Driving Backwards in the Fog

It’s the slow form of romance that will always get to me. Especially in real life, it’s the kind of love that will last forever. Of course, being tied to a hospital is not the usual place to be finding that type of intense passion for someone. But there are always glitches in philosophy.1

It was about 7 in the morning, the sun barely seeable through the thick clouds of July. Through the blinds, the room is a medium purple colour, blended with pink, a tad of orange and the remnants of last night’s dark. It’s hot in my room so I throw the sheet off my legs full of perspiration. It’s the usual temperature for middle of July, but in a hospital it always feels warmer. Just like the thick scent of stale scrambled eggs. 2

I was surprised by the amount of people at the hospital for July. It’s not usually the month that leaves a bunch of people dying in the heat. For me it does. I feel my hospital gown stick to my body as I roll over in my bed, staring at the new scenery of medical artistry. 3

The summer heat mixed with my “condition” is making me woozy, making my head feel as though it’s moving, falling down a hill. I close my eyes, but the effect stays, swaying me back and forth as if on a boat. I grasp for something to stabilize myself with, but nothing comes within reaching distance. I feel light headed because of what I’ve done to myself, I know it, but no amount of therapy or highly paid psychologists are going to make me confess it. 4

I know if I keep up with my ‘health’ I can be released by the middle, hopefully the beginning of August, just in time to get myself ready for the return of school and more importantly, autumn. Fall is my favourite season, always has been, always will be. It’s the most evolving season and can never be replaced. It’s always changing, transforming, just like I wish I could. I don’t like being the same person all the time. It’s boring, but nobody I know feels that way. I can’t just go around changing the way the season’s can. 5

I open my eyes slowly and cautiously, afraid that sick feeling will return. But when I open my eyes fully it doesn’t and I feel a wave of relief wash over my system. I breathe in heavily and look through the door that’s open ajar, letting in a little strip of light forming on my spotted tile floor. I see people hastening past it eagerly. Obviously someone new is here. My stomach jumps a little with a surge of excitement, hoping for someone not too gory to appear in my doorway, someone that would make my time here a little less lonely and monotonous. I see the boy on the stretcher pass through that little opening of my door, followed by three nurses, two doctors and a loose string of people, rushing to keep up with the hospital staff. 6

The burst of noise drifts into the silence of my room, my home. I can’t stop thinking about how I got here, how my life turned inside out in front of my eyes and left me with nothing that I could get hold of. Just like this room, there is nothing here to stabilize me, nor is there anything to stabilize me in the real world. 7

I count the seconds inside my head of the time I’m wasting. If it was 7:00 then, it’s definitely 8:00 now. My thoughts move in slow motion, taking minutes to vanish and then appear, minutes to go through the actions inside my head. In my head things move in neutral, taking their time to move a joint, breathe, whatever their doing. It’s not natural, and I don’t feel natural moving at this speed. There is nothing comforting about it, nor exciting. I have no control. It hurts to think but there’s nothing else to do. Besides, it hurts to do anything. 8

Minutes after I’m fully awake, my nurse comes to the doorway of my room. His name is Ashtyn and he’s been here since I arrived. He talks to me like no one else does and treats me like a person instead of a patient. 9

Most people don’t get the difference between a person and a patient. A patient is someone who needs help, who needs comforting, guidance, insight. A person is the average human being who has three vital needs; food, water, shelter. Ashtyn gets the difference, and I respect him for that.10

He sees that my eyes are awake and studying him, so he studies me back. I feel his eyes on my skin, trying to peer into me, awaken my senses. I have no senses left to recover. Everything has fallen beneath the surface. He takes a few steps into my room. His bright blue eyes stand out on his deep tanned skin and I can feel them tracing me. He gives me a smile and I can’t help but smile back. 11

“How are you feeling?” He asks genuinely. He sits on the edge of my bed facing me. “You look better.” 12

I try to wipe the smile off my face, but I struggle. Ashtyn’s just so... genuine. His laugh, hugs, smile, voice are genuine. I bet his love is genuine, our friendship is genuine. “I feel better,” I reply, bringing my knees to my chest. I curl up in a ball of sheets and skin, my back on a flat hospital pillow. Ashtyn stands up suddenly, and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out his pager and looks at the screen.13

“Sorry, Koren,” he says, a worried expression drawn on his face. “I have another room to cover.” I nod in return, saddened that he has to leave, especially so early in the morning when the last thing I want to do is to deal with another know-it-all nurse. 14

As he exits, he leaves that same strip of light forming through the door space. Now that the majority of the lights in the halls are emerging out of the darkness, I see the same doctors and nurses’ scurry across the gap, like little mice. 15

At least twenty minutes pass as I continue to push my nurse button on my bed. You’d think after the fiftieth time I’ve stabbed at it, someone would have come to my need. I could’ve died in the time it took her to come. 16

Shianne walks into my room, blowing a loose bouncy curl out of her eyes from the corner of her mouth. She puffs as she walks next to my bed, giving me the once over. 17

“What do you need, Ms. Vycell?” she says harshly, spitting out the words.18

I look at her with hurt slashed across my face. “I was just really warm.”19

She continues hissing, “We all are. Get over yourself. Go eat something; you look as thin as a rod. God, you’re going to disappear.” Shianne’s dark plum coloured eyes avert from mine, and get stuck on the slotted blinds of the window. She peers into their colours the way I had and I realize that she is only a person. For once I don’t feel intimidated and let go of my tight coiled position. 20

“Shianne,” I say delicately, afraid to break her soft gaze at the window. “What’s wrong?” She turns back to me with eyes gulping water into their sea the colour of blackberry wine. 21

“I just don’t know,” she murmurs limply, her words barely able to make it through the small opening of her pursed lips. “Everything feels stressful, a matter of life or death even in the most simple situations.” 22

With that, she turns to leave, feeling violated, vulnerable and invaded, even though she let herself open, I just happened to stumble on the key. I try to stand up to go after her. I move both of my skeletal legs off the bed in one graceful motion and step onto my feeble toes, and then onto the balls of my feet, and only then lightly onto my heels. I take several unsteady steps before catching my balance and following her to the door. The tile is cold on my feet, but feels nice in comparison to the rest of my body that feels like a fire place in the winter. 23

Shianne is already out in the hall before I reach the knob of the door. I grasp hold of it tightly, and try to keep up with her, forcing my legs to move one after the other. They’re not ready for that type of movement yet, and surrender after ten steps on each foot. I collapse like a fold up chair onto the tile floor and curl my knees back into my chest, the only way I feel safe. The ankle of my left foot throbs and I hold it in my left hand, the pain slurring around through the bones. I feel the tears trickle down my face, and I don’t know what else to do. I cringe, mashing myself into the tiniest piece of mass I could be. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope that the bitter biting at my ankle will stop; but it doesn’t.24

Even with my eyes closed, I feel a multitude of eyes watching me, none of which I hope are Ashtyn’s. I don’t want him to see me like this. I’m a mess and I know it. And it’s all a matter of time until I disintegrate all together. I’m just going to melt into the earth. 25

Arms reach for me and pull me up by my armpits, loading me onto a stretcher and I feel the room move. I refuse to open my eyes, because I know that it’s harder to look into the eyes of people who look down on you. No reason to volunteer yourself for that type of humiliation. 26

I am pushed past my room, my hands still clutching my burning bone. I open my eyes to see where we’re going. We’re definitely on the other side of the ground floor because I’ve never seen those medicated faces, as I steal their features from the little notches of their room. 27

I lurch forward when they finally stop pushing me. I instantly sit up but slouch over myself and see that I am being moved to a new room: a room that has different machines. They lift me onto a lukewarm table. It doesn’t give me the chills or make me hotter either. I relax my joints which is another oscillation of release that launders my body swiftly. I exhale loudly and breathe in the humid air. 28

“We’re going to take an X-ray of your ankle, Koren.” A man’s deep voice asserts. “You’re going to need to let go of it.”29

I sniffle, my hands filled with tremors, my head racing. I feel my muscles inundate with tenseness and I feel a current of new tears rip through my eyes. “I can’t.” I faintly whimper. 30

“Well, we think it’s broken.” He replies. I see his face now. It looks aged and creased, full of past experiences. I hesitantly let go and he extends my leg out straight. He tries his hardest to by tender, but I still can’t hold back the amount of sharp hurt I am undergoing. 31

He ebbs the table and I am left alone, suffering in my own little corner of the world. He comes back about five minutes later, holding the X-rays in his pudgy fingers. He puts them up on the bright screen and points out parts of it making little “humph” noises. 32

I decide I hate him, because he isn’t talking to me, not letting me know what’s going on. It’s my f---ing body for god’s sake; I should have first priority about what’s going on. 33

He comes back to the slab of table I haven’t moved from. He looks me in the eye, investigating me, trying to decipher what I’m thinking. He can’t and he furrows his eyebrows. I tell myself that I don’t have time for this. “So?” I push, wishing he would just tell me, I can barely breathe with this pounding at my ankle. 34

“Your ankle is shattered completely. I’m surprised it isn’t worse.” He answers, slightly annoyed, slightly relieved that he told me. 35

“And now what?” I ask, considerably agitated. “Can you give me something? I swear I’m dying.” With that, he turns away from the table and comes back with his right hands clasping something small. I hope that it’s something stronger than Advil, Tylenol, or Aspirin. I hope that it’s valium or something with that type of effect, something that will take me somewhere else besides pain and white walls. 36

He opens his hand and I cup mine in front of his. He pours two white Vicadins into my palm and I tilt my head back and down them before anyone can say anything. I’ve done it so many times before, popping anything that would make me feel. I didn’t like feeling the way I did. Feeling the way medication, drugs, anything, made me feel always felt more real. And that makes no sense. What I was feeling was fake, a lie. There was no way that what marijuana did made me feel more alive. It just made me feel different. A different view on the world, a change of scenery when all I could see were barricades. I was trapped, enclosed, someone’s pet. With drugs, with anything, I felt like I owned myself, I belonged to myself. And the same thing happens with food.37

The Vicadin initiates only thirty minutes later. I’m in my own room, my leg bandaged and carefully put into what looks like a papier-mâché cast from the bottom of my shin down to the roots of my toes. It still throbs silently, although I feel the beat pulsating in my head. I feel as though I’m never going to leave here. Like there’s no way, especially now, that I can leave this cranny that’s tucked away in an insignificant nook in the world. 38

With that thought reproducing itself to take up all the space in my mind, Ashtyn comes to my door. I can tell it’s him because of the way his feet move at this steady rhythm of 48 steps per thirty seconds. He stands in the doorway and studies me. I guess it’s our sign of telling each other that we’re still living. It’s like a first impression every time we see each other. It’s his little nod of approval that makes it all worth while. This time there is no nod. He comes straight to my bed, refusing to let go of the gaze shared between our eyes. 39

“You need to take care of yourself, Koren,” he breathes faintly, “I know it’s hard, but there’s no other way to get out of here.” He looks me straight in the eye, and I notice his filling up with sea water. I never knew how much I meant to him. I reach out my arms and pull myself into him, gripping to his white nurse coat, hoping, praying, he’ll hold me back. He does, and I love him that much more for it. Eventually, he lets go, and I let out a distant sniffle. “I’ll bring you your lunch.”40

I sigh with submission and he brings me an orange tray with fake scrambled eggs, a glass of milk, a bowl of orange jell-o, and a brownie for dessert. Staring at the food makes me less hungry until I’m completely full just by watching it stay lifeless and still. I pick at the jell-o and make designs in its sticky goopy formation that holds still in a cup. I try flipping it over, hoping it will fall out, but it doesn’t and it bothers me that it can defy the laws of gravity but I can’t. I play with the rest of the food and drink the glass of milk, hoping it will be enough improvement for him to take it all away. 41

He comes back in empty handed and shakes his head at my unsatisfying disimprovement. I assume he dropped the leftovers on the floor outside my room, waiting for the janitor to clean it up. He smiles and sits on my bed. He tells me that I have a visitor. At first, my eyes lit up with a new form of injected happiness, but I realize it could only mean it’s my mother. 42

Out of my three weeks here so far, my mother has come to see me once. She came with my brother, Brook. He’s the “perfect child”, the one that never got in harm’s way and was always there to walk the little old lady down the street. He’s so much deeper than that.43

Brook is 17, and pretty much the poster child of the Vycell family. He’s the laid back kid, always making A’s and B’s, never once got in a fight, always allowing the sincerest smile to creep up his face. Brook would do anything to be his own person, play and listen to his own music, read and write his own books, live and create the world where he wants to live. To live, he needs freedom, not anyone to share it with, just openness to run his own life. I wish I could be him. 44

He had come to my room the saddest I ever saw him, with olive green eyes underlined with heavy purple bags that pulled his whole face down. His hair was spread like a nest of strands, which leaned in every direction. His shoulders were slouched and he hung his head low, almost afraid to look at me. He was obviously disappointed and ashamed, and I couldn’t blame him for it. While mom wrapped her ripe-peach coloured arms around me, he stood as far away as he could, on the other side of my room, watching me as if I was an encaged animal or part of a freak show. 45

Mom decided that we needed to spend some time alone, which is probably the thing I had been dreading since he arrived. She left the room and the tension in the air suddenly started to evaporate. 46

“Hey,” he said, eyes still staring at my floor. His voice was deep as usual, as if he was talking to one of his buddies on the phone.47

“Hey,” I replied, trying to use the same subtle voice. “How’ve you been?” It had been about four days since I had seen him. 48

He nodded to answer, bobbing his head up and down. “I miss you.” he looked at me, catching my glance and keeping it. I held his eyes until I was ready to respond. 49

“I missed you too, Brook.” I said, twisting the sheets between my fingers. He came over to my bed, and sat down where Ashtyn usually sat. He draped his arms around me and I smelled his faded scent of laundry detergent and soap on his hoodie. It reminded me to when everything was normal, before food became the enemy. 50

The whole scene had been too intense. He evidently couldn’t take it. With that, he left, leaving me in my bed, alone and submerged in turmoil.51

“Koren?” Ashtyn asked uncertainly, stirring me out of my melancholy nostalgia. 52

“Yes?” I answer, still becoming aware of the situation. 53

He looks at me deeper, trying to figure out what I’m thinking. “You’re mother’s here to see you, may she come in?” 54

“Uhm, yeah, sure...” I retort, secretly hoping she’ll stay out of my room, where she belongs.55

Ashtyn goes out into the hallway and announces, “Marlowe Vycell?” He pauses, probably scanning the room to find out where he left her. “Koren’s ready to see you now.”56

“Actually,” I hear her voice respond. “I go by my maiden name, Kadler.”57

He returns, and she’s beside him, now walking through my door. My flesh and blood dressed in black high heels, almost too tight blue jeans, a black zip-up hoodie from the Gap that she wears almost everywhere, nails dyed bright pink, hair put up in a loose bun, with little wisps floating out the sides. Her eyes are painted in light blue eye shadow, the same colour has my chipping fingernails, her eyelashes are thick with black mascara and her cheeks are brushed with bronzer and blush. She looks like she usually does. 58

“Honey,” she dresses her words in too much sincerity. 59

“Hey,” I say but the word comes out muffled. 60

“How are you feeling?” She asks. The amount of sympathy in her voice rises when she nods at my encaged leg. “What happened to you? You’re falling apart.”61

The support I get from my family and friends is unremarkable, most of the time they tell me exactly that: I’m going to fall out of place, more so then I already am. “Fine. I walked. Thanks.” I answer each question consecutively, the way she hates it.62

“Koren, you know I hate it when you do that.”63

“Yes, that’s the point,” I know I’m being rude but there isn’t much more I want to say to her. I just hate... her. Everything is either over the top or under the bottom. There’s no middle ground for her. It’s like she’s bipolar with actions and words, not feelings. 64

She looks at me with poignant eyes and asks, “Do you even want me here, Koren? I love you but you keep pushing me away. I don’t know if it’s even worth my time to be here when you don’t seem like you miss me or want me. Is that right?” She raises her eyebrows at me and it’s the first time she brings out her human feelings with me around. Or maybe I never noticed how humanly she really is. 65

I don’t know how to respond. She’s so honest with me all of the sudden, like a change of heart or fate. I want to tell her that I love her and that I never want her to leave me, no matter how moody and bitchy I get. But I know that this honesty can only be temporary, she can’t change for real. I don’t believe in her, I can’t believe that she’ll ever really change herself enough to love me as much as I want her to. “Mom,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice even, “I want you here, I really do.” I lean my head on her shoulder as she pulls me into a hug; a motherly, warm, homelike hug. A hug that tells me that I am far away from where I used to be and that maybe it’s not so hopeless after all.66

When she leaves, my body unwinds and I coast into the rim of sleep, barely touching the rim of dreams when the hum of the beating machines sings me to sleep. 67

-68

My eyes pop open and it gives my body a jolt of shivers that swim through my veins. I lay still, watching purple figures check on me, trying to see what condition I’m in. If I’m awake, sleeping, dreaming, dying, falling, whatever else I could possibly be doing. It’s Shianne and someone else who I can’t make out. Shianne’s whispers are fragile and high pitched, where the other voice is abrupt and fast. 69

“Koren?” Shianne asks in the awaking sun. The light is barely bursting through my window and it’s still dark in the room. The silhouette of her body is outlined in rough edges. 70

“Yes?” I respond using the same tone. “What is it?” 71

“There’s someone here to see you.” 72

My head is full of sarcastic remarks. “Okay,” I answer, trying to decipher who it is before they tell me. “Just, uh, Shianne, what time is it?” my voice is hazy and sleepy and my words string together too closely and become a slur of letters. 73

Shianne turns on the lights and now I see that there is a pudgy white man coming toward my bed. He is dressed in a suit, tie and everything. He wears a watch that resembles money on his right wrist and I immediately think he’s left handed. 74

“Hello,” he says sternly. His voice is a lot deeper than his whispers are. He looks at the watch, “its 7:00.” 75

I mumble some form of greeting and he continues, “My name is Charles Merchand. I am from the Whiteside Manor Advanced Center for Eating Disorders. You’re mother has told me of your situation, and we think that it would be in your best interest to come to our facility when you are released from Riverside Medical Center.” 76

“Is this a choice?” I request honestly, rubbing my eye, “I think I’d like to talk to my mom and brother before deciding.” 77

“No, it was a decision made for you.” He replies with a brutal attitude.78

I sigh, another thing that I can’t control. “Take me away,” I surrender, outstretching my arms as if he was going to handcuff me. 79

He turns his meaty figure to Shianne who’s still in the doorway, watching the scene. “Joker, eh?” She shrugs, not thinking it’s half as funny as he does. “Well,” he concludes, reaching into the breast pocket of his dress coat. He hands me a business card and I put it on the nightstand next to my mechanical bed. “If you’d like to find out more about our institute, you can call the toll free number. I’m sure Ms.... what’s your name again?” He turns his flabby neck to Shianne. 80

“Shianne,” she exhales, rolling her eyes when he turns back to me. 81

“I’m sure Ms. Shianne here will help you with the phone.” With this statement I’m ready to smack him. I hate him. I hate everything he stands for and everything he is. Charles Merchand is definitely in my ‘kill’ books of the year. 82

“Good night, Mr. Merchand,” I settle myself into the bed and rest my head on the floppy pillow. It’s taking all my strength to hold back the immense hate I feel for him; and not to strangle him. I hope the door hits him on the way out.83

“You too, Ms. Vycell,” he says, getting off of my bed. The bed shifts upon his descent, rising. He must’ve brought the bed down a good inch and have weighed at least 300 pounds.84

Shianne shows him out the door but returns to the door frame. She smiles at me before coming into my room. “Koren, I’m sorry,” she says sincerely. “I don’t give you enough credit. I feel like I’ve helped make your life a lot more difficult than anyone’s life should be, especially a 15 year old girl. I’m sorry that I treated you like shit. I’ve been having a shitty week, but that’s no excuse is it?”85

I listen to her honesty. For once everyone seems so fragile and delicate like snowflakes. Everyone seems so temporary like they could melt away any minute and we’d be left with a little speck of water where they lived their last breath or glowed with all the sparkle they had. And even if you do notice the tiny leftovers of their short lived life, it will evaporate just the same only to create new snowflakes or new life. The saddest part is, all the ones that aren’t admired before they fall, will fall by themselves and land in a mess of others who are just as greedy as the next. And one day it’ll melt and we’ll be left with nothing until winter begins again. 86

“Shianne, it’s okay, you know,” I gesture for her to sit on my bed. It seems like my bed is the only place where I connect with people now, that scares me. She sits and I give her a flimsy hug, trying to wrap my emaciated arms around her broad shoulders. I reach but give up, deciding that I’d rather just rest my head in her nurse uniform. She hugs me instead, being gentle and cautious, afraid she’ll break me. I can feel her fingers lightly dancing on my back, finding my spine, trying to decide if it’s okay. I push into her harder, trying to make the point that I’m stronger than she thinks I am, but it’s no use. Her fingers are even more vigilant, and end up resting nimbly on the top of my back where I usually slouch.87

We let go after a few minutes and I sit up straighter, while she pulls the sheet over me like my dad used to when I was young and needed to be tucked in with a goodnight story and kiss. 88

“You should eat some breakfast,” she advises, knowing my answer, but hoping for the best. “I’m serious this time,” she states. 89

I nod in acceptance and not only does it surprise her, it surprises me too. “I mean, fine... I if I have to.” I shrug and let a smile perch on the corner of my mouth. 90

She leaves my reformatory and comes back about six minutes later holding the biggest tray of food I’ve seen since I got here. There is applesauce in a plastic cup, jell-o that looks moldy, except I think that’s the way it’s supposed to look, a stack of cheese and two stacks of crackers, a bagel with cream cheese, an orange juice box, and three Oreo cookies for dessert. There is no way I can eat this. My stomach ties itself into knots just looking, and the flavorful scents clog up my nose. I feel dizzy and I’m going to throw up. 91

My body does but there’s no food in my system which makes me feel worse. Throwing up water, blood, saliva, probably urine, and other lovely things, Shianne helps me to the bathroom while I hop on one foot and holds my hair back while I lean over the toilet. 92

“Aww, Hun, I’m sorry,” Shianne says apologetically. Everything I hear is tripled in loudness and I wish she’d shut up but I can’t get a word in through my gagging. She ties my hair up with a green elastic that was clinging to her wrist and grabs a washcloth. She drowns it in warm water and helps wash off my face. 93

“I feel like I’m going to die,” I say, my voice raspy and rough. Her eyes soften with sympathy and she gives me an elegant yet professional hug. 94

“You’ll be okay,” she tries to comfort me, but it’s hard and I know it. My stomach still feels like it’s sitting cross legged inside of me, thought it’s the sick that’s sticking to the back of my throat that is more pungent and hurtful than any amount of food. “Do you want to call your mom?” she asks naively. 95

I grunt in return. My mom would say “Toughen up, sweetheart,” but now I’m not so sure because of her new found humanity. I kind of want to talk to Brook, though. He’s so open-minded, and wouldn’t judge me like the rest of the world. “Can I just call home?” I don’t want to be specific. 96

“Okay.” She walks to the right side of my motorized cot. She picks up the phone and presses * and 8. The receiver’s voice is peculiar and dignified yet somehow very feminine. It’s the lady who stands at the check-in counter. She was the first person I met here. She had been sitting behind her desk filled of paperwork when I came gliding in through the green automatic doors, first class in a stretcher. My body was hooked up to tubes and affixed to murmuring machines, as if I was a computer. I was obviously not the first one she’d seen as I came through feet first. My eyes fixed on her plastic name tag that had a vivid shine from the hospital lights. It said Danica, the name that was also printed on our napkins at my house. She didn’t smile but she assigned them to chauffeur me to a room, this room, my room. Her glasses sat perpendicular on the bridge of her nose, and she turned her head down so her eyes peered over the rims as she talked to the men that supposedly ‘saved my life’. “Koren, the phone..?” Shianne’s holding the phone out in front of my eyes. I lazily flit into reality, blinking several times before realizing the scenery. I take the phone from her hand and put it up to my ear.97

“Koren?” It’s my mother’s voice, dolled up in impatience and curiosity. “Sweetie, are you okay?” 98

I shake my head no but say, “Yeah, I’m fine. Can I talk to Brook?” My words still feel rude although I’m trying my hardest to be civil and polished, the way ‘any ladylike girl should act’. The famous quote I don’t think I’ve ever escaped at the dinner table. I’m obviously not her prized trophy winner of ‘Courteous, Gracious, Polite, and Well Mannered’ when we eat dinner. I know the right way to as is, ‘May I please speak to Brook,’ but that would make her happy. 99

“Sure,” she says waveringly. “I’ll go get him.” I hear her call his name loud and clear. He answers back with the same yell and she tells him I’m on the phone. He thumps down the stairs and takes the phone from her hand which somehow involves lots of cackling on my end. 100

“Hey,” he answers. “What’s up?”101

“I didn’t know I was being moved.”102

“What?” his voice is unsure, like he doesn’t know what to do.103

I roll my eyes, and Shianne gives me a stern look. I take Charles’ card of the nightstand and turn it in my fingers. “The Advanced Center for Eating Disorders.”104

“It was mom’s decision, not mine. I swear, I tried, Koren, I really did,” Brook sounds so childlike. I feel so childlike. I’m being watched by adults, taken care of by adults who aren’t even mine, and I’m being sent to a daycare to help me. I thought being 15 meant control of my life, learning to drive, getting good grades, being able to live without my life being laid out for me the way your mother lays out your clothes on your first day of preschool.105

I sigh forcefully and it hurts my body. “Brook, I’m not looking for an apology, I’m looking for a way for me to live. I can’t live there. I’m not that type of person. I don’t do well under rules and laws and just... no. I won’t go.” I’ve refused. It’s made me feel better; at least I had that type of control, although I know it won’t count for anything in the end. 106

“Koren don’t do this. The better you are the easier it’ll be to get out. I promise.” 107

“You can’t promise. You don’t know. You don’t know anything.” I want to slam down the phone, slam the door on the world. He doesn’t know, he can’t, he gets the perfect life from the way everyone sees it and I’m stuck with this stupid condition which will probably just kill me anyway. I’m never going to control food. I hate it, I hate food. I can’t avoid it anymore. “Bye, Brook,” I conclude, praying that this conversation will end. “I love you.”108

“I love you too.” Click. The conversation is disconnected and I feel as though I’m hanging loosely on the other side. I wanted to be the clicker, not the receiver. I pout immaturely and turn over in my bed. 109

“Let’s go for a stroll,” Shianne suggests. 110

I don’t think I can move after this hellish experience. At least when I was purging, I knew what I was doing and no one was watching me. But here I was dry heaving in a white walled room with an automated bed, a window, and a light blue door, the colour of my nail polish. Everything feels barred while at home I could move wherever I wanted and whenever I wanted. Here it’s so black and white, you’re here, you’re there, there’s no in between. “Actually, Shianne,” I say letting her down with a mutter, “I just want to lie here and count the bumps in the ceiling.”111

“Koren, you can’t sit just lie here all day. You’ll get…” she stops midsentence and I gasp knowing what the last word was. “No, I don’t mean that. You know I don’t mean that.” I let out a sniffle, confused and wanting her to leave more than ever.112

“I think it’d be best if you just left,” I mutter, turning the other way in my bed so my spiny back faces her. I need to think things over, decide about this new ‘facility’ I’ll move to; a different place, away from my room and bed and door. I’ll need to grasp a new sense of direction and a new home. 113

“I’m really sorry Koren,” she says genuinely. She rubs my shoulder in a circular motion before giving it a tight squeeze and leaving my folding bed. I wait until I hear the door click shut. My eyes become heavy and I close them slowly, looking at everything one last time before slipping away into my head. Inside my head everything is dark with splotches of colour bleeding around the edges and sometimes in the middle. I don’t know why, but the colours are always lavender, spring green, and a drippy pink that always looks like its going to break down and weep. 114

I start off my thinking process by thinking about my family. I think about Brook and then Mom and then Dad. Dad died when I was 8, old enough to understand death, yet somehow not old enough to have it effect me completely until years later. 115

-116

He was driving us home in his car after we had gone out for dinner. Mom, Brook and I were in the car. Brook was listening to his headphones; mom was talking to Dad and stroking his right hand that was resting evenly on the gear shift. He was backing out of a parking space because he looked at me before he looked through the back windshield. The car was foggy because it was a spring night where the street lights go on too early because it’s always a guess when the sun is going to go down. I was wishing that we had walked to the restaurant because I was in a mood to walk home. I stared through Dad’s eyes as he kept them focused on the swirly images that were blended in the mix of fog. 117

A random burst of headlights shot through the rear window. The piercing sounds of three horns going off in different tones and pitches and paths broke through our silence. One ruptures next to the driver seat, one behind us, and one at an angle from the right side of the trunk. It’s as if we’re in the middle of a boxing match, the cars trying to throw themselves at us from all directions. Brook shakes off his headphones and we all turn to see what’s going on. Dad slams on the brakes but a car still smashes the front driver side of the car; making airbags explode into screaming faces. 118

The next thing I remember is sleeping on Brook’s shoulder in a hospital’s waiting room, sprawled out on at least two chairs. He was stroking my hair, which is what he does when he’s nervous. His headphones were on and he was subtly bobbing his head to the music pouring out of the speakers. I rubbed my eyes before awaking fully to nurses coming and going, wearing squeaky white runners and white coats and stethoscopes around their necks. I was surprised not to see those weird paper hats with a red cross on them. One called our last name out in front of the other six people sitting and standing, scattered around the hushed room. The silence seemed to fit, I couldn’t think of anything to say to anyone. 119

Mom came in around then, her cheeks streaked with makeup and I thought she was having a bad hair day which resulted in a bad makeup day. She took Brook aside first and I watched in a distance, his eyes filling up with sea salt and hers already drowning her face. I stared as he never removed his headphones, as if he could lip-read fluently. Even from a few feet away I could hear the screaming licking his ears through the earpiece. 120

He sat down zombie-like onto the chairs we had been sitting on before. I quivered before she came over to me, my own mother drenched in fluids that sunk into her wilting skin. I noticed them even when I was 8. She took my hands in her own pruney ones and held them to her chest. “Koren,” she said, her voice melted into a stream that flowed on and on until we could see no end. “Your father loved you very much.” her voice cracked as she spoke, the words seemed to make no sense in my childish mind. I shook my head no because it seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. “You’re going to be okay.” she let go of my hands as hers starting shaking feverishly. I returned next to Brook, which felt like the only place I belonged. My head slumped into his shoulder again, taking shape into his scrawny figure, leaving my imprint stained on his clothing121

- 122

All my memories are like this, blocking out the parts where I just can’t remember; can’t find that missing information inside my head. I think about crying, as if I could control the tiniest part of my system. To cry or not to cry? I miss him a lot, but is it really worth bawling my head off in a cell that is as comforting as an alligator’s stomach? I shake my head no and the pillow loses its teensy amount of coziness it still had. I squeeze my eyes shut and my door opens. It’s Ashtyn carrying a puke-yellow tray with my name on it. 123

He sets it down on my night table and pushes a few buttons on the remote for my bed. It straightens my back our like a dentist chair when they finish your root canal. I sigh and he puts the tray on a stand across my lap. Without a word of acknowledgement, he gets off of my bed and walks toward the door. “Ashtyn?” I ask his name in the humid atmosphere. It lingers there for a long time before he looks back at me. 124

“Yes?” His face looks pulled down and I notice hazy purple ringlets emphasizing his eyes. 125

“What’s wrong?” I ask sincerely, hoping that he’ll give me an honest answer like usual.126

I watch him bite at the inside of his cheek, I know he does this when he’s nervous, or contemplating something. “My dad,” his breath sends the words through the thick air. “He had another stroke.”127

Ashtyn carries himself back to my bed where I put my hand on his. “Is he going to be okay?” 128

“We don’t know yet...” He glances around my room. I blink back tears. I’m tearing for him and for my own dad, because he was lost so suddenly and so severely. 129

Not only did it effect me and my brother, but the rest of our family, which extends past uncles and aunts and we go all the way up to third cousins. And also all the people my dad worked with. He was the executive manager of a clothing store called Iced to the Core”. It was a small whole in the wall next to a Starbucks and a liquor store. The beverage choices were unbelievable. He ran all the people that worked there, and although the store was small, they had a lot of loyal customers, and a lot of new customers just waiting to change into devoted fans. My dad knew everyone who came to the store, everyone that worked there, and a lot of other clothing labels around. He was well liked by his peers because of his personality and, most of all, his smile. He had one dimple on the right side of his cheek. He grew up with it and lived with it. Eventually it just became part of him. We all loved it. Most people who loved him, loved it. He was big, but loving. He stood tall at 6’ 2” and had a rough chin because he hated shaving but hated having a beard. He would leave it for at least a week before shaving and when he’d come to kiss us goodnight, every night, me and Brook would giggle about how his prickly face tickled.
Ashtyn envelopes me in a deep hug, a genuine hug, and I snuggle into him, trying to mound myself into the creases of his body. I close my eyes to breathe in the feeling of his love and I do. “You’ve been kind of distant lately,” he says, his face holds a vivid concerned look.
“Yeah, I know.” I say back, not really knowing how to defend myself. It’s Ashtyn, of course he’s right. “I’m just thinking about my dad.”
He nods in return, accepting the fact that I do have some family issues. He tries to smile but his lips quiver and he says he has to leave. I know he just doesn’t want to cry in front of his ‘patients’.
That’s when I realized Ashtyn was only human.
-
I guess everyone can only stay perfect for so long, until they break away each of their layers to reveal their flaws and human features. And there are some people who never build walls to hide their imperfections, and everyone sees the mistakes all the time. And occasionally, on a extremely rare basis, you may find someone who seems so perfect that maybe you don’t even deserve the time they spend on you. And the way they reassure you that they love to spend time with you makes you feel even guiltier for questioning their love of your friendship. Those people, who always stay brilliant and beautiful in your eyes, are the kind that I have yet to meet. I thought it was Ashtyn, but he just chipped away a layer, to divulge his true weaknesses and to let me into that little space called impurities.
I never thought the day would come when he treated me like a ‘patient’. He’s scared to cry in front of me, although I cry for him all the time. I don’t think he’s ever come to my door where I don’t just melt into the pillows and shrivel into a leaking tear machine.
The more I think about it, the more realistic it seems to leave this damn hospital. It’s not doing me much good to spend all my time with nurses and food and machines. I think I might’ve become sicker since being here. Well, not really, but I feel less in control then I did before I came. And I think I came to become more in control of my intake of food. Maybe it’s more idealistic to go to Whiteside Manor, no matter how stupid that sounds.
I peer around the room and press my nurse button, pretty much on the verge of praying to make sure Ashtyn doesn’t come. We aren’t allowed to use the phones by ourselves here, in case we try to bail ourselves out by calling friends or family to come get us. Or bring any murderers, terrorists etc. into the building. As if a terrorist wants to spend their time murdering people who are about to die anyway... how profound?
A nurse that I don’t know by first name comes to my doorway. Every once in a while I forget that there are more than two nurses here. Sometimes I think that Ashtyn and Shianne run the whole hospital. I rarely meet with doctors, and when I do have group therapy I’m usually so zoned out that I can’t notice anything in the first place.
I tell her I want to use the phone to call Whiteside Manor and I hold out the card for her. She dials on the phone to make sure I can’t see, even though I know all you have to do is push * and 8 to get to Danica who is the help desk, or ‘administrative office’ as it says on her name tag. This lady clicks different buttons though to dial the number straight through. I don’t feel like trying to catch the code so I sit up and make myself comfortable in order to talk to these weird, deranged people. Who in their right mind wants to help kids like me? We’re so past the point of hope it’s rarely worth their time. How sad.
“Riiiiiinnnnggggg. Riiiiiinnnnggggg. Riiiiiinnnnggggg. Riiiiiinnnnggggg.” It takes four for someone to answer. “Hello? This is Lauren from Whiteside Manor, Advanced Center for Eating Disorders. How may I help you?”
“Uhm, hi. Yeah, my name is Koren Vycell and I’m at the Riverside Hospital and I was just kind of wondering really what your center thing is about…” I know I talk horribly on the phone. It’s not something I can control. All my worst speaking habits come out on the phone. I can hear her sigh in the background. She’s probably bored out of her mind so I try to save her from helping another helpless kid. “You know, it’s okay, I can call back another time if that’d be--“
“No, it’s okay. I just hate my boss, that’s all.” She cuts me off, but says the last sentence in a blurred whisper through the receiver.
I smile through the corners of my mouth. “Okay.” I answer. I’m glad she is truthful and not full of sh-t like all the other people at administrative offices are.
She takes a good ten minutes explaining the schedule which I write down on a piece of paper the nurse hands me along with a dull HB2 pencil. I doodle on the corners as she talks about their yoga program and daily routines. I can tell that I’m going to eventually like this place. Maybe not right at first, but everything does take a little time to get used to.
I decide that I want to get some fresh air, so Shianne takes me around the hospital grounds on my crutches until I can feel the welts pulsating at my armpits. She takes me back to my room and helps me back into my bed and brings me my lunch although it’s around 2:00 and the kitchen is closed. She doesn’t bring back too much food which makes my stomach sigh in relief. A peanut butter sandwich, orange, blueberry muffin, and an apple juice box all stare at me from the pale green tray. I shrug back at them and decide the muffin can’t be complete crap.
-
The day before I leave for Whiteside Manor, Brook and my mom come to help me get ready for the ‘big move’ as they like to call it. We are sitting in my room. My legs are dangling over the edge of the programmed divan. My ankle has finally healed to a point where I can put pressure on it without crutches. My brother is sitting on my right, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes like it used to and I just watch as he doesn’t know what to do. I snuggle into him and he smiles a shy smile until he envelopes me in a hug like a cloak that will defend me from the rest of the world.
Even though I know this will be a big move, and a big transition in life, I’m moving like the seasons. I am going to make a swift change from the summer into the fall. From the scorching heat to my favourite season filled with pastel coloured skies and leaves littered on the ground. Just like fall, I’m going to fashion my life the way the drifting leaves can fashion cemeteries.
I know I will miss Ashtyn, and Shianne, maybe even Danica who works at the front desk. But I know I can’t get anywhere being stuck in a hospital in a room with a window that has slotted blinds, that lets in the summer sun in the early morning, and a door the same colour as my nail polish that no longer exists on my fingernails and of course, this bed, this place that I’ve been stranded and strapped to for four weeks, for the middle of July to the middle of August, that owned me for the last 26 days.
And although it’ll hurt to leave this place that has been my home, I will never forget it. Just like camp, you know you’ll leave the friends that you made throughout the weeks you lived there with them, but you know that in your heart you can’t bear to forget them.
When I let go from Brook, I realize I am crying soft tears that melt into my cheeks that I can feel are warm. I feel the way he is crying too with the same emotions that I am wearing on my sleeve. He gives me a brotherly kiss on the cheek and I smile through my dripping eyes enough to see Ashtyn leaning against the doorway, obviously waiting his turn for his goodbye.
Brook notices too and whispers that he loves me and he will always be there for me in my ear and it tickles the slightest bit. The best part is I know he means it.
Ashtyn slides through the doorway as Brook leaves and I bite the inside of my cheek because there was no nod of approval, or acknowledgement, of praise. Instead it’s the genuine friend type of love that sits right next to me, holding a tiny box in the palm of it’s hand. And I know what it is because I’ve been waiting so long to have it.
He releases it from his hand and slithers it into mine. I open it and it’s a small key. One that looks like it goes to a dollhouse from the 1900s. But as he’s told me so many times, it’s the key to my freedom; the key to my life.