Little Panic

by Amanda Stern

  I’m ecstatic. I’m not sure glasses are the right type of sign, though. This is why I also drag my foot. Maybe they’ll give me crutches, or a cast. Anything people can plainly see, even while they’re on the telephone. Something serious-looking, so everyone knows I’m fragile.

  June 1981

  Dr. Rivka Golod

  Summary of Test Results

  Her spatial and temporal orientation appear adequate at this point although she kept leaving out one month of the year (Oct or Sept) when reciting the months, or confusing the order of September and October. I wonder if this could be related to the extreme anxiety she’s exhibited around school, as these are the months when the school year begins.

  My observations of Amanda during these tests is that it is fraught with anxiety for her. My impression of her attitude was that she was convinced she could not think on a high level and was somehow comfortable with simple concrete answers. This suggests not simply a fear of being wrong, but a fear of effort. As though guessing and being wrong is so frightening, she’d rather stay safe and not try. It seems to me she’s developed an unrealistic expectation that the solution will be provided for her if she can’t find it herself.

  Not-Melissa

  When we go visit Baba, my grandfather, I bring my question with me. Even though Baba is a quiet person, I know he’ll tell me the truth, because he is gentle and not a liar. Also, he’s bedridden and probably bored. This could be a good mystery for him to solve. When my mom leaves for the bathroom, I lean over and whisper in his ear.

  “Baba, was I adopted?”

  He pats my face with his stiff, veiny hand, but he doesn’t answer. His fingers are long and delicate, but the skin is chapped and sore-looking. He smells like talcum powder and old man. Maybe he thought I was just kissing him. Maybe he’s not allowed to tell me the truth. Maybe I actually was hatched, and I’ve confused him by asking about adoption. I’m about to ask him again, but my mom comes back, and I pull away. I pat him again to show her I am extra careful with my Baba. He is very fragile. My mom says he’s a hypochondriac, that he’s been that way his whole life. That means he always thinks something’s wrong with him when there’s not, or that he’ll never stop bleeding if he gets a cut; I can never remember which. I do not want my grandpa to die. He is not only my grandpa, but my mom’s dad. She doesn’t have a mom anymore, because my mom’s mom died the same day my dad’s dad died, which must have been the worst day in the history of the world. I don’t like to think about that day, but sometimes it accidentally happens, and I have to sit down. How did my parents survive after losing so much in just twenty-four hours? Now, if Baba dies, she’ll be an orphan. I do not want that to happen to her.

  Baba doesn’t like that we live in the Village, and when my mom moved there from uptown without my dad, he said he’d never come and see us, but he did. One time when his nurse took him to the bathroom too late, he left a big wet stain on the couch cushion. I was terrified by it. I never sat in that spot on the couch again. What if inside that very pee was the sickness that he’s always in bed for now, and he can’t get better because the sickness never made it to the doctor’s office? Now it’s inside our couch, and I might catch it.

  I love Baba, but ever since he peed on our couch, it’s all I can think about when I’m near him. What are you supposed to say to a sick person? If I say something like “I hope you feel better,” I might ruin his life with the news that he’s sick. I love Baba, but I don’t like going uptown to visit him, and I want it to stop. My mom says that soon he’ll go to a nursing home all the way uptown. Hopefully I won’t have to go there to visit him. A nursing home is filled with sick old people who are contagious.

  One terrible day, a thought skids across my brain before I can stop it, and the thought hits the air before I can figure out how to take it back. I don’t really wish Baba would die, I just wish we could stop going uptown to his house. I don’t like leaving our house on MacDougal Street, and I don’t like how close Baba’s apartment is to my dad’s. I worry that my mom will forget it’s not a Dad weekend and accidentally leave me there. I quickly tell whatever power makes things happen that I do not want my grandfather to die, of course I don’t, and that I am truly not a terrible person, but it’s not enough. Now I know that if my grandfather does die, it will be my fault. But when days pass and Baba doesn’t die, I am grateful that whoever is in charge of keeping people alive heard me.

  Tillie from the garden is turning seven and having a birthday party at her house. Melissa will be there and I’m excited to see her. Now that we’re at different schools, I haven’t seen her in months. When I arrive, I hear “Y.M.C.A.” playing on the turntable and small fits of laughter punching up from the basement. A table off to the side is set up with gift bags. My favorite! Outside I catch a glimpse of an enormous colorful ball hanging from a tree—a piñata! My other favorite! I race downstairs and see all the kids clustered on one side of the room playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. There’s Tillie, her brother Cosmo, Marcel and Margaux, some friends from her grade, but no Melissa. A boy is lounging on the oversized beanbag chair reading Marvel’s greatest superhero battles. Marcel turns around and waves me over, and I kick my sneakers off, sink my feet into the plush, thick rug, and go stand next to him. Someone is jumping down the stairs, and I turn to see who it is, but it’s no one I know. I notice a girl playing by herself on the other side of the room, and she’s wearing the same long-sleeved blue dress with flowers that Melissa has. The girl looks up at me, and smiles, and I smile back, confused. Her cheeks are puffy and swollen, like two baked potatoes, and a red bandanna is wrapped around her head. I can’t see any hair. The girl is wearing Melissa’s yellow M necklace, and Melissa’s yellow clogs are on the floor by her feet. Why does Not-Melissa have all of Melissa’s stuff? Not-Melissa waves me over, and I go, a little nervous, and stand over her.

  “Hi!” she says, using Melissa’s voice.

  “Hi,” I say and sit down. Her lips look chapped and raw and she’s got a sweat mustache.

  “How’s your new school?” she asks.

  “It’s pretty good,” I say. “How’s yours?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t really know.”

  I’m so confused.

  “Wanna play?” Melissa asks.

  “Sure,” I say. I stare at her, even though I know I shouldn’t. Where did all her hair go? Did she get stung by a bee and go all puffy? I don’t know how to ask what’s wrong. It’s easier just to pretend nothing’s the matter.

  “You be blue,” she says. “I’ll be yellow.”

  We’re too old to be playing Candy Land, but we don’t care. It’s always been our favorite game.

  “You don’t want to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey?” I ask.

  “No. I don’t feel like standing,” she says. Her eyes travel down her legs to her feet, which look raw and burned.

  I feel afraid of this new Melissa I’ve never met. She changed without telling me. I know something is wrong with her, but I don’t know what, and if she doesn’t know, I don’t want to be the one to tell her.

  The whole time during Candy Land, outside as we hit the piñata, sing “Happy Birthday,” and cut the cake, I can’t stop worrying and wondering what happened to Melissa. When the party is over, I rush home with my party bag to tell my mom, Eddie, and Kara about Melissa. That’s when my mom’s face changes and she puts on her trying-not-to-scare-us voice.

  “Melissa isn’t feeling very well lately,” my mom says.

  “Why not?” I ask. How did she know this already?

  “She just isn’t, but she’s seeing a doctor about it and she’s getting the exact treatment she needs.”

  “But why is she wearing a bandanna?” I ask. “What happened to her hair?”

  “The medicine that makes her better is very strong. Sometimes it can make your hair fall out, but her doctors know what they are doing, and it’s the exact right medicine she needs, so you don’t need to worry.”

  “Is she very sick
?” I ask, knowing the answer will be no because bad things don’t happen to kids.

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” my mom says.

  That’s not quite a no. “Is she going to die?” I ask.

  “She’s not going to die,” my mom says.

  Now that’s a no. “Then why was no one playing with her at the party?”

  “They weren’t?”

  “Maybe they didn’t recognize her.”

  “Maybe they were afraid of her,” Kara says.

  “Why would they be afraid?” I ask.

  Kara shrugs.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” my mom says. “What she has isn’t contagious.”

  “What does she have?” Eddie asks.

  “She’s been getting a lot of bad headaches,” my mom says.

  I get bad headaches, too, but the medicine I take doesn’t make my hair fall out.

  “Can I get a bandanna?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  It turns out I hadn’t seen Melissa for so long because she was sick, but now that I know, we can see each other again. In Melissa’s apartment, where I go when she feels well enough, we make gingerbread houses and eat ginger candies one after another, surprised every time the edible rice paper melts on our tongues. We play Candy Land and read WOW magazine. Melissa has a coin bank in the shape of a pig, and when our change reaches the top, we’re going to figure out how to get it out.

  The piggy bank is almost all the way full. I watch as she slides in another quarter. Dark hair used to cover her arms. Now it’s gone, and where it was is empty skin. Inside the pillow forts we build, we’re the closest we can be without touching, and I notice her eyelids are two shiny ridges; her eyelashes are gone. Without them, she looks like the plastic dolls we played with as babies. Her lids don’t stick when she closes them, though, so I don’t have to push them open with my thumb. We make up stories about who we’re going to marry, and I wonder if her hair will ever grow back, but I don’t ask because what if the answer is no?

  My mom keeps telling me I can’t catch what Melissa has. It’s not like a cold or the rash caused by poison ivy. The type of sick she has is only hers, like a mosquito bite. Plus, she has very good doctors and doctors know what they’re doing. We are always trying to figure out special codes for how to save each other if we get kidnapped. We decide that we’ll say each other’s full names, and that way the other person will know we’re in trouble. I like having a plan because I really don’t want to get kidnapped like Marci Klein. Especially not by the Son of Sam. Melissa doesn’t either.

  She doesn’t come over as often to play, but when she does, I remind everyone in the garden to be gentle with her now. Even though third grade is almost over, it’s only now I feel guilty that I’m not with her at school, because who helps her when I’m not there? Who will know that her mouth is sore and she needs something to suck on? Who will know that she’s too tired and needs to sit down?

  Even during the summer I’ll be too far away. This year, my mom is making me go to the camp Kara and Eddie go to. When my mom asked if I wanted to go to sleepaway camp with them, it was snowing outside and the idea was too far away to feel. Camp is something Kara and Eddie have in common; it’s what makes them closer to each other than they are to me, and because I don’t like being left out, I said yes. But I meant yes to not being left out, not yes to being away. Now it’s not an idea anymore. It’s close enough to feel, and it’s grabbed me by the throat. I know I can’t do it. I can’t stop thinking about Holly’s mom, who died when she was away. A big countdown set off in me and hasn’t let go. Two months is too long—something bad will happen if I leave, I know it will. People might die or disappear. What if the house disappears? I want to tell Melissa how scared I am, and I want her to soothe me the way she used to do, but I’m worried she can’t anymore. So I just shift the bandanna on my head and hope that my hands and feet don’t stay this cold forever.

  Intelligence Test: Comprehension

  “Why are criminals locked up?”

  “If they’re not locked up, they’ll kill us.”

  “Why should women and children be saved first in a shipwreck?”

  “So they don’t drown.”

  “But why should they be saved first?”

  “Because moms and daughters should never be separated.”

  “What would you do if you broke something at a friend’s house?”

  “Is it a sleepover?”

  “It’s not a sleepover.”

  “Because I don’t sleep over. I don’t want to sleep over.”

  “You’re not sleeping over. You’re just visiting.”

  “During the daytime?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. If it’s the daytime and I’m not sleeping over, that’s okay. I broke something? Was it an accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d tell the mom of the friend and say I was sorry.”

  “What would you do if you found yourself alone in a strange city?”

  “Where is my mom?”

  “She is here, in New York. But you are in a strange city, all by yourself, without your mom.”

  “How did I get there?”

  “That’s not the question. The question is, what would you do?”

  “I disappeared from my house?”

  “I guess so, yes.”

  “My mom said that can’t happen. She said that doesn’t happen to kids.”

  “All right; well, let’s say, just this once, it did. What would you do?”

  “But she said people don’t just disappear.”

  “Let’s just say that it happened to you. One day you were home and the next, you woke up in a strange city. What would you do?”

  I have asked my mom a million times what I should do if something like this happened and she says the same thing every time. “That won’t happen,” I say.

  “Amanda, I need you to try to answer the question. What would you do if you found yourself alone in a strange city?”

  I have disappeared from the room. I am in a strange city right now. “I would cry.”

  “Okay, let’s move on, and we’ll return to that question later.”

  Someone Kicked the Earth

  It’s Memorial Day weekend, and everyone’s away except us. Outside feels like a hot, wet sweater. There’s no one to play with and nothing to do. Imogen is in Hoboken, Melissa is upstate, my mom is upstairs on her bed reading, and Jimmy is at the hardware store buying parts to build a phone intercom system for the house. One day soon he’s going to install a video camera so we can see who’s at the door before we answer it. Jimmy and I really think alike. He says I can be his assistant. All my siblings have their doors closed. I’m supposed to be doing my eye exercises, but I’m too mad about it to bother. Who knew something would actually be wrong with my eyes? I have two wrong things with them, but neither one meant glasses or getting out of anything. What it meant was eye exercises.

  My tutor, Anton, gave me homework, but it’s boring and I’m not happy because my mom is making me do more school even after school is over. Besides, no one even told me what I’m being tutored for. Deep Countdown wants to capture me and make me think about sleepaway camp, but I keep trying to dodge out of the way. I pick up Beezus and Ramona and start reading it for the twelve hundred and twelfth time when the doorbell rings.

  I throw the book down and skip to get it. Maybe it’s mail! Maybe it’s a package! Maybe it’s someone looking for Bob Dylan! Through the side window I see a light blue button-down shirt and a shiny gold medal. Up top there’s a police cap. Even though police are from the street side of life, they’re safe because safe is their job. I open the door and the policeman holds up a large photo of a little boy and asks if I’ve seen him.

  The boy is a couple of years younger than me and very cute. His name is Etan Patz and he lives a few blocks away, in SoHo. We have the same sandy-colored hair, except his is straight and mine is fuzzy. His bangs are a little cro
oked, like he cut them himself, and he has an after-nap look on him. I like him instantly. But as soon as I realize I like him, I know something terrible happened. Maybe if I look closer at the photo, I’ll remember seeing him and be able to help the policeman find him, but I shake my head no. I haven’t. When a person gets turned into a photo, it’s a very bad sign.

  “Do you mind if I come in and have a look around?” he asks, stepping into my house without waiting for my answer. I am suddenly relieved and elated. I don’t know how he knew this was the exact right place to find missing things, but I’m glad he’s here because I know he’ll find the boy. Etan is probably just having a snack in our kitchen, or playing in the garden, or hiding in the closet, which is where I go when I threaten to run away but never do. When I leave home, coming back to my house solves all my problems, so it makes sense to me that strangers would know, just by looking at my house, that it was magical and saved people who didn’t like being away.

  I follow behind him, up the stairs, and up the next set of stairs, waiting for him to start looking for Etan. But a slow inky heaviness builds inside me as he passes every room without looking in. He doesn’t open any closets or cupboards and doesn’t even get on the ground to look under the beds. My mom comes out of her bedroom, and the policeman shows her the picture and asks if she’s seen him, but she hasn’t either.

  “How do you get to the roof?” he asks her.

  “Manda, show him how to get to the roof.”

  He follows me to the top floor and I point to the door that leads to the ladder that leads to the manhole cover that lets the sky inside, and up he goes. I stay where I am, confused because he’s doing this all wrong. Maybe on the way down he’ll get on his hands and knees and look under the beds? I begin to worry about the boy all over again, before I remember Jimmy Alcatraz is right down the street. Of course the boy is safe; we have the mafia on our side. Soon the cop returns and heads down the stairs, passing by all the rooms again. Does he not know how to do his own job? Downstairs he makes his way to the basement where Norman Bates lives, but it’s not nighttime, so the policeman’s not scared. Then he leaves, without even checking the kitchen. Without even looking in the garden.