Don’t Touch Me I’m Prickly - Part II
In last week’s installment, Celine met the fellow patients at Monterey Bay Center for Hope. She writes emails to her undergraduate fiction professor, and her first group session brings up painful details from her late mother and not-quite-boyfriend.
“I like your gown,” Solly told Jules the next morning as they sat in their usual arrangement before weigh-in. Jules’ gown had dinosaurs on it, like it had been borrowed from the children’s unit.
“You should have seen the gowns that Ryan bought me when we were together,” Celine said. “That man made so much fucking money.” She had meant it to be an indictment of his character, but it came out sounding like a brag.
“So you’ve mentioned,” Solly said, rolling his eyes.
“When are you going to show us what he looks like?” Genna said.
“When I decide I like any of you,” Celine said.
“You like us more than you like other people,” Emily said. “I can tell.” Celine looked at the floor. She wished she had an insult at the tip of her tongue to lob back at Emily. She wished that Emily wasn’t at least partially right.
“Preach, Em. Yes,” Genna said.
Celine sunk into the sofa next to Genna, who smelled like Bath & Body Works. Genna stood up and walked toward the scale, leaving a trail of peachy scent in her wake. Her spine punctuated the open space of the back of her gown, her vertebrae pokey and prehistoric like the jagged plates of a stegosaurus.
*****
It had been ten days, which meant Celine had earned ten minutes per day to check her phone.
“I’m here for my phone,” Celine said to Annie, who was pouring tiny cups of Gatorade for those who’d failed evening vitals.
“Right,” Annie said. “Ten days. That went fast.” She pulled open a drawer and handed Celine her phone. “I charged it for you.”
“Thanks,” Celine said, glancing down to no missed calls. No texts. An email inviting her to shop a flash sale for King beds, and—thank God—an email from Professor Sonnenberg.
Dear Celine,
It’s good to hear from you—it’s been a while! I’m really glad to hear your writing is going well. Please do send along a story; I’d be pleased to read your work. Although I should tell you my feedback will be a bit delayed. I’m eight months pregnant (!!), and absolutely over my head with all that needs to happen before baby is born—don’t get pregnant, Celine, if you can help it. It’s too much work already.
SJH
Why had she lied? It seemed silly now, an embarrassing, childish act. Appropriate for someone in utero, maybe, but not a twenty-three year old woman. She dashed off a response:
Hi Prof S,
Ok. I lied a little bit in my last note. I’m sorry. I’m not writing. I’m back in treatment. It sucks, but it’s easier than not being in treatment, if that makes sense? But anyway: I haven’t written a series of linked short stories. I don’t even really know what linked short stories are. I haven’t written anything except emails to you in over a year. Congratulations on your pregnancy. Don’t worry, I’d never bring another person into this world. Not that you shouldn’t. You’ll be a great mom. But you don’t need me to tell you that. Tell David and Laura hi.
Celine
*****
On the eleventh day, they had art therapy. Genna showed them the collage she’d made: a series of houses, cut out meticulously and arranged around a square of green. “It represents UCLA,” she said. “I had to leave two weeks into senior year. Because—” she gestured at herself, “you know. But I really want to go back.”
“It’s important to have motivation for recovery,” said Dr. Shibori. “Tell us more about your motivation.”
“Well, I’m in Kappa Kappa Gamma, right? And the girls are honestly so supportive? And they’ve been checking in on me and stuff, and I was worried because, like, everyone is so skinny and pretty, and when I first started losing weight they were all ‘what’s your trick’ and stuff, but they’ve actually been amazing.”
“So they rose to the challenge of supporting you,” Dr. Shibori said. “That’s really good to hear, Genna. Anyone else? Motivation for recovery?”
“Your friends sound cool,” Celine said in Genna’s direction, surprising herself.
“Not really,” Solly said, holding up his collage, which had a single cut out cat in its bottom corner. “My cat, I guess.”
Dr. Shibori nodded.
“Violin,” said Emily. “I really miss playing.”
“Just YouTube for me,” said Jules.
Celine scoffed, and Jules looked wounded. Emily stood up, slamming her uncapped glue stick down on the table. “Can you not, Celine? You’re actually not better than any of us. Like, it’s obviously a defense mechanism, and it’s not even that convincing.”
“Celine,” Dr. Shibori said. “We’re not in the business of putting each other down.”
Celine felt her face go hot. She wasn’t used to being called out, and certainly not accurately: it wasn’t like she had anything to look forward to that was more interesting than YouTube. It wasn’t like she had talents or hobbies or a gaggle of friends who missed her or a cat who she loved or a cool aunt who’d stepped in when her mom died or an older brother who let her sleep on his pullout couch when she needed to be reminded that she belonged to someone.
“Celine?” Dr. Shibori said. “It’s not like any of us are thriving, either. But we have to find ways to have fun, and help each other, you know?”
She was already so far in the hole: unguarded and embarrassed and without a collage to show for it.
“You guys know my mom is dead, right?”
“You mentioned the car crash,” Dr. Shibori said. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Celine cast her eyes toward her blank paper. She scribbled stars and moons. “It’s okay,” she said, and for a moment, she wanted to tell them the truth: that it had been a suicide attempt, and then a recovery from a suicide attempt, and then another suicide attempt, and then a hospitalization, and then hushed murmurs from doctors because there was a mass in her lungs, which they’d found only because the other psychiatric patients had been complaining about all the coughing. Or that Celine didn’t know what to make of a mom who’d both thrown dishes when she was angry but also drew baths for her, scrubbing her back with long, thoughtful strokes and pretending not to notice that she’d shaved her entire vagina, even though she'd told Celine early on that it was a very slutty thing to do. Or how her mom had made over easy eggs and toast with butter and jelly on that first night they’d spent alone together after her dad left them, when Celine had been all geared up to skip dinner and burrow under her covers with a flashlight and a book. “Have some,” her mom had said, as if she hadn’t just that morning told her she needed to give up carbs if she ever wanted to fall in love.
“She was kind of a shitty mom,” Celine said. She’d spent her entire life hating her mom for being such a bitch, but then cancer had made her go gaunt with lifelessness, and Celine would have given anything for her mom to have the energy to scold her, scream at her, tell her she was fat. Her mom had died in a hospital bed. She’d died with unkempt eyebrows, grown out roots, and a single wiry hair poking out of her chin.
“And the crash. Can you tell us about it?” Dr. Shibori said.
“The—oh,” Celine said, remembering her lie from earlier. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Sure, Celine,” Dr. Shibori said. They cut and glued, the tinny wisp of metal against metal punctuating the hum of the heating vent.
*****
Oh, Celine,
I’m so sorry to hear that, but I know you’ll pull through. In the meantime, I’m here for you. Don’t worry too much about writing! It will always be there for you. The important thing now is to focus on your health, ok? David, Laura, our yet unnamed fetus, and I are sending love.
HJS
*****
By the end of the second week, Celine graduated from supervised to unsupervised bathroom privileges.
“Good job, Celine. That’s a reward for compliance,” Dr. Shibori said. He left them in the community room, and Annie started weighing them. Emily was first. Celine listened to the whir of cards from Genna’s iPod touch.
“What’s your cat’s name?” Celine asked Solly.
“Solly,” Solly said.
“Oh,” she said. “Nice name.” Solly went back to reading. Genna peeled the case off her iPod. She retrieved a folded wad of paper and pressed it into Celine’s hand, pointer finger to lips. Celine bristled at Genna’s touch. It was the most physical contact she’d had since arriving here.
Celine opened the folded paper. We’re sneaking out today. You in? Celine felt warm in her stomach. She pinched at the paunch that was starting to cover her belly button, and let the feeling wash through her.
“My mom didn’t die in a car crash,” Celine said in Genna’s direction.
“What?” Genna said, already two paces away.
“Never mind,” Celine said.
To be continued…
Phoebe Kranefuss is an MFA candidate in Fiction at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. She studied English Literature at Bowdoin College, she's taught fourth grade, worked at an eating disorder clinic, survived entry level sales at a tech company, and spent some years in tech and advertising. When she's not writing, she's biking, running, reading, or crafting. Her work has been published in the Breakwater Review and Slackjaw, and she's at work on her first novel, Girls Our Age.
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