The woman’s plate is full of food, as if she were a bodybuilder in training needing to bulk up. Maybe her food will distract her.
And where is Joe anyway?
After getting juice, coffee, and water, I turn to see a few empty tables. The people already sitting aren’t people I know well enough to join, which could actually be said about most of the patients here, so I find an empty table near our usual one at the very back and sit, turned so Joe can see me when he comes in.
I look at the line again. There’s no Joe—but Sharon is the caboose for the moment. Hopefully, she won’t see me, either. I’ve had enough human interaction today to last me for a while.
Unfortunately, Bobbi doesn’t think so. She sets her tray in a chair right next to me. “Is this seat taken? No? Ah, thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”
While I’m no expert, I already think I’ve diagnosed this woman. Possibly narcissistic, definitely antisocial. And she feels like a classic bully, although I don’t know that that’s necessarily a mental disorder.
She scoots her chair over so that it’s touching mine. Rather than fight with her, I pick up my tray and move to the empty table next to us. But when she simply picks hers up and moves over to me, I realize maybe I should have gone to a table that had people, even if I didn’t know them.
After she’s settled in again and I try to figure out my next move, she leans over, pressing her lips into my ear again. As I prepare to get up once more, she wraps her hand around my upper arm and holds me tightly.
She has no intention of letting me get away from her this time.
10
“What is your problem?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.
“What is your problem, Anna? You act like you got a beef with me.” As she presses her forehead into mine, I’m reminded of what Joe said about women being raped in the bathrooms. This woman here I could believe would perpetrate that sort of abuse. I saw no soul in her brown eyes—only malice and sadistic sickness. Raping someone wouldn’t give her pleasure in the sexual sense.
I try pulling my arm out of her grasp to no avail. “Let go of me.”
Imitating my voice, she repeats my words, but the disgust in her tone is evident. “Let go of me.”
I continue trying to yank my arm out of her grasp, but her thumb is digging into it, hurting the flesh.
Behind me, I hear, “Let go of her. Now.”
I recognize that voice. Joe, my savior once again.
“Now, I said.”
Bobbi still doesn’t let go but finally shifts her gaze from me to Joe. “You think you’re man enough to stop me?” Her mouth tilts up on one side in a nasty little grin. “You like solitary?”
Solitary? This is the first I’ve heard of this. Maybe this is like prison.
Maybe this is a facility for the criminally insane. Does that sound like me? Am I perhaps a bad person at the core who hasn’t had the chance to figure it out yet?
“Like I’m afraid of a little padded cell. Last chance, Bobbi. Get your hands off her.”
This time, his words come out like a growl, like what I imagine a lion or a rottweiler would sound like when ready to attack. His face has changed, and he’s scary. The hairs on my forearms and the back of my neck stand straight up, but I couldn’t run if I wanted to. Bobbi still has my hand in her vice grip.
But then she lets out a huff, as if Joe doesn’t even deserve a full laugh. “I don’t know why you care so much about this stupid woman. There’s plenty of ‘em around here.” Finally, she lets go of my arm and I resist the urge to wrap a hand around it. I don’t want her to know she’s hurt me.
Joe leans over, getting close to both our faces. “She’s mine. I better not ever catch you sniffing around her again.”
Bobbi rolls her eyes and stands and the way she grabs at her tray, she knocks mine so hard that the liquids overflow the cups—but I’m not going to say or do a thing about it at this point. As Bobbi walks away, an air about her saying I wanted to leave, she says, “You can’t be with her all the time, Dublin.”
“Not one sniff, dyke. I mean it.”
What would Joe do if she tried anything again? I shudder to think.
After she’s clear over on the other side of the cafeteria—sitting so that she can see me plain as day and staring me down—Joe asks, “You okay if I grab some food?”
The smile comes to my face easily. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He heads over to the line and I decide to take my food off the tray, because there’s now a pool of orange juice and coffee, diluted with water, on it. As I get ready to sit down, though, I see Bobbi at her table continuing to stare at me, trying to send me a not-so-subtle threat. I’m watching you.
I can’t let her get to me. I can tell that would make her enjoy this game all the more. So I slide my food over so that my back will be to her. I’ll still know she’s there, but I hope I’m sending a message that I’m not afraid of her.
Even though, deep down, I am.
Without moving my head, I glance at my arm. It’s red where her fingers had been digging into my flesh, and I won’t be surprised if those marks turn to bruises. In fact, I can imagine one is already changing now.
I’m really not hungry anymore, but I don’t want Bobbi to have any clue she got to me. I use my fork to pick up a tiny bit of hash browns—and they taste even greasier than they looked. I can’t taste any potato at all, just grease and too much salt. The bacon’s not much better, so I cut a piece of waffle off with my fork. While it’s too sweet, it’s not horrible.
When Joe sits with me, his plate loaded high with a little bit of everything, he asks, “How long was she here before I got here?”
“Not too long.”
“Jesus. Your arm.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You know you can report her, right?”
“What would that do? Put her in solitary, like she said?”
“Could.”
“And then what? When she gets out, what do you think she’d do?”
“I can protect you, Anna.”
“Not everywhere, Joe. You can’t come with me to the bathroom.”
And I remember my first morning. What if Rose hadn’t been there?
I continue. “And don’t you have therapy sessions anyway?”
“Just once a week.” Like a savage animal, he places a slice of bacon between his teeth and rips it in half, chomping on it. After he swallows, he says, “I could find someone to protect you when I’m unavailable.”
“I’ll be fine, Joe.” I just need to avoid that psychopath. Maybe she and I have history. What if we were lovers and she’s reclaiming me?
No, that couldn’t be it. There is nothing there—no fondness, no familiarity, nothing appealing to me at all, unlike when I first met Joe. Well, met him again.
“I could get you a weapon. And it’s not much, but you could take your fork with you.”
I start laughing then. “What’s a plastic fork going to do? I’d break the tines off first thing and then she’d really be pissed.”
Joe lowers his voice, leaning over. He’s talking to me, but I can tell he’s looking straight at her, sending her daggers. “You could stab her in the eye with it.”