It was after lunch the next day when the door opened on stretch. Michael was stretching his triceps behind him when he heard a good natured voice call, "Michael?"
He turned toward the voice to see a short, red-haired woman standing there. She smiled at him, and he knew he was supposed to follow her. He sighed under his breath as he gathered up his feeding pole and rattled out of stretch. Of course they'd steal him out of stretch; the thing he really WANTED to do here.
"Hi Michael, I'm Heather," she said. "I'm your therapist."
Michael forced his feet not to stop. A therapist? He didn't need a therapist; he was perfectly sane. Well, they were in the hallway. He could argue his sanity in a more sane place, like this woman's office.
They turned down another hallway, and Heather opened a door and ushered him in. Michael rattled in, feeling dumb.
"Take a seat," she invited. He plopped down on a small loveseat in front of the window, and Heather seated herself in a chair next to it. He swallowed, feeling self-conscious.
"I don't think I need I need a therapist," Michael said.
"Oh?" Heather said. "And why is that?" She looked interested. Michael wondered what was going on in her head.
"Well…I mean, I'm normal." He believed that. Staunchly. Even though everyone seemed to want to convince him otherwise.
"No one ever said you weren't," Heather replied. "That's not what this is about, Michael."
"It's not?" Michael was surprised. He figured that she would deny his claim.
"No," Heather said. "This is about coping strategies. Everyone's got them; you, me, your brother, your friends. But your coping strategies—the anorexia—have landed you in the hospital. And that means they aren't working."
"I don't have anorexia," Michael said.
"Really." This wasn't a question; there was a healthy flavor of…not sarcasm, exactly, but something similar in Heather's voice. Michael was shocked. Could she do that?
"Yes, really," Michael said.
"So, everyone was wrong to put you up here?" Heather asked.
"Yeah," Michael replied. "I don't belong here. I'm fine."
"Okay," Heather said. "Let me just say I go along with you for a second, okay? Let me ask you a couple questions. When you stand up, have you ever seen black around the edges?"
Michael thought back to all the times he had. His face turned red.
"I'm going to take that as a yes," she said, looking at his flushing cheeks. "How about the fact that even though it's a good seventy five degrees in here, you're wrapped in a winter sweater. Are you cold, Michael?"
Michael was cold. He nodded. "I'm always cold, though," he protested. "That doesn't mean anything."
"But it does," Heather said. "And here's the last thing. When's the last time you ate something?"
"That's not fair!" Michael said. "They stuck a tube down my nose! You wouldn't eat either!"
"But that's the thing, Michael," Heather said, her voice gentling a little. "I would. Especially because I know that the more you eat, the sooner they'll take the tube out. That would make me want to eat everything they put in front of me." Her eyes on his weren't accusing, just honest. "That's the anorexia, Michael. It doesn't want you to eat. It is why you're always cold, why your vital signs are off and you see black sometimes when you stand up too fast. The anorexia is what landed you in the hospital. It is your coping skill…but it is killing you."
"I'm not anorexic…" Michael protested again, but more softly this time. It was sinking in. That book he'd read; it had lied to him. "Oh God."
"No, Michael," Heather said, surprising him. "You're not 'anorexic'. You have anorexia. But it's a coping skill you learned; and it can be unlearned."
Michael sat there, deep in thought. A coping skill. It could be unlearned. But…if he 'unlearned' it…well. He wasn't sure what to do with those thoughts, so he pushed them away instead.
"I don't want to talk about this," he said, staring at his hands.
"Hmm," Heather said. "Alright. How about some more basic stuff, then?"
"Like?" Michael asked warily.
"Like, tell me about your life outside of here," Heather said. "Nothing deep, just the basics."
"Um," Michael said. "I don't know what you want me to talk about."
"Tell me about your family," Heather said.
His family. He could do that.
"Uh…I live with my brother, Linc. Lincoln. He's 23. He's got a son, who's five, my nephew LJ. Lincoln Junior." Michael swallowed and looked to see if this was what she was looking for; she nodded. She was taking notes on a yellow legal pad. "His girlfriend Veronica's kind of like family too, I guess. She's been around as long as I can remember; they've been dating since Linc was in high school."
"Why do you live with your brother?" Heather asked.
"Uh, my mom died when I was seven," Michael said. "Cancer. And my dad walked out before I was born. Lincoln remembers him a little, but I don't. We were in foster care until Lincoln turned 18, and then he got custody of me."
Heather's scribbling became more intense. "How did that happen?" Heather said. "It's unusual for an older sibling to get custody like that."
"Well, there was LJ," Michael said. "The court figured if he had one kid, he could handle another, I guess. And he does." He didn't want Heather to think badly of Lincoln. "He's a good brother."
"How do you do in school, Michael?" Heather asked.
"Good," Michael said. "I get A's." He shrugged.
"Do you like school?" Heather asked, peering up at him.
"It's okay," Michael replied. "I still haven't got any stuff from my school for tutoring. It's a big school, though…I don't know if Lincoln got around to telling them I'm gone yet."
"Hmm," Heather said. "We can check on that when we're done here. You should have something to do during tutoring, since they make you sit there anyway."
"Yeah, I guess," Michael said, staring at his hands.
"How are things going here?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" Michael asked. He met her green eyes warily, wondering if this was a trick question. Her eyes were perfectly open.
"How are things going? How are you adjusting to the hospital? I hear it isn't the easiest thing to adjust to always; how are you finding it? Are you getting along with your roommate? How are the meals going? What do you think of the groups? That kind of thing," Heather explained. She sat comfortably in her chair, waiting for his answers.
Michael thought for a second. This—this was all he'd been thinking about since he'd gotten here. He could practically explode from this question, and yet, that was probably what they wanted. Whoever 'they' were. He took a breath.
"Uh…I get along with Sucre fine," he said. That wasn't really fair to Sucre; he honestly couldn't have asked for a better roommate, but he wasn't going to say that. "But I don't like it here, and I want to go home." There. That was suitably bland.
Heather snorted. Michael's eyes widened.
"Come on, Michael," she said. "You don't like it here? Okay. But tell me the truth. I can see you want to say more than that just from your body language; your hands are practically strangling each other."
Michael looked down at his hands again; he was wringing them tightly. "Shit," he whispered without thinking, then covered his mouth. "Sorry," he said, wondering if he was going to get in trouble for that.
"I've heard way worse than that," she said, waving it off. "I was a sailor once."
Michael's eyes widened, and he examined the lady in front of him. "Really?" he asked.
"Yeah, really," she said. "I was in the Navy. I've heard words you've probably never even dreamed of."
While Michael digested that, Heather sighed. "Come on Michael. Tell me what you really think about it here. Maybe not everything; we don't have the time for that." She smiled wryly. "But tell me something."
Michael couldn't help it; he felt a little bit of his guard coming down around this lady. "All right," he agreed quietly. "I hate this place. I want them to take this goddamn tube out of my nose and stop making me fatter. And I want to go home and help my brother, like I'm supposed to."
Heather scribbled something on her legal pad, then looked Michael in the eyes. "Now that," she said, "is something we can work with." She put her legal pad down, and put out her hand. Michael extended his, and they shook.
"I'll see you in a couple days, okay Michael?"
"Okay," Michael said. She stood, and he followed her lead, clutching at the stupid pole again as she opened her office door and pointed him back towards the dayroom.
He could, he decided, respect that lady, at least. She wasn't going to bullshit him. And that was nice to know.
Michael plopped down on the couch between Sucre and Sara. "I saw the therapist today," he said, kind of into the air because he wasn't sure who to direct it to.
"Therapist?" Sara said.
"Which one?" Sucre asked. Since that was actually a question Michael knew how to answer, he decided to do so.
"Heather?" he said, like a question. Sucre grinned.
"Oh, she's awesome, man. You lucked out," Sucre said. "She's one of the good ones. I see her too."
"One of the good ones?" Sara said. "Who's another good one? I haven't seen a therapist yet." She looked nervous suddenly.
"Pope's good too," Sucre said. "He did group yesterday morning."
Sara bit her lip.
"Don't be nervous, Sara," Michael said, watching her. "It'll be fine."
"I hope so," she said. "I…I mean, I just don't like the idea, that's all."
"It wasn't as bad as it looks on TV," Michael offered. All he'd known of therapy was what he'd seen on TV before, and Heather had been a hundred times better than that. "You don't have to worry, I don't think."
"Sofia sees Pope," Sucre said. "He and Heather usually get the adolescents anyway, so you'll probably end up with one of them. You don't gotta worry too much querida."
But Michael could see she was worrying anyway. He nudged her elbow.
"Save your worries for something more important," he said.
"Like what?" Sara said, still biting her lip.
"Snack," Michael said, fighting a rather morbid grin.
Sara's lips turned up, even though Michael could see she was fighting it. "Michael!" she chided. Sucre batted him on his arm.
"Shut up, coño," he said, but he was grinning too.
A passing nurse said, "Sucre, watch your mouth!" in a lightly accented voice.
"Christina, no one understands anyway," Sucre protested after her.
"Yo entiende!" she called back, sounding like a scolding aunt.
"What did you call me, anyway?" Michael asked.
"Fucker," Sucre said, shrugging.
Michael raised his eyebrows. "Huh. I'll remember that."
The PA crackled on. "Ladies and gentlemen, time for PM snack. Please remove your sweatshirts and roll up your sleeves and come to the dining room. Time for snack."
"See?" Michael said, pulling off his sweater reluctantly.
"Shut up, coño," Sara said, but she was grinning teasingly. Michael's jaw dropped, even as he laughed.
"Chica got a mouth on her," Sucre said. "Better watch this one."
And he was.
After snack, Sara was sitting next to Didi when she heard a deep voice say, "Sara?"
She looked up and saw Dr. Pope standing there, holding her chart.
So Dr. Pope would be her therapist. She looked towards Michael and Sucre; they both nodded at her encouragingly. She swallowed hard. It would be fine. Right?
"Your father hasn't visited yet?" Dr. Pope asked.
Sara squirmed in the chair, drawing her knees to her chest. She shook her head. "He's very busy," she said defensively. Dr. Pope nodded and made a note on his white legal pad; Sara wondered what it said. "He sent his driver with my stuff. It isn't like he forgot about me," she added. She didn't want this man to think poorly of her father, even if she occasionally did.
"Well, it's good that you have your things," Dr. Pope said, smiling at her. Sara clutched her knees tighter, not sure how to respond.
"How are you getting adjusted here?" he asked.
"Okay," Sara said softly. "Everyone's been really nice to me up here." She thought of Michael and Sucre, Sofia and Didi, and the kindness of her nurses.
"I'm glad to hear that," Dr. Pope said. He made a note on his notepad. "Have you been getting used to the meals and snacks too?"
Sara swallowed. "Um…kind of," she said. She thought about the snack she'd just came from; it felt like a ball of lead sitting in her stomach at the moment. "They're not easy or anything…I'm just trying to get that orange bracelet, because Sofia told me things get easier once you get it."
"A lot of patients say that is true," Dr. Pope said. He scrawled something else onto his pad of paper. "It's just one step forward. One step of many."
"Well, anything that gets me closer to going home," Sara said.
Dr. Pope looked up at her. "You want to go home." It wasn't a question.
"That's all I want," Sara said.
"And why is that, Sara?" he asked.
So I can go back. So I can fix what you have done to me, with all this food and sitting around. The thoughts hit Sara hard. She felt her eyes widen. She didn't speak, knowing that the doctor wouldn't approve.
He seemed to read her thoughts anyway.
"I think we have a lot of work to do before you'll be ready to go home, Sara," he said softly.
Sara just sat, clinging to her knees in silence. She didn't want to do a lot of work. She just wanted to go home.
"So, what'd you think querida?" Sucre asked when she returned to the dayroom.
Sara collapsed softly into a chair, feeling a little battered. "I don't like it."
"Dr. Pope's nice," Sofia defended. "You don't like him?"
"He's fine," Sara said. "That's not it." She curled in a ball in the chair and set her forehead against her knees.
"What is it?" Michael asked, leaning towards her.
Sara shrugged slightly, then sighed. "I guess…I guess I'm a lot like you, Michael," she said. "I want to go home. And I want them to stop interfering. And they know it. So the chances of that happening…" She trailed off.
"Are not good," Michael finished. He nodded. "I'm sorry, Sara."
They sat together in silence, commiserating.
