Under Rose-Tainted Skies(4)
I slink off into the study, push the power button on the computer, and the old gal starts up with a cough and a splutter. Sadly, long-term sickness does not mean a free pass from education, and for the last four years, Mom and the Learn Long Distance website have been home-schooling me.
Like I don’t love learning. I do. I absolutely love it. I almost wish I didn’t. I never used to. It’s all part of agoraphobia’s dastardly plan to make me look like the most abnormal teen on the planet.
I work as fast as I can, mostly because this computer is practically steam-powered and the clunky buttons click every time I tap them. This does not bode well for a brain that obsesses over patterns and numbers. Superhuman hearing detects the slight variation of sound with every keystroke, and I become frustratingly fixated on the fact that no two clicks sound the same. Then suddenly it’s as if I’m Mozart, losing hours trying to type out Shakespeare sonnets to a tune. Thankfully, this is one of those quirky behaviours that’s not always present. It comes and goes like most of my compulsions, depending on how stressed/emotional/sleepy/hormonal I am.
The printer spits out my pages. I grab them, stack them, and bang them against the desktop so they’re all nice and neatly aligned. I want to clip them together so they stay that way, but Mom’s usually well-stocked stationery caddie is missing paper clips. There was this moment during a math quiz last week when my mind started to wander and I inadvertently twisted them all into a model of the Eiffel Tower. Art isn’t a required subject, but Mom gave me an A anyway.
I glance around the study, uncertain where she’s storing stationery supplies this week. Could be here, could be the trunk of her car, could be in her bra or at the bottom of her Louis Vuitton briefcase. I reach for the top drawer of the desk. Hesitate.
Mom is a mess monster. Her bedroom looks like a battle broke out between a hurricane and a thrift store. There are cold cups of tea in there, playing host to entire micro-nations. My Spider-Man mug went in two months and ten days ago . . . I haven’t seen it since. A shudder rips through me. When my mug finally does emerge, it will need to be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom.
But that’s her space.
Our compromise.
She fights her natural urge to leave things lying around the rest of the house and we keep her bedroom door closed at all times.
‘Mom?’ I wait a second, and when she doesn’t answer, I head towards the kitchen, admiring the crisp white sheets and perfect type on my paper. Perfection is a feeling; you’ll know it if you’ve ever questioned the competency of your penmanship before writing on the first page of a new notebook.
I can hear Mom talking before I get to the kitchen.
‘Can’t you send Maggie or the intern, what’s-his-face?’ She’s on the phone, sitting at the table with her back to me. Her words are heavy, weighted down with worry.
I’m instantly concerned. So much so that I spend only a second thinking about how vulnerable she’s made herself to potential intruders; I’m halfway in the room and she still hasn’t noticed me.
‘Things are a little tricky with Norah at the moment. I’m not sure I can leave her again,’ Mom says. Her shoulders sink to the floor.
This is the third new job she’s had this year. Last year there were two new jobs. It’s tricky finding a boss who can be flexible with our situation. I’m dependent, and her job requires travel. Her employers keep promising she can bypass the travel part, but she’s so good at selling construction equipment, they end up changing their minds.
‘Leave it to me,’ she says. I choose this moment to sit down beside her. She doesn’t startle. Maybe she knew I was here the whole time. She hangs up, winces at me.
‘Sneaking up on me?’ she says with a smile.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘You’re my child. I always know where you are.’
That catches my brain in a way it wouldn’t for most, and I start wondering if there’s any validity to this theory. She mistakes my silence for anxiety.
‘I should have applied for that nine-to-five gig at the bowling alley.’ She rubs her face with both hands, pulls down her cheeks so I can see the pink, squidgy bit of her eyes, and blows a raspberry.
‘You love your job.’
‘But I hate leaving you here alone.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell her. My fingers find a pimple on the side of my leg. I pick at it until it stings.
‘Maybe I could call in sick and they’ll have to find someone else to go in my place.’ She’s not listening to me. She never does when this happens.
‘Mom.’
‘Huh?’
‘I’ll be okay.’ The times when we get to switch roles are very few and far between.
‘Norah . . .’
‘Mom. I just need groceries. The rest I can do myself. I’ll be fine. Promise.’ I’m oversimplifying. I dislike being alone, sure. At first, it’s overwhelming, like trying to find your way out of a forest without a map. It’s easier to explain away noises, and the dark is always a shade less severe, when you know someone is sleeping down the hall, but I’m not afraid. I don’t know. Things are always much more manageable from inside this house. Plus, I’ve done it before and nothing bad happened. My head puts a lot of stock in that, keeps track and uses it as a benchmark for next time. Dr Reeves explains it better, with a bunch more science and phrases like eliminating the fear of the unknown – which I’m pretty sure is the title of a Star Trek episode.