"You're new?"
Joe glanced away from the tray they'd placed before him to a young girl, too thin, across the table from him.
"When did you come in?"
He swallowed, hard. "Last night. Late."
"First meal here?" another girl, this one more average looking, asked from beside him.
"Yeah."
"We can tell," the thin one smiled. "It's rough of first, but it's okay. You'll see. The first few days are rough is all."
Joe glanced around at the faces at the table; kind girls, looking at him encouragingly.
Has everyone here been brainwashed? He thought dizzily, looking down at his breakfast tray: a bagel with cream cheese, eggs, an apple, and orange juice. The expect me to eat this? Me, who never has breakfast, who doesn't need it, who shouldn't have it? I don't belong here, among all these girls. I don't know what people are thinking, I don't know what my parents are thinking—
And Frank. Frank most of all.
Despite his promise that they would talk before departing, the confusion of the late-night transfer had left little time for him to say goodbye to his family. His mother had been teary; his father, solemn. His elder brother had looked sadder than Joe had ever seen him before, hugging him almost uncertainly, murmuring an apology, his hand lingering on his brother's protruding spine, trembling as he withdrew.
Some part of Joe that had not yet surrendered to his illness knew his brother meant well, knew that Frank was doing what he thought was best. But part of him resented it, wanted Frank to take him home, to explain to their parents that Joe needed to be with his brother. Although Frank had infuriated him by going to their parents and his Coach, he nonetheless wanted to be with him, to spend as much time together as possible before Frank walked out of his life for good.
The question is, why would Frank want to spend time with you? Someone as smart as him, as kind as him, you think you have anything to offer? What use would he have for you?
"…name?"
Joe jolted back to reality and blushed, realizing all eyes were on him. "Huh?"
"What's your name?" the thin girl asked again.
"Oh…Joe. Hardy."
"Hi, Joe. I'm Veronica."
"I'm Marissa," the healthy girl beside him said.
The girls around him introduced themselves, all smiles and support, then began to pick their way through their trays.
"Do you know how mealtimes work?" Marissa asked.
"No," Joe mumbled.
"Eat as much as you can. When you don't finish you'll be given a supplement, like Ensure or Deliver, which you have to drink. If you don't drink it by the time meal time support therapy is over, it's considered non-compliance. If you're not compliant they may kick you out, or else there's feeding tubes. It depends on whether you're willing to recover or not. You are willing, aren't you?"
Joe felt his face flush and looked down at his tray. "I'm not sick," he muttered.
Eyes turned toward him, then glanced at each other; at that moment, a counselor arrived.
"May I see your tray?" she asked the younger Hardy boy. Joe leaned back in to his chair so she could get a look. She marked a paper in a manila folder and placed it beside his tray; Joe saw his name written on the tab at the top.
"Do you know the mealtime rules?" she asked him gently.
"Marissa," he gestured to the girl beside him, "told me about supplements and all."
"That's fine, but there's also discussion rules. No talking about the meal, calories, weights, or therapy. No numbers at all here. We don't calorie count and we don't discuss meal plans, weight gain, etc. You'll learn more when you meet with your nutritionist later. In the meantime, I'm Vanessa, one of the counselors here, and I'll be running the group therapy after the meal. If you need anything…"
But Joe was no longer paying attention. Vanessa. Her name was Vanessa. What was Vanessa thinking now? What was she going to think, what were all his friends going to think, when they found out he was here? His family wouldn't lie, that was clear: they'd tell everyone he was in treatment for an eating disorder. They'd tell them that he was sick—they'd tell them all lies!
"I'm not eating this," Joe announced, pushing his tray toward Veronica. The girls around him stopped eating and glanced toward the counselor.
"Joe," Vanessa said calmly, "that may be triggering for some."
"Triggering?"
"It makes us want to go back to our symptoms," Veronica said softly.
"Symptoms?"
"Our eating disorder," Marissa clarified.
"Oh. Well…sorry. But I don't need this. I don't belong here."
"Then just sit and wait," Vanessa said firmly. "And you'll be given your supplements."
"Supplements?"
"That's right."
Joe felt suddenly dizzy, and it wasn't all from hunger. This room, with it's white linoleum and white walls felt too close, the girls were too close, his tray was too close, and he was conscious not only of being the only boy, but of the sharp loneliness at being separated from his friends and family.
He sat quietly throughout the meal, watching the others eat and ignoring his own tray, gradually conscious of the uneasiness of his stomach and the soreness of his throat, raw with the violence of the purge the previous night.
At the end of the meal a slender blonde woman approached him, smiling and holding a folder.
"You're Joe Hardy?"
He nodded.
"My name's Tamara, and I'm in charge of setting up admittance appointments. I need to take you to meet with your treatment team now. Have you finished?"
"He needs supplements," Vanessa said, rising and moving in the direction of the kitchen, where the trays were prepared and brought out on metal racks, labeled with patient's names and their meal choices.
"We can take it with us," Tamara said with a smile, "unless you want to drink them here."
"I'm not drinking them," Joe muttered, getting to his feet and wishing for a change of clothes; he was still wearing the long-sleeved white t-shirt and jeans from the night before, both of which were too big on him.
"That's considered non-compliance." Tamara's smile faded.
"It's not when you're not sick."
She nodded gravely as Vanessa emerged with a large red plastic cup filled to the brim with thick, off-white liquid.
"I'm not drinking that," Joe snapped when she reached to hand it to him.
"That's—"
"Non-compliance, right. Write it down or something. I don't care. I don't need to be here."
The two women exchanged a look, then Tamara motioned for Joe to follow her out to the main hall. She explained the layout of the ward, the 'living room' where everyone could watch TV, the nurse's station, the medication window, where meds were given twice a day, the board that indicated what level you were—the lower the level, the less privileges.
"You're on level three right now," she informed him. "That means you're not on any form of bed-rest, but you're restricted to the ward. If you continue to lose weight and are non-compliant you may be dropped down to partial bed-rest; if you're continually non-compliant, you'll be dropped to full bed-rest. That means that your doctors come to you, and you can't attend group sessions." She gave him a somewhat severe look. "It makes life pretty tough."
"And being here isn't already?" Joe mumbled.
She ignored him. "If you're compliant however, you'll move up to level four. You have more freedom with your meal choices then, and you can go out to eat." Tamara paused as Joe put a hand to his head, fighting a wave of dizziness. "Are you all right?"
The younger Hardy brother nodded weakly.
"I'll take you to meet your therapist now." She said gently, turning and making her way down the hall past the nurse's station. Joe drew a breath, steadied himself, and made his way after her, all the while thinking Frank…why?