“She flipped out at that American Talent show,” I hear Benny say. “Then she went limp.” I still feel slightly out-of-body, so for a moment all I can see are the decades of girls’ fingernail scratches scoring the surface of the chair arms. “Had to carry her all the way here,” Benny continues. “Not that I mind much, the girl weighs less than my gym bag, but I’ve got my back to think about.”
Mrs. New, the assistant warden, thanks Benny and closes the office door. She walks back to her desk, a small stream of air escaping her throat as she sits. Mrs. New is round and shiny, with beautiful blunt features—red lips and big apple cheeks that make me remember the story of Snow White that Bertie read from her book of fairy tales. Mrs. New always wears skirt suits that reveal her plump, flat-fronted calves and looks healthy in a way no one in the Community ever did.
“So, what happened?” she asks.
“I was in the visitors’ lounge.”
“And?” she asks. “How do you explain your behavior?”
Mrs. New’s dewy eyes sit in her face like raisins pressed into dough. She’d cry if I told her my story, I’m certain of it. She would sob and console. She would care. Unlike Dr. Wilson.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just really felt like not being in that room anymore.”
“Benny said it had something to do with the show.”
“There was this girl on it. And, okay, she was a nice singer, but God, I don’t want to hear about her dead mother. And her father who has cancer. I don’t get why that has to be my business.”
Mrs. New shifts her lips to the side, seeming to consider her next words carefully. “You know she wasn’t speaking directly to you. It’s a television program.”
“I know how TV works,” I say through gritted teeth. “I just didn’t feel like hearing all that stuff.”
“You met with Dr. Wilson today, right?” she asks, looking at a calendar that stretches over the surface of her entire desk. “Did anything happen in your session to distress you?”
I pause. “No.”
“What did you discuss?”
“How I lost my hands.”
She looks up from the desk suddenly. “And that didn’t distress you?”
“Not really,” I say. “I’m used to it.”
“Was it your decision to tell that story?”
“Well, Dr. Wilson asked about it. But it was weird because he didn’t even react. He wanted to know, but he sat there and wrote notes and barely shrugged when I was talking about my father taking the hatchet and all, and that’s usually the thing that makes anyone cry. Even the prosecutor at my trial looked like he might throw up. But Dr. Wilson? Nothing.”
She sighs. “Well, Minnow, maybe we should consider a counselor reassignment for you.”
I lift my head. “What?”
“Dr. Wilson is not a child psychologist. He’s used to working with adult offenders. I barely understand how he was assigned as your primary mental health coordinator, but that decision was made about this high above my head.” She holds up her small arm as high as it will go. “Perhaps his manner isn’t suited for work with juveniles. I think you might be a better match for one of our in-house counselors. Ms. Gottfried works with your friend, Angel.” She leans in. “If you were to make a change request, we’d do our best to grant it.”
I don’t say anything for a moment.
I’m sure someone else would be softer. Would smile like you do at something very delicate, something that might, at any moment, break into a billion pieces. I’m sure they’d tell me how strong I am. How brave. I’m sure I wouldn’t have to talk about anything I didn’t want to talk about.
I realize something in that moment, my stumps tracing the scratches left on the chair arms. I couldn’t give a crap about that girl’s sob story on TV because I’m still too consumed with my own. All this time, I thought I was the only one with dead people tied to me like helium balloons. Now, I wonder if Dr. Wilson’s lost something, too.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell Mrs. New.
She looks disappointed. She knows I’m lying.
Chapter 26
Every day, Angel leaves for a couple of hours for school. They won’t let me return to reading class until I show “satisfactory interpersonal progress,” which Angel says usually requires a week with no reprimands, so I spend the hours staring at the snake-shaped metal supports that keep Angel’s mattress in place above me. On good days, I think about Jude, and on bad days I think about Philip Lancaster, but today I think about my hands. I hold my arms out above me and remember the way the hands used to look, the fingers stretching and waving, the way they could form fists with almost no effort. Why didn’t I use them when I could have? I punch the metal above me once, and again, and only stop when I see blood. I fall back into the mattress and a sigh gutters from my throat.
I’m not at all better. The last visit with Dr. Wilson has confirmed this. I’m starting to feel like I might never mend. Like the Prophet really ruined me. Maybe you can’t recover from that kind of injury. Even after months of healing, it doesn’t take much to make me bleed.