The officer asks if the chief would like him to call the center.
No, the chief will do it himself.
He sets the coffee brewing before he makes the call. The center’s owner doesn’t sound groggy, as though the wealthy—and the chief certainly counts the folks running the shelter aswealthy, right along with the patients—are more well rested than the rest of us.
The chief can’t help it. He’s relieved that the body on the beach is one ofthem.
On the other end of the line, the owner expresses shock, dismay, murmurs, “What a tragedy.”
In the absence of a family member, the center’s owner will formally identify the body. Clarice Bendersly, batty old woman, is hardly reliable.
As he hangs up, the chief thinks,A place like that recovery center will never work, not really. You want to get someone sober, you gotta break them down, remind them that they’re nothing.
People like that never believe they’re nothing.
13Amelia Blue
In the morning, Dr. Mackenzie knocks on the bedroom door. She doesn’t wait for a response before letting herself in.
“Thought it best to let you sleep late. You’re still on West Coast time, after all.”
I blink a few times, giving my eyes a chance to focus. Dr. Mackenzie’s outfit is almost identical to yesterday’s (black pants, crisp blouse), this time with a soft-looking heather-gray wrap thrown over her shoulders. I’m not sure exactly when I fell asleep last night. My phone is on the bed beside me, the battery almost dead, Instagram reels still playing one after the other, old videos of my mother’s antics. I swipe the screen blank as Dr. Mackenzie crosses the room. She places a familiar metal slab firmly on the floor in front of the bed.
I nod but ask to go to the bathroom first. Brush my teeth, scraping my tongue with the bristles until it bleeds. I spit the blood into the sink. In the mirror above, my reflection looks hazy and warped, my nose too long, my eyebrows too wide. My lips are dry and my hair is wild with sleep. It takes me a moment to realize that the mirror isn’t made of glass but brushed steel.
Dr. Mackenzie tells me to take off my long-sleeved shirt and pajama pants so that I’m wearing only a tank top and underwear. She makes me roll the top up, tucked under my arms, so she can see my torso. She notes every beauty mark, freckle, and scar, describing it out loud as she makes a notation on her phone. I try not to shiver in the cool air, pretending that having my body inspected by a near stranger doesn’t bother me.
Here’s another thing I know: These places need a record of the state their patients arrive in, at least when they arrive for reasons like mine. (I don’t, obviously, know if Georgia was subjected to this sort of thing.) I’msurprised the doctor doesn’t ask me to open my mouth, make note of my bloody gums. (Would she consider it self-harm or poor dental hygiene?)
Finally, Dr. Mackenzie tells me to step onto the scale. I wait for it to beep and light up with a number between my feet. But nothing happens. For a second, I think maybe I’m too light to register.
I wait for Dr. Mackenzie to tell me the machine’s not working, but she merely glances at her phone.
“The scale texts me the results,” she explains.
“What if I want to know what it says?” I ask.
“We don’t think that would be conducive to your journey with us,” Dr. Mackenzie explains, slipping her phone into her pocket. Her face betrays nothing.
Places like this say they consider eating disorders and addictions diseases, but theytreatthem as behavioral problems, like addicts and anorexics are unruly children in need of stricter parents. They want you to feel powerless, because only when you’re powerless do you stop resisting—whether it’s eating what they tell you to eat, saying what they want you to say, doing what they want you to do. Maybe that’s why Georgia couldn’t stay sober. I can’t imagine her admitting powerlessness.
“Why don’t you get dressed and join me in the living room?” Dr. Mackenzie suggests with false lightness as she lifts the scale off the floor. She doesn’t use the language treatment centers usually do:weigh-in, goal weight, ideal weight. (Incidentally, the same language people with eating disorders often use.)
I shower; the towels are plush but small. (Too large and they can be tied into a noose.) There’s no full-length mirror, only the warped metal over the sink that renders my reflection slightly fuzzy. (Glass can be broken, used for self-harm.)
I rub my skin with the organic lotions on the counter. There’s a blow-dryer, but it’s battery operated. (Wires can be dangerous.) I dry my hair, soft and smooth down my back, even though I know it will end up frizzing later. It always does, but I established my morning routine when I was in middle school, and I haven’t deviated since.
I must take too long getting ready, because Dr. Mackenzie calls out, “Everything all right in there?”
She opens the door without waiting for an answer. (Again: powerless.)Why don’t you get dressed and join me in the living room?wasn’t a suggestion but a command. Even though she’s already seen me nearly naked, I rush to cover myself with one of the too-small towels. There’s no bathrobe. (The belt could be used as a noose.)
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I answer, hands crossed over my body.
She and Maurice are waiting in the kitchen when I finally emerge.
“What would you like for breakfast?” Dr. Mackenzie keeps her voice cheerful, as though the question isn’t fraught.
“Coffee would be great.”
