Under Rose-Tainted Skies(8)

Gone.

‘Wait,’ I whisper to the wind.





You might think that now that sustenance has been thrown into the mix, my debilitating agoraphobia will take a back seat to my survival instincts. You’d be wrong.

I reach for the phone, stab in the number for Helping Hands, jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder my teeth don’t shatter. It’s 6.05. I already know no one will pick up because their office shuts at six on Sundays, but I plough on through because panic is a vast, solid mass inhabiting my mind and there is no room for common sense. I dig a nail into my thigh and scratch until I feel a sting.

The phone rings twice before an automated voice apologizes and tells me I should call back at 7.00 a.m. tomorrow. I slam the phone down, making the vase of fresh flowers on the end table shudder, only to pick the phone back up again, sense still AWOL.

Dr Reeves gave me her number six months ago, after our first appointment. She said it was for emergencies. I’ve never used it, mostly because I have trouble deciphering what your average Joe considers an emergency.

My thumb hovers above the number two button. We have her on speed dial.

I mean, there is next to no food in this house and Mom won’t be back until Tuesday. Plus, there’s this whole countywide bear warning since a couple of trash cans were wrecked during the small hours one night last week. We’ve been double-bagging our garbage as a precaution. All that food out there, sweltering in the sun. It’s basically an invitation. This is an emergency. It is.

I hit the button and am greeted by voicemail.

Damn it. I slam the phone down for a second time, abuse that it somehow survives intact.

Then I start pacing. Up and down the hall, chewing more holes in the side of my mouth and tearing strips off my nails.

Pace. Chew. Pace. Chew.

I stop, steal a glance through the window and out on to the porch, where I can see the three brown paper bags. A packet of luncheon meat is starting to sweat; a carton of eggs is no doubt boiling in the still-blistering heat. Even in the early evening, the California sun is merciless.

A buffet of smells permeating the air, calling out to a bunch of ravenous brown bears.

I have to get the bags.

I march over to the linen closet. I need clothes, something longer. Something that will cover my legs. Something that will cover me, hide me, make me feel less exposed. I grab the first mass of wool I find and pull it over my head. It drops all the way down past my knees. Perfect. I shudder in the warmth of it.

There’s a reason the whole imagine-your-audience-in-their-underwear thing works. It makes the speaker, the possessor of clothes, feel like the strongest one in the room. There’s a vulnerability that comes from showing skin.

The sweater is one of Mom’s eighties throwback knits that she keeps handy for laundry days and lazy days. It feels like iron filings scratching against my skin. Two giant teddy bears flashing serial-killer smiles are embroidered on the front.

I grab the broom from the closet and head back over to the door.

Just like fishing, I think as I kneel on the floor and stretch the broom towards the bags. Except I’ve never been fishing, so I have no idea what that’s like.

Hard, if it’s anything like this. I lie on the floor inside, manipulating the space so only my arms are exposed to the fresh air. I have trouble hooking the broom head around the bags. And when I do hook one, the bag is too heavy to drag.

I lose my grip on the brush handle for the trillionth time and it clatters to the ground. A whimper escapes my lips as I look hopelessly at the grocery bags: boulders, refusing to budge.

‘Do you need some help?’ I’m drenched in shadow, and boots with steel toecaps take three steps on to the porch.

Three steps.

That’s awkward. He leaves his back leg trailing behind. I wish he would bring it forward and make it four steps even. My eye twitches.

‘Can I help?’ I can’t look up to see who’s talking to me because anxiety has my chin stapled to my chest, but when I flick my eyes left I can see his reflection in the window. It’s New Boy from next door. He has dimples, and a mop of shaggy dark hair falls casually over his left eye.

His feet meet, four steps, and my focus is free, running wild like a liberated stallion.

‘No. No, thank you.’ In context, this might be the dumbest thing I have ever said. ‘I mean . . .’ Deep breath. ‘I mean . . .’ What do I mean? I feel flushed, like I’ve just dipped my face in the centre of the sun.

Another breath as I stand up, back up, and steady myself against the door frame. I straighten my sweater, pulling it down and trying to cover everything above the soles of my feet. No amount of hugging my torso can hide the two giant teddies.

I can feel his eyes on me. Probably curious about my attire. Definitely confused as to why I’m fishing for grocery bags on my front porch.

‘Could you please pass me those bags?’ I talk to my feet, suddenly wishing I’d painted my toenails when I’d planned to last night.

‘Sure,’ he says. I lift my eyes a little, discover jeans ripped at the knees and a belt with a Superman buckle. My lips pull into a slight smile. Superman is my favourite superhero.

‘You need me to carry them inside?’

‘That’s okay.’ I snatch the bags from his hands and pull them tight against my chest. A wave of relief washes over me, and I feel my shoulders slump.