Under Rose-Tainted Skies(43)

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.’