How to Love Claire Mason

Out Loud

The hospital's resident psychiatrist visits me the next day. Last time, I had spent four days in hell before I had anyone to talk to about it. But here she is, my first morning here. This time, I've been through hell, but this isn't it. This is me getting out.

Dr. Evans is older than Annie for sure, but not by much. She doesn't seem to have aged much since I last saw her here. Her hair is shoulder-length and brown like I remember, and she is still curvy in a way that would make me hate myself, yet she wears it well. With pride and a smile on her pearly pink lipstick stained lips.

"Hello Claire."

She doesn't remember me; I can hear it in her voice.

"Hello." My voice isn't cheery, but it isn't grim either.

"I have some notes from your school counselor that I'd like to discuss."

Notes? I highly doubt I said enough to Annie to warrant notes.

A manila folder I hadn't noticed when she walked in appears in her hands. Her immaculately trimmed fingernails are painted a shade lighter than her lips. I wonder what I look like; still in my hospital gown from the night before, head still bandaged tight, some of my tangled hair still plastered to my forehead. The makeup I so carefully masked my face with yesterday morning must be smeared under my eyes, highlighting the already dark circles I've earned from many sleepless nights. For the first time, I look down at myself, really look, at my veiny arms and bare legs, so pale and sickly, merely half of what they once were. I look so fragile, as if my body is reflecting how broken I am inside. Or, was. I'm getting fixed. But not yet. For now, I look sick. Skeletal. It isn't lovely. It isn't dainty. I'm thirteen pounds lighter; a dream come true, an achievement for the girl I was when I was eleven-years-old-going-on-thirty stealing dieting secrets from my mother's magazines, refusing cake at parties, and shivering in my jacket on the wet sand as real little girls pranced and squealed in the surf. To that girl, this would be pretty.

Now, it is not a goal I have reached. It is not a cause for celebration and self-praise. It is thirteen pounds of myself lost, a piece of who I am that is gone, a chip in my sanity that must be repaired. Today, it is Dr. Evans, with her round, lovely face, strong legs she crosses as she shifts in her swivel chair, and arms that wouldn't snap if she embraced someone, it is she who is the beautiful one. The half-human, half-hologram girl in the hospital bed is the ugly one. At eleven-going-on-thirty, I had it the other way around. And I was dead wrong.

Out of the manila folder slides the paper from English class, back to haunt me once more. These adults seem to be passing it around like schoolgirls passing notes in class. Or, rather, archeologists sharing some ancient scripture one of them found at a site, each one struggling to decode its meaning and comparing. their interpretation with the others'. And the million dollar question is: What really happened to Claire Mason?

And to think that thing started in the trash, which was meant to be its final resting place, until you-know-who decided he wasn't done messing with my mind.

"She said a student aid was grading this paper when he came upon yours in the trash."

I have to restrain myself from becoming angry about it all over again. But, this time, I'm going to talk. "Yes, that's what happened. I know exactly who that student is."

"Are they connected to this in any other way I am not aware of?" Dr. Evans sure knows just what to ask.

"Yes, " I respond flatly.

"Would you tell me just how she fits into all this, besides the fact that she found the paper and brought it to your teacher's attention? Because if someone else is involved, they should have been brought into the counselor's as well. But I was told the student merely picked up the paper and quickly read through it like the others, but found it disturbing enough to say something about it."