It’s five o’clock, and I’m reaching into the fridge for a block of cheese when there’s a knock at the door.
Stealth mode engaged, I abandon making what would have been the world’s most perfect sandwich and creep up the hall, eyeing the door like whoever is on the other side is going to burst right through it.
We have a staredown then, the door and I. It’s pretty intense, just short of an evil sheriff hiding in the shadows, chewing on a matchstick.
Another knock.
Without moving my eyes, I pump a blob of antibacterial gel into my hands and rub it away. Because I’m sure the only thing on any home invader’s mind, after being polite enough to knock first, is a sanitary victim. I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out of my skull.
‘Norah. It’s Dr Reeves.’
My shoulders fall down from around my ears and I exhale. ‘Just a second.’ I sprint over and unbolt the door.
Dr Reeves stands on the porch wearing a perfectly tailored tweed pantsuit despite the blistering temperature.
‘How are you doing?’ she says, smiling at me like I’m a box of abandoned kittens. It takes every ounce of restraint for me not to throw my arms around her neck and wail like a child.
‘I’m good.’ My head is nodding too hard, but I can’t make it stop. ‘Really good. Great, in fact.’
Her eyes narrow. My lies are made of glass and she sees right through them.
‘I mean, at first I was a bit . . .’ I twirl my finger around my temple and make cuckoo noises, keeping it light because I’m eternally embarrassed by my breakdowns. ‘But I’m feeling much better now. Can I get you something to drink?’ I say, traipsing back up the hall, forcing her to step inside and follow me.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she says, and it’s a balloon bursting behind me, or nails being dragged down a chalkboard. My teeth tighten and I wince. It’s unfair of me to expect her to want to be here after hours. She has a family to get home to. We never really talk about her personal life, but I did discover that she has a son in middle school. Still, I wish she would stick around. Not even to talk, just to kind of sit in a chair doing puzzles in her pyjamas, like Mom. This house is too quiet. I swear it feeds off silence. When I’m alone, it always seems bigger.
‘But,’ she adds, ‘I am just on the other end of the phone. Do you still have that number I gave you?’
I don’t spit out the not-much-point-if-you-don’t-pick-up comment that’s trying to claw its way across my tongue. Being a bitch is something that often happens when I’m forced to endure things I’m afraid of. It’s my least favourite stage of anxiety. The first time Mom tried to get me out of the house I told her I hated her. Ugh.
‘You sure I can’t get you a drink?’
‘Norah.’
I’m not listening. I head over to the fridge and pull open the door.
‘We’ve got some Pepsi? SunnyD? Or I can make coffee.’ I point to the little silver machine on the kitchen counter. A fine layer of dust dulls its chrome finish. I think it’s been used twice in the four years we’ve had it. Mom likes herbal tea.
‘Norah. I can’t stay.’ She throws that sympathetic smile my way again. ‘But, listen, I have Wednesday morning free—’
‘Wednesday?’ Wednesday is almost two days away. There is a whole Tuesday to consider.
‘I would call tomorrow, but I have patients all day. I could perhaps have a colleague of mine—’
‘No!’ I yell. It comes out with the velocity and surprise of a sneeze. ‘I mean, no, thank you.’ It wasn’t my intention to snap, but if it’s not someone I know, I won’t open the door anyway. ‘Did Mom tell you when she was coming home?’ Paranoia has joined the party. It’s not that I think Mom lied to me, but she might have buffered the truth if she thought she was protecting me. I hate that my mind insists on questioning my own mother.
‘She said it could be a couple of days, maybe a week. Did she not tell you that herself?’ Busted. This woman is to mental illness what Sherlock Holmes was to mind-bending murder.
‘She did. I just . . . I couldn’t remember exactly what she said.’ I feel dirty.
‘Norah, she isn’t keeping anything from you. She told me she wouldn’t do that.’
I bite my lip to keep it from curling under. ‘I just wish she were home.’
‘Of course. That’s normal. Anyone would feel that way.’
I nod. Our conversation has run dry. Dr Reeves’s eyes flit around aimlessly, land on the note from the boy next door for a second before finding me again.
I’m not making this easy for her. Mental slap. I look away, focus instead on the contents of the fridge.
‘So, I can still call you on that number you gave me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Even if it’s the middle of the night?’ I turn the carton of orange juice in the fridge so the label is centred, facing out.
‘Any time. I mean it.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for stopping by. I really appreciate it.’
‘Coffee date? First thing Wednesday morning?’ she says as I walk her back to the door.
‘I mean, I’ll have to check my schedule, but I’m sure I’ll be able to fit you in,’ I tease. She quirks a sceptical eyebrow, and, with a smile, she leaves.
It starts to get dark sometime around seven and I switch all the lights on in the house. From the outside, I imagine it looks like I’m storing the sun in here. The Trips, a New Age kind of couple who live across the street, will be shoving more of their ‘Save the Environment’ leaflets through our door tomorrow morning. Don’t get me wrong, I’m deeply concerned about my carbon footprint, but I’ve watched enough horror movies to know that when I’m home alone, I’m ninety-eight per cent less likely to die if the lights are on.
Mom calls just before eight, and we stay on the phone for over an hour. She keeps asking me if I’ve eaten properly, then starts encouraging me to try the anti-anxiety meds I’ve had in a drawer for six months.
‘This is the perfect opportunity,’ she says. ‘You’d only have to take one, then lie back on the couch and let yourself drift off to sleep.’
I have this thing about swallowing mind-altering medication.
It makes me gag the second it touches my tongue. Like it’s coated in superglue, it physically won’t slide down. I don’t think doctors are trying to take over my brain or anything. And I’m not one of those people who think medicine poisons your body and you should try natural remedies first. I can’t take the herbal tabs either. It’s the idea of relinquishing control that makes them too sticky to swallow. I’m too wrapped up in worrying about everything that could go wrong while these tablets have me half drunk. You know which guy is dying first if the zombie apocalypse happens? The one lying on his couch too spaced out on meds to run.
I say goodnight to Mom when she starts yawning, then grab a blanket and collapse on the couch. My eyes stalk a pair of sewing scissors on top of a box at the side of the patchwork armchair. These will be my weapon of choice should a home invasion occur. I’m so set on this idea that I push the coffee table back two inches so it’s not in my way. My mom would ask why I don’t just move the scissors closer if it makes me feel safer. And I would tell her that I can’t do that because being too prepared is like tempting fate.
I need to go to sleep. I need to stop thinking. Just for a second.