I curl up underneath the blankets and begin counting the holes on the ceiling but quickly become bored. I already know that there are seven thousand, four hundred, and thirty two. I sit up and trudge to my desk, not feeling even a wink of tiredness.
I’m still shaken from the hallucination and as I look out the window and see someone in white walking across the courtyard, I jump. I crawl on top of the desk to get a closer look. It’s a girl in a white dress striding across the playground, glancing back once or twice. She’s headed towards the monkey bars, which aren’t metal. They’re made of—you guessed it—plastic. As she steps onto the light colored squishy asphalt, I see she’s dragging something behind herself. It’s long and slim.
I know I should call Doctor Linda back in here. But I’m transfixed.
I’ve seen twenty or so kids kill themselves in the years I’ve lived here. I’ve always been the quiet observer, set off at a distance from everyone else. You tend to notice those things more from the outside than the inside.
I cross my legs on the desk and tug the window open a crack. All the windows open slightly, to let in a breeze but no further than an inch. Through the gap, I say, “What are you doing?” loud enough for her to hear me, quiet enough that no one in the hospital will.
Her head snaps around and our eyes meet. It’s a girl from my therapy class. One who I’ve never talked to.
“I hate it here,” she replied. “My mother never visit anymore. Everyone bullies me ‘cause I can’t move half of my face and because I ain’t smart as ever’ one else.”
“That’s no reason to kill yourself,” I reply, resting my elbow on my knee and my head on my closed fist. “I’d tell you that it gets better but it won’t. But there’s still some good here. There are books and some of the doctors are nice and there’s the garden.”
“My Lord awaits me at da mostest beautiful garden of ‘em all.” With that, she tosses the rope of one of the monkey bars and ties it tight. She pulls herself up on top of them and wraps the loop around her neck.
“Before you jump,” I say, “is there anything you want to say? Anything you regret or think you’ll miss?”
She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. “I regret bein’ born.” The last word barely leaves her lips as she let herself fall through the bars. There is an audible snap, loud and echoing. Her delicately framed body hangs limply, swinging gently back and forth.
Lights flare in the courtyard. Loud blaring horns fill the hospital. I watch the helpers flood the courtyard and the curtains that cover the windows snap shut, held there by some kind of mechanical magic. I sigh and whisper, “It’s not her fault. She’s just braver than the rest of us.”
The next morning, I exit the shower room and trudge back to my room, a towel wrapped around my chest and dropping to my mid-thighs. My slippered feet make no noise as I take the long way to my room. I don’t realize anyone is walking next to me until they speak.
“Why is your name Rose?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Thatcher walks beside me, also wrapped in a towel, but it’s tied low, hanging from his hips. I tug my towel tighter. “It’s just my name. I don’t know.” I was delivered here in a rose covered blanket. That’s why. “Why does it matter?”
“Because you look Latina. And Latinas aren’t named ‘Rose.’ They’re named ‘Rosa.’” He rolls the “R” of the second one and holds the soft “a” out.
“What is Latina?” I ask, not looking over at him.
“You’re kidding me. How long have you been in here, Rosa?” Again with the annoying pronunciation.
“A long time, Thatcher. Why does it matter?” I repeat, angry now.
“Was that you wailing last night?” he asks. Why had I picked the long route to my room? I grit my teeth. Only two more corners and I would be back to the sanctuary of my room.
“Who cares?”
“I care. You don’t strike me as a screamer.” He laughs as if it’s a joke.
I stop abruptly and turn on him. “What does that even mean? Listen, we’re not friends, we never will be friends so stop acting all buddy-buddy with me!” I continue walking in a huff but Thatcher just continues walking beside me.
“So why are you in here?” he asks, as if nothing had happened. “You strike me as pretty normal. Maybe a couple anger issues but any therapist could sort that out.” Finally, I see my room.
As I turn into it and try to slam the door, he holds it open. “Maybe we could talk about it? Over coffee at breakfast this morning?”
“I’m going to get dressed now. So leave.”
“Or I could watch…” His lips curl up slightly at the corners. I let out an angry, frustrated breath of air and summoning up all of my strength close the door, leaning against it. I don’t move until I hear his footsteps retreating. I tug on a pair of cotton shorts and a crewneck shirt, both white as is standard. I never understood why we couldn’t wear what we wanted.
I shove my arms into a sweatshirt and zip it halfway up, to keep out the chilly air. With that, I push open my door, partly expecting to see Thatcher waiting outside. But I am pleasantly surprised to see Josh. He mewls softly and rubs his head against my arm.
“Hey Josh,” I say, looking him over. His rehabilitation was surprisingly short. But one of his eyes is still darkened and there are three cuts on each cheek, some kind of cruel joke the helpers played on him. “Oh Josh…” I run the pad of my thumb along the scabbed lines, whiskered across his face.
He whines.
“Come on, let’s get some breakfast.” He places his dainty hand in mine, intertwining our fingers, the most human gesture he makes. We walk quietly down to the dining hall, passing a few other kids who stare obviously at Josh’s cuts. He hisses at them. “Josh,” I implore, squeezing his hand.
Finally, we pass through the doors into the dining hall. Not very many are down here yet so I hurry Josh over to the line so he can be tucked away at our table before anyone shows up. The lunch ladies are underwhelmed by his appearance, dropping half of a toasted bagel on a plate for me and peeling a can of brislings open and sliding them onto a plate for Josh, oil and all.
I hand Josh a two percent milk carton and a bottle of orange juice for myself and accept my pills, waiting for Josh to get his. I lead him to the table, sitting next to him. I swallow my pills first, puckering my lips at their sour taste. I get part way through my bagel and Rob arrives followed by another girl from therapy before I feel a tap on my shoulder.
Doctor Linda jabs a finger in the direction of Thatcher. “Get over there, Rose. Doctor’s orders.” I groan and rise, telling everyone goodbye.
As I sit down at the table with Thatcher, he slides a cup of coffee across the table. I raise my eyebrows. “Where’d you get this?” I ask.
He merely holds a single finger up to his lips and takes a drink. “Alright. Twenty questions. You start.”
“What?” I inquire.
“We ask each other questions. It’s an ice breaker Rosa. And insane asylum is off limits. I guess I’ll start. What are your hobbies?”
“Um… Reading?”
“Like what?”
“Like everything. Anything that the hospital library has at least. I’ve read most of it already.” I chew on the inside of my lip.
“Interesting. A literate girl in an asylum.” He runs a slim finger around the edge of his drink, the steamy drifting up towards his face. “You’re turn, Rosa.”
“Okay… Uh… Dream job?”
“Gravedigger.”
I move backwards a little bit. “Are you serious?” And there goes that secretive smile he has again.
I take nibble of bagel as he says, “What do you think?” When I don’t respond, he says, “No. Theme park employee.”
“As in, drive the rides at, like, Walt Disney World?” I laugh as he nods, his eyes crinkling with his grin. I itch my eyebrow, a nervous habit, and look up at him through my lashes. He takes another swig of coffee.
“Alright,” he says, rubbing his palms together. “Favorite color?”
“Red.”
I see Linda out of the corner of my eye, scribbling something onto her little clipboard. Thatcher’s voice brings my attention back to him. “Red? You never struck me as someone who likes red.”
“It’s just the opposite of all of… this!” I say gesturing wildly around the breakfast hall. “It’s so bright and full of emotion and not this!” I tug on my sweatshirt.
“What do you have against white? It looks good on you.” My smile drops. I don’t like compliments. I don’t get compliments. I just don’t do compliments in general. They intimidate me. “You haven’t even tried your coffee,” Thatcher says. I raise the Styrofoam cup to my lips and take a sip.
I spent the next few seconds coughing.
Coffee is disgusting.
Thatcher raises his eyebrows. “You okay?” I wave my hand wildly, still hacking loudly into the crook of my elbow. The bell tolls far off in the distance. I look up, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. Thatcher catches both cups up in his hand and inclines his head to me. “We’ll finish this conversation later, okay?” And he’s gone before I can reply.
He seems to do that a lot, I realize. Thatcher leaves me at that table as soon as mealtime ends and it makes me wonder if he even likes me or if he’s just humoring me. Either way, I don’t have much time to think about it because Robert walks up and says, “Ready for therapy?”
“Yeah,” I grunt and stand.
No comments:
Post a Comment