Patricia McCormick: Cut

“Like a game or a contest?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you think you’ll lose?”

“I don’t know.” I check your amber cat eyes for signs of impatience, but you don’t seem mad. Just curious.

“I’ll never make you tell me anything you don’t want to tell me,” you say. “But you are right, Callie. Sometimes it will feel like you’re losing something.”

I reach for another tissue. Wet, wadded-up tissues keep piling up in my lap.

“But Callie,” you say. “If we work hard, you’ll find something much better to take the place of whatever you give up. I promise.”

I nod. I’m tired now, awfully tired. I’ve got that headachy feeling I get in the summer when I step out of the dark, air-conditioned house into the too-bright sunlight.

I watch you as you stand up and say we’ll get started later on, at our usual time. Then you call for someone to escort me to the infirmary, where they give me a tetanus shot and make me sign a form. Then I go back to my room. And even though it’s still morning, I go back to bed. And sleep. And sleep.

I must’ve slept all morning, because the next thing I know, Marie is shaking my shoulder and saying something about lunch. “C’mon,” she says. “The doctor gave you special permission to be in your room unattended today, but now you’ve got to get up. Or else you’re going to miss lunch.”

I don’t understand. Then it comes back to me, dimly at first, that something’s different, although I can’t remember exactly what it might be. I brush my hair out of my eyes and see a flash of white gauze around my wrist. In an instant, everything—my fingers gripping my wrist, Ruby folding her hands over mine, wet tissues heaped in my lap—comes back to me.

“We don’t want you missing your meals,” Marie says. She lowers her voice. “We got enough skinny girls in this place already.”

I sit up and realize I’m hungry, really hungry.

Even the noise and the steamed-vegetable smell of the cafeteria doesn’t spoil my appetite. I pick up a tray and let a cafeteria worker with fogged-up glasses shovel a grilled cheese sandwich onto my plate. I remember Sydney calling them chilled grease sandwiches once and I head out of the food line hoping she’ll be there.

But the dining room is practically empty; the only ones left at our table are Debbie and Becca I grip the edge of my tray and imagine myself walking past my usual seat at the end of the table, sitting down next to Debbie. I’ll give her a practice smile, the way Ruth did, and start talking, like everybody else does. Debbie will say, “That’s great, that’s really great,” the way she does when Becca eats all of her fruit and cottage cheese, and Becca will be impressed, she’ll agree with Debbie that it’s great, and when we go to Group later on, she’ll run ahead and tell everyone the news. But before I even get to the table, they’ve left.

A few minutes later, Tara comes in and sets her tray down at the other end of the table. Her nose is red and her face is blotchy and as soon as she sees me watching her she pulls the brim of her baseball cap down. She picks up a piece of lettuce and wipes the dressing off with her napkin.

Finally I stand and pick up my tray, keeping my sleeve pulled down over my wrist, the hem wrapped around my thumb, and sit down across from her.

“Hi,” she says.

I try to give her a practice smile, but I’m not sure anything happens on my face.

Then we both sit there pretending to eat. I try to remember how people start conversations, but all that comes to mind are phrases from sixth-grade French. “Bonjour, Thérèse. Ça va?” says Guy, a boy wearing a black beret. “Ça va bien, merci. Et tu, Guy?” Thérèse responds.

I decide to take a sip of water and then just say hi. Hi. It’s just two little letters. I ought to be able to get that much out. I reach for my glass. My sleeve creeps up and we both see the white bandage sticking out. The water in my glass jumps as I pull my hand away and tuck it safely in my lap.

“Oh,” is all she says.

I peek out at her from under my bangs.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” Her voice is gentle, the way it was in the bathroom the day she asked if I wanted her to leave me alone.

I shake my head.

“We all do things.”

“Where would you like to start?” you say that afternoon.

I notice that you’re wearing your delicate little fabric shoes again today.

“Callie? Why don’t you tell me about things before you came here?”

“Don’t you—” My voice deserts me. “Don’t you know?”

You tap your pen against something in your lap; I see then that you didn’t throw my file away after all.

“No,” you say. “I don’t. All this tells me is what other people have to say about you.”

I squint at the folder, wondering who these other people are and what they have to say.

You open the folder, then close it. “That you’re fifteen, a runner—”

“Was.”

“Pardon me?”

“I was.” I cough. “A runner.”

You pick up your pen.

“Are you going to write everything down?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.” You hold your pen in midair. “Will it bother you if I take notes?”

I shrug.

“If it bothers you, I won’t.”

For some reason, I think of how Mr. Malcolm, my algebra teacher, used to hand out test paper with lots of blank space and tell us we wouldn’t get credit for right answers unless we showed our work. I imagine you working on me as an algebra problem, reducing me to fractions, crossing out common denominators, until there’s nothing left on the page but a line that says x = whatever it is that is wrong with me. You fix it. I get to go home.

“Would you rather I didn’t take notes?”

“It’s OK.” You bend over your notepad a little; I study the part in your hair, which is perfectly straight and tidy You straighten up. “So, where do you want to start?”

I shrug.

You wait.

“I don’t care,” I say.

You cross your legs, not taking your eyes off me. The minute hand on the clock twitches forward once, then once more.

“My little brother, Sam,” I say finally. “He’s the one who usually gets all the attention from doctors and stuff.”

Instantly, this sounds wrong.

“I don’t mind,” I say. “He’s sick.”

“What’s the matter with Sam?”

“Asthma.”

You don’t say anything.

“Really bad asthma.”

You don’t move.

“He’s in the hospital all the time.”

You still don’t move.

“That’s why he’s so skinny and why we have to keep everything clean. But he’s OK for a brother.” I know I’m supposed to say more, but I’m exhausted, out of words. “That’s all, I guess.”

You fold your hands in your lap. “What’s that like for you?”

“What?”

“Having a brother who needs so much attention.”

“I’m used to it.”

You open your mouth to say something, but I cut you off.

“My mom’s the one who has a hard time.”

“Your mom?”

“She worries a lot.”

“What does she worry about?”

I try to get comfortable on the couch. This is tiring, all this talking.

“Callie,” you say. “What does your mother worry about?”

“Everything.”

You look like you want to ask something else, so I go on.

“She doesn’t drive anymore. She’s terrified of trucks. My dad has to take us everywhere.”

“I see.”

I wonder if you do see, see us sitting in the car, strapped in our seats, the windows rolled up tight, even if it’s a nice day, especially if it’s a nice day, so no pollen or spores or dust mites or pollution or anything can get into our car, our quiet, antiseptic car.