It's Kind of a Funny Story

I sigh. “Yeah. There was a girl too.”

“Who would that be?”

“Nia. One of the friends.”

“And her?”

“I’m done with her, too.”

“So you made a lot of big decisions on your first day here.”

“Yes.”

“This happens to many people: they come and make big decisions. Sometimes they are good decisions, sometimes bad.”

“Well, I hope good, obviously.”

“Me too. How do you feel about the decisions?”

I picture Nia and Aaron dissolving, replaced by Johnny and Bobby.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“Wonderful. Now, you’ve made some new friends here as well, isn’t that true?”

“Sure.”

“I noticed you talking with Humboldt Koper outside the smoking lounge last night.”

“Is that his real name?” I laugh. “Yeah, well, right, you were talking, too. We all were.”

“Yes. Now, you might not want to become so friendly with your fellow patients on the floor.”

“Why not?”

“That can distract people from the healing process.”

“How?”

“This is a hospital. It’s not a place to make friends. Friends are wonderful, but this place is about you and making you feel better.”

“But . . .” I fidget. “I respect Humble. I respect Bobby. I have more respect for them after a day and a half than I do for most people . . . in the world, really.”

“Just be careful of forming close relationships, Craig. Focus on yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Only then does healing take place.”

“All right.”

Nurse Monica leans back with her moon face.

“As you know, we have certain activities on the floor.”

“Right.”

“On your first day you are excused from activities, but after that you are expected to attend on a daily basis.”

“Okay.”

“That means you start today. This is an opportunity for you to explore your interests. So I ask you: what are your hobbies?”

Bad question, Monica.

“I don’t have any.”

“Aha. None at all?”

“No.”

I work, Monica, and I think about work, and I freak out about work, and I think about how much I think about work, and I freak out about how much I think about how much I think about work, and I think about how freaked out I get about how much I think about how much I think about work. Does that count as a hobby?

“I see.” She takes some notes. “So we can put you in any activity group.”

“I guess.”

“And you’ll go?”

“Can I play cards with Armelio in the groups?”

“No.”

“Will participating in them get me out of here on Thursday?”

“I cannot say for sure. But not participating will be viewed as a step back in the healing process.”

“Okay. Sign me up.”

Nurse Monica marks a sheet in her lap. “Your first activity will be arts and crafts this evening, before dinner, with Joanie in the activity lounge, which is through the doors behind the nurses’ station.”

“I thought those doors didn’t open.”

“We can open them, Craig.”

“When does it start?”

“Seven.”

“Oh. I won’t be there exactly at seven.”

“Why’s that?”

“I have to meet with someone at seven.”

“A visitor?”

“Sure,” I lie.

“A friend?”

“Well, yeah. So far. I hope so.”

thirty-one

At 6:55 P.M. I position myself at the end of the hall where I met with my parents yesterday and again today—around three, without Sarah this time; she was at a friend’s house. Dad didn’t crack any jokes and Mom brought the shirt for Bobby, who shook her hand and told her Your son is great and she told him she knew that. Dad asked whether we got to watch movies, and I told him that we did, but that since so many people were older, it was really boring movies with Cary Grant and Greta Garbo and stuff, and he asked if I wouldn’t enjoy him bringing over Blade II on DVD. And I checked with Howard and it turned out the hospital had a DVD player like everyone else in the world and so Dad and I made a date for Wednesday night, in three days, when he didn’t have to work late. He’d come by with Blade II and we’d all watch it.

The place I’m sitting in is the part of the H that mirrors the part next to the smoking lounge; Noelle said she didn’t smoke, so I think she wants to meet here. I didn’t tell my parents about her. I did tell them that I talked to my friends, that it didn’t go well, but that they were probably part of the problem anyway and it was good to stay away from them for a while. Mom said she knew my friends smoked pot and they were probably a bad influence anyway. Dad said Now you yourself haven’t smoked pot, right, Craig? and I told him no, no I hadn’t, not before the SATs like he told me. And we all laughed.

They asked how I was eating and I told them I was eating fine, which was true.

They asked how I was sleeping and I told them I was sleeping fine, which I hoped would be true tonight.

Now I sit with my legs crossed, only I think that looks weird, so I uncross them, only now I’m cold and nervous, so I cross them again. Right at 7:00 P.M. Noelle, in the same clothes I saw her in yesterday—dark Capri pants and a white wife-beater—comes down the hall.

She sits in the chair next to me and moves the hair away from her face with small fingers with no nail polish on them.

“You came,” she says.