It takes two cups of water and a fat wad of tissues before Bunny can tell Ella that she is sorry. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry about what, hon?” Ella asks, which is all it takes for Bunny to fall apart again. Ella fills the Dixie cup for the third time, and she waits for Bunny to pull herself together well enough to articulate the reason for her apology. If there is a reason, which isn’t a given. Ella is all too familiar with the Depressives apologizing for what boils down to being alive.
Between sips of water and gasps for air, Bunny explains how she’d seen Nina hiding in the big armchair, how she watched Nina twirl her hair around her finger, how she did nothing but walk away. “I thought she wanted to be alone,” Bunny says. “It’s my fault.”
“Hon, you mustn’t think like that. You’re not the least bit responsible.”
“Yes, I am, because I just lied to you. I didn’t care if she wanted to be alone or not. I wanted to be alone.”
“Come on, hon. Do you really believe that if you’d sat with her she wouldn’t have done what she did?”
Bunny knows that had she not left Nina alone this morning, Nina would not have yanked out every hair on her head. If Bunny had gone and sat with her, Nina would’ve had to wait until after lunch to yank out every hair on her head. But what you know and what you believe don’t always squarely align, and Bunny believes it is her fault; a belief revealed in a sound Bunny emits; not loud, but unholy, and with her back to the wall, she slides to the floor where she sits like a rag doll. “Please,” she pleads. “I want to go home. Please. I don’t want to be here.” She pounds her fist on her thigh. “Please.”
Ella kneels down and takes hold of Bunny’s hand. “Come on, hon,” and in slow motion, she rises, easing Bunny up alongside her. Then, Ella puts the box of tissues in front of Bunny. Sick to death of being told to blow her nose, Bunny wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweater, while Ella taps a pill from a vial into the cup of her hand. “Here you go, hon,” she says. “This will help you sleep. You need to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” Bunny tells her.
“Yes, you do.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“Tell me, then.” Ella is kind, her voice caring. “What do you want?”
Bunny’s eyes narrow in anger. “What I want,” she snaps, “I want you to erase Dog Therapy from that fucking Activities Board. There is no fucking dog.”