Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  His head jerks sideways at us, and a genuine smile spreads across his face. “Well, well”—he tilts his head in fake surprise—“look who we have here.” His favorite leather chair makes a few quiet creaks behind him, his body shape permanently imprinted into its cushions. “You’re missing a real doozy. This referee, though, dang. Must be eighty-five years old, at least. Senile. Can’t see a thing!” He pops a few pieces of trail mix into his mouth, chomping on them loudly as he looks at me across the room. “Well?” I’m still standing in the doorway, my arms wrapped around myself. This feels like a trap. Nothing good can come from so much exposure to my parents. From a whole half of a football game under their examination. “Are you gonna join us or just stand and watch from afar?” His smile is still there but fading. He is extending the bowl of trail mix to me, shaking it slightly so it moves around with a small noise in the bowl.

  I open my mouth to respond but rethink it and give a small nod instead. I can feel both of them watching me as I count over to my usual spot on the couch. As soon as I look up, though, their eyes flick back to the TV screen. We’re all trying our best to act like it’s just a normal Sunday. Snacks, soda, the chilly basement. But there is a stiff tension in the air that says we’re all very much aware of reality. I shiver under my thin T-shirt.

  The old blue couches in our basement were a wedding gift from my grandparents to my parents. There’s some sort of family story around every stain or patched hole—that time my mom spilled red wine on her thirtieth birthday, the burned patch from when my dad fell asleep with a cigar between his fingers. I’m looking down at the worn, soft cushions that have been a part of my life since before I was even born. And I see the truth. Or, really, I feel it. The waves of cancer, the layers of death emanating up from their surface. The high-pitched whine seeping out from the buttons and stitching. It doesn’t talk to me. I hear no words. But they aren’t necessary. I can sense the danger.

  “Allison, honey, sit down. You’re blockin’ my view.”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry.” I look over my shoulder at my dad, who is leaning to one side, craning his neck to see the screen around my body. “Um . . .” I shift a few steps to my left and stare blankly out at the room. I hear the TV blaring in the background, but it’s almost drowned out by the screeching noise billowing up from the couch. I miss the soft, silent den floor. Football is for people who are happy. For people who are a part of this world. For people with things to live for.

  The back of my brain is itchy. Not quite a twinge, but I can feel that there is something developing, something important. And again, without any specific message, almost like I have had this truth buried within me all along, I know what I need to do. I lift my right foot into the air and readjust my weight so I’m balancing on one leg. Wobbling, looking down at my stance, I don’t know why I’m doing it but I know it’s what God wants. I know it’s right. Seeing myself on one foot is strangely comforting. Like I’m earning some sort of divine extra credit or karma. I’m going the extra mile to make sure I—

  “Allison. Seriously, though. Sit down.” My dad is staring at me from his leather seat, reclined slightly. “You’re still in the way. It’s distracting.”

  “Oh, sorry, I . . .” Unable to move any farther toward the wall, I walk across the room and stand on one wobbly foot by the opposite couch. Definitely out of my dad’s TV line of vision.

  He stares at me for five long seconds, at first smiling like I’m joking but then realizing this is something different. His face has changed, like he, too, now sees that winking third eye. “Why won’t you sit down?”

  “I just don’t want to. My legs are sore. I’m . . .” I scan the room for ideas. Why won’t I sit down, why won’t I sit down? “I’m, yeah. I’m sore.” I know it’s weak, but I’m exhausted. Whatever.

  “Sore from what? It’s Christmas break. Cross-country is over. Track is over. You’re not sore.” He looks me directly in the eyes. “Sit down.” A pause. “Now.”

  I’m staring down at the carpet, but I can feel his eyes on the top of my tangled head. I can hear his heart rate increasing just by his voice. I won’t do it.

  “Allison Marie”—he is taken aback when I don’t move—“I said, sit down.”

  “Jeffrey, just let her—” My mom reaches forward slightly but stops short when my dad shoots her a slicing glance.

  “No. Enough of this!” He sits up in his chair and turns to face me. He’s not quite yelling, but it’s the most worked up I’ve seen him in a long time. Bringing his socked feet down from the ottoman, he rests his elbows on his knees and leans toward me. “Enough not eating, enough hiding upstairs, enough staying up until all hours of the night in that den doing who knows what. Enough counting.” He scrunches his face with the word. “Just. Enough.” He is shaking his head, his hand placed against his forehead. “We’re going to sit here and watch the game like we always do. And enjoy ourselves.” He looks at my mom first, then over at me. “So”—he gestures smoothly at my usual seat on the couch, like Vanna White—“sit.”

  I stare straight back at him, surprised. He never talks to me like this. I don’t think we’ve ever had a fight. I know he didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, but his tirade echoes through me like a punch to the stomach. He listed out my strange behaviors so quickly, like they were at the front of his mind. Like he’s worried about me. Like he’s afraid his daughter has become some sort of freak. I close my eyes against his gaze, hoping inspiration will come to me. A joke, a diversion. Something to make him smile and distract him while I sneak out the trapdoor. But all I can think about is his face as he spat out the word “counting,” like it tasted sour. I feel myself retracting into my tattered, worn pajamas, trying to hide from him. And this basement and their burning stares.

  We stay in these exact positions, me on one leg with closed eyes, my parents staring at me in disbelief, for what could be hours, days, weeks. Despite the basement chill, a heat is soon rising aggressively up from my chest. Why can’t they leave me alone? This is why I don’t watch football games anymore. This—I think about my wobbling ankle and my parents’ openmouthed stares—is why it’s easier to “hide upstairs.” This is their fault. They brought me down here. They pulled me from my quiet safety into this deathtrap. With each point I make, my blood boils one degree hotter. I bite hard on my tongue. Enough.

  I feel words squeezing up and out of my throat, but my voice is unfamiliar. Taut, strained. Exhausted. I can’t let myself scream like I want to, let out all my frustration on them like they deserve. Clearly they’re already on edge. I need to manage my reaction. Act normal. Don’t scare the animals. I open my eyes and look at a place on the wall a few inches above my dad’s thinning hair. “Well. That’s enough football for me.” I pivot awkwardly on my left foot planted on the carpet and, because it feels like the right thing to do, hop on one leg out of the basement. I lunge for the doorway, grab on to its side, and steady myself. I cough a few times, winded by the exertion, and then hop a few steps farther into the hallway. Finally putting my right foot down onto the bottom stair, I turn slightly over my shoulder and halfheartedly croak, “I hope we win,” back into the room. I feel the comment land meaningfully on a thick silence.

  “Do you see what you did?” My mom whisper-hisses at my dad as I leap up toward the kitchen, three stairs at a time.

  As I turn the corner and resume my one-legged hop down the hallway, my blood is still boiling in anger. Don’t they know what I’ve done for them? How many car accidents and violent murders I’ve stopped? I failed chemistry to heal my mom’s cancer! I carry around pounds of rotting, stinking food to keep her safe. And yet they stare at me like I’m some sort of mutant child, like I’ve done something horribly wrong. I flop down onto the den floor and curl my body back into the fetal position, closing my eyes against the carpet. They have no clue the kind of tragedy I’ve prevented. I’m the only reason this family is still intact and not limping painfully to our deaths. The only reason. Assholes.

  CH
APTER 15

  I was supposed to meet Ms. Tisman at nine a.m. for my precal exam and, glancing over at the clock, I see it’s already nine fifteen. I clamp my eyes closed. There is a twinge drilling insistently into the back of my brain. Standing on one foot, I know what this feeling means, and I’m trying to fight it, frantically propping up a mental wall to stop its progress. But it’s too powerful. I know that I will fail before I even begin, but I can’t just let the thought storm in and tear down what little I have left. Even if it’s coming from heaven. I grip my hand into a fist, fingernails cutting sharply into the soft skin of my palm. These pajamas cause cancer, it whispers. I shake my head vigorously back and forth as the thought feeds into my mind. No. No, they don’t. I need these. I need these clothes. They’re some of the only safe ones I have left. A terrible squeal is blaring against my eardrums from the shirt I’m wearing, and I lean my weight against my bureau for support. I need these clothes. They’re fine. They’ve been safe for so long and they’re still safe now. I have nothing else.

  YOUR PAJAMAS CAUSE CANCER.

  I flinch away from the screaming, from God’s anger. No. They don’t. I need them.

  LISTEN OR YOU WILL DIE.

  And with this, I freeze. My mind, my heart, my muscles.

  CANCER.

  I know it’s not going to stop. The screaming, the messages, the anger. I let out a long, slow sigh that completely empties my lungs and look down at the thin, holey T-shirt lying softly against my frail body. There’s a static growing from it, and the muscles in my shoulders tighten into lumps. A rumbling is building downstairs, and I see myself with my head wrapped in gauze. Thick stains of blood seep through the bandages as I lie half-conscious in a hospital bed, attached to IVs, with my parents staring at me over beeping machines.

  I’m exhausted. And starving. And I’ve heard all of this before. But I can’t risk it. The tips of my fingers are like ice as they graze across the edge of my hip bone. With the sound of ripping fabric, I pull the limp red T-shirt off my torso and at the same time wiggle out of my now-oversized flannel pants. I throw the shirt to the other side of the room, flinging the pants with my toes so they land together in a pathetic pile. Naked, exposed to the full power of the ceiling fan, I jerk involuntarily against a wave of violent shivers. My body contracts inward, looking to itself for warmth.

  I’m crouching with my arms wrapped tightly around my ribs. As my eyes skim the familiar walls, the home to a girl I barely remember, I realize that everything they land on has some sort of consequence. Stereo, curtains, stuffed animals, all the clothes in my closet and bureau. My bookshelf, the green chair, my crumpled-up cross-country uniform. My eyes dart one way: tumors. They move to the left: my mom’s breast cancer. Here, death. There, sadness. I’m surrounded. This is prison. This room, this brain. It’s hopeless. I cannot do it anymore.

  I collapse onto the carpet, mostly from the weight of the fact that I have nowhere else to go. That I’m trapped. From the floor I watch the fan spinning aggressively above me. It squeaks as it protests against the bolts holding it to the ceiling. I roll my body into a ball and press myself hard into the carpet, hoping it can warm me up. Out of my periphery I see the edge of my black landline telephone peeping over the side of the top of the bureau. The phone I spent hundreds of hours on, chattering with Jenny and Sara. There’s never been any specific warning against it, but I feel its anger billowing outward. It doesn’t need a danger label. Its cancer rays speak for themselves. But while I look at it from the corner of my eye, I’m suddenly filled with a wave of blaring inspiration. A phone. I could call for help. I could tell someone. I could escape! And, before I know I’ve left the carpet, I’m lunging toward the phone and pressing 1 on speed-dial.

  The ringing tone in my ear startles me. I did it. I actually did it. I feel God glaring at me from above and clamp my eyes against his anger. My danger list flips through my head and a panic rises in my chest. I can’t believe I did it.

  “Good morning, this is Maureen.” My mom’s voice filters through the black handset, which I’m holding in front of my face. I’m frozen, shaking. I guess I meant to call her, maybe? But it happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that I don’t know what to say. Or what I’m allowed to say, I think, as I flit my eyes toward the ceiling. “Hello?” Her voice is still cheerful, but there is an edge of impatience. “Allison, honey? I can see it’s you on the caller ID. Is everything okay?”

  “Mom,” I croak at her, barely squeezing words through my lips, hoping the Lord won’t be able to hear me if I mumble. The phone is whining into my ear, sending out the call for the army of bees sure to soon swarm over the horizon. The tears that started when she first answered the phone are now rolling down my cheeks.

  “Allison? Sweetheart?” Her cheerfulness has been replaced with fear. The same voice she used in the den when she thought I was . . . whatever she thought I was. “Are you crying?”

  A loud sob shakes through me as I unclench. Her presence on the other end of the phone is soothing. “There’s nothing to wear.” It’s the best way I know how to put it.

  “What do you mean, honey? Just put on something from your closet. It’s cold out today, so make sure it’s warm.” She speaks slowly and carefully, like I’m a small child with a hearing impairment.

  “No!” I scream. “I can’t! They’re all bad.” Something is boiling up from my stomach. Cancer or maybe relief or maybe vomit. “They’ll all kill me or hurt me. Or you.” I pause for a moment, my thoughts swirling into a storm. Even as I scream, I know none of this makes sense. I know there’s no way she will understand. “I won’t wear any of them!” My entire body is shaking, convulsing, racked back and forth by violent shivers and sobs.

  There is silence. I picture her at her desk, staring out over the top of her computer through the window. “Okay, honey. But today is your precal final, right? You need to get to school. It’s already”—there’s a pause as she looks down at her wrist—“oh, good Lord, it’s already nine thirty.” There’s a rising urgency in her voice. “Allison, sweetheart. Put on your black track pants and just grab a sweatshirt. Ms. Tisman is being very nice letting you retake this exam. You don’t want to miss it.”

  My stomach flips at her suggestions and I balk silently at the empty room. She’s so freaking stupid. So clueless. “Mom, I can’t.” It explodes out of me. A million thoughts packed into three words. And then, “I caaann’t,” in an extended wail that melts into uncontrolled tears.

  For a few moments I forget I’m on the phone. But then I hear her let out a long sigh. “Okay, baby. It’s going to be okay.” She clears her throat. “I could tell you were . . . I noticed that . . .” She doesn’t know how to talk about this any more than I do. “I think maybe it’s time we go see Dr. Mark. Hmm? What do you think?” Dr. Mark is the physician I have seen since childhood. The man with the fruit-flavored cough syrup and smiling eyes.

  I almost can’t hear her over the high-pitched whine of the phone against my cheek. It’s starting to heat against my skin, its static surely digging into and poisoning the bone marrow on the left side of my face.

  “C’mon sweetie,” she coos over the noise. “I’ll call and make you an appointment for tomorrow.” Cancer, cancer, cancer. I can hear her adjusting in her computer chair. I haven’t moved and there is a large wet patch of tears growing on the carpet. “I’ll also call the school and let them know you won’t be making your math test.” She pauses, and I know she is scribbling a note to herself on the pad by the phone. “For now, go take a warm shower, have some nice soup, and rest. I’ll try to get home early.” I grunt and nod. “I love you, Allison.” Her voice is warm. “See you soon.”

  With a small click, she hangs up and I inhale sharply, the phone falling out of my open hand as I roll into a ball on the carpet. I’m suddenly surrounded by flying debris: thoughts, messages, warnings, alarms. A swarm of bees, a screeching whine. Is God going to be angry at me? I slam my eyes shut against the torrent, against the consequences of my ph
one call. I scrunch my shoulders up to cover my ears. The side of my face still burns where the phone touched my skin. If I weren’t curled on top of my hands, I’m sure I would reach up to find cancer blisters popping to life. There is a strange, heavy silence in the empty house. One that tells me I’ve not only rocked the boat but capsized it. There’s nothing else to do but hide in darkness behind closed eyes. Both from the world and from myself.

  Six hours later, I’m jarred awake by the rumbling of a garage door. Still scrunched in the same place on the carpet, my body is a rigid shell that has been slowly frozen throughout the day. I haven’t moved to eat or use the restroom. I haven’t opened my eyes. I haven’t gotten a blanket. I spent the entire day wafting through an almost sleep, only moving to readjust myself in a tight ball. It just seemed like the safest thing to do. But the sound of the garage door clanging open below me flips some sort of switch and I’m immediately sitting up, heart pounding. My head spins from the sudden movement, or maybe lack of food, and my eyes dart frantically around the room, a rabbit that’s sensed a predator.

  I scramble up from the carpet, my bones creaking and popping with the movement. In two gazelle leaps, I’m beside my bed and throw myself into the sheets as I hear my mom’s heels on the hardwood floor of the hallway. “Allison!” Her voice carries up the stairs and her footsteps quickly follow it. “Honey, I’m home,” she calls. It’s the same I Love Lucy impression my dad does on a regular basis. Even after a day on the floor, I manage to roll my eyes. My mom’s head pops around the corner, her fake smile plastered sturdily on her face. “How was your day? How are you feeling?” She moves into my room and sits on the edge of my bed, reaching up to touch the side of my face. “Did you get to— Oh, honey! You’re freezing!” She yanks the comforter up around my shoulders. “My stars, you’re shivering! Why are you so cold?” She brushes her hand soothingly across my cheek, and her fingers get tangled in my nest of hair. “Don’t worry, baby. We are going to the doctor tomorrow. I got an appointment at nine.” She pats my calf through the comforter. “We’ll get this all figured out.” She gives a few convincing nods and looks down at me. I peer back at her over the edge of the blankets. “I also wrote an e-mail to Ms. Tisman, explaining the situation. She—”