Page 13 of Starve
Cairo doesn’t answer. He sits back and just looks at me, with his head tilting one way, then another. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me. I could guess, probably.” His eyes flicker down to my hand, making me feel more than a little self-conscious. “But I figure you’ll get tired of rehearsing the explanation you’ll give to the therapist, anyway. I’ll save you the trouble. How about you tell me what you think of this place so far, Fern?”
“It’s creepy,” I reply automatically, swallowing my food. My sandwich is gone in four bites, though I’m too tired and over this to be embarrassed by looking like a starving, feral creature in front of this gorgeous stranger. He’s probably not available anyway, I tell myself. And even if he is, I don’t know enough about his particular brand of fucked up to know if I’d even be able to handle that. “There was a girl when I got here—Hattie?—who was like, staring at the ceiling and muttering weird shit. It wasn’t the best introduction to a new place I’ve ever had.”
Now that I’ve basically swallowed the sandwich whole, like a snake that can unhinge its jaw, I find I’m not nearly as hungry. I roll the blueberries in the bowl around, instead of actually committing to eating them. “Do you want some?” I ask, remembering what the kitchen manager said about Cairo skipping meals.
“Nah, I’m not really a fan of fruit.” Cairo is quick to brush off my offer. But he’s not looking at me as he says it. Instead, he’s studying the thick-paned window, much like I did earlier. “What did she say?” he asks, mildly, as if he’s not very interested. I study him in return, and for the life of me, I can’t decide if he’s faking it, or he really just doesn’t care that much.
“They’re coming,” I say, repeating her words. “And uh, they’re already here. I think. She was sort of mouthing thewords, so I might be wrong. But that’s what it looked like.” I watch him for any reaction to my words, but Cairo doesn’t give me anything at all to figure out his intentions.
Maybe he really just isn’t that interested, and I’m thinking too much into this. “Can I ask you something, then?”
“Not if it’s about me.” His words are plain and honest, and he gives me another one of those tiny, soft smiles. “Otherwise, sure.”
“I’m over asking about you. You know the dog? The one that was tied up to a railing outside?”
His face hardens, and he goes right back to looking out the window. “Moro…” He sighs. “Yeah, I know her. Well, I knowofher. Jeremy doesn’t let anyone touch her.”
“Is she…okay? Like, I don’t know, it just seemed…” I trail off, not sure how to really say what I mean.
“You’ll work yourself into a fit worrying about things you can’t change, Fern.” He gets to his feet suddenly, startling me. “Sorry. I want to make sure you know how to get to your therapist’s office. Are you done?” He glances down at my food, which I haven’t touched in the past minute or so after I managed to eat a few more bites of fruit.
“Yeah.” I get up as well, but before I can take my tray, Cairo swipes it from the table. I follow him to the trash, hands behind me and feeling like I’m just hovering awkwardly while he tosses my garbage and sets the tray on top of the counter. “Thank you,” I offer, just as he moves to brush past me, aloof once more.
“You don’t need to thank me.” His eyes dart back to mine, and he looks so very tired. “I haven’t done anything to be thanked for.”
“What were you feeling?”Dr. Radley’s words are kind, and said in the same tone they’ve been all session. But that doesn’t reallymake me any less on edge. Sunk deep in my overstuffed leather armchair that sits across from hers, I glance up at her, a little confused.
“What was I…?” My fingers trail over the bandage on my palm, though I make an effort not to pick at it or pull at the ends of the adhesive like I reallydoneed to be kept here for the long haul. “What do you mean?”
“You were standing in the bathroom and you didn’t know you were cutting yourself with the scissors. Are you telling me you didn’t feel the pain?” She sits in her chair like it’s a throne, with her legs crossed and her brown hair pulled into a tight bun. Her black glasses only add to her appearance, making her look elegant and refined even in the casual slacks and shirt she’s wearing.
I wish I knew how to look half as good.
“I guess…I felt it a little. But I couldn’t break out of it. I was just overstimulated. Sometimes I get that way. It’s not like I was trying to kill myself, or actually hurt myself—” I can tell my words are getting faster from my anxiety, but now that I’m rambling, there’s no cure for it. “I just get overwhelmed,” I say, trying to come at it from a different way. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“I’m not saying you meant to,” Dr. Radley cuts in patiently. She offers me a reassuring smile and sets down her iPad on the small table beside her. When I look up at the clock, I notice in surprise that it’s already been close to forty minutes. I’m basically almost done with our ‘evaluation’ meeting. “I know things can get hard. And you don’t seem like someone looking to end your life, from what I can tell. I agree with the seventy-two hour temporary hold, unless something changes. I’d like to see you daily while you’re here, and also I’d like you to participate in group therapy at least once. Does that seem agreeable to you?”
I don’t really have a choice, so I nod my head a few times, grateful. “Y-yeah. Thank you. I’m sorry.” The differing reactionscome out quickly, and I sit back a little, sinking slightly deeper into my trap of a chair.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. If nothing changes, you can go home on Sunday’s morning bus.” With relief, I realize that’ll technically be a few hours short of seventy-two, and while it isn’t much, it still makes me damn relieved. I hadn’t realized until now just how terrified I’d been that she would decide to keep me here, and the assurance that I’ll get to go home instead is enough to make me want to just go limp in this chair and fall asleep.
“Thank you. I’m glad you don’t think I’m…something I’m not.” Not knowing how to express it more than that, but Dr. Radley just offers me that same kind smile she’s offered throughout the session. I get up when she does, though much less gracefully, and follow her to the door. She opens it, once again causing the heavy, intricate wood and glass to creak open on its hinges, making me wince.
“Sorry about that,” she says with a sigh, grimacing at the thing. “I can’t bring myself to let them replace it. It’s original to Bluebone Ridge, and I can admit I love so many of the things that still exist up here after all this time.”
“Oh, really?” I leave, glancing at the door and the different shades of wood that make it up, plus the stained glass panels. “It really is pretty.” And heavy. And creaky. “Most stuff up here is just sort of creepy.”
“Only because you don’t understand things up here,” Dr. Radley is quick to disagree, though she doesn’t look upset. “I can promise you, Fern. That if you were to spend time actually studying the history of this place and the relevance behind it, you’d find it just as interesting as I do.”
I can’t help but disagree, but I definitely won’t say that. Instead I laugh it off, trying to sound friendly and moreimportantlysane, before making my escape with the intent of going to my room and taking a sixty-four hour nap.
Chapter 6
Group therapy is much worsethan how it’s portrayed in any movie I’ve ever seen it in, and at the ungodly hour of eight am, I’m barely awake enough for it. Both Sam and Hattie are part of the group, with the other seven women being ones I haven’t met, though I saw a few of them at dinner last night.
Sitting with my styrofoam cup of steaming coffee, I sip at the burned, not sweet enough liquid, my nose wrinkling with displeasure. It really is not great, but I sigh and suffer with it anyway. After all, what else am I going to do while the therapist—who is younger and less patient than Dr. Radley—tries to get Hattie to talk.
Again.
