She Said, She Said

The next week passed by fairly quickly. I’d gotten out of the Clinic on Saturday morning, after Nurse Dawn/Eden had come to make sure that my recovery was well underway. She’d given me some more pain relievers to take, along with some syrup that tasted strangely like sickly sweet strawberry jell-o. (Sylvia had begged for me to let her try it, but I’d refused, seeing as I had no idea what it was for anyway.) Nurse Clara had also made sure to let me know that I was free to come to her office anytime, lest I felt uneasy about something or other.

Aunt Debra had even called on Sunday to make sure I was feeling better. The conversation had been a bit awkward—she’d asked me to go to have dinner with her at home, her home, but I’d politely refused. Neither of us mentioned our last meeting.

Sessions had gone on as usual, although now everyone felt the need to ask me stupid questions like, ‘Are you dizzy?’ or ‘Do you need some water?’ It was annoying, but there was no point in voicing out my thoughts, as I was sure no one would pay attention to them anyway. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew they were only being cautious, so I ignored it as best as I could.

The only odd thing that had occurred was that Caleb and I no longer talked, except to say ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to each other in sessions. He’d been acting strangely ever since the confrontation in the Clinic. He no longer made rude or sarcastic remarks, and even made sure to hold the door open for me when exiting the cafeteria. (I still had no idea where he disappeared off to at lunch time.) It was almost like he was being extra alert about something—exactly what, I didn’t know, nor did I really care. Not much, anyway.

Now, as I sat in the room I shared with Sylvia, reading one of her magazines, a knock came at the door. Sylvia was in the bathroom, changing into something more comfortable. I was supposed to be waiting for her to come out, so we could grab some snacks from the cafeteria. She had decided that it would be best if we just spent Saturday evening in our room, watching a movie or another.

Sighing, I threw the magazine onto Sylvia’s bed and rolled the wheelchair over to the door. It was quite odd how much I’d improved over the past week with getting in and out of bed without any help. I guess Caleb actually being cooperative for once was helping—if only he’d done it sooner.

“Yes?” I asked the petite, dark-haired girl who stood before me.

“Nurse Clara sent me to tell you that, uh, you’re supposed to come to the cafeteria for… something.” She shuffled her feet and glanced down the hallway, as if expecting someone to appear out of nowhere—just as she had.

“Well, do you know why?” Really, what could it be now?

“I’m not sure,” the girl mumbled, shrugging. She glanced at my face with a confused look. “We’re having like, uh, some sort of special dinner or something down there— look, I really don’t know. Can you please just come down?”

I sighed, rubbing at my forehead. “Alright, thanks.”

The girl nodded and practically ran towards the elevator, her flats tap-tapping against the shiny tiled floor.

When Sylvia finally exited the bathroom, wearing her bear-patterned pajama pants and her old high school shirt titled, Go Scorpions Go! I told her the news. She groaned and ran her fingers through her red hair.

“Are you serious?” she asked for the fourth time.

“Yes, Sylvia, I am serious. Are we going or not?” I glanced longingly at the television. “I don’t want to go, either, but…”

“Alright, alright,” she mumbled, frowning childishly.

I laughed. “I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

We left the room in a slightly exasperated mood. The hallways were unusually quiet and empty; the usual chatter of Saturday evenings was definitely not present in the air.

“They’re not having a special dinner today—they announced that on Wednesday,” Sylvia chatted as we went down the hallway, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “So why would they specifically call us down?”

“I haven’t a clue,” I told her honestly, pressing the elevator button.

“But then again,” Sylvia continued, rolling her wheelchair forward, “I heard that a lot of people went home this weekend, more than the usual.” She nudged me with her hand. “Why do you think that is? Is something coming up that I didn’t know about?”

“I don’t think so, no,” I told her, my stomach rumbling. “I wish they have lots of good food though.”

“Me too,” Sylvia giggled.

*

When we entered the cafeteria, it wasn’t the crowded mess it usually was; the unoccupied tables screamed with silence. The right side of the room was full, with a few nurses standing in front of the serving counter. When we came in along with some other people, Nurse Clara saw me and waved, motioning for me to take a seat at one of the tables in the front. Sylvia followed suit.

“Alright, now,” a tall woman said, glancing at us with a slight smile. “We’ve called you down here because, well, we just wanted to do something special this evening.” She surveyed the crowd. “As you might have noticed, a lot of the patients have chosen to go home this weekend. Some of you know that our company has regular meetings with the BRC every now and again, to make sure that the policies and rules are all in place. We usually do this when our rehabilitation centre is the least occupied. This way, most of the staff can attend, as they will not have much to do anyhow.” She smiled teasingly, tugging at her cardigan.

“So, the very generous cafeteria servers have decided that—just so you won’t miss the ‘special dinner’ today—we’re going to be inviting the BRC boys to come have dinner with us, as the majority of them have gone home also,” another nurse continued, nodding at us. “Not only that but they’ve also decided that you can prepare your own food, with either your partner or a friend.” She glanced down at a clipboard. “And that is all.”

A quiet murmur went through the crowd; there was nothing exciting about the situation, really—mostly, everyone just wanted something to eat.

“Now,” Nurse Clara said, stepping forward, “feel free to do whatever for the next fifteen or so minutes. Our guests will be here soon.” She winked, and everyone started to drift away into their own groups, to their own friends.

“So,” Sylvia mock-exclaimed, placing her left elbow on the table. “This sucks.”

I shrugged in what I hoped was a nonchalant way. “Not really,” I said, smiling, “at least we get food.”

“I suppose so,” she muttered. Her pale fingers were spread out on the table, scratching at the surface slightly. “I think Samuel’s gone home this weekend—he was saying something about spending some time with his father, or something.” She looked up at me. “What about Caleb? Do you know?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. A sudden, unexpected rush of blood rose to my cheeks, and I tipped my head forward to hide my face. “How should I know?”

“Just saying,” Sylvia said slowly, leaning forward. “Do you think he’s still in trouble? He didn’t go home for the past two weekends, you know.”

My interest perked, but I made sure to keep my voice normal. After all, I didn’t need Sylvia teasing me about some nonsense or other, lest I said something stupid. “He didn’t go home when I was in the Clinic? How do you know?”

“Nathan mentioned it to Lacey; and she happened to let it slip to me.” She leaned back in her seat and eyed me under her long eyelashes.

“I hope he doesn’t come,” I blurted.

Sylvia moved forward again, a grin on her face. She looked like she was about to laugh. “Are you hiding something, Val? Because you know I wouldn’t tell anyone.” My jaw practically hit my lap as I tried to come up with an answer. The red-head burst out laughing. “I’m just joking—God, you should have seen your face!” she exclaimed, giggling hysterically.

“That’s not funny,” I told her, my heart beating so wildly in my chest I was sure it would jump out at any minute and trot away.

Twenty or so minutes later, the BRC boys arrived with somewhat cheery expressions on their faces. There were very few of them actually present; my guess would’ve been anywhere from twenty to thirty. All the daytime coaches and other supervisors greeted us and then went off to follow the nurses, who led them to something called the “meeting hall.” After a few moments of chatting and settling around, we all quieted down and looked expectantly at the cafeteria cooks.

“So!” a short, plump woman who reminded me a bit of Aunt Debra exclaimed, putting her hands up. “As some of you might know, I’m Helen. And I will be just… looking over you guys for today.” She straightened out her apron with fluttery hands and continued, “If you need my help, I’ll be in the back, getting all the necessary ingredients ready. Other than that, just be safe.” She flashed us a smile, and, after giving the once-over, checking for any raised hands (as though we were in high school, honestly) she turned around and went to the kitchen.

Almost immediately, a flurry of whispers broke from the small crowd. Some people yelled their partners’ names to locate them, and others joined their friends and followed Helen.

“Valerie,” Sylvia called, tapping me on my shoulder. “Are you looking for Caleb?”

“No,” I huffed. She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Really, I’m not.”

“Right,” she said, waving her fingers at me. I was about to ask her where she was going, when she explained, “I’m going to go off and ask if I can make a call to my parents. Don’t worry about me—just go find Caleb, and have fun cooking!” With that, she smiled and turned around, exiting the double cafeteria doors. The two guards standing beside the exit barely moved when she yelled a loud “Hello!” at them.

I sighed loudly and rubbed at my eyes. “Great.”

“Not really,” a voice said from behind me.

Rolling my eyes, I looked at Caleb from the corner of my eye. “Where were you?” I demanded, annoyed.

He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes and looked around. “I’m going into the kitchen.”

I had no choice but to follow.

*

“Are you crazy?” Caleb exclaimed, pushing my hand away. “I told you get the damn sauce ready, not fool around with this crap.” He huffed, stirring the pot of thickening pasta noodles. It was strange to hear his slightly bossy voice again, seeing as he hadn’t talked to me for the past week.

“Well, if you’d been listening, you would’ve heard me tell you that it was ready,” I mumbled, pulling up the bowl and shoving it in his face. He rolled his eyes and turned away. “What else are we making?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “What do you want?”

“Why are you asking me now?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Why not just decide without my say, like you did on the pasta?”

He turned around and glared at me, pulling at the hem of his dark green shirt. “Pasta is the easiest thing I could think of.” His eyes had bags under them, making him look somehow younger.

“Whatever,” I muttered, turning around and going over to look into the refrigerator.

The kitchen in the back was surprisingly large, with long tables that gleamed under the bright lights overhead. There were various small stoves and a walk-in refrigerator, along with a small room in the corner that contained supplies: spices, flour, canned foods, and God knows what else.

"Let's make muffins," I suggested suddenly, not sure where my voice came from. Caleb turned around, his trademark are-you-serious smirk appearing on his face for a few seconds before disappearing. "You chose the pasta; it's only fair I get to decide on desert, right?"

"Desert? I have never had muffins for desert before," he muttered, rolling his eyes. Turning his back on me, he tossed over his shoulder, "What about milkshakes?"

"Milkshakes?" I gaped at his stiff, alert back. "I've never had milkshakes for desert before." I tried to mimic his voice: sarcastic, lazy, I-don't-give-a-shit drawl—although, I must admit, it lacked his usual confidence.

"Okay, so we've both had different kind of deserts," he said tiredly, not even bothering to look at me. "You make the muffins, I'll do the milkshakes."

"What fun," I mumbled under my breath, although I couldn't help but smile at the mere thought of Caleb making milkshakes. For us. For me.

Before I could think more about that, I grabbed a bowl and got to work.

*

Exactly one hour and eighteen minutes later, Caleb and I ended up in front of the doorway of my room. Caleb, holding two plates of steaming hot pasta covered with sauce, stared at the numbers on the white surface for a long while: 289. Finally, when my arms started aching from holding the puke-green tray (which held two glasses of chocolate milkshakes and muffins wrapped in tin foil) I sighed loudly to get his attention. Ignoring me, Caleb nudged open the door with his hip and went inside with ease.

"Hey, help me," I called.

"Just put the tray in your lap and wheel yourself in," he grumbled. Wiping his hands on his rumpled jeans, he gave me a pointed look.

"The milkshakes will spill!" I almost shouted, glaring daggers. He, of course, brushed me off—but still came over and took the glasses. I rolled the wheelchair inside and left the door open a crack.

"We should have just eaten in the cafeteria," Caleb mumbled after a moment of silence. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the TV. "Are we supposed to be in here?"

I shrugged nonchalantly and grabbed the remote off of the slightly wrinkled sheets of my bed. "I don't know."

He made a sound deep in his throat—much like a groan—and grabbed the remote from me. Motioning with his hands at the table ladled with food, he pressed a button and the screen crackled slightly as it came on. "Go on, eat."

For the second time that day, I had no choice but to do exactly what he said.