Patricia McCormick: Cut

Since I’m a Level One, the only place I can go while everyone else is at treatment is Study Hall. It’s supervised by an attendant named Cynthia, who sits in the front of the classroom answering multiple-choice questions in a big workbook. The only good thing about afternoon Study Hall, besides the fact that I’m usually the only one here, is that it’s quiet. There are signs all over the place politely reminding us guests to respect each other’s needs for silence; at least in here, I’m actually displaying Appropriate Behavior.

The walls are lined with cork board that other guests have covered with graffiti. I spend a lot of time reading their messages—names and comments like “This place sucks,” or “Mrs. Bryant is a bitch.” (Mrs. Bryant is either the lady who works in the admissions office or the head of the place, I’m not sure.) Mostly I listen to the rustling of paper as Cynthia turns the pages in her workbook.

I take my favorite seat in the back of the room, in the corner farthest away from Cynthia, and pretend to do the geometry assignment that my school faxed in. Really, I watch the dog who lives next to the maintenance shed. All he does is sleep and pace. Mostly he sleeps, but right now he’s pacing back and forth in front of his doghouse. He’s barking like mad at a delivery truck that’s coming up the driveway. He trots to the end of his chain, barks, then turns and trots back. Then he turns around and does the same thing all over again. He’s gone back and forth so many times, he’s worn a dirt path in front of his house.

I sit there watching the dust fly as he paces back and forth, back and forth, while nobody pays attention to him. After a while I get up and move to a desk facing the wall.

Ruth, a Level Three from another group, arrives at the door, on time as always, to escort me to Individual. Ruth is this very shy girl with bad skin and a way of ducking her chin inside her turtleneck; she just appears at the door every day at the same time, waiting for me to notice her. She looks so uncomfortable with her chin jammed into her chest and her hands shoved into her pockets that I always just get up and go with her.

The truth is, I don’t mind being escorted by Ruth. I sort of like listening to our sneakers squeak along the hallway and not worrying that Ruth is going to try to make me talk. And I have a feeling that maybe Ruth doesn’t mind escorting me either, because when we get to the waiting area outside your office, sometimes she hangs around a while, even though technically she doesn’t have to.

After she goes, it’s just me and the little white plastic UFO on the floor outside your office. Mrs. Bryant, who gave me my tour on the first day and who I’ve never seen since, said that the UFO—which looks like a plastic party hat with a motor inside—is called a white-noise machine. She said all the therapists have them outside their doors so people in the hall can’t hear what the guests inside are saying. (The UFOs don’t, however, drown out the yelling or the crying.)

Since I’m not talking (or yelling or crying), you could turn the UFO off during our session; that way, Sick Minds could save a little on the electric bill. I think about telling you that, but of course that would require talking, which would require turning on the UFO.

You open your door and invite me to come in. I consider lying down on the couch, thinking how nice it would be to take a nap there for the next hour, but I sit in my usual spot, the corner farthest from you and your dead-cow chair. You sit down and ask about visiting day. “How was it for you?” you say.

I study your shoes. They’re tiny black witch’s shoes with silver buckles.

“What was it like seeing your family?”

Your shoes look like they’re made of fabric, like they’re too delicate to be worn in the real world.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

I consider saying something totally stupid. Something so boringly normal that you’ll finally give up and leave me alone. I think about telling you that my mom wore her good wool coat, the one she wears to church and to doctor’s appointments. Or about telling you that she looked tired, like the Before people in the Before and After pictures in her magazines. Or about how she started massaging her forehead as soon as she walked into the reception room.

Sam looked scared and excited all at once. He also seemed skinnier than ever; even though he was wearing a bulky red sweatshirt, his inhaler made a big bulge from inside his front shirt pocket. He let me hug him, then shoved a card at me. “I made this for you,” he said. The card had pictures of cats all over it. Cats dancing. Cats jumping rope. Cats drinking tea. Cats playing basketball.

Sam’s a really good artist for a third-grader, I imagine myself telling you, in a smart, sane voice. But his spelling really sucks. The card, which I hid under the mattress back in my room, says “Hop your feeling beter.” It’s signed by Sam and Linus.

Linus is our cat, I’d explain to you. You’d nod thoughtfully and I’d go on to explain that Linus has to live outside now, since the doctor said she was one of the things making Sam sick. I’d tell you that we named her Linus, even though she’s a girl, because she used to carry around a sock in her mouth when she was a baby. It looked like a security blanket, so we called her Linus, I’d tell you. You’d smile. We’d make small talk. Except that I don’t make talk, small or otherwise.

It was weird not saying anything to Sam when he handed me the card. I patted him on the head instead. Then my mom started sniffling, so I was able to walk away and get her a tissue from the coffee table. That’s one good thing about this place, I’d tell you. There are tissue boxes everywhere.

I steered my mom and Sam over to a couch in the reception room. Sam looked around, his mouth hanging open like it does when he watches TV. “Why is this place called Sea Pines?”

He was waiting for me to answer, I think, but I was too busy pulling on a loose thread on the seat cushion. I pictured the whole couch coming unraveled and the three of us sitting on the floor in a giant pile of couch thread.

My mom was rubbing her temples. “It’s just a name, Sam, like Pennbrook Manor, where Gram lived,” she said finally.

“Where Gram died, you mean,” Sam said.

“Well…” She gazed past Sam, around the reception room, trying to see what the other families were doing.

“That place smelled bad,” Sam said.

“Well, Sam, this is different,” my mom said. “This is a perfectly nice place.”

“But what is it? Why is Cal here, anyhow?”

“Lower your voice,” she said. “I already told you. She’s not feeling well.”

“She doesn’t look sick.”

“Shhh,” she said. “Let’s talk about something pleasant during the time we have, shall we?” She folded a tissue in her lap, then turned to me. “How’s your roommate? Is she a nice girl?”

I got up and stood by the window, scanning the parking lot for my dad. I saw a man coming up the sidewalk and I tapped on the window; he lifted his head and I realized he wasn’t my dad at all. The sliding doors opened and the man came in and gave Tara a big hug.

“If you’re looking for Dad, he’s not coming,” Sam said.

My mom blew her nose.

I kept looking out the window; I didn’t expect to see our car in the parking lot, since my mom doesn’t drive anywhere anymore. She’s terrified of big trucks and of missing her exit on the highway. She’s also terrified of E. coli in hamburgers, childnappers at the mall, lead in the drinking water, and, of course, dust mites, animal fur, molds, spores, pollen, and anything else that might give Sam an asthma attack. I don’t know what I expected to see in the parking lot. But I kept watching.