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“You tell me you want to help me but that’s nothing but a lie. The only person you want to help is yourself because that’s what you do. It’s all about you. So you can feel better about yourself. That’s why you’re fucking your boss. You want to turn him into your little pet project so it’ll give you a reason to feel good about your shitty existence. Well, newsflash, that’s not happening with me. I won’t be your pet project.”
My head reels, listening to her words. How can she say this?
I know I have feelings for Maverick, and yes, I want to help him if I can. But I’m also pulling away because why should I even try? Love is just an illusion that can last for thirty minutes or thirty years, but in the end, it will end up hurting you all the same, so might as well not get too attached.
I stare at Abbie. Before I knew Maverick, I’ve lived alone, while Abbie went away for a while. I’ve worked hard. I’ve been true to myself. I’ve always known my flaws and worked through them but I’ve been my own person all the same. Now every single part of my life is being hit repeatedly by a wrecking ball and I just can’t catch a break.
Using her hands, while grunting and groaning, Abbie gets up on her feet. Her bones are jutting out through her top. She’s a malnourished and morbidly underweight mess. My heart breaks just looking at her.
The first time Abbie puked out her food, it happened in fifth-grade and I was present. We’ve just rounded up gym and she was complaining about stomach gripes, no thanks to the cafeteria food. When she returned from the bathroom ten minutes later, she was smiling. Happier than ever before. Life has not been the same since that happened.
Abbie’s health has been a concern ever since. A robust one-hundred-and-sixty-seven pound gifted volley-ball player reduced to nothing but bones and more bones.
I’ve read articles on anorexia nervosa that bases the reason on “a compulsive addiction to lose calories.”
And in Abbie’s case, it’s connected to a sense of grief that she hasn’t been able to shake yet.
When she moved in with me, things were bad. For months her routine was the same. Wake up. Feel angry. Avoid human contact. Eat. Vomit. Sleep. Repeat.
I’ve tried talking to her, calling her to reason. When she got mad at me, I tried turning the other way, but that would never last very long. I always tried to have a meal for her to have, even when she said she wasn’t hungry. It’s been years now, since she started on this road, but this time, she’s gone too far. She is about to starve herself, and I love her too much to let her do that to herself.
“See?” she sways unsteadily, rocking back and forth as she stands. Her knees are trembling so badly underneath her bony weight. “I can get up myself. I am fine. Now, I’m going up the stairs and I’m going to pack my things and I’m going to leave.” She throws me a scornful glare. “Goodbye, Noelle.”
She takes a step and almost crashes to the floor before Maverick comes out of nowhere and catches her. Sweeping her up in his arms, he turns to me and says, an inflection of worry in his tone, “We’ve got to get her to the hospital and we’ve got to do it now. Waiting for the ambulance is a risk.”
Amidst Abbie’s weak protests, I push open the front door and he runs past the porch to the car. I open the back door and he gingerly places her inside, then locks it with the child safety feature. We drive to the hospital, all the while ignoring Abbie’s screams to be let out.
She doesn’t stop begging and pleading, tears streaking down her face.
At the entrance of the hospital, Maverick cuts the engine and opens the door to bring Abbie out. She struggles aggressively, punching his chest with puny fists.
Maverick doesn’t budge as he runs into the hospital, and I hold open the door for him to enter.
“Emergency!” he yells, attracting the attention of several patients in the waiting room. He places her on a stretcher and holds down her flailing arms.
A blonde orderly nurse runs up to us. “What happened?”
“I think she has an eating disorder and she—she’s been coughing a lot and she is so weak,” I stammer, my heart beating erratically. “She was unconscious when I got home.”
She nods quickly. Hailing a couple of nurses nearby, one goes to call a doctor, and the other comes to us.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Noelle. Noelle Quinn.”
“And hers?”
“Abbie Jensen. She’s my best friend.”
“Thank you for bringing her in, Noelle. We’ll take it from here.”
“Wait,” I stop her. “Will she be okay?”
Offering me a sympathetic smile, she says, “I can’t determine that now, but we’ll do our best. Just sit tight, okay?” The nurse adds to her colleagues, “Let’s take her to curtain two, now,” and starts dragging the stretcher. The doctor, the other nurse called, arrives as they start taking her away.
The nurse behind the front desk gives us a chart to fill with the information about Abbie as the group wheels her behind a closed curtain as the doctor yells orders about running tests and IV medication.
“You can wait there, please. Someone will be out as soon as they can to give you an update,” she says, pointing to the waiting room.
