It gets to five and I’m watching a woman on television turn a pair of old net curtains into what she says will be a ‘traffic-stopping tunic’. I’m not convinced. I wonder if maybe she’s high on fabric-glue fumes, because she’s smiling a smile that outstretches space. But then, I suppose she exhibits this same level of delirium every week, even the times she’s not in range of superglue. Maybe crafting just makes you happy. Maybe I’ll feel like less of a failure if I can turn wax crayons and rose oil into a bunch of scented candles. Or make costume jewellery out of a bulk-buy of gemstones. A small business venture to give my life purpose. That’s how my gran started. The story of her mixing yogurt and sand to make facial scrub during tough times is legendary.
Meh. My enthusiasm is in broken bits and I can’t even muster the energy to stick that back together, let alone craft a pair of pretty earrings.
I jump when my phone rings, not from fright. It’s excitement. It shoots through my stomach like a falling star, only to burn out when I check the screen and discover it’s not Luke. Not that there’s a reason he would be calling. I guess it was just a thought because it’s Friday night. Or what used to be ice-cream-and-mind-numbing-movie night.
‘Hey, Mom.’
‘Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?’ She sounds rushed. I can hear her sifting through sheets of paper.
‘I’m good,’ I lie, pulling the sleeve of my sweater over the new scratch on my arm. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Ugh. You remember me telling you about the new guy, Justin?’
Ah, Justin. The office rookie who can’t decipher his ass from his elbow and smells like weed every time he comes back off his break.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s only gone and mixed up a ton of inventory slips.’
I hiss a painful note through my front teeth, though I don’t really know what this means. I’m just leeching off her tone.
‘Yeah. The guy has placed orders for almost a million dollars’ worth of building material that we don’t need. Ugh.’ Her palm makes a slapping sound as it hits her forehead. ‘My boss is going to kill me if I don’t fix this mess.’
‘Can you fix it?’ I hesitate before I ask. It’s hard to decide how serious she is when I can’t see her face.
‘Norah Dean,’ she tsks. ‘This is me you’re talking to. I can fix anything.’ True. Turns out this morning we didn’t have any eggs to make the pancakes she promised, so she used banana instead. They were actually pretty good.
‘Right.’ I smile. Not serious, just a little stressed.
‘Will you be okay fixing your own dinner?’
‘Absolutely. You want me to make you something?’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ She groans. ‘I’ve got a feeling this is going to take all night. You’ll be all right alone?’
‘Puh-lease,’ I scoff. ‘This is me you’re talking to. One night is practically child’s play these days.’
‘Smart-ass,’ she teases. ‘I’ll be by my phone the entire time. Call me if you need anything, anything at all, okay?’
‘Cross my heart.’ I go through the motion, despite the fact she can’t see it.
‘What’s my extension number?’ Mom asks, testing my memory because she hasn’t been able to leave her usual laundry list of emergency contacts on the fridge.
‘Mom, I know the number. I didn’t forget.’
‘Good. Then you should have no problem reciting it back to me right now.’
I reel off the number. ‘Now, how do I reach 911 again?’
‘Ha ha.’
Microwaveable macaroni cheese. It’s what’s for dinner. I pierce the film lid twelve times and blast it with radiation for twenty seconds longer than the instructions say I should. You can never be too careful when it comes to undercooked anything.
I sit down at the table and fork my way through the gloopy white sauce. Every bite makes my insides clench and then gurgle, but I power through, remind myself that I have to eat to stay alive.
Despite appearances, it’s not the worst meal I’ve ever had. Mom gets me this brand of mac and cheese especially because they don’t put ground pepper in it, which saves me from the indignity of having to sift through mountains of melted cheese just to fish out the almost invisible black bits.
The clock claws its way to 6.00 p.m., and I’m forced to mute my Hub feed, because if I get one more notification about how much fun people are having with their Friday night, I’m going to break the shit out of my phone.
After I’m done eating, I head down the hall. I’m checking the lock and the bolt on the door for the eighth time when I hear voices. My heart hammers in my ears. Luke.
Don’t look. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, I think as I make my way over to the porch window. It’s just a window; it shouldn’t hold so much sentimentality for me, but it does, and when I peek through the curtains, tears sting my eyes.
Luke is standing in his driveway with a blonde girl, some chick with a nose ring, and this dude wearing a Death’s Head band tee under a tuxedo jacket.
Another party. Another dance.
That’s why my phone’s been lighting up. The guys are all wearing tailored jackets. The girls are decked out like a couple of Christmas trees in dresses that twinkle under the dying sun. Smiles all around, excited chatter; I feel like I’m watching a coming-of-age sitcom. Luke climbs in the driver’s side of his truck. Blonde girl climbs in beside him. His date? Maybe. The other guy and girl dash off and jump into their own car, one that has streaks of orange flames painted up the sides. I startle when Luke’s car growls to life.
I will him to look up, to look over at my house. I beg, plead, pray, but without taking a single glance this way, he reverses out on to the road and speeds off, closely followed by the second car.
I turn around; heavy eyes survey my empty house. Still. Silent. Alone. I’m transported to a cold place. A lonely back alley that’s never seen a single ray of sun, that forever collects rain. I feel any colour that my skin was holding on to roll right off and pool around my ankles.
This is my fault.
I broke something beautiful.
I cut away the one thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just waiting for death, and I did it because I let my mind run riot.
He was right. I wasn’t angry because he kissed me. I didn’t tell him to leave because he made a mistake. We came undone when I let my insecurities take control. Because I was obsessing over everything I wasn’t, and everything I thought he wanted.
I should have listened to him. Trusted him.
Anxiety wraps itself around my lungs like frozen vines. It squeezes and squeezes until I can’t breathe. I’m falling, fast, and there’s only one way I can think of to stop it.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else as I climb the mountainous staircase. I’m sobbing by the time I reach the top. The world is turning so quickly. I just want it to stop. I want my heart to stop hammering. I want thoughts to leave me alone. I’ve been thinking for so long. My brain is blistered. It hurts to use my head right now.
My muscles are mush as I stumble into the bathroom, thump on the light, and snatch the side of the sink to steady myself.
My reflection makes me feel sick. I grip the basin so tightly my knuckles pop. I wonder if I cut deep enough whether I’ll be able to keep my mind from mixing me up indefinitely.
‘You sabotaged me. Why won’t you just leave me alone?’ I scream, then reach for the scissors. My wrist catches a carton of cotton buds, and they fall from the cabinet, rain down on the floor. It makes me think of summer with my gran, blowing dandelions in her garden and dancing in the floating seeds.
God, I miss that girl, the one who could twirl barefoot in the garden.
I sink to the floor, scissors in my hand. I haven’t seen the last cut I made. I’ve felt it sting against my jeans, but the second that stopped, I pushed the incident to the back of my mind. It’s easier to live with yourself if you do that.
When I run my fingers over the space, I find it. It’s slightly raised, still healing. The thought of infection spares it, and I move to the older scar below. Scissors poised, my head on upside down, I pull my skin tight.
My eyes scrunch shut and more tears squeeze out. Luke’s face, when I put my hand on top of his and he started grinning like a kid on his way to Candyland, is burnt into the backs of my eyelids. I can touch him. It won’t kill me. If I could have stolen myself, slowed my head down for just a second, we’d be together right now, watching a movie.
I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to tell him I’m insecure. I want to tell him that I am hard work, that my head is a mess, that my sickness was making even the smallest thought explode that night. I want to tell him his kiss scared me but I can’t stop wanting a second one. I want to ask him to teach me how to touch.
I want to show him my list.
I want to tell him I’ve been dreaming of doing things.
I want to tell him, more than anything, that I miss him.
I close in on my thigh with the blade, but then something happens that’s never happened before. I meet with resistance, like there’s an invisible barrier between skin and scissors. I can’t make them touch, can’t make myself do it. Wiping snot on the back of my hand, I stroke the sharp edge with my thumb. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, a force field, a puppet string being pulled. Something. But I find nothing. So it must be me stopping myself. I can’t even begin to fathom what that means right now.
Weeping turns to tearless sobs as I curl up in a ball on the bathroom floor, waiting for my heart and head to slow down. I hug my knees so tight they’re almost touching my chin. The scissors stay in my palm. I keep them close to my chest because I’m not sure I don’t need them yet.