Anita Rose, Part III

I know, finally!

Anita Rose, part III
by Jill C.

My throat is sore, and I would like to go back to sleep. But no, I have to sit on a hard folding chair and stare around the circle of girls, waiting for someone to say something. That someone will not be me.

My throat hurts with every breath and swallow. I can still feel the feeding tube taped to my cheek and forced into my nasal cavity before snaking down my throat. I can still feel it, even though it got taken out yesterday. They made my throat hurt, and now they want me to eat. And talk.

I sit curled on the plasticky fake leather of the chair beside my bed. The tape on my cheek has left an angry red mark, and I push my face hard into the cool upholstery. I want it to make the redness go away, but I know that it will only make it worse.

Tennis shoes are tapping down the hall outside my room. Quick, purposeful taps of lithe, fit nurses, not the measured sounds, usually accompanied by humming, that meant that Momma Betty was making her way down the hall. I want to be home. Not here. Anywhere but here.

Someone knocks on the door. "Anita," a muffled female voice says before the door is pushed open.
"Anita," the pale brunette nurse says again. I look up at her; she is doubly blurry because of my lack of glasses and the fact that my eyes were recently shoved into my knees. "Time for group, sweetie." She looks around my room, taking in the mess of clothes strewn across the bed. "Did the dresser spit them all back out?" she asks, trying to amuse me. I just shake my head.

She looks at me again, this time seeing that I'm still wearing pajamas. "Come on, let's get dressed," she says. She tosses me a pair of jeans and a soft yellow sweatshirt. She turns away and begins to fold my clothes as I dress. When I finish, she is holding my hairbrush. "Here, let me fix your hair." I take a step toward her, and she immediately repositions herself behind me. She tugs softly on my coarse black curls. A moment later, my hair is neatly gathered in a loose braid down my back. Then she hands me my glasses. This nurse who knows me only as fifteen, female, anorexic has fixed my hair for me. Momma Betty, my foster mother, never did as much.

The nurse leads me down the hall to the sitting room where a few other too-thin girls are gathered on their hard folding chairs. I take my seat and look down at the scraped linoleum floor. I don't want to see them, and I don't want them to see me. I don't want to be involved in this fake family that will dissipate as soon as I'm "cured".

I think back to my own family. Dylan said he would call me, said he would call every day. Nothing. No calls for me. No calls from anyone. Cleavland probably didn't know that I was gone. Rosie probably doesn't either; she was still laying on the kitchen floor when Momma Betty drove me to the hospital. I wonder if anyone really misses me.

Here I get offered ice cream with every meal. I am told that it's okay if I don't want to talk during therapy, that I can draw a picture instead. I get my hair fixed by a strange nurse. But I'm here because I'm bad. And I want to go home.

One of the doctors comes into the sitting room. Everyone sits up a little straighter, waiting to be asked to speak. I slump down further. I would rather go back to bed.
"Good morning," the short haired, blond doctor says. She has a bit of an accent. German, maybe? Or Russian? I like to listen to this doctor talk. She sounds very happy all the time. The muddled "Good morning" echoes back from the other girls, all of them sounding sad and wistful.

A tall, black nurse that looks like a basketball player enters the sitting room. "'Scuse me, doc," she says before looking at me, "Anita, sweetheart? You've got a phone call."
I stand up, knowing that all eyes are on me. I don't want to see it, so I push my glasses up on top of my head. I follow the nurse to a small office where the phone sits on the table next to the receiver. "I'll wait right outside," she says, smiling. Then she shuts me in.

I tentatively reach for the phone. "Hello," I say roughly. My throat is still sore, and I haven't used my voice much in the four days that I've been here.
"'Nita?" It's Dylan. He's finally called.
"Hi, Dylan."
"'Nita, are you okay?" His voice sounds strained. Like he's been crying.
"I'm okay."
"That's good." He sniffs loudly.

"What's up?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from sounding too gravely.
"'Nita," he starts, "'Nita, Rosie... Rosie's dead."

"What?" I gasp, my heart in my painful throat.
Dylan's voice breaks into sobs. "She's dead. The ambulance just took her away and she was dead."

"What happened?" I whisper.
"They said she...she just...didn't breathe. When she was sleeping. She just...stopped breathing...because she's...she's so... And didn't wake up." The last sentence is a wail.

"Who said--" I start, but I can't finish.
"The ambulance people," Dylan answers, "They were here for a long time. And the Social Workers. The police, too. To make sure Momma Betty didn't do it." Sobs fill my ear again.

"Dylan, where are you right now?" I ask, now aware of the full situation.
"At Bob and Kathy's," he says, naming our next door neighbors.
"And Sam and Jared too?"
"Yeah."

"Dylan, I'm gonna be home real soon, okay?"
"Okay. Bye, 'Nita." He hangs up.

I put the phone back on the receiver. Then I bury my face in my hands. I know what had gone unsaid. Sleep apnea had claimed Rosie because of her obesity. Something so easily reversed, yet something that she was powerless to stop. Like me. Just like me.

I push open the office door. The black nurse is gone, the brunette who fixed my hair in her place. "When can I go home?" I ask. It's the first full sentence I've spoken to the people here.

"That's up to you," she says, "Are you going to get better?"
I start to nod, but I change my mind. "Yes," I say, "I am."
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And.......Done! I think I have a bit of an obsession with irony.