Under Rose-Tainted Skies

by Louise Gornall

  ‘Bullshit. You don’t just forget I’m this, that I have all these things wrong with me.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I did. I do. I don’t always see it, but I always see you.’

  ‘You see normal. And that’s not how this works. You should have stayed at your ball. Found a girl you can have fun with, one who doesn’t hold you back, break down when you try to touch her.’ I wipe my mouth a second time; I’m not even thinking about germs any more.

  ‘I’m confused. Is this about me kissing you or about your own insecurities?’ He’s lucky I can’t touch him because I would slap him so hard right now.

  ‘You need to leave,’ I say. My guts turn inside out.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ he replies. His heart is thumping so hard I can see it throbbing in his throat.

  ‘Yes, I do. Go. Leave me alone.’ I try for a yell, but it comes out small, a tremor tearing through it.

  ‘Norah, please . . .’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  For a second I think he’s not going anywhere, then, like a torpedo, he disappears out of the door.

  Norah,

  I’ m so sorry. I made a huge mistake. Please forgive me.

  Norah,

  You were right. I didn’t understand, but I’m learning.

  I bought some books to read. I’m going to figure this out.

  Norah,

  Did you know that approximately three million people in the US suffer from some form of OCD? I didn’t know that.

  Norah,

  I started reading about agoraphobia today.

  There’s this association called Limitless.

  They have an online support group for people to share stories and strategies.

  Norah,

  I miss you. I kissed you because I couldn’t help it. I shouldn’ t have done that, but that’s all there was to it. Please don’ t push me away. I have everything I want when I’ m with you. I shouldn’t have crossed that line, but I swear to you, it wasn’t because I needed to.

  ‘N orah, honey.’ Mom creeps into my room, as quiet as a mouse. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Dead inside.’

  ‘You’re not dead inside.’ She pulls the duvet from over my head, and my skin fizzes at the sudden whoosh of fresh air. I wonder why she asked if she was just going to tell me I’m wrong. ‘You promised Dr Reeves you’d get out of bed today.’

  ‘It’s only . . .’ I look at my watch: eight-thirty. I moan, snatch my covers, and bury myself back beneath them. God. She’s brutal when she’s trying to save me from myself.

  ‘I was hoping you’d come downstairs and have some breakfast with me. I made pancakes in the shape of rocket ships.’ I flip the cover down, consider blowing her off for the fourth time in as many days, but she looks so helpless. Her shoulders are definitely more slumped over, and I suspect that has something to do with the amount of stress sitting on her back.

  ‘Sure,’ I reply.

  ‘Really?’ she ventures cautiously so as not to spook my already-made-up mind.

  ‘Yeah. I could eat a pancake.’ Maybe. At least, I know I definitely can’t stomach any more snot shakes, and I have to do something to sustain myself.

  She flits towards the door, rolling up her sleeves. I suspect this is because the aforementioned rocket-ship pancakes have yet to be made, and she was just using their existence as a way to coax me out from under my sheets. ‘They’ll be ready in five—’

  ‘Mom?’ I call before she can leave the room.

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘Did we get any mail yet?’

  She waits a second, takes a deep breath before dropping the bomb. ‘No. I’m sorry, honey.’ I should stop asking. It’s not fair that I keep making her deliver sad news, bad news, no news.

  I’ve left it too long.

  ‘Maybe he’ll write tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I bet he’s been all kinds of snowed under with his finals.’

  It’s been two weeks since Luke last dropped a folded yellow note written in perfect handwriting through the mail slot. It’s been almost four weeks since he kissed me.

  ‘I wish you’d talk to me,’ Mom says. ‘It’s been a long time since I couldn’t figure out what you’re thinking.’

  I don’t know how to talk to her. Don’t know how to talk. Can’t figure out what I’m thinking. Not sure I even want to. I was exaggerating when I said I was dead inside, but I am stuck in some sort of limbo wasteland. I let my head take Luke’s kiss to a dark place, and it’s been lording it over me ever since.

  I’m always a slave to my thoughts, always at the mercy of what I’m not, what I can’t be. But he brought expect ation here, shone a light on life, and something that’s been sleeping woke up inside me. I can’t figure out how to lull it back to sleep, can’t figure out how to nurture it into something normal.

  Before, I was simply-average Norah. Then I was too-sick-to-function Norah. Now I’m drifting somewhere in between.

  ‘I love you,’ I tell Mom.

  ‘I love you too, baby,’ she says.

  She leaves, and I reach under my pillow, grab the journal that Luke gave me, and turn to the Notes section.

  My heart throbs.

  It’s there. I did write it.

  I thought maybe I’d imagined it, was sort of hoping I had.

  The List.

  Last night, somewhere between exhaustion, low blood sugar, and more emotion than a signed senior yearbook, I started writing a list of all the things I want to do before I officially hang a Do Not Resuscitate sign on my life – well, I started drawing the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but that turned into a sketch of Rouen Cathedral, which turned into doodles of hearts, and then thoughts of kissing, and suddenly here it is: the accidental list.

  I run my fingers over the lines of ink, feel the barely-there indents the pen pressure has left in the paper. I don’t remember the final draft looking this long.

  I’ve only written down ten things, but the actual construction of the list took six pages to get right. Well, this is me. It’s not as simple as writing a letter to Santa. It took a while to prioritize, arrange my to-do items in order of importance. Finally, after the tenth attempt, I had it all figured out. At least, I had the top six figured out. I think.

  1. Get my high school diploma

  2. Go to France (with Mom?)

  3. Smell the roses in our garden

  4. Try some cashew nut cream cheese

  5. Learn to drive a car

  My insides feel like they’re being crammed into a jam jar. Spelling out all the things I can’t do tears my soul to pieces. I knew it would. A tear drips on to my nice, neat, perfectly assembled final draft and smudges the ink of item number 6 into an unreadable blur. The words vanish, but I know exactly what was written.

  6. Kiss Luke

  It gets to five and I’m watching a woman on television turn a pair of old net curtains into what she says will be a ‘traffic-stopping tunic’. I’m not convinced. I wonder if maybe she’s high on fabric-glue fumes, because she’s smiling a smile that outstretches space. But then, I suppose she exhibits this same level of delirium every week, even the times she’s not in range of superglue. Maybe crafting just makes you happy. Maybe I’ll feel like less of a failure if I can turn wax crayons and rose oil into a bunch of scented candles. Or make costume jewellery out of a bulk-buy of gemstones. A small business venture to give my life purpose. That’s how my gran started. The story of her mixing yogurt and sand to make facial scrub during tough times is legendary.

  Meh. My enthusiasm is in broken bits and I can’t even muster the energy to stick that back together, let alone craft a pair of pretty earrings.

  I jump when my phone rings, not from fright. It’s excitement. It shoots through my stomach like a falling star, only to burn out when I check the screen and discover it’s not Luke. Not that there’s a reason he would be calling. I guess it was just a thought because it’s Friday night. Or what used to be ice-cream-and-mind-numbing-movie night.


  ‘Hey, Mom.’

  ‘Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?’ She sounds rushed. I can hear her sifting through sheets of paper.

  ‘I’m good,’ I lie, pulling the sleeve of my sweater over the new scratch on my arm. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Ugh. You remember me telling you about the new guy, Justin?’

  Ah, Justin. The office rookie who can’t decipher his ass from his elbow and smells like weed every time he comes back off his break.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s only gone and mixed up a ton of inventory slips.’

  I hiss a painful note through my front teeth, though I don’t really know what this means. I’m just leeching off her tone.

  ‘Yeah. The guy has placed orders for almost a million dollars’ worth of building material that we don’t need. Ugh.’ Her palm makes a slapping sound as it hits her forehead. ‘My boss is going to kill me if I don’t fix this mess.’

  ‘Can you fix it?’ I hesitate before I ask. It’s hard to decide how serious she is when I can’t see her face.

  ‘Norah Dean,’ she tsks. ‘This is me you’re talking to. I can fix anything.’ True. Turns out this morning we didn’t have any eggs to make the pancakes she promised, so she used banana instead. They were actually pretty good.

  ‘Right.’ I smile. Not serious, just a little stressed.

  ‘Will you be okay fixing your own dinner?’

  ‘Absolutely. You want me to make you something?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ She groans. ‘I’ve got a feeling this is going to take all night. You’ll be all right alone?’

  ‘Puh-lease,’ I scoff. ‘This is me you’re talking to. One night is practically child’s play these days.’

  ‘Smart-ass,’ she teases. ‘I’ll be by my phone the entire time. Call me if you need anything, anything at all, okay?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’ I go through the motion, despite the fact she can’t see it.

  ‘What’s my extension number?’ Mom asks, testing my memory because she hasn’t been able to leave her usual laundry list of emergency contacts on the fridge.

  ‘Mom, I know the number. I didn’t forget.’

  ‘Good. Then you should have no problem reciting it back to me right now.’

  I reel off the number. ‘Now, how do I reach 911 again?’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  Microwaveable macaroni cheese. It’s what’s for dinner. I pierce the film lid twelve times and blast it with radiation for twenty seconds longer than the instructions say I should. You can never be too careful when it comes to undercooked anything.

  I sit down at the table and fork my way through the gloopy white sauce. Every bite makes my insides clench and then gurgle, but I power through, remind myself that I have to eat to stay alive.

  Despite appearances, it’s not the worst meal I’ve ever had. Mom gets me this brand of mac and cheese especially because they don’t put ground pepper in it, which saves me from the indignity of having to sift through mountains of melted cheese just to fish out the almost invisible black bits.

  The clock claws its way to 6.00 p.m., and I’m forced to mute my Hub feed, because if I get one more notification about how much fun people are having with their Friday night, I’m going to break the shit out of my phone.

  After I’m done eating, I head down the hall. I’m checking the lock and the bolt on the door for the eighth time when I hear voices. My heart hammers in my ears. Luke.

  Don’t look. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, I think as I make my way over to the porch window. It’s just a window; it shouldn’t hold so much sentimentality for me, but it does, and when I peek through the curtains, tears sting my eyes.

  Luke is standing in his driveway with a blonde girl, some chick with a nose ring, and this dude wearing a Death’s Head band tee under a tuxedo jacket.

  Another party. Another dance.

  That’s why my phone’s been lighting up. The guys are all wearing tailored jackets. The girls are decked out like a couple of Christmas trees in dresses that twinkle under the dying sun. Smiles all around, excited chatter; I feel like I’m watching a coming-of-age sitcom. Luke climbs in the driver’s side of his truck. Blonde girl climbs in beside him. His date? Maybe. The other guy and girl dash off and jump into their own car, one that has streaks of orange flames painted up the sides. I startle when Luke’s car growls to life.

  I will him to look up, to look over at my house. I beg, plead, pray, but without taking a single glance this way, he reverses out on to the road and speeds off, closely followed by the second car.

  I turn around; heavy eyes survey my empty house. Still. Silent. Alone. I’m transported to a cold place. A lonely back alley that’s never seen a single ray of sun, that forever collects rain. I feel any colour that my skin was holding on to roll right off and pool around my ankles.

  This is my fault.

  I broke something beautiful.

  I cut away the one thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just waiting for death, and I did it because I let my mind run riot.

  He was right. I wasn’t angry because he kissed me. I didn’t tell him to leave because he made a mistake. We came undone when I let my insecurities take control. Because I was obsessing over everything I wasn’t, and everything I thought he wanted.

  I should have listened to him. Trusted him.

  Anxiety wraps itself around my lungs like frozen vines. It squeezes and squeezes until I can’t breathe. I’m falling, fast, and there’s only one way I can think of to stop it.

  My legs feel like they belong to someone else as I climb the mountainous staircase. I’m sobbing by the time I reach the top. The world is turning so quickly. I just want it to stop. I want my heart to stop hammering. I want thoughts to leave me alone. I’ve been thinking for so long. My brain is blistered. It hurts to use my head right now.

  My muscles are mush as I stumble into the bathroom, thump on the light, and snatch the side of the sink to steady myself.

  My reflection makes me feel sick. I grip the basin so tightly my knuckles pop. I wonder if I cut deep enough whether I’ll be able to keep my mind from mixing me up indefinitely.

  ‘You sabotaged me. Why won’t you just leave me alone?’ I scream, then reach for the scissors. My wrist catches a carton of cotton buds, and they fall from the cabinet, rain down on the floor. It makes me think of summer with my gran, blowing dandelions in her garden and dancing in the floating seeds.

  God, I miss that girl, the one who could twirl barefoot in the garden.

  I sink to the floor, scissors in my hand. I haven’t seen the last cut I made. I’ve felt it sting against my jeans, but the second that stopped, I pushed the incident to the back of my mind. It’s easier to live with yourself if you do that.

  When I run my fingers over the space, I find it. It’s slightly raised, still healing. The thought of infection spares it, and I move to the older scar below. Scissors poised, my head on upside down, I pull my skin tight.

  My eyes scrunch shut and more tears squeeze out. Luke’s face, when I put my hand on top of his and he started grinning like a kid on his way to Candyland, is burnt into the backs of my eyelids. I can touch him. It won’t kill me. If I could have stolen myself, slowed my head down for just a second, we’d be together right now, watching a movie.

  I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to tell him I’m insecure. I want to tell him that I am hard work, that my head is a mess, that my sickness was making even the smallest thought explode that night. I want to tell him his kiss scared me but I can’t stop wanting a second one. I want to ask him to teach me how to touch.

  I want to show him my list.

  I want to tell him I’ve been dreaming of doing things.

  I want to tell him, more than anything, that I miss him.

  I close in on my thigh with the blade, but then something happens that’s never happened before. I meet with resistance, like there’s an invisible barrier between skin and scissors. I can’t make t
hem touch, can’t make myself do it. Wiping snot on the back of my hand, I stroke the sharp edge with my thumb. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, a force field, a puppet string being pulled. Something. But I find nothing. So it must be me stopping myself. I can’t even begin to fathom what that means right now.

  Weeping turns to tearless sobs as I curl up in a ball on the bathroom floor, waiting for my heart and head to slow down. I hug my knees so tight they’re almost touching my chin. The scissors stay in my palm. I keep them close to my chest because I’m not sure I don’t need them yet.

  It stings when I open my eyes. The bathroom light is luminous, bleaching everything it touches bright white. My body jerks awake. I cash in on the burst of energy, clamber to my feet, and lurch towards the door. I survey the bathroom, wonder how I got here. My bearings have gone AWOL, rolling around the floor like spilt marbles. For the longest second I can’t remember anything. It’s only when I feel something in my palm and unfurl my fingers to reveal scissors that I remember I came up here to cut myself. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. I stopped myself. Something I’ve never been able to do before. Just to make sure, I reach between my legs, swipe my thigh with my fingers. They come away clean.

  I drop the scissors in the trash can as I leave without a moment’s thought. I’m too busy thinking about reaching out to Luke.

  I trudge across the hall, float towards my bed, and flop down. I pull on my headphones, turn up the volume on the Greatest Love Ballads album I downloaded last week, and open a new message tab on my phone.

  Saying sorry is hard.

  And the soulful song lyrics being crooned into my ears aren’t inspiring at all.

  Finding a balance between explanation and emotional blackmail is causing friction and creating a storm inside my head.

  Exhaustion burns my eyes, and typing out a text is getting tough. I’m making more mistakes than sense. I blink, and it takes minutes instead of seconds to recover my sight. I really need to go downstairs, turn on all the lights before it gets too dark.