Chapter 28 - Realities
Her bright blue eyes shine with kindness, and she never fails to greet me with encouraging words and a warm smile. If not for the thinning dull hair, sunken cheeks, and skeletal frame, I'd think she was one of the staff instead of a patient.
"Did you make weight today?" I ask, placing my tray of breakfast food on the table.
"So close," Jessica replies cheerfully. "I only gained 0.18 kilos. No phone or visitors for me again."
My brow furrows in consternation. "Seriously? You were short by 20 grams, yet they're still punishing you? It's not your fault—you ate everything you were supposed to yesterday."
True to her nature, Jessica merely shrugs before taking a bite of her cereal. "Eh, that's life. I don't make the rules. Apparently, I just break 'em."
"With the amount they have here, it's almost impossible not to," I grumble. "I'm not a rebel or anything, but some of them don't make any sense to me. Why can't we put mustard on our fries or dip the rolls in gravy? As long as the entire sandwich ends up in the stomach, what does it matter if someone wants to eat the bread separately from the meat?"
We both know the center's stance on "normalizing" eating behavior, so she lets me vent without interruption.
"At least food options aren't that bad," I finally concede. "I'm lucky they had brownies for dessert last night. I'm not sure I could've caught and re-swallowed something like jello."
"Oh my god, I can't believe you did that!" the 19-year-old girl giggles. "Even though I was completely grossed out, I have to give you credit. You were totally set on keeping it all down, even if it took more than one try."
"I am getting phone and computer privileges tonight, no matter what it takes." My voice is rife with determination. I can't go another day without checking to see if Edward has responded.
Since lunch three days ago, I've vomited involuntarily two more times. As a consequence, I haven't had access to any form of communication. Electronic devices are off limits until I make it through three consecutive meals without regurgitating any part of it.
I had a close call yesterday evening when my stomach began heaving midway through dessert. Two slimy brown lumps were expelled onto my plate as a result. Without taking time to think, I shoved them back in my mouth and gulped down some milk before any of the staff noticed.
"You definitely deserve your phone after that epic feat," Jessica agrees. "I hope you have an email or two from Edward. Maybe you'll even be able to talk to him tonight!"
I manage a watery smile that doesn't do much to disguise the worry coursing through me. "I'm nervous that he did write or call and is now wondering why I haven't responded."
"He sounds like a smart guy. I'm sure he'll figure out that there's a good reason for it." Her eyes drop to my mouth, and she tilts her head. "Hey, you're doing it again."
"Dammit," I sigh, pulling my left hand away from my face and sliding it under my thigh. "Thanks."
I've taken to chewing on my fingernails out of anxiety, and the cuticles have begun to crack and bleed. If it's not one bad habit, it's another, although I suppose it could be much worse. At least this isn't likely to kill me.
Jessica puts her spoon down and glances shyly at me. "Um, Bella? I was wondering if maybe…could you do me a favor tonight?"
I look at the young woman, who is absently sliding her empty yogurt container back and forth across her tray. She appears nervous, which is something I haven't seen from her before.
"Yeah, of course. What is it?"
"My mom's coming by tonight—she does every Monday and Thursday whether I'm off restriction or not. I guess she wants to feel near me or something like that. I don't suppose, maybe, you could maybe hang with her for a few minutes…just so she has some company?"
There is such sadness in her eyes, and it's all I can do not to get up and give her a hug. But I know such an action would make the staff come running: patients aren't allowed to touch one another except when authorized.
"Sure thing, Jess." I infuse my voice with as much sincerity as possible. "I'd love to. What's her name?"
As we finish our breakfast, Jessica tells me a little about her mom, Sandra. It's a bittersweet tale describing a single parent who has always tried to do her best as a mother, but feels helpless in the face of her daughter's illness. She wishes she could visit more often but now works a second job to afford the copayments. Jessica's eyes become watery when describing how she hates being the reason for her mom's long working hours.
A sympathetic look is the most I can give her with staff members keeping watch for rule infractions. It's an odd position for me to be in. I'm a nationally renowned, highly accomplished member of my field who has the respect of senior members of the military. Yet in this facility, I'm not allowed to mix two different kinds of cereal in the same bowl. I feel as if I should assume a mentorship role with Jessica, given my greater age and life experience, but I'm floundering when it comes to these disorders just as much as she is—if not more so.
I do manage to sneak in a squeeze of her hand when we leave the dining hall to begin the day's therapy sessions. On my schedule are Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Self-Esteem, Art Therapy, and Movement Therapy groups. There's also an individual appointment with Dr. Carson, a psychiatrist who started me on a combination of Wellbutrin and Effexor two days ago. He wants to make sure I'm not experiencing any unusual side effects from the antidepressants, which I don't seem to be at present. He reminds me that it can take up to several weeks to determine if the medication is helping and if changes need to be made in either amount or type.
Although it's a busy day, it seems to move slowly. Out of consideration for Jessica, I try to rein in my excitement during lunch, but she leads the way in celebrating another successfully completed meal. By dinnertime, I'm nearly vibrating in anticipation. Jessica laughs as she sits down in front of her tray.
"So, I decided my favor was way too much to ask at a time like this," she declares with a smile.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm saying it's cruel and unusual to make you hang with a stranger when you're one countdown away from blasting into orbit."
I grimace at her unfortunately accurate observation about my current state. It's a little embarrassing that I'm acting less mature than my teenaged friend.
"No, it's fine. In fact, I really do want to meet Sandra. I'm looking forward to it."
"Yeah, I'm sure it's right up there with a phone call from him."
The dubious look on her face makes me laugh.
"Honestly, Jess, your mom sounds like an amazing person, and I'd love to say hello."
When dinner is finally over, I track down my contact person—a staff member daily assigned to me if I want to talk or have an issue that needs attention. However, the nurse in question is having a serious discussion with a teary young girl, so my request must wait.
I debate whether I should see if a computer is available to check my email, but a glance at the time shows that visitors' hours will begin soon. I'd rather postpone until after meeting with Sandra than have to walk away from any messages Edward might have sent.
The Day Area room is buzzing with low voices when I enter. We have the evenings free for quiet activities of our choosing, as long as we haven't been placed on restriction. Some people watch TV, some read or use electronic devices, others chat in small groups.
No one is standing; the majority of patients are underweight—some dangerously so—and because of this, we are required to sit at least 50 minutes out of every hour, except for during Movement Therapy class. Of all the rules, I dislike this one the most. Pacing helps alleviate my anxiety to a certain degree, and not being able to do so causes even more frustration. Last night, I was given Ativan, a benzodiazepine, for relief of my highly wound tension. The drug caused such drowsiness that I fell into bed at 8:30.
Without any such assistance now, it's difficult to sit still and wait for Sandra to arrive. I see a daily newspaper on the table beside me and absently browse through the pages. Only a few days have passed since my admittance, but already the world outside of these walls seems like a different reality, like the waking memory of a hazy dream.
I come to the middle of the first newspaper section, and then everything stops.
The news item is only a handful of lines long, as if the story was an afterthought or space-filler. The headline is printed in a small font, and there is no accompanying photograph. It makes no difference: my eyes are immediately drawn to text as if it were backlit by flashing neon.
Adverse Weather Conditions in Afghanistan Leave Hundreds Dead or Missing, including 5 Missing U.S. Military
An estimated 200 Afghanistan citizens have been killed and over 500 are reported missing after heavy snow, avalanches, and widespread flooding conditions began plaguing the Central Region on January 18. Afghan troops, U.S. military personnel, and U.N. humanitarian organizations have been in the area for several days to provide aid to affected districts. Five U.S. military personnel are missing after an avalanche buried a convoy carrying relief supplies. Names have not been released, but reports indicate that the service members are U.S. Army and U.S. Navy Reserve personnel.
For several endless moments, I sit frozen, unable to move or even breathe. The words on the page blur and swirl, and I wonder if the newspaper is actually a delusion of my mind, containing fictional stories about an imaginary world—one that doesn't exist. It can't exist, because I refuse to think about a reality in which Edward comes to harm.
If that was to happen, I'm not sure I could handle it. Not now. Oh god, not now.
I begin to hyperventilate.
