I lie in my bed helpless with needles sticking into my arm because I can't and won't eat. I can barely sit up without tipping over. Nurses take my blood and talk in hushed times to my dads, glancing at me in a weird sort of way.
The doctor tries to be nice and he tries making conversation. As in, speaking with me. He's mostly just speaking to me. I don't understand half the things he says. I don't care.
He mentions ulcers and possible anorexia to my dads. I don't bother to say anything because I know I eat. Not a lot, but I do. I'm not a starving freak.
Or am I?
Oh.
I actually haven't been eating a lot lately.
Oh well.
I stay in the hospital for three days. For the first day and night, I have a catheter attached to me because I can't get up and I keep bleeding into the sheets.
My dads panic s lot and it just makes me feel more sick.
Honestly, I don't know what I feel. I mostly just feel tired. I just want to leave. I keep looking out the window of my new ward, envisioning me jumping off my bed screaming, "Hey guys, I'm not really sick! Ha ha, pranked you!"
Or what if I just pulled off my cannula and flew out the window? I'm on third floor. I won't survive.
That's nice, the voice in my head sighs.
On the first night as I get carried into the emergency room, my dad is hunched over his phone in the middle of the panic, his thumbs moving across the screen aggressively. Every few seconds, he would put his phone to his ear and pace around the room. Then, he would go right back to tapping on his screen.
I feel numb during all this. I'm sad, but the sadness feels muted, you know. Like, I'm not feeling it properly. I get little pangs in my belly every once in a while, and they slowly start having me eat actual food instead of nasty ahh avocado purees.
No hate against avocado. I just don't like them. But the hospital people don't really care much about that.
When I'm finally allowed to go home, my parents aren't speaking with me. And I'm not speaking with them. We pull into the driveway, and I just push the door open and lumber toward the front door, hauling my duffel bag behind me.
"Anya," Larry calls out to me. "Lift your bag off the ground."
I don't obey, and I keep going, dragging it lamely behind me and looking down at my shoes. I perch myyon the porch, still staring at my shoes. They open the door and walk in, prompting me to come in as well. I shrug Larry's hand off, not looking up at him.
He lets out a sigh, says nothing, picks up my bag and walks in.
I want to cry. I can feel it coming. But the neighbors are being loud, much to my irritation. It's Friday evening, and all the club boys, girls, and gays are making it known up and down the street. In the yard across from ours, there are three girls screaming and jumping and playing around with each other.
The oldest one is fourteen, and her name is Leilani. I know this because we were invited to her Bar Mitzvah some three years ago or so. That means she will be fifteen soon.
I don't really know the two other girls. One of them is her younger sister who looks maybe eight or nine. The other girl is rather small, but could be the same age. She has headphones on, and is carrying around a cute little Pinkie Pie plushie.
Maybe she's a friend? A cousin? I think as I watch them. Their mom comes down from the front steps, clapping her hands. "Alright, girls! Let's get inside!"
"No!!" the younger sister protests, holding on to the other little girl. "Just give more minutes."
"Nope, no five minutes. We're getting indoors now. Alright, babes, let's move it!" the mom says, waving them off in the direction of the house.
"Please mom!" the little girl wheedled.
"Yeah, please mom!" Leilani joins in, as the girls all crowd around her. They start jumping in circles around her chanting: "Please! Please! Please!"
I watch them and giggle as the mom shakes her head in disagreement, amusement, and annoyance. This goes on for a while, so she goes over to the house. The girls notice, and they begin running toward the house before they can get sprayed.
"Ah! She's gonna get us! Run, run!"
"That's right! Keep running!"
A loud belly laugh erupts out of my mouth. The woman turns to look at me, as well as a few people nearby. I hurriedly cover my mouth and scurry inside.
As I eat my spaghetti in uncomfortable silence in my bedroom, I can hear hushed conversation going on downstairs. I abandon my food and try sneaking down to find out. But as I step foot on the landing, Larry's face pops out the corner.
"Gah!" I jump.
"Where're you going?"
"Um... The kitchen."
"Why?"
"Water. I got thirsty."
I am genuinely surprised with myself about how steady my voice sounds though my heart is definitely anything but.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Now can I get a drink?" I ask, kinda sounding like I'm commanding he let me pass.
He wants to say something, then stops and steps to the side to let me pass. I sprint down the stairs and go into the kitchen to see my dad having a tense-sounding conversation with someone on the phone.
I don't even have to guess who it is.
I walk past him to the water dispenser, pick a glass off the drying rack, and fill it up, all the while listening to what he's saying. I ignore his concerned looks, and stare into my cup.
"... well, that's not my fault... It took that long to return the call, Leland. She could have died... Well, no but-- NO! UGH!"
My dad puts his phone face down on the table. He reaches under his glasses to pinch his nose while muttering a Japanese swear to himself. I can hear the little buzzy noises from the phone in this silence, telling that my mom was on the other end ranting all heaven and earth.
"You know what, Leland," my dad finally says as he picks his phone up again. "Fuck you."
Woah!
My head shoots up in attention.
I genuinely feel that one. I'd never heard him say stuff like that to anyone. And the way he says it so calmly is chilling.
"Yes, Leland. I hope you fucking die. I hope your plane crashes into the ocean and you fucking. Drown."
With that, he throws his phone across the room. It hits the wall near the doorway, where Larry is standing. My dad slips his hands in his messy-as-fuck hair and supports himself on the counter with his elbow. He desperately tries to breathe normally, but I'm pretty sure his blood pressure has spiked to dangerous levels. His face is red, and his nose is bleeding.
His nose is bleeding?
I stare at him as Larry rushed to his side. I stand there confused and not knowing what to do. I count every drop of blood as they fall down into the white marble counter.
...three...four...five...
My hands are shaking.
The room is moving.
"Anya, get a towel!"
I don't respond. I just keep counting.
... seven... eight... nine...
"Anya!" Larry shouts again. "Get a towel, now!"
All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chases the weasel...
"ANYA! ARE YOU DEAF?!"
The tears start flowing now, blurring my vision.
...pop goes the weasel.
And then, my vision blanks.