f o r t y - o n e
“If you hear a voice within you say, ‘You cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.”
—Vincent van Gogh
I’ve been in the hospital for a week. I’m sure the tabloids are speculating about my absence or talking about Cristina and Zach getting back together, but I’m not checking them. I can’t get better while keeping tabs on what everyone else is saying about me.
Dad has come and gone to my bedside. He’s been in Washington, DC, and back twice, not to mention stuck on the campaign trail in the OC as well as in Fresno for thousand-dollar-plate fund-raiser dinners. Mom keeps me updated, and I scroll to see his sound bites in the news. Journalists have asked them about Mom and I not being on the campaign trail with him, but he tells them that Mom is staying home with me while I’m studying hard for upcoming exams. I can tell Dad is stressed about me, though he hides it well. The close-ups reveal the toll of him being a dad and a politician.
I always thought of him as caring about politics more than his family, but I realize that I was wrong. He’s always cared about me. He thought I could handle the pressure. I’d always been so strong.
I guess we both live multiple lives. A social worker told me that we all have many roles—some we’re better at than others, and some, the dark ones, we have to cope with and keep under control. We have to find balance. I’m barely figuring out my role as a sick person. I don’t want to think of myself as sick, but I guess that’s the first step to getting better. If I’m going to get better, I have to confront these things.
Dad surprises me today when he comes in. I can already tell that this time he wants to talk. My head’s been cloudy. I guess that’s because the doctors said some of my organs were failing and so they need time to get motoring again. They all say I’m lucky I’m young, though unlucky to be so ill.
He scratches his head and sits in a chair. “How you feeling today, Honeybee?”
“Same as yesterday,” I say. My voice is still weak. “Just want to sleep all the time. They make me take little walks though.”
“That’s good. Gotta get your strength back. You wore yourself out.” He seems tired, beat down by life, but he’s smiling for my sake. I’m not commenting in case he’s looking for a recap I can’t remember, or don’t want to remember. I’ve come to terms with accepting help from my parents, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell them everything.
“I hadn’t realized how severe your problems were,” he says, leaning forward, hands clasped. “And I’m sorry about that. I really am. We’re all torn up about what you’re going through. We feel guilty. I told Rich that I don’t want him talking to you about anything campaign related. He should have no reason to contact you.”
I feel my eyes brighten. “You did?” I ask, haunted by memories of Rich sending me emails with links to articles criticizing every single thing about me.
“The only thing I want you to focus on is getting better.”
I’m glad Dad stuck up for me. I’d been feeling pretty alone. The way everyone’s been visiting has been nice. Except Sam. He still hasn’t come, and that’s hard to take because I thought for sure he would visit, text, something. I haven’t called or texted him either, so maybe I should. Maybe he’s just busy. He did say we would always be friends but if I wronged him again he would go silent. So is that what this is? Silence for my betrayal of his kindness? Silence for hurting him again and again?
I don’t deserve him. I definitely don’t deserve my family. They’ve been so sweet and kind and I’ve just been a zombie to them. It’s these emotions. The doctors said I would be on a roller coaster. I didn’t expect it. I had control. Or I thought I did. I thought I knew myself so well. I thought I was preventing myself from stepping onto this roller coaster. One minute I’m ravenous. The next I’m hating myself for feeling hunger.
I never thought one night out would be the tipping point. But doctors say it was the perfect storm and my body was in the middle of shutting down. They say a lot of patients with eating disorders don’t truly understand how much their bodies are shutting down from starvation. Now I’m just a silhouette in my own mushroom cloud. Trying to escape the burn. Trying to keep some kind of form of who I am through all this.
“Are you going to hire a new campaign manager?” I ask.
“Yeah, but don’t worry,” he says. “You won’t see him. Not anytime soon anyway. You’ll be transferred to an outpatient program soon as you’re better. I really believe the treatment there will help you grow and be the kind of person who helps other kids with this later on.”
“I’ll probably start sounding like Jasmine,” I say.
I’m only half kidding.
“Not a bad thing. She has a lot of advice and kind words for others.”
I do like that. I love her. I wish I hadn’t been so rude to her my first day in the hospital, such a zombie, though I can barely focus even now.
“And if you want to be involved with the campaign, it will have to be your choice,” he adds. “Don’t worry about it until you’re completely better.” He slaps his hands on his thighs. “All right. I better go.” He comes over and kisses my head.
My eyes tear up. Can I get better?
Is it still possible for me?
“What is it?” he says, looking down at me.
“Nothing.”
He lets out a sigh and kisses me again. “You have some other visitors waiting outside, so dry up.”
I laugh. “All right, Dad.”
“Love you, kid.”
When Dad steps out, Royce holds the door. I can’t believe he’s coming down on the weekends to support me so much when he should be focusing on school too.
“Don’t push her around,” Dad says jokingly to him.
“I’ll try not to,” Royce says as he steps in followed by Sam, who has a bunch of stuff in his arms. “Look who I brought,” Royce adds.
“Sam!” I say. My breath catches in my lungs. I’m so excited to see him despite the situation. “I’m so embarrassed. I look terrible.”
“You’re in a hospital,” Royce says. “Play the part. You should be coughing and moaning more.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “You need to focus on getting better.”
Sam hugs me tight, and I think there might be tears in his eyes.
He pulls back, then looks at Royce. “I asked him to let me into your house to grab some things from your room. We figured you would probably be pretty bored.” He places a pile of my art pads, pens and pencils on the hospital bed.
“Still want to show at that gallery, don’t you?” Sam asks.
I don’t know what to say. Dad said to be strong, so I’m trying not to cry. My heart is beating so fast because he’s finally here, because he cares. Sam really cares. He always has.
“You gotta keep the dream alive,” Royce says.
I turn to my brother. “Are you and...”
“We’re talking again,” he says. “What’s meant to happen will happen. I’m going to get some coffee, be right back. We brought some games too. Maybe we can destroy the world in a game of Risk, or play cards.”
When Royce leaves, Sam says, “He’s right, you know. You have to pursue your dreams. It makes you who you are. Being an artist is just about the noblest thing anyone can do. You create something from nothing. You can change people’s minds. Influence culture.”
“I can’t believe you came,” I say. “And you’re right. I promise to get better.”
“Antonia said to say she loves you. She’s going to visit soon. The hospital doesn’t want a lot of people disturbing you.”
“I’ve wasted so much time this year,” I say. “I’m going to get better fast. I’m going to do this.”