The next two weeks were slow, painful, but Joe carried on along an undercurrent of grim triumph as his doctors, counselors, nutritionist and therapist, slowly gave up.
First there was the family session. Joe refused to speak to anyone during it, refused to respond to questions about his outburst, the skipped meals, his feelings about being there. His mother and father had been firm that the only way he was getting off the ward was to respond to treatment: and to them. Frank had seemed confused at first, getting more so as Joe's intention to stay silent continued, but slowly that confusion had receded to fear.
"Joe," he'd pleaded, interrupting his therapist's speech about denial, "please, brother, just say something."
But Joe stayed silent: through the group sessions, through his individual therapy, through the family sessions, through his nutrition and psychiatric appointments. At meals he refused all food, and when he did allow himself to eat he'd pick the lock on the faculty bathroom, sneak inside, and vomit it all up.
By the end of the week he'd been dropped from Level Three to Level Two—partial bed rest—and by the end of the weekend he was on Level One—full bed rest. He'd lost ten pounds in that week, the most he'd lost so far, and despite the pleadings of the counselors, his family, the girls on the floor, and Jamie, Joe was unwavering in his desire to get off the ward, anyway possible.
He was no longer allowed to participate in group sessions, nor walk to meals or his appointments. All was brought to him, meals he refused supplements he wouldn't touch therapists he wouldn't speak to doctors who brought him for weights and vitals at five a.m. before the others woke to get their own measured.
On Sunday, visiting day, Frank arrived alone. He obviously hadn't been sleeping and was beginning to look more slender himself. He sat on the edge of his brother's bed, took Joe's hand in his own, and spoke quietly about their Aunt, who had arrived to help run the house, and Vanessa, who was half-sick with worry and calling almost non-stop, and Callie, who was trying to organize their friends to make cards and such.
"Everyone's worried," he said, his eyes filling slowly. "But Joe, I'm terrified."
The younger Hardy had felt terribly guilty, sat up and embraced his brother and apologized softly, the two holding each other, talking little, throughout the next two hours, until Frank was ordered to leave so that Joe could have lunch, a lunch he hadn't touched.
How could he have known that Frank, six stories below, had walked out the hospital doors, made it to the van they'd once shared, only to break down and sob in the front seat?