“Where’s Becca?” Sydney says.
No one answers; Debbie keeps chewing as if she hasn’t heard.
“Deb?” says Sydney. “Where’s Becca?”
“Infirmary.” Debbie sounds bored, matter-of-fact; she doesn’t look at Sydney, she stares at some spot on the far wall.
Tara sets her juice glass down slowly. “What’s the matter with her?”
Debbie doesn’t answer; she chews, scoops up another piece, pops it in her mouth.
“Debbie?” Tara looks like she’s going to cry.
“Debbie!” says Sydney. “What’s wrong?”
She shrugs.
“Is it her heart?” Tara says.
Debbie gets to her feet hurriedly. Her lower lip is quivery. “I don’t know.” She grabs her tray and storms away.
Our table goes quiet. Then there’s a flurry of talking.
“I bet it’s another heart attack,” Tara says.
Sydney drapes an arm around Tara’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It can’t be that bad if Becca’s only in the infirmary. She’d be in the hospital if it were serious.”
Tiffany agrees, reaches in her ever-present purse, and hands Tara a tissue.
Amanda rocks back in her chair and smiles. “Intense,” she says with admiration. “That Becca chick is really intense.”
I feel for the loose strip of metal at the edge of the table, bending it a little. With no warning it breaks off in my hand. Everyone is so busy worrying about Becca, they don’t look at me. It’s an accident, this thing snapping off into my hand, but I slip it in my pocket. Just in case.
The chimes ring; it’s hard to leave.
“Remember that girl in my group I told you about,” I say as soon as you close your door.
“Which one?”you say.
“Becca, the really skinny girl, the anorexic who’s still throwing up?”
You nod.
“She… I…” Hot tears start to well up in my eyes; you become a blur of colors. “Something’s wrong.”
I look out the window, shading my eyes with my hands like the sun’s too bright.
“What is it, Callie?” I steal a glance at you; your hands are pressed together in a praying gesture. “Tell me, please.”
“We don’t know what’s wrong,” I say, suddenly conscious that I’ve used the word we. I can’t go on.
“She might have had another heart attack,” I say finally, the words coming out in stop-start bursts.
You slide the tissue box across the carpet and leave it at my feet. “Can you tell me why you’re so upset?”
“No.” I feel foggy again, lost. “I really can’t.”
You lean back. “Would you feel better if I tell you what I know?”
I nod, vaguely startled and yet not surprised somehow that you would know what’s going on with the girls in my group.
“It wasn’t a heart attack,” you say.
I sit forward and wait for you to tell me more.
“The doctor said she did have an irregular heartbeat last night,”you say. “And some palpitations.”
“She didn’t have a heart attack?” I need to be sure.
“No. They think she was probably just dehydrated.”
“From throwing up?”
“That’s a good possibility.”
I wad up a tissue, throw it in the trash can, and grab another one. “So she’s going to be OK?”
You blow out a long steady stream of air. “I can’t say. She will be, if she begins taking responsibility for her health, for her recovery here. If she doesn’t…” Your voice trails off.
“Debbie was really upset,” I say.
“Debbie?”
“The girl who takes care of her.”
“How could you tell?”
“She was eating pancakes,” I say. “A lot of pancakes.” I picture Debbie at the breakfast table, shoveling food into her mouth. And it dawns on me that seeing her eat like that might have grossed me out before—or annoyed me, or maybe even secretly pleased me. Now it just makes me sad.
“How do you feel?”
“Me? I don’t know.”
You don’t seem completely satisfied with this answer.
“Tara. She was upset too.” I want to talk about Debbie, about Tara, about everybody else. “The new girl,” I say. “She’s weird.”
You cock your head slightly.
“It was like she was happy it happened.”
“Callie,” you say. “What about you? How do you feel about what Becca did?”
Your eyes flick toward the clock, making a quick check. Without really thinking, I pat the outside of my pocket, feeling for the metal strip, telling myself it’s there if I need it.
How do I feel? I feel like cutting. I don’t know why. And I don’t tell you.
Everyone’s already there when I get to Group; the only chairs left are Becca’s old seat and the one next to Debbie. Debbie’s eyes are bloodshot, her eyelids painted with blue eye shadow, and her face is powdery white. She’s obviously been crying. I slide into the chair next to her.
Claire starts off by saying that it looks like Becca’s going to be OK, but that she’ll have to be in the infirmary for a while.
“She didn’t have a heart attack?” says Tara.
“Is she coming back?” says Sydney.
“Can I have her room?” says Tiffany.
Claire takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Becca hasn’t been eating; she was hiding her food, then throwing it away,” she says. She holds her glasses up to the light, rubs out a smudge with a tissue. “She’s also been throwing up what little she did eat.”
“Now,” she says, putting her glasses back on, “what we need to talk about in this group are your feelings about Becca’s actions.”
Tiffany chews on her nails. Debbie chews her gum. I chew my lip. Then the room is quiet—so quiet we can hear the muffled sound of voices from the group next door.
“No volunteers?” Claire says at last. “OK. We’ll go around the circle.”
My heart hammers; we’ve never done this before. What will happen when it’s my turn?
“Tiffany, why don’t you go first?” Claire says.
I breathe out; Tiffany’s four seats away from me.
Tiffany rolls her eyes, adjusts her purse strap. “It pisses me off,” she says. “I don’t know why, it just does.” She turns to Tara.
Tara shrugs. Then she starts crying. She throws her hands up and turns toward Amanda My heart beats double time; two more people and it’ll be my turn.
“I didn’t know her that well,” Amanda says. “I mean I don’t know her that well. It’s not like she’s dead or anything.” She flashes a cocky smile around the circle.
“But how did you feel about it?” Claire says.
“Feel? Oh, I think it raised some issues for me. Fear of abandonment, self-loathing, repressed hostility, that sort of thing. Is that what you’re looking for?”
Claire purses her lips; her gaze travels to Sydney. “Sydney, how about you?”
Sydney’s next to me, but I can hardly hear her, my heart is pounding so hard.
“It bugged me.” Sydney’s voice cracks. She clears her throat. “It bugged me that she’s, you know, doing that to herself. How could she do that to herself?” She starts crying, then turns to me.
I survey the circle. Tara gives me a teary smile from under the brim of her baseball cap. Amanda eyes me suspiciously. I pick at a hangnail.
Then Debbie leans over. “You don’t have to say anything, Callie.” She looks around the group. “Right, everyone?”
“Why can’t you leave people alone?” says Tiffany. “Why can’t you let her decide if she wants to talk? You’re so worried about her. About trying to make sure she doesn’t have to talk. I think you’re the one who doesn’t want to talk about it.”