Islink back inside the house and close the door. I’m angry.
Not at her, not really. Not at her, not at him, not at them. I’m angry at myself for wanting to touch him so badly and remembering that the last time he put his hands on me, I almost had a stroke.
The fear of going through Luke’s Hub profile is dust. Curiosity is maniacal, controlling me from the inside. My phone is out of my pocket before my butt even hits the couch. I open his page, don’t hesitate to scroll down the screen and find any ‘connection’ announcements. As suspected, Amy ‘Queen’ Cavanaugh is in the first group of connections he made. I hit her picture and it takes me to her profile.
Fate could save me from the torture I’m about to inflict on myself. Her page could be locked and I wouldn’t see anything but the promo stuff she pins.
Fate hates me.
Her profile pops up and I hit her photo tab. There are pictures of Amy sunbathing with her friends, riding horses, cuddling lions on safari in Africa. Pictures of dinners out, of pool parties and boat parties. There’s even a photo of her sitting on the back of a motorcycle. I narrow my eyes, lift the phone for a closer look. The guy she’s straddling in the motorbike pic looks like Grammy-winning rock god Brock Samson. No. Effin’. Way.
My self-esteem packs its bags and quits me completely. She’s grinning like a Cheshire cat in every shot. Loving her life. Living it.
I blink green, breathe green, taste sour grapes on my tongue.
I don’t know what has me more jealous, the Hollywood-esque life that she has or the fact that I never went horseback riding before I got sick. I didn’t have time to catch a tan that wasn’t filtered through windows. I never went to a concert, let alone snuggled up to a lead singer on the back of his bike. There was always going to be time for that later. Always.
My hands are shaking. I flick back to Luke’s profile, blow up a picture of him, and spend a few seconds staring at it. My thumb touches down on his face. Maybe he was smiling at me because he felt sorry for me. Maybe it was just to piss Amy off. Maybe he wanted her to think there was something between us so she’d leave him alone. I pick at the cuticle on my thumb, peel it back and make it bleed.
I’m done with today, I decide, tossing my phone on the coffee table and curling up into a ball on the couch. I’m all pout, being devoured by my diva counterpart as I tug a patchwork throw from underneath me and cocoon myself in a blanket fort.
Except it’s too stuffy. My breathing is coming thick and fast. It feels like someone’s got a fire going under here.
It’s frustration is what it is. I can’t close down and shut the world out like I could before. Great. Something else I can add to my ever-growing list of new experiences. Except this isn’t one of those times when it feels like I just won a blue ribbon. Shutting out things is essential; it’s my Swiss army knife, my flask of water, the compass that points me home.
I’m pissed off. I throw the blanket off. I may not have a horse at hand or a buff rocker and his bike, but the sun is blazing right now. There is no reason why I can’t step out into the backyard and snap a selfie of me catching a few rays. I’m always whining about how pale I am. Maybe some colour will make me look more alive.
Light bulb. Maybe I can use this urge, this growing mound of motivation, to create a new root, a different thought pattern. Right?
Right, I decide, and march up the stairs.
I know I have a bikini top somewhere. It doesn’t look like Amy’s; all white with a gold, half-moon-shaped, fancy-button thing on the front.
The first place I look is my underwear drawer. It makes sense I’d keep it here because a bikini top is not unlike a bra. I dig through bunches of socks, maybe a million pairs of tights, briefs that are anything but, and a couple of sports bras before I become acutely aware of how comfortable and safe everything I own is. Everything is white or black, no frills or patterns because that’s what’s comfortable. And I can’t be worrying about itchy lace or a cutting thong while I’m trying to manipulate the big bad world.
God. That’s a depressing thought pattern. How did I not notice that my illness has taken over my wardrobe too? I pick up a pair of once-white leg warmers that have gone a gross shade of dishwater grey. This. This drawer is a visual representation of my life, I think, as I volley the leg warmers into the trash can at the end of my bed.
I find the bikini top scrunched up amid thick woollen socks. It’s plain black and clips around the back of my neck. I think I got it free with a magazine. I know I haven’t bought one while I’ve been sick, and I didn’t have any boobs to put in it before that.
Leaving the safe, warm fabric of my sweater, I slip the top on, handling the clasp like I’m wearing Mickey Mouse gloves. I pull my hair back into a bun and head to the bathroom for sunscreen.
We have two different kinds stockpiled in the bathroom cabinet, one with SPF 20 and one with SPF 50. I read the backs of both bottles like they’re how-to guides on defusing a bomb. I opt for smothering myself in the stronger stuff and head back downstairs fifty shades whiter than I was when I went up.
Several panic attacks and a perpetually tight stomach have seen me lose a few pounds over the past couple of weeks. I hug my hips, notice more sharp edges on my body than usual. In conclusion, I look ridiculous. Maybe I should skip sunbathing, I think as my fingers curl around the door handle. Who wants to see a picture of a bag of bones in a bikini anyway? That’s not a good enough reason for you not to try, I can hear Dr Reeves saying in my head. She would tell me, Don’t do this for the picture, forget that. Do it because you want it.
Need it, I mentally correct as I pull open the door.
I’m a wave breaker to the wall of heat that hits me. It’s so warm it sends a shiver down my spine. The sun is a slice of lemon. A soft hue, like fine smoke, blurs the contrast of Mom’s blooming garden. The scent of flowers hums as it sails across the patio and nearly knocks me off my feet. For a second, I wonder if I’ve accidently opened the door to an English country garden in the nineteenth century.
The space is big enough for a swimming pool. I know this because my grandma wanted to buy us one before she died. Alas, Mom said we didn’t need it. At the time I thought it was because she hated fun. I later found out she’d had a chat with the Trips and they’d guilt-tripped her about our carbon footprint.
My mind is whirring, already building a case to keep me inside. I lift my eyes; there’s not a single cloud out now. But I’m not really surveying the weather. I’m checking for planes because I’ve read about them falling from the sky. I eye the trees because I know they can topple over too. Earthquakes are what worry me the most. I can’t see them coming. And then there’s the spiders, and snakes. Anything that can force me to step away from the house to visit a hospital is a major cause for concern.
Thing is, my survival instinct seems to have been malfunctioning since the day this all started. It’s pretty messed up, probably makes zero sense to a person with normal thought processes, but I’m not sure I could trust myself to leave the house for help, not even if my life depended on it.
My bare foot hovers over the mosaic flags that mark out our patio. I wriggle my toes in the fresh air, testing the outside, as if too much exposure will scorch my skin.
Fifteen minutes later, my toes are cramping and I haven’t made it any further. My heart’s been hammering out Slipknot songs and I can’t feel the right side of my face. I’m tired, frustrating myself to a dry whimper.
Screw it. Screw this. Screw thought patterns. Screw roots. Screw Amy’s photos. Screw everything.
Life was never this complicated before life got involved.
I slam the door shut on the world outside, storm back through the kitchen and into the hall, where I’m forced to stop dead. The front door is wide open and Luke is on the porch. I can’t be sure, but I think I see the smudge of a champagne car, careening away behind him.
The door is open.
Why is the door open?
My first reaction is to eye my surroundings. The door is open because someone must have come through it.
‘Hi . . .’
‘Mom?’ I cut Luke off to call up the stairs. He stays silent as I wait for a reply. ‘Mom? Are you home?’
‘Norah. Is everything okay?’ he says after my second call gets no response.
‘Why is the door open?’ I’m twitching, scanning our open-plan living room. I grab the throw off the back of the couch and pull it around my shoulders.
‘I can answer that.’
I turn to him, glowering, fully expecting him to fess up to opening the door and invading our house.
‘Before, when you went inside, it bounced back when you tried to shut it,’ Luke replies with a nonchalant shrug.
‘No,’ I scoff. Ridiculous notion. He’s made it up. ‘No. I always make sure it’s locked before I walk away.’ It’s routine, robotic. Like how a dancer remembers every single step in her recital.
‘Okay,’ he says, drawing out the word. ‘But maybe this one time you forgot.’
‘No,’ I say, marching over to the door. At this point, I’m willing to believe witchcraft and wizardry are more responsible for this mishap than I am. I look at the lock, see that the bolt, the small sticky-out bit that’s supposed to slot into a hole in the frame and keep the door closed, isn’t poking out.
No.
I don’t forget to check locks. The latch clicks, and, ever since Helping Hands dude came into my house uninvited, I hit the bolt.
This can’t be right.
It’s either black magic or broken.
But it is right.
I run my hand over and over it. My fingers disappear into the groove where the latch is tucked away. Because that’s where it stays when you hold down the button and twist. The very reason we had it installed was that every time Mom went to collect the mail, she got locked out in her pyjamas.
I remember doing that, holding down the button and twisting. Keeping the latch hidden away while I watched the rain, just in case some freak thing happened and I found myself outside, unable to get back in. I knead an eye with the heel of my hand.
‘I can’t remember checking it or throwing the bolt. Why can’t I remember checking it?’ My nails creep down my thigh and start scratching at skin. Another new/scary/terrifying thing to add to my list. Before long, I’m going to need a wheelbarrow to lug this list around.
‘Norah. It’s okay.’
‘It’s not okay,’ I snap. How can it be okay? I don’t forget to do things that make me feel safe.
I don’t.
Except I did.
Who even am I?