How will I run, Mike thinks, how will I work out, what will happen to my body, my mind… ?
Think of Amber. She’s getting through it. You will, too.
There’s a knock at the door, and Mike’s mom lets in two men in jumpsuits.
Ambulance man (to Mike): “Sit down. I have to take your heart rate and blood pressure.”
Mike rolls up his sleeves. He has on two long-sleeved shirts and a sweatshirt. His mom bites her lip when she sees his arms.
Ambulance man (to the other one): “Get the wheelchair.”
Mike: “Seriously?”
Ambulance man: “We didn’t pull the ambulance up to your house in case you wanted to keep this private. We parked on the next street.”
Mike: “I think I can walk one block.”
Ambulance man: “You might not make it.”
Mike: [nothing]
Ambulance man: “You’ve got bradycardia—your heart rate’s forty-two. It should be seventy-five. You’ve got postural hypotension. That’s low blood pressure. Your body temperature is ninety-two.”
That can’t be right. It’s 98.6, like everybody else’s.
Mike thinks the man is looking at him kindly.
Don’t be fooled.
Ambulance man: “Those readings would be fine if you were hibernating.”
Your mom was hibernating, not you. This is all wrong.
Then—unbelievably—the man lifts Mike up into his arms and carries him like a baby. Once they’re outside, he places Mike in the wheelchair and pushes him on the bumpy concrete. Mike glances up and sees the bottoms of tree branches. He climbs into the ambulance and lies down. He looks at the ceiling. His mom is with him, clutching the bag she packed. They pull out into traffic. No siren. They just drive.
CHAPTER 24
MIKE HAS NO MEMORY OF SLEEP, BUT HE WAKES UP. Though it still feels more like dreaming than reality. Outside the ambulance, there are rolling green lawns like an endless golf course. There are no connected houses or apartment buildings. The sky is big, a cloudless, piercing blue that hurts his eyes.
Mom: “Did you sleep?”
You have nothing to say to her.
Mike: [nothing]
They stop and Mike gets out of the ambulance. They’re in a circular driveway covered with dead leaves in front of a small building that looks more like a quaint country inn than a hospital. Mike could be here for brunch and tennis. A woman in a plaid dress with a bow at the waist greets Mike at the door.
Woman: “This is the central medical center. Here’s where you get clearance.”
Mike’s heart starts racing. His forty-two-beats-a-minute heart. He’s taken into Admissions. He notices a grandfather clock with roman numerals. It has a steady tick. The furniture is upholstered with thick padding and the carpet has a diamond pattern. The lighting is soft. “Relax” seems to be the message. Mike is not relaxed. He’s practically in shock. Someone tells him that he’ll be the only boy in an eleven-bed wing, but that six months ago they had three boys at once.
They need a blood sample. An incompetent nurse tries to find a good vein, and she finally uses one on the back of Mike’s hand.
Bad nurse: “You have shy veins, young man.”
Shy veins and a lazy lip—Mike’s body parts have so much personality.
Mom (with a quick hug, leaving): “See you later.”
Mike: [nothing]
Another nurse takes Mike to a single room with yellow walls. There’s a nurse at a desk just outside. Mike’s window looks out on tall, leafless trees against the sky, a dark gray-blue now. It’s quiet—no traffic, no airplanes. He can hear footsteps in the hall and footsteps overhead, a dull thumping. A nurse watches as he unpacks his bag—clothes, pajamas, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant. He feels like his possessions have betrayed him, following him here. The nurse unlocks his bathroom. There’s a small mirror in there. Actually it’s not really a mirror; it’s some kind of reflective material, nonbreakable. It’s as though he sees himself in a shimmery pool of water.
Another nurse shows up with a doctor’s scale. She weighs Mike backward so only she can see the number. She slides up the bar that measures height.
Nurse: “You’re five nine.”
Mike: “And a half.”
Nurse: “Not anymore.”
How can I shrink? Mike wonders. I’m fifteen. Grandma Celia shrank when she was eighty.
It doesn’t matter. Remember what’s important. Inner growth.
A different nurse shows up and says she’s taking Mike to the cafeteria. She locks Mike’s door behind her. The cafeteria is nothing like the cafeteria at school or like the cafeteria at anybody’s school. There are small round wooden tables, wooden chairs with cushions, and colorful rugs on a hardwood floor. Overhead, a glass chandelier clinks.
Mike: “I’m not hungry.”
Nurse: “You have to eat six times a day.”
Mike is stunned.
Mike: “What if I don’t eat?”
Nurse: “You’ll be hooked up to an IV. You’ll be here a long, long time—a lot longer than four weeks.”
That is unacceptable.
Mike’s pulse races. He can’t eat. He just can’t. He thinks, What do I do?
You’ll do what you have to do, to get out of here.
Nurse: “You start out on the liquid diet. You’ll sit with other patients who are also on the liquid diet.”
She leads Mike to a small table where three girls are drinking from large bottles labeled Ensure. Mike has heard of it. It’s supposed to make you gain weight. Mike sits. He is given his own bottle. He can’t bring himself to drink it. The nurse is watching him. Mike takes a sip. It tastes like strawberry milk. But—the whole bottle? It’s not normal, he thinks.
It’s the opposite of normal. But you have to. This is no time to be stubborn.
The girls introduce themselves—or at least two of them do. One is Cheryl and the other is Allison. Mike forgets which name belongs to which girl. One has olive skin and green eyes like his mom. The other is blond and has a long neck. They’re not that thin, and Mike wonders how they ended up in an eating-disorder clinic. The third girl is the only one who looks thin. She’s not drinking her Ensure. She has dark stringy hair that hangs in front of her face, and she stares ahead as if looking at something nobody else can see. It’s like she’s not here, Mike thinks.
She is somewhere else. That’s brilliant. She’s found a way to be herself, even in this hostile environment.
Cheryl or Allison (to Mike): “That’s Nina. She doesn’t talk much.”
Nina. She reminds me of Amber. She’s beautiful. Maybe a friend for Mike.
Nina is not like the others. Neither are you.
Cheryl or Allison: “Are you from around here?”
Mike: “Belle Heights.” Blank stares. “It’s in Queens, New York City.”
Cheryl or Allison: “Oh, I love the city!”
Mike doesn’t bother to tell them that Belle Heights isn’t the city, not really. Cheryl and Allison talk about how much they love it, and one of them says she took a double-decker tour bus and actually looked in a second-story window and saw a guy in his underwear. Hilarious!
During the afternoon, Mike is taken to the rec room. Some kids are drawing; some are sculpting clay. One girl writes in a journal. Mike sits on an itchy couch.
That night, Mike lies on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. He thinks about doing crunches and push-ups, but his door has to stay open and there’s a nurse right outside his room. He feels like he’ll die if he can’t work out.
Think of Nina. She’s found a beautiful space for herself, away from here. You can do the same. You’re running. The air fills your lungs. You are strong and getting stronger, infinitely strong. Now, dry your eyes.