“Suicidal?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t actually try to kill myself. I’ve just got a mess of other problems. And being stuck here is one of the biggest of them all.”
Chad nods, and then turns back to his book. He’s done talking to you.
A couple other kids come out of their rooms and someone turns on the TV so your conversation is over. Savara comes out and sits next to you. “Hey, you wanna borrow a clean T-shirt until you get some fresh clothes?”
“Sure, that would be cool.”
You had no idea that screwed-up kids could be so nice, you think, as you follow Savara back into your room. She grabs a T-shirt and hands it to you. It’s an Elmo Sesame Street shirt.
“Remember,” Savara says, “Elmo loves you.”
“Thanks,” you say, laughing. This is one monster you actually like.
You take off the hospital gown and put on the Elmo shirt and your shorts from yesterday.
“So you and Chad have a deep conversation this morning?” she asks.
“Kind of,” you say. “Turns out we both hate Harry Potter.”
*
Malik isn’t at breakfast. You don’t think it’s anything strange, because you don’t know how things work here. But then Savara says, “If you’re late for breakfast, they mark it in your file, and if you get three late checks, it’s bad news. Bad news.”
There is some whispering among staff and then someone’s radio buzzes, alerting them to meet in the main lobby. An announcement over the loudspeaker mandates that all patients remain in the dining area. You were almost excited about eating pancakes for breakfast but now there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach when all the adults except for one guard head to the lobby.
You know something bad has happened.
The silence is eerie.
“We should eat,” Starling finally says. You pick up your spork to eat the pancakes. It’s a food you like, one you can actually eat, so you do. Because you have no idea what lunch might be, and judging from last night’s dinner, the meals are not going to be things you can tolerate. You eat all three of the pancakes.
The only thing you can hear is the scraping of sporks along Styrofoam.
None of the staff has come back and it’s been fifteen minutes since the announcement was made.
“What do you think happened?” you ask. “Where do you think Malik is?”
Starling, Savara, and Chad shrug. There are two other teens sitting with you and you don’t know them, but one of them offers, “Maybe he did it, killed himself.”
You swallow hard at the thought.
Finally, the kitchen staff comes in and they go back to their positions, and some of them start cleaning up. Someone else comes in and says, “Therapy at ten, guys. Teens in Room 100. Under twelves, you go to the rec room.”
No one says anything else and you pick up your tray and throw out your trash.
*
At your first official therapy session in the Crazy House, your suspicions are confirmed.
“I have some very sad news,” your brand-new therapist, Dr. Lawrey, announces. “Malik committed suicide last night.”
Starling begins to cry, and Savara puts her arms around her.
Chad clenches his jaw and makes his hands into tight fists. “How?” he asks.
“This is a private matter that we can’t discuss,” Dr. Lawrey says.
You can’t believe that this has happened. That you’re here because people are worried that you’re a suicide risk and you’re in a place where kids can do the job right under the noses of the people who are supposed to be protecting them.
You want the hell out of here now.
This may be the first time in your entire life that you are taking control over everything. Over the monster. You’re not going to take shit from anyone any longer.
You stand up. “I need to call my parents. And my therapist. Now.”
47
You ask one of the nurses if you may use the phone.
“I’m sorry, you can only make calls at seven.”
“But I need to talk to my mom.”
“She’ll be here at visiting hours tonight at six, right? You can talk to her then.”
“Is Damian here?” you ask. You’re positive he’ll help you make a call to your mom. He’ll help you get in touch with Shayna.
“He’s working the evening shift.”
Something in you rages. But this time, it’s not the monster, and you feel this time it’s something stronger. And you’ve never felt anything more powerful than the monster inside you. You start to scream at the top of your lungs, shouting and yelling, “Why won’t anyone listen to me! I need to talk to my mother! I need to get out of here! I have to get out of here!”
Two male guards rush over and grab you and attempt to calm you down, but you are so worked up and upset that nothing they do works. They threaten to put you in a room by yourself for the rest of the day, they threaten to give you a sedative, they keep throwing threats of all sorts your way until finally a well-dressed woman presents herself.
“Come with me,” she demands. “Now.”
You stop screaming and thrashing because she seems to have the authority that no one else possesses and you’re hopeful that this woman can get you the hell out of here.
She takes you to an office filled with impressive mahogany furniture and all sorts of books about the injured child, the depressed child, the hurt child, the damaged child, the sad child, the unfortunate child. You sit and stare at all the titles of how pathetic you’re supposed to be. Finally, she speaks.
“I’m Dr. Winthrop. Head of the hospital.” She clasps her hands together. “We do not tolerate outbursts such as that. What happened?”
“I need my mom,” you whimper.
“She’ll be here at six,” Dr. Winthrop says.
“No, you don’t understand. I got placed here wrongly. I don’t belong here.”
She looks at you like she’s heard this all too many times before, and she probably has, but you’re certain they made a mistake with you. You have an eating disorder. You are not suicidal. You explain this to her.
Dr. Winthrop opens a file on her desk. “I understand you’re upset. And what has happened with Malik is devastating. I’m sorry this has upset you so much. This is a tragic event.”
You sniffle and nod, and she hands you a box of tissues.
“But the fact remains that you’re here for your own safety.”
You can’t help but think of what just occurred and how he wasn’t safe. “What about Malik?” you ask.
“That’s different,” Dr. Winthrop says.
“How so? If you think I’m suicidal, how are you going to keep me safe?” you ask.
“Well, you said so yourself, that we have it wrong, and you’re not a suicide risk, right?” Dr. Winthrop lifts her eyebrows. Point for Dr. Winthrop, you think.