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She sits on her bed with her back against the wall, her knees up to her chest, reading a tattered paperback.The Art of War.
“I don’t want to get used to it.I don’t want to get used to anything in this place.”
Her brows raise, but still she does not look at me.“Then you’d better come up with a better plan.”
“Have any suggestions?”
“Not today.”
“You’ve been in and out.Surely, there’s a secret.”
Elizabeth shrugs.“Myfamily isn’t missing.”
“So, you have a family?”
“No.They’re dead.That’s different from missing.”
I get the sense that Elizabeth is angry at me.That or maybe she’s just sucked into her story.Maybe she just wants to read.I wouldn't know.I haven’t yet earned book privileges.
Elizabeth stays in that position for about twenty minutes.Then she gets up, bangs on the door, and asks to use the bathroom.When she comes back, she sits in the same position, back against the wall, knees up to her chest.
That is how she spends the next several days.She doesn’t move; she doesn’t talk; she doesn’t eat anything.She just sits like that, in that same position.I don’t know what to do, what to say.So I don’t say anything, I just sit on my bed, pretending that I’m resting.There’s nothing else to do, nothing else to pretend.
Every now and then Elizabeth will get up and request to go to the bathroom, or stand up to stretch, but mostly she just sits there quietly, calmly, like no one else exists.
The nurses all start talking about her.About how she’s deteriorating, how she’s on a downward spiral, how they’re worried about her.They whisper in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in the common room.And they’re always looking at me, as if they’re watching me.I can sense it.Like they’re waiting.For something.What?I don’t know.It leaves me feeling on edge.
And then one night I wake up, after the dream again—although I call it a nightmare—the lights, the distorted faces, the unidentifiable voice.But this time it’s different.This time when I wake up, I hear Elizabeth screaming.She screams and she screams and she screams.The nurses run to our room.Everything is quiet for a few minutes, and then I watch her being restrained by the orderlies, shouting and kicking.And then the door swings open and Dr.Branson enters.They take her somewhere.I have no idea where.
When I ask about her, they tell me Elizabeth stopped eating.She just refuses.She simply stopped doing anything but staring at the wall.They’re helping her get better.They’re trying a new kind of therapy.
After several days, they bring her back.She doesn’t look like herself.Certainly nothing like the movie star, the icon of a woman that came through that door fighting like mad.
In the days that followed, they brought no more food to her, and she became more and more silent and withdrawn.I thought about talking to her, telling her I was there for her, that I cared.But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.I was so terrified that this was somehow all my fault.I did try to get through to her, but only once.
She put her finger to her lips and shook her head.Tears poured from the corners of her eyes.I didn’t want to make anything worse.
At the same time, I couldn’t sleep at night, knowing she was there, in the room, in the bed just a few feet away.I was afraid she was going to die.I was afraid I was going to have a mental breakdown.I was afraid she was going to commit suicide, by starving herself to death, or doing something crazy.I don’t know what, but something.
I thought at any minute, at the drop of a hat, she was going to do something, or say something, or make a scene, and they’d punish her.I was terrified of her being punished.I was scared of her being restrained, of her being hurt.I feared what they’d do to me if I stepped in.My mental state can only handle so many paper cuts.
Elizabeth was stronger than I was.Or so I thought.
And then one night, I hear them coming.Elizabeth looked at me, smiling.She smiled and said, “Run.”
And then they came in and she went down fighting, and they took her away.I just stood there with my back against the wall, frozen.
This time when they bring her back, Elizabeth is even less Elizabeth than before.She doesn’t talk or do anything.In fact, she doesn’t even look like herself.The light in her eyes is completely gone.She’s skin and bones, and her hair is patchy and thin.She’s wearing a wrinkled hospital gown and the bones on her shoulders protrude.The sound of her voice is jarring to my ears.But she’s alive.I'm almost shocked.“I thought you were dead,” I say.
"Did it make you happy?"she asks, her voice raspy and ragged.
"Of course not."
"Good.Because it's going to take a lot more than that to kill me."
"You need to eat."
"You were supposed to run," she says."Why didn't you run?"
