Elena Vanishing (23 page)

I glance up. Evey has her eyes closed. Sheila looks a little bored. Sam is staring at me wide-eyed and twitching her whole body slightly like she's swaying to music none of us can hear.

“So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
I'll write those names,
Golden forever, eagles, crying flames,
And set them as a banner, that men may know,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow
Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming. . . .”

Now all three are staring at me in something like rapture. Wouldn't we all like to think that secretly, somehow, somewhere, someone loved us like that?

“These I have loved:
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread;”

“I hate bread!” mutters Sheila.

“Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets . . .”

Sheila gives a snort. “What does he know about male kisses?”

I could tell her, but Sam's here, and she's only about thirteen.

“He didn't love people,” Sam says, bouncing. “He loved things. I thought he would list his favorite people, but he didn't.”

“Well,” I say, “people made his life pretty complicated.” And I try to explain how many people were madly in love with Rupert Brooke—just about everybody except the people
he
loved. But I'm talking too fast. I stop in confusion.

“I like it that he loved things,” Evey says as she closes her eyes again. “People just hurt you.”

Which is true.

“Lunch,” calls Ms. Carter.

Not lunch already!

You can't eat now!
says the voice in my head.
Your stomach's still full. It's going to split open. It's going to rupture!

I sit down at the table across from Evey. Sam takes the seat beside me. Sheila doesn't have to eat. She parks in a Foof by the fire, brushes her beautiful hair, and takes our bitter envy as her proper tribute.

A plate appears in front of me, and I fight down panic. The care team has upped my quota.

Five cups of Caesar salad!
shrieks the voice in my head.
Five cups at least! There's no room for it all. You'll pop! Your belly will pop!

Terror floods me, and I have to close my eyes as I eat so I won't see how much food is still left. I'm like a claustrophobic locked in a cabinet. Every bite brings the walls closer together.

I'm being buried alive—from the inside out!

“You did great,” Ms. Carter says warmly as she takes the empty plate away. I fight down a crazy urge to punch her. When I stand up, I'm astonished at how rapidly the table moves away.

I progress carefully to a Foof. I'm so nauseated from the bloated feeling in my stomach that it's all I can do to keep the meal down. I don't dare turn my head for fear I'll upset my balance and bring on vertigo.

The nausea slowly subsides, but my stretched stomach is in torment. Now the room is spinning. Some miracle drug this half-a-white-pill has turned out to be—I'm still miserable, sick, and in pain, and now I feel drunk!

“Group therapy,” Ms. Carter calls out.

I glide into the group therapy room and arrange myself on a chair. The room populates with other sick, slender girls and women. The therapist is Susan, a smartly dressed middle-aged woman with large gray eyes and a high opinion of herself. I really dislike her. For some reason, she seems to like that about me.

“Elena's been here a week,” she tells the group. “Let's take her history today. Elena, is that okay with you?”

I guess it is. I'm feeling sick to my stomach, angry, relaxed, and reckless.

“Tell us about your mother first,” she says. “What's your relationship like?”

“Great,” I say. “Mom's a writer, and I love books. She wrote her first books for me and my sister, Valerie. Really good books. They win awards.”

The other patients make interested noises at this, but Susan asks, “What was she like when you were little?”

“Mom had cancer. I think that was when I was seven or eight. That was before she wrote books. She spent a lot of time in bed, too tired to play with us or do anything but work. She was always working. Everything was hard for her then. Finally, they found out she had anemia. She'd had it since I was born. When I was born, she couldn't stop—bleeding.”

Images flood my mind, and the word catches in my throat. I smooth the expression on my face and force myself past it.

“Mom lost half her blood when I was born.” Bright red blood on the bathroom floor. “And then—and then—” Bright red blood on my hands. “And then—”

But I can't go on.

Suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. I swallow hard and force them back. Everyone is looking at me. I stare back at them as if they had been the ones who were doing the talking.

Susan says, “Elena, it's okay. We understand. We know about your loss.”

“Screw you,” I say.

“It's okay,” she repeats. “You can let yourself feel sad. You need to get in touch with that sadness.”

From the bottom of my broken heart and aching chest and groaning stomach, I say, “Screw you. You don't know anything about me.”

The day keeps right on getting better. As soon as group ends, it's time for massage therapy. The masseuse has set up her table in one of the yoga rooms, and she's dimmed the lights and lit candles. Quiet, plinky spa music plays on her portable stereo as I open the door an inch.

“Come in,” she says. “You can lie down on the table or sit on the chair.”

I sit on the chair. No damn way is she getting me on that table.

“What are you going to do?” I ask warily.

“Whatever you want me to,” she says. “If you lie down, I can give you a back massage, or I can massage your feet. Or I can give you a chair massage and loosen up your neck and shoulders. It's totally up to you.”

Up to me. If it were up to me, I'd be a thousand miles from this room. My body stiffens up like cardboard in anticipation of a stranger's touch, and I stare at her without speaking.

“How about I just massage one hand?” she suggests. “You can tell me when you're relaxed enough to try something else.”

So I hold out my hand, and she begins to press it gently and rub it in circular motions.

I can't bear the pressure of her skin against mine. I grit my teeth and hold myself rigid. I tell myself: I will
not
feel. My hand shakes with the effort to stay tense.

You'll break
, says the voice in my head.
You'll lose control!

But I don't. She might as well massage a brick.

Then, as the gentle pressure continues, unwanted questions begin to intrude. Why am I doing this? What's wrong with a simple massage?

They're trying to make you lose control!

But how is that possible? No one's talking to me. No one's expecting me to do anything. What control do I need to handle a nice, relaxing massage?

You don't deserve it!
says the voice in my head.
You're a fat, stupid bitch. Bitches don't get nice things.

Is that true? Do I really hate myself this much?

I force the questions back. Instead, I concentrate all my energy and willpower on hating the people who put me here. Emily. Susan. The masseuse who's touching me.

This is wasting my time. This is bullshit! It isn't going to help me recover.

When it's over at last, I walk out without a word. I don't respond to the masseuse's good-bye.

Outside in the hallway is another girl with thin arms and a grim, determined expression. You'd think she was getting ready for electroshock therapy. She told us her story last week. She got gang-raped. She didn't tell a single person, and she kept right on making As.

“That woman is such a pervert!” I whisper to the girl, and she relaxes into a giggle, then rewards me with a quick hug before she heads through the door for her massage.

As I navigate back to my Foof, Emily calls me over. “So, how was the massage?” she asks.

“It was bullshit!” I say. “I'm not doing that again. It's a complete waste of my parents' money.”

Emily doesn't look surprised.

“It's not an extra charge,” she says. “And it relates to something the care team wants me to discuss with you. Do you have a minute?”

I follow her down the hall, take a seat on the couch in her office, and stare at the photo of the back of her wedding veil again.

They're going to ask you to leave
, says the voice in my head.
They're giving up on you. You're too much trouble.

“We reviewed your case today,” Emily tells me. “And the thing we kept coming back to was rage. Anger, suspicion, lashing out in almost every interaction.”

Here it comes!
says the voice in my head.
The heave-ho. The push out the door!

And I feel myself tense up again.

“Elena, have you ever experienced a sexual assault?”

“Hasn't everybody?” I snap.

Oh. My. God. There it is. There it is! That's what they wanted to know, and I told them. Now they can all trot off and gossip about me and whisper behind my back. I can't believe it. That massage! That damn new pill!

Ha, ha, ha!
screams the voice in my head.
Elena Dunkle, queen of the morons!

I stare at Emily and hope she'll think I was making a joke. But she doesn't. She's not that stupid.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“No.”

I wait for her to argue or persuade—to fill up the silence.

Emily waits, too.

“Look, it doesn't matter,” I say at last. “It happened a long time ago. I was at a party, and I shouldn't have been there. I was drinking, and I should have been more careful. I barely remember it, no kidding. It wasn't that big a deal.”

She starts to speak, changes her mind, and thinks for a minute. “Was it date rape?” she asks. “Did you know him?”

“No, my boyfriend was downstairs.”

You blamed him, though
, says the voice in my head.
He couldn't understand why you changed.

“When did it happen?” asks Emily.

“A long time ago. I was thirteen. Honestly, I barely remember it.”

There it is—the look in her eyes. The thing I hate most. Pity. They tell you pity is such a kind thing, but what pity really does is never ever let you forget.

“Look, I'm not a victim,” I say. “I am
not
a victim! I'm smart, and I'm successful, and there are guys who would
kill
to go out with me. I know people who will
never
make my grades! And—and—” And I'm babbling. I feel myself go red with humiliation.

Poor widdle Elena! You're so pitiful
, laughs the voice in my head, and the look in Emily's eyes is still there.

“Are we done?” I say, standing up.

“Sure,” Emily says. “If you want to be.”

I want to be. I storm out.

Sam bumps into me outside the door. “Mindfulness time, Elena,” she says, sliding from side to side on the bottoms of her pajama legs. Most of the older girls ignore her, so I find a smile for her in spite of my bad mood.

Mindfulness time is a relief anyway. We lie on mats with our eyes closed. Half of us fall asleep. No one will ask me to pry into my memories and feelings during mindfulness time.

I take my mat, lie down, and close my eyes. The room seems to be rotating gently.

Seriously, I hate this new pill.

The facilitator begins: first, breathing exercises, in and out. My thoughts and breaths are like an erratic windstorm, but as the minutes pass, they calm down.

“You're on a beach, all by yourself,” the facilitator says so gently that I don't seem to hear her voice at all. “You're walking barefoot on the sand. Take a minute to look at the wet sand and think about how firm and cool it feels.”

I do. And it does.

The voice goes on, just at the edge of awareness, building the world around me. Gulls soar through the air and cry overhead. A little curving edge of water rushes past my feet and buries my toes in the sand as it hurries away.

“You come to some rocks. The waves are breaking against them. You hear the thunder as the waves break, but the rocks stand fast. You see little pools of water in their hollows. You feel the spray of the ocean waves as they break.”

I see it all exactly: the wide, straight, shining line of the ocean horizon and the miles of empty beach. I see the wet, slick rocks sticking out into the ocean. They make the waves roar up and smash into foam.

Now I'm looking at the base of the nearest rock. There are pebbles lying here—thousands of pebbles that have broken from the rock. They've been washed clean and polished smooth by the action of the waves.

“Stop and pick up a pebble.”

And I do.

“Look at your pebble. See what's unique about it.”

My pebble is wet and deep eggplant-purple, with a pure white mark like the print of a baby's foot.

“Throw the pebble out to sea.”

But I can't. I stare down at that beautiful little footprint and yearn for it with all my heart.

“Let it go. Send it back to the ocean it came from.”

But I don't. I hold so tight to that precious little pebble that I shake from head to foot. I won't let go. Never, never, never!

The more the soft waves reach for it, the harder I grip it, until I scream out loud at the thundering sea.

When I open my eyes, I am lying on the floor with my head on Dr. Greene's lap. Her skirt is slick with my tears. Other faces are bending down over me: Ms. Carter, Emily, Susan.