Free The Girl Without a Name by Sandra Block Page B

the warmest tone.
    Dr. Berringer knocks on the door, and we walk in to find an aide helping with a sponge bath behind a curtain. “Be ready in a second,” the aide yells out.
    Dr. Berringer squeezes his forehead. “We’ll come back,” Dr. Berringer calls to her, and we exit into the hallway. Rounding is full of such missed opportunities to see patients: They’re in OT, EEG, CT—usually some sort of acronym. “All right. So we’ll have to meet the cat whisperer later. Who else is up, Jason?”
    A little voice inside me is dying to scream out “ Me, me. Call on me! I’ve got a new patient with anorexia! ” with my arm leaping off my body like I’m back in second grade and the chair is a prison. The increase in Adderall is clearly having a paradoxical effect.
    Jason swipes his gelled-up bangs, which are on the orange side today and in need of a highlighting appointment. “My next one is Brandon Gellman.”
    “Oh, we saw him on Friday, right? Cutter?”
    “Burner,” Jason says. A sixteen-year-old who burns himself with cigarettes to stamp out the less pleasant feelings swirling around in his head.
    “Oh, yeah, that’s right. We’ll circle around to him at the end. How’s Jane?” He turns to me. “Rumor has it she’s talking.”
    “Who told you?” I ask, annoyed that someone just made off with all my thunder.
    “Nancy.” He looks at me funny. “Said she was asking for food. Do we know who she is yet?”
    “No. Not yet. Hopefully soon. Soon, soon, soon.” My foot taps out a song on the tile.
    “Patience, fair Zoe,” he says, his voice tired. He scans his patient list and then folds up the paper into a square with trembling hands. “You know what, guys? I’m sorry. I am just feeling like crap.” He does look a pale shade of green, his forehead glazed with sweat. “My wife has the flu. I’m probably coming down with it.” He puts the paper in his long lab coat pocket. “I’ll get one of my partners to cover for this afternoon, if you don’t mind.”
    “Oh no, of course, that’s fine,” I say. Jason and I nod reassuringly. And if we did mind, we most certainly wouldn’t say. Dr. Berringer gives us a shaky smile and walks off, leaving us standing there with a cartful of charts in the middle of the hall and no one to run rounds. Our fearless leader, vanished.
    “Well, ain’t that just the shit?” Jason asks.
    “Odd, isn’t it.”
    “What?”
    “The shit. I mean, what kind of expression is that?”
    He raises one eyebrow. “Zoe, you know what?”
    “What?”
    “Sometimes you’re really annoying.”
    *  *  *
    There’s no mistaking Chloe Brown’s diagnosis. She wears it like a badge, a purple heart in her own private war. Painfully symmetrical collarbones, dull teeth, and sores lining her fingers from purging stomach acid.
    “So, has anyone explained the rules to you?” I ask.
    “Yup,” she says with a loud sigh. “Been there, done that, know the drill.” The war has left her ravaged but not defeated.
    “So you know then,” I continue, “you gain points based on participating in group and gaining weight.”
    “As I said, not my first time at the rodeo.” She tucks a Kool-Aid-red strand of hair behind her ear with chipped black fingernails.
    “Okay,” I answer, ignoring her hostile vibe. I lay my pen down on the table with a soft, slapping sound. “It might sound trite, Chloe, but we’re really here to help you. That’s all any of us are trying to do.”
    She remains slumped in her bed, staring at the whiteboard decorated with perky red marker: “Today is…Monday! Your nurse’s name is…Nancy! Lunch is…mac and cheese!” I’ve had their mac and cheese; it’s nothing to exclaim about.
    I lean back in the chair, telling her with my posture that I’m open to sharing, then wait a long moment before gathering up my pen and chart. The intake has been carried out. There’s not much more to discuss right now. Or at least Chloe doesn’t think so. “You’ve had