The Edge of Anything

by Nora Shalaway Carpenter

  Len slipped past her sister as Sage introduced herself, making up for Len’s social ineptitude. Diane stood a few feet away at the edge of the sofa, cradling their terrier mutt. She gave Len a small wave. “Thank you for coming,” she mouthed to Len.

  “This is my wife, Diane,” Fauna told Sage, leading her into the living room. “And our dog, Fezzywig.”

  “We call him Fezzy,” said Diane.

  Sage ruffled Fezzy’s ears. “He’s the cutest.”

  “Want something to drink?” asked Fauna. “We have tea or soda. And coffee. Water, too, of course.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” said Sage.

  “You sure?” Diane pushed back the black twists of hair that draped across her eyes. “Fauna got me an espresso maker for my birthday, and I make a mean cinnamon latte. Or, if you’re adventurous, I can whip up my special ginger-and-secret-spice cortado.”

  Sage peered into the kitchen, a warm space full of green plants and sunflower yellow walls. “I don’t know what that is, but I’m always adventurous.” Diane laughed and led her away, chatting like they were already friends. It amazed Len how easily social banter came for Sage, even with people she’d just met. She longed for it, the carelessness of not constantly examining her surroundings and not flinching when someone took her arm. Len took a slow breath. Maybe someday it would be easy for her, too.

  “So,” Fauna said, her voice high and nervous, “you wanted to talk. I’m so glad.” Her eyes welled, but she blinked hard, clearing them. “You wanna sit down?”

  Len looked to the steps. “Would it be okay if we went upstairs? It’s just… I want to make sure we’re alone.”

  “Oh.” Fauna clasped her necklace, Nadia’s birthstone. “Okay. Our bedroom is kind of a mess, but we can go to the rec room, if that’s okay?”

  Len followed her upstairs, past the closed door of the guest room—what used to be the nursery—and into the small bonus space that housed a spare sofa, desk, and elliptical. She perched on the edge of the sofa, and Fauna took the cushion beside her, a tight, unsure smile on her face.

  It was strange and a little sad, her sister clearly not knowing how to act around her anymore. But Len had brought it upon herself.

  “What is it?” Fauna asked, because she’d never been able to sit long in silence. She was like Sage that way, Len realized.

  Len’s throat went dry as dirt. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t. Then Sage’s laugh floated up through the floorboards, a reminder of the promise they’d made each other. Sage was here, wasn’t she? She had her back.

  “I…” The word croaked out of her. Fauna rubbed her necklace.

  Len gathered the strength inside her. It was time. “The night Nadia died,” she said, “right before it happened—”

  Tears burst over Fauna’s cheeks, like Len knew they would. She felt her own prick behind her eyes, but forced herself to keep going.

  “I had this thought,” Len said, “this really powerful thought. I didn’t mean to, but you and Diane were so stressed and tired, and everything seemed like it was going wrong, and I—” Her voice cracked. “I thought maybe Nadia shouldn’t have been born, that maybe things would have been better—” Tears caught in the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t mean to, because what kind of person thinks that?” She pushed her fingers into her temples. “But I did. And Nadia was in my room, and it must have been all the negative energy in there—” Her voice went unnaturally high. “I think Nadia died because of me.” She was sobbing now, ugly sobbing, and she slowed because she had to remain intelligible. “I’m sorry, Fauna. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Fauna had slumped inward, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, and she rocked gently, eyes closed.

  It was happening—the thing Len had tried desperately to avoid, the reason she had slowly stopped taking Fauna’s calls. Fauna was reliving that night—all the agony of it. Because of Len.

  Her sister whimpered, and no one could ever hate Len more than she despised herself at that moment. Then Fauna opened her eyes—red and hard and fierce—and grabbed Len’s shoulders. “You listen to me,” she said. “You had nothing to do with Nadia’s death. Understand?”

  Len couldn’t have heard right. “But—”

  “Listen!” Fauna commanded, and she actually shook Len, her hands gripping so tightly they hurt. Then Fauna pulled Len against her, rocking Len as she’d rocked herself, her tears dampening Len’s hair and face.

  “I’m sorry,” Len said, over and over, as Fauna hugged her and Len hugged her back, and for some reason it was okay, the hugging, like Fauna was an extension of herself. But Fauna wasn’t understanding. She needed to understand.

  “Dad told me about this guy,” she said into Fauna’s shoulder, and repeated the story. “Why wouldn’t negative thoughts have as much power?”

  Fauna leaned back, her face swollen and sad. “Some of our parents’ ideas,” she said, “especially Dad’s”—her face scrunched—“well, I think there’s real value in some of them—meditation and visualizations. Positivity mantras. Those things can be important to people, and helpful, to a point.” She took Len’s gloved hands in hers. “But they’re like anything else, you know? Too much reliance on them… it throws you out of balance.”

  “It was my fault, though,” Len said. “I can feel it.” She pressed a hand into her chest. “In my soul.”

  Fauna’s eyes glossed again. “Do you think I didn’t think the same thing, Lennie? That I still don’t? That if Diane and I hadn’t gone out that night, if one little thing had changed and kept us from leaving, then our baby would still be alive?”

  Len’s mouth opened, then closed, shame sucking the air from her lungs. She hadn’t thought about that, not at all. She shook her head violently. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Fauna’s eyes shifted beyond Len, and Len turned to see where they landed: a photo she hadn’t noticed on the desk—a close-up of Nadia sporting a white onesie that read One month. It would have been taken just a couple weeks before she died. The thought of her, of what could have been, made Len’s lungs feel close to collapsing.

  “Terrible things happen sometimes,” Fauna whispered. “Terrible, terrible things.” Len took her sister’s hand, which had gone slack and lifeless. The pressure seemed to revive her. “I’m learning,” Fauna said, “that you have to face them, though. You have to go through all the darkness.” Her eyes stayed glued to Nadia’s picture. “If you don’t, it will devour you.”

  They stared at the photo, together, for a long time. Then Len said, like a secret, “Sage thinks I have this disorder. OCD.”

  Fauna’s eyes slid back to her, their unasked question toppling the wall Len had worked so hard to build around her secrets, and everything spilled out. How Len thought she had childhood dementia. How she didn’t want to worry Mom, who was breaking apart. How the blue jay had come and led her to Nonni, to the idea of dementia in the first place. How she’d met Sage, whose dreams had been stolen, and they’d somehow become friends. How Len agreed to get help if Sage did, and how their pledge had been what finally got Len here.

  “There’s this doctor,” Len said, her eyes drifting back to Nadia. “Sage knows her, and I guess she knows people in the hospital. They can get me a low-cost evaluation. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

  Fauna squeezed her hand, nodding. “I’ve started grief therapy,” she said. “It’s… hard. Maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done, besides losing Nadia.” She stood up and walked to the desk. “Every day my arms feel empty. I don’t think that will ever go away.” Her fingers grazed the lines of Nadia’s face. “But the therapy helps. And meeting other moms who’ve…” Her words choked off. “Anyway, somehow, talking helps.”

  Len pushed herself up. “I’ve been a terrible sister,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Fauna tucked her lips together, but they twisted anyway, and she slumped to the floor, the photo clutched against her heart. Len knelt beside her, holding her as tightly as she sometimes had to h
old herself.

  “Don’t stop talking to me again, okay?” said Fauna. “Please. And don’t stop talking about her.” She squeezed the picture frame. “Everyone tries to distract me. Mom wants to talk about anything else, but I need to talk about her. I need people to remember. The therapy has helped me see: that’s the only thing that helps.”

  Len hugged her tighter. It seemed counterintuitive because she’d always heard you weren’t supposed to dwell on sadness. But Fauna’s words resonated, too. She had felt better when she’d talked to Sage. Like, by saying the words out loud, she’d let something go. Not the sadness, of course. That would be there forever. But maybe, just maybe, she’d released a tiny bit of its power over her.

  “I’m sorry I’m not there,” Fauna said, “to help with Nonni.” She wiped her face. “I don’t think Mom or Dad, or any of us, really, were ever taught how to grieve.”

  It was an odd concept, being taught to grieve. But Len supposed Fauna was right. Before Nadia, she’d been to exactly one funeral, and that was for Dad’s hermit uncle, whom they barely knew.

  “Maybe,” Fauna said. “Would you like me to come visit? We could see Nonni together. I’d have to stay in a hotel, though, because, well—” Her body trembled.

  Len leaned her head on Fauna’s shoulder, because the fact that she’d even offer, that she’d spend money she didn’t have to help the rest of them deal with pain when she had so much of her own, it was almost too much for her. “Only when you’re ready,” she whispered. Fauna stroked her cheek, like Mom would.

  “Do you believe in a Life Force?” Len asked.

  Fauna sucked in a deep breath. “I believe Nadia’s soul is part of something larger now, something that connects all of us.” She rubbed her necklace again. “Something we can all feel and tap into. I don’t know exactly how to conceptualize it.” She met Len’s eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t understand things the same as Mom and Dad. You’ll find your own path.”

  Len’s vision was blurry, her nose stinging. “What about signs?”

  Fauna smiled wearily. “Your blue jay?”

  Len nodded.

  “I think things like that can be helpful to a point, if they help you process. But if they control you, that’s something else, you know?”

  Yes, Len realized, she really did. “Tell me something about Nadia,” Len said. “Something you really loved, that not many people know.”

  Fauna cried, and then laugh-cried. And then she began to speak.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  SAGE

  FAUNA AND DIANE TRIED TO PERSUADE THEM TO STAY THE night, but Sage’s mom had only let her take the car on the condition that she was back for school on Monday. That, and the promise that she’d start therapy at the first available session with the counselor they’d selected together. So after a delicious lunch of fried green tomato orzo salad and lavender crème brulee, Sage and Len found themselves back in the Subaru.

  “They seem pretty awesome,” Sage said, waving at Fauna and Diane as she reversed out of the parking space. A small smile crinkled Len’s face. She hadn’t said much during lunch, but Sage could tell something good had passed between her and Fauna while they’d been upstairs. Or maybe good wasn’t the correct word. Something needed.

  “You glad you came?” Sage prompted.

  “I am.” Instead of elaborating, Len turned on her camera, presumably reviewing the lunch photos she’d taken. Even Sage had noticed the artistic display of their food, and Len had pulled out her camera, arranging and rearranging their plates with the fresh cut sunflowers on the table, before she let anyone disturb a morsel.

  Sage’s phone map started spouting directions different from what Diane had told them. She flicked her eyes between the map and the road, trying to determine which lane she needed for the upcoming turn.

  “The middle one,” Len said, pointing. “But you won’t turn till up there. It’s weird. And a long light.” Her gloved thumb tapped absently against one of the camera’s dials. Sage had decided not to ask her to remove her gloves on the way home.

  “Thank you,” Len murmured.

  Sage merged behind a spotless white pickup. “For what?”

  “For making me come here and talk to Fauna.” The cords of Len’s neck went tight as she swallowed, clearly embarrassed. “Things had gotten bad with me. Really, really bad.” She frowned. “And they still are, I know that. But it feels like maybe the bad isn’t quite the same anymore? Like, everything that’s happened, it can’t be fixed, you know? But maybe, there might be a way through.” She played with the camera’s dials. “I’m not sure I’m making sense—”

  Something shifted inside Sage, gears finally locking into place. “You are,” she said. It was the same feeling, Sage realized, that had swept over her, unconscious until this exact moment when Len’s words tipped it into the light.

  Len must have noticed something, because her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

  “I’m not gonna do physical therapy in college,” Sage said. “I’m going to major in psychology.” She swallowed. “I think… I think I might wanna be a therapist. Or maybe a researcher. Or both, I don’t know.” Speaking the possibilities thrilled her, ignited every cell in her body, something that hadn’t happened with anything outside of volleyball.

  Volleyball.

  She’d kept herself so busy the last forty-eight hours that she hadn’t let herself think too much about the truth: she really would never play volleyball again. Not competitively. She would never win a state title—not even in a rec league.

  It was not okay.

  It would never be okay or fair or anything short of a tragic ending to the path she’d busted her ass building her whole life. Volleyball had always been her lifeline. Her passion. Her way of making order and sense of the crazy, seriously messed up world. A way of mattering. And she would miss it forever. But maybe… Maybe people got more than one lifeline. Maybe she thought she only had one because she simply hadn’t found another.

  The psychology thrill wasn’t as strong as her volleyball one, not yet. But it was made of the same stuff, the same embers, she could feel it. The thought of helping people like Len alleviate their suffering—that was a life worth living. It made those embers glow hot and bright.

  Something touched her arm, and Sage looked over—shocked—to see Len’s hand on her sleeve. It was gloved, of course, but still. The gesture from Len was like a bear hug from anyone else. Her eyes pricked, and Sage blinked, surprised to find herself crying.

  No, she realized. More than crying. Letting go.

  Len’s hand gave her a small squeeze.

  “It’s strange,” Sage said as she braked at a yellow light, “I’d never have realized how interested I am in this stuff—how much I care about it—without you.”

  Len’s smile looked almost teasing. “So what you’re saying is, me being crazy kind of saved your life?”

  “You’re not crazy!” Sage said. Her eyes slid to meet Len’s. “But also… yes.”

  Len’s laugh sparked out of her like tiny fireworks. And maybe it was that broken-free sound, or how the music of it made Sage notice the beat-heavy song on the radio, one of her favorites. Maybe it was all of those way-too-good espresso drinks. Or perhaps it was something else entirely that made Sage throw back her head, her lips pursed in what Kayla teased as her “dance face.” The moon roof was open and there were cars in the lanes on either side of hers. Pedestrians packed the crosswalk.

  It didn’t matter. The song lyrics burst from her mouth, definitely off key, definitely so bad, but whatever. She didn’t even know all the words, but that didn’t matter, either. She made them up, added a few “la da das” in the places she couldn’t remember. Her hands twisted up and out and she let her body move, snaking to the beat.

  The car beside her honked. She must look—and sound—ridiculous. She laughed, messing up more lyrics, and sang louder.

  Chut. Chut. Chut-chut-chut.

  It took Sage a moment to process the sou
nd. She turned. Len held her camera pointed at Sage.

  Chut-chut-chut.

  “What are you doing?”

  Len’s grin widened beneath the lens. “I have it,” she said. Chut. Chut. “Finally.” Chut. “The theme for my series, for the Melford Scholarship.” Chut-chut-chut. “The thing that ties it all together.”

  Sage’s favorite line of the song burst from the speakers, and her body twisted to it without thinking, free and flowing. “What?” Her shoulders shrugged so exaggeratedly they set off Len’s fireworks laugh again. “Bad car dancing?”

  “No. Definitely no.”

  The light above them turned green. Sage reclaimed the wheel, her foot lifting off the brake.

  Len lowered her camera. “Hope.”

  The End

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Years ago, I suffered a trauma that, unbeknownst to me, unlocked a severe form of OCD to which I was genetically predisposed. I thought I was losing touch with reality and, confused and mortified, tried to hide my symptoms and convince myself things were okay. I entered a darkness I hadn’t known possible and could not have found my way through it without the love and support of incredible friends and family members.

  Once I found my way through the hell of undiagnosed OCD, I discovered how many people around me also suffered from a form of the disease, or loved someone who did. I also realized, unfortunately, how many people still don’t understand (or refuse to believe) that mental health conditions are as real as physical illnesses. I determined that one day, when enough time had passed for me to process and separate myself from the visceral pain of my experience, I wanted to write the book I wish I’d had during that dark time. Meanwhile, Sage’s story was already percolating in my head. When I realized she and Len inhabited the same world, that they actually knew each other, The Edge of Anything started to materialize.