A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(16)
Yet I can tell sleep isn’t going to come. Staying in bed would just be to hide. And God, do I want to hide.
When I told Dr. Jordan about this feeling, he said that in the most typical example of an obsessive-compulsive disorder, you might be afraid of germs, but washing your hands can make the obsession stronger. It might feel a bit better while you’re doing it, but it keeps you thinking about the germs, so you keep on scrubbing and scrubbing.
He told me the best way to escape a cycle like that isn’t to try to fulfill what your mind says it wants, but to distract it with something else entirely. And it works. I’ve done it. I know how to break this spell. But it’s still incredibly hard to do. I mean, sure, I won’t fall back asleep, but what’s the harm in staying in my warm bed a bit longer? It’s early on a Saturday, it’s chilly out, and I won’t stay here all day, just another hour or so …
Except Annie’s back on my mind. On my driveway. And her box is in my closet.
I throw off the comforter and sit up. It takes all my strength not to flop down again.
*
To the east is a light patch in the low gray clouds where the sun should be. The air is cold. The aluminum bench I’m sitting on is colder. Everything about the vacant high school track and surrounding bleachers looks cold this morning.
I discovered the benefit of coming here almost exactly a year ago, by accident. The meds were starting to work but I was still struggling with every single aspect of daily life. Holly and Declan were keeping me afloat, but they had other friends, and I needed to keep some distance from everyone to hide what was happening to me. I also needed lots of alone time. I spent lunches pacing the school grounds nibbling on an apple, the only food I could get myself to eat during the day through the barricade of medication side effects.
Track and field was in full swing. People were running and jumping and throwing discus and shot-putting. I was wandering in a haze and sat on the bleachers. After a few minutes I started to feel better. Only then did I realize I was sitting directly across from the long jump pit. It shocked me. This was the last place I thought would settle me, but it did, no denying it.
Nolan wanted more than anything to be on the team. He didn’t care how, as long as he was doing something—that’s how he put it—which meant field events. The coaches caught on pretty quickly that they couldn’t trust him to handle gear safely—no discus, no hammer throw, definitely no pole-vaulting. The perfect event for him was the long jump: no heavy objects, no throwing anything, just run like hell for a short burst and jump.
I only know this because I was told; I was in middle school at the time. I never saw Nolan compete since he never made the team. His GPA wasn’t high enough. I think they let him come to practice anyway for some reason, maybe to inspire him to bring his grades up.
I don’t know why sitting here soothes me. Most of the time I don’t even think about Nolan. I just watch the jumpers and get some kind of relief, though from what I don’t really know. I come here before school most mornings now, sometimes finishing last-minute homework, other times just sitting here feeling a bit of peace.
I’ve never tried long jumping myself, but I’ve learned a lot from sitting here: how you’re supposed to run, jump, and land. I also know the distances they clear, both the best jumpers and the worst. But I’ll never know how far Nolan could jump.
This morning, sitting here in the cold, it’s not calming me. Maybe because the track is empty. Maybe because my bike is parked nearby with Annie’s box strapped on the back. Or maybe because of this nagging thought that being here isn’t a good idea. That I’m distracting myself from one obsession by retreating into a different one.
*
I ride over to the Silver Sands midmorning. I’m not ready to face Zumi yet. Maybe spending a few hours with other people will get me out of my head. I’m still feeling off balance, but I don’t need to be a genius at work. Officially I’m a gofer—here to fetch things, clean up messes, do odd jobs—though Judith says she mostly pays me for what she calls “Mel’s Magic.” I think this means me being everyone’s granddaughter who visits almost every day.
Mr. Terrance Knight smiles when I walk into the Beachfront Lounge. I recognize the question on his face. The Hanniganimal is definitely not Up, but it looks like he needs this. The whole room feels cloudy and in need of sunshine. I put on my bright smile.
“What’s it gonna be?” Mr. Terrance Knight asks me as he carefully lowers himself onto the piano bench. “Your favorite?”
“What about your favorite?”
“How about the room’s favorite?” Mr. Terrance Knight begins to play. I smile when I recognize the song, and we come in together …
“I am dreaming, Dear, of you … day … by … day … Dreaming when the skies are blue … When … they’re … gray … When the silv’ry moon-light gleams … Still I wander on, in dreams … In a land of love, it seems … Just … with … you …”
Much of the room joins in …
“Let me call you ‘Sweetheart’… I’m in love … with … you … Let me hear you whisper that you love … me … too … Keep the love light glowing … in your eyes … so … true … Let me call you ‘Sweetheart’… I’m in love … with … you …”