Under Rose-Tainted Skies

by Louise Gornall

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to say. I’m not sure there even is a right thing to say.

  ‘Don’t be.’ He pauses. ‘This might sound odd, but I can’t wish he were any different, you know? Like, I can’t start wishing away pieces of his personality, because then he wouldn’t be my dad.’

  The bridge of my nose pricks. I keep my eyes wide open because I know if I blink, I’ll leak tears. Mom’s said the same thing to me, about me, more than once, usually after I’ve apologized for acting like a freak.

  ‘You must think I’m awful.’ Luke’s chin touches his chest. ‘Shouting at him like that when he can’t help the way his brain is wired.’

  ‘No!’ I counter vehemently, clinging to the banister bars and pushing my face up to the gap. ‘Are you kidding? Some days I wonder how my mom hasn’t killed me. We’ve only argued a couple of times since I got sick, and hell, we scream the place down. But no matter how loud we yell, we never love each other any less. I totally get it. It’s hard from both sides. I understand. I really do.’

  ‘Wow.’ He chuckles through the following few moments of awkwardness, then comes back and sits down on the stairs beside me. ‘You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever told about all of this.’ I feel honoured. Privileged. I know how hard it is to part with private information. ‘He’s not around often. I’m pretty sure that’s left most of my friends thinking he’s dead.’

  ‘They’ve never met him?’

  ‘No. You’re the first to even see him, which feels kind of odd.’ He looks up, looks down, picks at the seam on the side of his jeans before turning to me again. ‘It feels kind of good to get it off my chest too.

  ‘Anyway . . .’ he says, clearing his throat. He straightens his shoulders and coughs testosterone around the room. ‘He’s coming back at Christmas. Has promised to stick around an entire week this time.’

  ‘That’s awesome.’ I fix a fake smile and nod enthusiastically. The urge to cushion a potential fall with clichéd warnings about not getting his hopes up is strong, but somehow I swallow it.

  I’m exhausted. I try to sit up straight, but my spine is made of sponge, so instead I slump forward, lean on my knees, and stare idly out of the porch windows. He does the same.

  ‘You know those people who bring down a banging party by singing ultra-slow, bleeding-heart ballads on the karaoke?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We should do that as a job, but, like, tell our stories instead of singing,’ I tease. He bursts out laughing. Like a yawn, I catch it, start laughing until my sides split open and all the misery that’s been burning my lungs spills out on to the stairs.

  ‘Well, Neighbour, it’s been a ton of fun, but I gotta make tracks. Face the music.’ He’s nearly two hours late for school already. I guess it wouldn’t be fair of me to suggest he stay until we run out of words. Plus, I have grades that are in serious need of inflation.

  We stroll towards the door in silence, both trying to make the walk last longer by taking slow steps. Well, that’s what I’m doing, and despite having longer legs, he keeps pace beside me, so I think it’s safe to assume it’s what he’s doing too.

  ‘I have a question,’ Luke says as he heads out on to the porch. I’m kind of impressed he can fight the friction enough to spin on the balls of his boots, but he does. ‘It’s hypothetical.’

  ‘Okay.’

  This might be serious. His lips pull into a straight line and I brace myself against the door frame, ready, for the past hour, to be blasted to smithereens by what he has to ask.

  ‘How does a person, let’s say a guy, in this case, go about making plans with a girl who can’t leave her house?’ He lowers his chin, looks at me from under his eyebrows. ‘Hypothetically,’ he reminds me. It’s lucky I’m holding on to something so I can’t fall down dead. Her heart just exploded is what they’d have to engrave on my headstone.

  ‘Well,’ I whisper, because this has to be a dream and I’m afraid talking too loud will wake me up. ‘Hypothetically speaking, he would probably have to ask her. Then, I don’t know, maybe if the girl likes movies, they could watch one together?’ I shrug, wish I were wearing a sweater so I’d have a sleeve to hide behind. I toe the brass runner at the bottom of the door.

  ‘Hey, Norah, you wanna watch a movie with me on Friday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ispend Tuesday walking around on colourful clouds. Sort of. Occasionally my brain forces me to think about all the ways my date with Luke could go wrong, then my energy goes into trying not to fall off the clouds and land in a mangled mess on the ground below.

  On Wednesday it takes me almost six hours to complete a math assignment. Luke is in my head (sans all the morbid BS about disaster dates), and I don’t want to waste time trying to figure out angles of triangles. I want to listen to the Love Life Live acoustic sessions on 98.6 FM and think about the colour of his eyes, the curve of his jaw, the sound of his voice.

  Thursday goes like both of the above, except there’s this low-level buzz of frustration simmering beneath my bones. I’m moody, irritable. I want to scratch off my scalp when the obnoxious guy on TV starts raving about politics with what seems to be nothing more than a first-grade education. Mom’s response to my ranting and raving is ‘You’ve got it bad for this boy.’ I’ve no idea how she’s deduced this. I was simply trying to explain that people who don’t know facts shouldn’t be allowed to contribute to important discussions.

  My mood lifts around seven that night when I find a neatly folded note on the doormat and read a single line written in perfect handwriting.

  See you tomorrow, Neighbour.

  It’s Friday. Thank God. When did they start adding hours to weekdays?

  I climb out of bed like a normal person, no rolling, flopping, or crawling. Straightforward steps, all grown up. I pull on jeans and a black, slightly fluffy, slightly sparkly sweater without wincing once. It’s like New Year’s Eve up in here. I’m making resolutions to better myself every five seconds.

  I sit down at my dressing table, something I haven’t done in for ever. The thing is antique, dark, way too big for my room. It’s the sort of dresser you see on the set of a horror movie. That’s what my gran said when she gave it to me. We both agreed it was magnificent.

  Good Lord. I get a sharp shock when I first see myself in the mirror; it’s like being snuck up on by a ghost. My enthusiasm for today wanes a little.

  An increase in worry and a decrease in sleep has been screwing with my face. Pretty sure my current diet of cheese and sugar isn’t helping anything either. Like a sculptor, I pull at the skin on my cheeks, the sag under my eyes, the creases on my forehead, but I am not clay. No matter how hard my fingers try, they can’t banish the Crypt Keeper from my reflection.

  I open my dresser drawer. It’s full of make-up samples that Gran used to send me every time K. Maine launched a new something-or-other. It’s all unopened. Make-up takes a lot of effort for someone who only puts on real pants approximately fifty days out of the year. I’d been planning to sell it online, buy myself a new phone instead, but today seems like a good day to indulge. Plus, Gran used to swear that a smear of lipstick and a dash of mascara was magic because it never failed to make her feel more confident. Confidence is something I could always use more of. Especially when I have a date.

  I root through the drawer, check labels, tear off cellophane, and streak various shades on the back of my hand. Who knew lipstick came in so many colours? I find five different reds, four pinks, three browns, two purples, and a stick of jet black.

  I line them all up in a neat little row along the edge of my dresser, select one, and test it against my cheek. It’s times like this when I could really use a girlfriend to come over and help me figure out which shade suits me best. At this rate, I’m going to miss my date completely.

  I’m pretty sure I break the record for time spent choosing lipstick. I’ve lost two hours, and after all the umm-ing and ahh
-ing, I settle on the first colour I found.

  It had to be red. Red makes my eyes pop and my pale skin look less like a tragedy and more like art. Rose red. I’m not brave enough to wear the shade called Fire; it looks too much like blood and makes me think of vampires.

  Thank God there are only two types of mascara. And as my life is no John Hughes movie, I put the blue colour back in the box and paint my lashes black. Easy.

  This time when I catch sight of my reflection, I’m startled for a whole new reason. A better reason. The Norah staring back at me in the mirror looks so different from the Norah that was here before. This Norah looks vaguely normal, alive, not consumed by her mental health.

  ‘Norah.’ Mom knocks on my door. I jump, lift my wrist, ready to wipe the lipstick from my mouth. I’m not sure why, but I feel like I’m five and she’s about to catch me using her expensive perfume as furniture polish.

  ‘Nor, are you awake?’

  My door opens. She’s coming in and I still haven’t wiped away the red lipstick. It’s bright and I’m worried that if I smudge it across my face, it’ll stain the way cherry soda does. Panic pulls Mom’s mouth open when she looks at my already-made bed and doesn’t see me lazing around on it.

  ‘Hey,’ she says when she finally finds me, all shock. I can’t decide if it’s because I’m wearing clothes or because I’m sitting at a dressing table I haven’t used since the day it arrived. ‘I thought you’d still be in bed.’

  ‘I thought you’d be at work,’ I mutter from behind my hand. I wonder if I can get away with sucking the lipstick off. Probably not. She’s shocked, not stupid. Besides, I’d have to google side effects of eating lipstick before I’d feel comfortable swallowing it. Thick lines of worry crease Mom’s brow.

  ‘I’m taking the day off. What’s with the floating hand?’ She heads into my room, limping. With a wince, she sits down on the bed and straightens out her legs. She’s wearing oversize zebra slippers and I can’t quite make out what’s wrong with her feet.

  ‘What’s with the limp?’ I say, still hiding my mouth.

  ‘Nothing much.’ Mom flinches, ever so slightly, but there’s not a lot I don’t see.

  ‘Your hip hurts?’ I ask. Mom rolls her eyes because my all-seeing anxiety never lets her have secrets for long.

  ‘I guess I’m having a little trouble putting weight on it today.’

  I forget about my mini-makeover, drop my hand and flee to my cell at the side of the bed. ‘We should call the doctor. What if the hospital missed something? What if it’s broken? Did you know people can walk around for years with broken bones? It’s like that doctor said about your wrist – broken bones can set funny and cause years of endless agony.’

  ‘Gee. Thanks for that, Little Miss Sunshine.’ She snorts. Right. That was perhaps a touch morbid. ‘It really suits you, by the way.’

  ‘What does?’ I grab hold of my cell. My agony until the sweet release of death drags you under comment might have been morbid, but the concern still stands. I’m getting ready to call a doctor.

  ‘The lipstick.’

  ‘Oh.’ I shrug, channelling my embarrassment into scratching off a scab on the side of my thumb. ‘I think I feel silly. I mean, I didn’t when I first put it on, but when you knocked, I wanted to take it off.’

  ‘Why?’ Mom pats the bed beside her. I slump over, slosh through the murky puddle that is this morning’s can-do attitude, and flop down beside her.

  ‘I don’t know.’ But I do know, and she knows it, which is why she waits for me to elaborate. ‘Does it look like I’m trying too hard? I don’t want him to think I’m trying to be flashy. And what if he doesn’t like it, or thinks it looks bad? What if—’

  ‘Stop.’ Mom grabs my shoulders, pushes her face into mine, and eyeballs me. ‘Go back to that second you first put it on. Can you do that?’ I nod, a little too scared to do anything else. She makes me think of one of those angry guys on TV, the ones who try to sell beds at crazy discounted prices.

  ‘How did you feel? Just you? Nobody else.’

  I close my eyes, cast my mind back to the second I saw my reflection. It’s like Gran said, I felt confident. My lips feel slick as they pull into a smile.

  ‘I felt good.’

  ‘Then that’s all that matters. You are beautiful, always. You would be beautiful if you got a giant butterfly tattooed across your face. Beauty comes from how you treat people and how you behave. But if a little lipstick makes you smile, then you should wear it and forget what anyone else thinks.’ That’s exactly how she lives. Just ask her closet full of bright colours and crazy patterns.

  I open my eyes, give her a hug, kiss her on the cheek, and stamp it with a big red rosebud.

  ‘Now, about my hip . . .’

  ‘Right. Call the doctor.’ I unlock the screen of my phone.

  ‘Hold your horses, sweetie,’ she whinnies at me. ‘I don’t need a doctor. I had it X-rayed at the hospital. It’s not broken, just badly bruised. So you can quit worrying about the bones setting out of shape.’ I’m still ready to call a doctor. Bruising means bleeding.

  ‘It is fine,’ she repeats. ‘What I need to do is rest it. Doctor’s orders, which I’ve maybe ignored a little bit since I got back home.’ I don’t yell at her. She’s in pain so I let this one slide.

  ‘Then rest,’ I reply. ‘No more pottering around the garden or popping out until it feels better . . .’ She sees the second I remember what’s supposed to happen today.

  ‘Yep,’ Mom says.

  ‘Ugh. I have a therapy appointment.’

  Forgotten again.

  What is it about Luke that sucks away part of my memory? Is this normal? On The Hub, people talk about kissing. The kids who are lucky enough to have evaded detection by family members sometimes post about reaching second base. They talk a lot about where they eat and post the funny snippets of conversation they have, but to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever mentioned memory loss. Mental note: after my date, research the side effects you encounter when in the presence of good-looking guys.

  So today I get a date with Luke, and, seeing as how Mom can’t walk, let alone work a brake pedal, an impending free pass on therapy, maybe?

  ‘Don’t get too excited, missy . . .’ Maybe not. ‘I really don’t think you should be skipping a session right now. I’m going to call and ask Dr Reeves if she wouldn’t mind paying one last visit to the house instead.’ It’s like spending all of your allowance on a triple-scoop ice cream cone with hot fudge sauce only to drop it before you get a single lick. Don’t get me wrong, Dr Reeves is great, but I could have done without the emotional trauma of a session today. Damn. So close.

  Dr Reeves won’t mind. She’ll come over, I know she will, because despite the fact that Mom pays her, I think she quite likes me.

  ‘Maybe we should wrap-up early?’ Dr Reeves says. At least, I think that’s what she says. Her words are warped, sliding into my ears but getting caught up and mangled in my mind mess. I’m too busy wondering where Luke and I will sit when we watch the movie tonight. Not too close, for obvious reasons. But not too far away either. Also for obvious reasons. Maybe I should suggest we sit at the table and watch the TV in the kitchen. But then, those chairs are uncomfortable after prolonged exposure.

  ‘Norah.’ I’ve never heard Dr Reeves raise her voice before. It startles me, makes me tune out the insanity and tune into her instantly.

  ‘I’m sorry. Really. I don’t mean to ignore you. I want to hear what you’re saying, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything.’

  ‘I get it,’ Dr Reeves says as she collects her sheets of paper and shuffles them into a leather folder. I look at the little black lion embossed on the front and get all dreamy because its shaggy mane reminds me of Luke’s dark locks. ‘Please don’t apologize. It’s good to see you getting all glassy-eyed over a boy.’ I flush and wonder if I could get away with wearing sunglasses on my date so Luke doesn’t see. ‘But I’m starting to get worried about
your scratches, and it’s my job to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself.’

  Whoa. Wait. What? Now she has my attention like she grabbed my chin and yanked it around to face her.

  She’s looking at my arms, but I feel like I’m laid on a gurney, legs spread, and she’s rooting around down there, like a gynaecologist, inspecting my scars with a flashlight.

  ‘Scratches?’ I bury my hands between my legs, convinced my little scars are what we’re talking about. But that’s impossible. I cut up there deliberately so no one will see.

  ‘It’s something both your mother and I have noticed you do when you’re anxious.’

  Stop.

  I’m confused.

  Mom and the doc are smart, but this isn’t the X-Men. I joke about it sometimes, but they’re not really mind readers. And they don’t have a super-ability to see through walls or items of clothing. Besides, I’ve only cut a handful of times, and the last time Mom was miles away, laid up in a hospital out-of-state.

  She picks up on my confusion like it’s fired off a flare.

  ‘You don’t know you’re doing it,’ she says, a hooked finger starting to stroke her invisible beard as she assumes her making-mental-notes face.

  ‘Doing what?’ My tone is laced with frustration.

  When she’s done analysing, her hands come together in a praying position and she throws me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Sometimes, when you start to panic, you scratch patches of your skin until they bleed.’

  ‘So? Everyone itches.’

  ‘That’s true, they do. Do you have an itch right now?’ She flicks her eyes towards the table. I follow her gaze, see my finger scratching aimlessly across my thumb. My stomach lurches.

  ‘Are you familiar with the term self-harm?’ She’s using Mom’s your-rabbit-just-died voice.

  ‘Yes, but no.’ I dismiss her poorly disguised suggestion with a snort. ‘I’m not doing that.’ I mean, I am, like, every once in a while. But she seems to be suggesting that itching is the same as slicing, which it’s not. Maybe she’s the one not so familiar with the term self-harm.