Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  We pile in the cumbersome car, Mr. Stowe talking incessantly. The other student, whose name I now know as Maria, takes the wheel first. I contentedly settle into the backseat, eager to put off my first encounter with the unknown. Mr. Stowe, I quickly find, is buoyantly happy and deeply religious. Before we have left the parking space, as we test the windshield wipers and the turn signal, I have been invited to attend his weekly Sunday school class at the local United Methodist Church. As Maria eases her way around the deserted parking lot, he flips on the Christian rock station and hums along happily.

  Halfway through the lesson, we stop at a McDonald’s for a breakfast break. Comfortable in the restaurant’s warmth, I stare up at the illuminated menu. I half expect angels to break into a chorus of “hallelujah.” Look at all this food! And I haven’t traded anything yet this morning.

  With the greasy wrapped meal loaded onto my tray, I walk quickly to the small table Mr. Stowe and Maria have found in the back of the crowded restaurant. This is the most food I will have eaten in weeks. Before I even reach our table, my Egg McMuffin is unwrapped, its melted cheese stuck deliciously to the buttered bread. I tear into it, ravenous for calories, as I sit down in my seat. I bend the hash brown into my mouth in one bite. Heaven. Reaching back for the sandwich, mouth still full of fried potatoes, I see Mr. Stowe’s extended hand, feel his patient eyes on my bulging cheeks. We make eye contact and he wiggles his fingers at me. I see he is already holding hands with Maria. Oh.

  I place my greasy fingers in his palm and he swiftly drops his head. “Dear Lord, thank you for Maria and Allison. Thank you for creating them in your image. Thank you for making them exactly who you want them to be. Please keep us safe on the road, and safe in your heart. Amen.” He lifts his head with a deep inhale. I’ve been staring at the bald patch on the top of his head the whole time, stunned. I look at Maria and she gives me a slight shrug.

  He launches into conversation, moving on from the prayer like bowing your head in a crowded McDonald’s is a normal thing to do. “Now, the most important thing for y’all to take away from our time together is, of course, driving safety. But I hope you will also learn a little something about the Lord, our Savior.”

  • • •

  Driver’s ed is a two-week course. Three days into my time with Maria and Mr. Stowe, I find myself looking forward to our early, quiet hours in the warm car. Maybe it’s the muffled Christian-music station in the background, or Mr. Stowe’s soothing voice guiding me through the empty morning roads, but my brain is perfectly, if unexpectedly, silent. There are no warning messages about the road or the car. White lines, traffic lights. There are so many opportunities for my monster to pounce, but for some reason he continues to sleep. I feel no bees swarming in from the distance, hear no screaming alarms. It is the first time I’ve felt even the slightest bit like myself since my nightmare.

  For the first few days, I only hear Mr. Stowe’s voice, not his words. I know he is talking about religion or Sunday school or, worse, the rules of the road, so I block it all out. But his deep accent and gentle tone alone are enough to lull me into peace. Looking out the window, relaxing in the privacy of the backseat, listening to him talk makes me feel normal. Just a girl in driver’s ed. Just a girl with no thoughts, watching the world pass by.

  My family is by no means religious. Growing up, we went to church to appease my grandparents, who lived nearby, but this habit stopped around the time I entered middle school. I don’t remember much about church or Christianity other than the hard wooden pews and thick red hymnals. My grandma’s firm but gentle hand on my leg when I was making too much noise. Church is something other people do on Sunday mornings while my mom and I are running errands and eating Panera. Mr. Stowe’s monologues about Jesus and the Lord’s will and an assortment of other buzzwords I have only heard while flipping channels past televangelists are strange to me. I nod along politely to his sermons, more focused on enjoying my time in the upholstered backseat. His view on the world, the central reason for his existence, is foreign to me. But interesting.

  • • •

  It’s Thursday and sunny. Despite the still-chilly temperatures, and the usual goose bumps running rampant under my thin sweater and pajama pants, I’m feeling an edge of happiness today. I look down at the cat cartoons that decorate my pajama pants and, for some reason, feel the small tickle of a smile. Mr. Stowe is lecturing at no one in particular. He doesn’t seem to mind if we are listening.

  “I sure wouldn’t want to be a youngster these days, I’ll tell ya.” He fidgets with the loose tassel on his well-worn leather loafers. “I always say to the kids in my youth ministry—be yourself! God made you this way. You are perfect in his image. And if the Lord likes you the way you are, then you should stay just like that! It’s God’s will, you know?” He looks at Maria, who glances at him and gives a small nod.

  “All these magazines, TV shows. They say, be this! Be skinny! Be immoral! But, no, that’s not the only way. I’m telling you, girls. God made you like you are for a reason. You gotta honor that.” He looks down and rubs his ankle as if in thought. “Oh, Maria! Turn left here.” He lurches forward. “Turn signal.” The car tilts around the bend, and I lean with it. “Well done! Very good!” I straighten up as we merge onto Peachtree Road and drive past the place where I fainted. That whole experience feels so far away.

  I rest my arm against the door and look out the window without seeing anything, Mr. Stowe’s words echoing around my mind. What does he mean, everything is God’s will? What does he mean, we are perfect in his image? It’s almost another language, but I find myself drawn to it. It’s comforting. Maybe there is no monster inside me. Maybe I’m exactly as I should be. If God makes everything perfect, maybe these messages, these thoughts, are also perfect? Maybe they’re from him?

  That’s it. The world around me melts away, and my entire body focuses on this thought. I feel something inside me hum to life. That’s it. Clearly. The voices. The monster. The warnings. It’s God. These are his messages, I am his vessel. I sit in the backseat, eyes wide with this realization, and everything suddenly makes sense. I immediately stop picking at the bloody hangnail on my thumb and instead smooth it down gently with my index finger. God is trying to tell me the truth. He wants to protect me, and he wants me, in turn, to protect others. To carry out his mission. Looking out the car window, I realize that I am not cursed or crazy. I’m chosen. I am special. My heart and ego swell with this knowledge. God wants my help. God needs me.

  That night, I find our unused family Bible on the bookshelf, crack the spine, and begin reading it with fervor. I start reading it every day. Like my number of safe steps, each time I perch in front of the Bible I am told either how many pages I need to cover or for how many minutes I need to read. I delve into the book in earnest, concentrating on each word, attempting to learn as much about my newly discovered protector as possible.

  Each morning of driver’s ed, we hold hands and bow our heads over a small table of wonderfully filling fast food. Mr. Stowe gives thanks for me and Maria, asks God to guide us through our days. As I raise my head and open my eyes, I feel a warm, strong presence on my shoulder. My protector telling me he cares. Inspired by Mr. Stowe, I begin to make a conscious effort to pray more, to show my gratitude for another day cancer-free. I pray at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I pray when I drink. I pray when I see anything that is banned, asking for protection from its evil death rays.

  Soon, though, my mumbling, disorganized efforts don’t seem to be enough. God is getting antsy. He wants more. I spend all of my lunch period on Tuesday behind the cafeteria creating a long, formulaic prayer that feels complicated enough to make my protector happy. I think of my favorite football players and their joyous celebrations after winning touchdowns. They point at the sky, they fall to their knees, they bow their heads in public, unashamed to show their gratitude. I want something like that. Anyone can say the words. I want to take it a step further.

  Envisioning mu
scled NFL players in the end zone, I decide that after each prayer I must touch my heart with my fist, pound on it twice, then extend my arm completely in the air and point toward heaven. This is how I will show my true dedication. This is how my protector will know I am thankful.

  CHAPTER 13

  The kitchen air is thick with the spice of jambalaya, one of my favorite meals. I’m sitting in my usual seat, looking at the steaming pot in the center of the table. Unlike most dinners, jambalaya is served in a bowl by itself, no sides, no bread. Based on my successes and failures this afternoon, I am allowed to eat one side dish tonight. Looking at the bowl in front of me, I decide this means I can only eat one individual ingredient out of the jambalaya. I choose the sausage.

  My parents join me at the table, and we begin serving ourselves in heaping spoonfuls. My mom is looking at my dad. They’re talking intensely, but I’m not listening.

  “Jeffrey, I just don’t think that’s right. It doesn’t make sense.” My mom is shaking her head.

  “Look, I understand, but there’s not much . . .”

  With my forehead pressed against clasped hands, I’m halfway through my scripted prayer when I hear them stop talking. I know they’re looking at me, but I continue, eyes closed, until a heartfelt “Amen.” In the darkness, I hesitate, holding my fist in front of my heart. I feel my parents’ eyes on me, a few furtive, concerned glances at each other. Are you thankful for your protector? I ask myself. Of course I am. He is the reason I am alive!

  Then you must show him.

  After a second of pause, I pound my fist hard against my chest twice and defiantly extend my arm toward the ceiling. It feels good, knowing that I have just pleased the creator of the universe. But, at the same time, a cold panic bleeds through me as I think about my parents. I open my eyes, my arm still wavering, pointing, in the air and look straight down at my bowl. With my other hand, I mull through the rice and veggies, stabbing at the chunks of sausage.

  The room is silent. They’re still staring at me. This prayer formula is perfect, obviously, but impossible to conceal. Until this moment, I’ve been able to hide my new religiosity from everyone. My mom clears her throat.

  “Allison, honey, are you . . . did you just . . . pray?” she asks timidly.

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  I feel my mom’s head jerk back in surprise. My father continues to chew silently but lifts his eyes toward me, raising his eyebrows.

  “Young lady, watch your tone. You—”

  “Mom, I’m serious. Stop.” I’m shaking with anger, or embarrassment. These furious outbursts have been our main form of interaction for a few weeks. I know they are inappropriate, but they’re also highly effective. They stun my mom into submission.

  My parents exchange a long, meaningful stare. Forks scrape gently against our bowls. No one speaks for the rest of the meal.

  • • •

  I wiggle slightly to adjust the position of my knees. After thirty minutes, even the plush carpet has started to dig uncomfortably into my skin. I’m crouched, shins against the floor, reading the mammoth blue Bible that has become one of my closest companions. My stomach rages with hunger, complaining about the too-few pieces of sausage I fed it at dinner. It is two thirty a.m., and I am wide awake, camped out on the floor of the den. The jarring overhead light casts my shadow over the Bible’s pristine, open pages. I am under strict instructions to read until at least three forty-five a.m.

  Through the darkness I hear shifting around the curve of the hallway, and my muscles lock. My parents spent the rest of the evening after dinner whispering loudly behind their bedroom door. I know they were talking about me. Torn between my only-child need to please my parents and my duty to please my protector, I sat sheepishly in the den, scratching out an attempt at homework with the world’s only safe pencil. I want to show my respect to God, I just wish my parents didn’t have to see.

  With the sound of an opening door, I close my eyes against the possibility of discovery. How will I explain this? My heart pounds in panic. Down the hall I hear mumbles. “What’s that light?” My dad.

  I keep my eyes glued to the black-lettered page. As the noises grow closer, I feel him and see him in the doorway. He is rubbing his face or head. Now his shoulders. His neck cracks. The floor creaks. “Allison,” he croaks through hours of sleep, “what are you doing?”

  I keep my eyes focused on the words. I have to read until three forty-five. A terror rises in me as I realize my dad may send me to bed before I can finish my assignment. I have to read until three forty-five. Or else. “Dad, hi.” I look up at him with what I hope to be a casual glance. “Yeah, I’m studying. Doing homework.” I nod at him in silence until he clears his throat and squints at me through the foreign light. He cranes forward a bit, examines me and my big blue book.

  He knows it’s a Bible. I know it’s a Bible. I’m reading the Bible. At two thirty a.m.

  “Just . . . go to bed. Soon.” He continues to look at me until I nod at him. Exhaling meaningfully while rubbing his goatee against his palm, he lingers for a moment. He gestures slightly, opens his mouth to speak, then turns back down the darkness of the hallway. Readjusting, I look back to my book, not sure what to feel about being let off the hook.

  • • •

  Later in the week, I come home to a brand-new tote bag lying innocently on my bed. I run my hand over it, examining the beige, flowered fabric and beaded accents. It’s really pretty, and, looking inside, I discover it’s from one of my favorite stores. For a moment I think that maybe it’s a gift from God. But then I know. My mom. She saw me carrying my book pile a few weeks ago when she drove me to school. I’m sure she’s noticed its growth (and stench) as it sits innocently beside my book bag on the kitchen floor each night. My heart floods with warmth. I’ve been so mean to her, so terrible. She probably knows I’ll yell at her if she gets too close, if she even looks like she might ask a question. So she left the bag here for me to find it on my own.

  The next morning, I gleefully pack my new bag with about half my stack of books and throw it over my shoulder. Without the full weight in my arms, I feel like I’m walking on air. I bounce across campus with relief.

  With the additional space that the new tote bag provides, I have much-needed room to store the leftover items from my lunches. Behind the cafeteria each day, I reverently move the individual Ziplocs from my brown paper lunch into my tote bag and backpack. Moldy blueberries, squished to a pulp under pounds of books, leak through the front pocket of my book bag. Four cheese sticks get stuck inside my math binder. There are muffins, rotten bananas, discolored turkey sandwiches. A snack pack of Jell-O bursts open under a textbook, staining all my school papers with a red, sugary tint. Soon a cloud of smell follows me through school. A sharp, ragged odor, violent to the nose. It’s the scent of rotting lunch food and my mother’s safety.

  • • •

  I trudge up my driveway after school. Shivering uncontrollably, I want to break into a run and launch myself into my warm house. But I don’t have enough energy. I can’t move any faster. This morning I was ecstatic to find a thick, safe sweatshirt hiding in the back of one of my drawers. Unfortunately, I was forced to match it with a tiny pair of running shorts designed for the depths of summer. Their flimsy mesh fabric has a slit deep up my thigh, encouraging airflow. Throughout the day I’ve noticed my chapped, exposed kneecaps turning a threatening shade of blue. I stop momentarily at our black iron mailbox, which is surrounded by a wilted, frozen flower bed. Leafing through the pile of mail as I near the front door, I find a thick, bright-pink envelope addressed to me. The handwriting is a swirly cursive. For a moment I can’t be sure that it’s actually my name through all the loops and curls. My fingers are clumsy with cold as I try to rip open the envelope, and when I finally get it, thick glitter flies out into a small cloud, getting in my mouth and lilting through the air across the front yard. I’m looking down at a square invitation covered in sparkles. The edges are cu
t to look like lace and a faint air of perfume wafts up from the paper.

  You are cordially invited to the birthday party of Melanie Cutten

  January 7th

  Cocktail attire requested

  Melanie Cutten! The Melanie Cutten! My heart leaps in excitement. A sophomore who looks and acts eighteen, she is the undeniable queen bee. The auburn-haired, double-D-ed, designer-jean-clad leader of the pack. As stuck-up as she is beautiful. And I’m invited to her birthday party?

  The winter breeze blows the remaining glitter off into the grass and I stare blankly at the delicate invitation in my hand. It briefly occurs to me that this could be a mean joke. The popular kids invite the weird girl to a party and then dump dog food on her head so she runs home in tears. But, no, I think. She must have made her invitation list before things . . . happened to me. Before there was any hint that I might show up to school in pajamas and no makeup. Carrying two bags full of rotting lunch food.

  My frozen fingers fumble with the front door keys, finally getting the cold metal into the lock on the third try. I tiptoe straight to the kitchen, loudly drop my school supplies to the floor, and resume my inspection of the invitation, which I’ve found includes a small RSVP card. There are two options, each with a blank beside it for an answer: Yes! I would love to help Melanie celebrate her sixteenth birthday! or No, I hate fun and don’t want to come to the party. Right. There is clearly only one correct answer to this question. I reach instinctively for a pen on the counter to draw a giant check mark beside the Yes! but recoil my hand at the last second. No pens. With a sigh, I bend down to my book bag and rummage around in it, looking for my safe pencil. I’m arm-deep in the bag when I feel its dull point and wrap it in my hand. As I’m standing up, I hear enemy planes overhead. Their buzzing, similar to an angry hive, is distant but quickly flying closer. Soon their rumble is partnered with the whistle of falling bombs, and the floor thunders violently under my feet. You. May. Not. Go. The bombs smash into the ground, shaking the house. Each explosion an exclamation point: No parties! Cancer! Cancer! Cancer! As loud and terrifying as the noises are, as hard as the explosions shake the earth, I stand perfectly still and calmly let the invitation flutter out of my hand to the floor.