket?”
Amber: “Thanks.”
It’s big and puffy on her.
Mike: “Amber, if you didn’t come here for a heart rhythm—”
Amber: “Arrhythmia. Try to get it right.”
Mike: “—then why are you here?”
Amber (with that sneaky smile again): “Remember, Friday night, there was a new moon?”
Mike: “No.”
Amber: “Well, there was. The new moon is when you honor Anamadim. She’s the goddess of anorexia.”
Mike: “The goddess of—what?”
Amber: “I’m not surprised you never heard of her. I only just learned about her recently.”
Mike knows something about gods and goddesses, mostly because they pop up in Harryhausen’s movies, but, he thinks, a goddess of anorexia—?
There’s a god or goddess for everything under the sun. Listen to Amber.
Amber: “I had to sneak out of the house and make a sacrifice to Anamadim.”
Mike (not sure he wants to know): “What’d you sacrifice?”
Amber: “Food that tempts me. I took some saltines and crushed them in my front yard. Back in my room, I pledged to Anamadim: ‘Fill me with the ecstasy of emptiness, empower me to endure the necessary deprivations, make light the vessel where I sojourn upon this earth.’”
Mike thinks, She’s having a re
She cares about something, deeply.
Amber (with a laugh): “It’s a bit much, I know, but it really helps me, okay? To reach my goals. Anyway, I had to write down the pledge and then sign it in blood. Wouldn’t you know it—that’s when my mom woke up. The problem was, when I cut my wrist, I used a really sharp steak knife—”
Mike (alarmed): “You cut your wrist?”
Amber: “I wasn’t trying to kill myself! I just made a tiny cut, here.” She shows him a spot on the side of her wrist, where she has a Band-Aid. “Anyway, it wouldn’t stop bleeding. My mom flipped out. She thought I was a cutter. Like she knows anything. If I was a cutter, I’d wear a black-and-blue bracelet.”
Mike: “They have bracelets for cutters?”
Amber: “And purple for bulimia, where you throw up after you eat. Which is disgusting. I only throw up when I absolutely have to.”
Tamio was right, Mike thinks; Amber does throw up.
Who cares? He never applies himself to anything worthwhile.
Amber: “Anyway, my mom took me straight to the hospital.” She shrugs. “The cut was no big deal. It didn’t even need stitches. But that’s when they told my mom I was severely emaciated. C’mon, do I look severely emaciated to you? Also they found the arrhythmia. And the fact that the mass of my heart had decreased. Weird, huh? I didn’t know hearts could do that.”
Mike: “Amber, are you scared?”
Amber: “No, I’m just mad because I’m stuck here for six weeks, maybe longer.”
Mike notices a closed door in the corner of the room.
Mike: “What’s that?”
Amber: “The bathroom. It’s locked. All the bathrooms are locked. You have to ask permission to go. And they watch you, to make sure you’re not throwing up. They even watch you in the shower. There’s zero privacy here. Before they weigh you, they do a cavity search.”
Mike: “A what?”
Amber: “Some people put rolls of quarters in their butts.”
Mike wants to leave. He wonders what he’s doing here in the first place. Do I even know this person? he thinks.
Of course you do.
I don’t, not really, he thinks. Amber’s always telling me all this stuff she does, but actually nothing about herself, if that makes any sense—
It doesn’t.
Amber had an aunt who died, and they were close—
Why bring up something painful? You know what you need to know.
Mike stands. The chair sticks to him.
Mike: “I have to go.”
Amber: “Okay. Will you come back?”
Mike doesn’t want to.
You’ll come back.
Mike: “Sure.” He notices, for the first time, Amber’s eyelashes. They’re so sparse. He thinks those eyelashes, and his jacket, make her look like a little kid, lost and alone.
She’s neither.
Amber takes off Mike’s jacket and gives it back to him.
Amber: “Hey, will you tell that witch outside that it’s freezing in here?”
Mike goes to the nearest nurse at a desk. Her head is bent over a magazine.
Mike: “Hi, I was just in the Sun Room with Amber Alley. She’s wondering if you could turn up the heat?”
Nurse: “They’re always cold. Anyway, I can’t change the thermostat. It’s controlled.” She doesn’t look up.