Under Rose-Tainted Skies (16 page)

‘
M
aybe 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
.

I'm done with this session. It's just gotten ridiculous. Too ridiculous. And that's coming from someone who, nine times out of ten, can emotionally invest in an episode of
SpongeBob SquarePants
. I wonder how mad Mom will get if I just leave the table and go hide in my room. I wonder if she'll call off my date with Luke.

She wouldn't.

She might
.

I start thinking about breaking stuff.

Dr Reeves is talking about control, describing how I feel when I hold scissors to my leg. But it's not the same. Everybody scratches an itch. Sometimes scratches bleed. Self-harm is something I do in private – barely ever – to make myself feel better. It's intense and frightening. It's not having a quick scratch in front of folk. Right? Was
notorious bogie-picker and small-scab-eater Tommy Martin accused of self-harm in the first grade every time he picked himself a snack? No. I really think she's making a fuss over nothing. Scratching is normal, and I don't appreciate her tearing strips off my already shaky sanity.

My legs are gearing up to go when I feel a sting in my thumb like I've been bitten by a fire ant. My nail's broken through skin. There's blood. My mind flashes back to last week and the well of scarlet pooling on my thigh.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't
.

I was just itching.

Everybody itches.

Everybody.

Except the answer to Dr Reeves's original question was
no
. There was no itch. My eyes scrunch shut. I'm trying really hard to conjure a memory of a tickle, a fizz, a crawling sensation, something that would warrant the blood now crusting beneath my nails, but I get nothing. There was no itch, no reason to scratch myself senseless.

I jump up from my chair, hand stretched out in front of me, glaring at it like I've sprouted extra fingers. I want to get away from it but swiftly realize I can't. So instead, I head to the sink, flick on the cold water, and wash away the blood. I snatch the soap, squeeze a gallon of the green liquid on to my hands, then start rubbing. The new wound stings, but I keep going until I can't see marred skin through the thick cloud of bubbles. I rinse and repeat until my hands feel clean.

When I'm finished, I exhale a breath so loaded it shakes the leaves on the trees outside.

‘You're laying this on me now? Right before my first date ever?' I whimper. Trembling legs carry me back over to my chair. I plop down, plant my elbows on the table, and bury my forehead in my hands. I can see my reflection in the glossy tabletop. No make-up in the world is strong enough to hide this revelation on my face. I'd need cement, a sandblast, a brand-new fucking face. I slam a fist down on my reflection.

‘Norah, listen to me.' Dr Reeves is drawing a tree on the table again. With a single sideways glance I axe it down. ‘It's
because
of your date that I wanted to talk to you about this. Relationships are hard for anyone.'

We're not even in a relationship, my mind argues, and I pout internally like a child. Of course I don't correct her because I'm smart enough to know that, when it comes to a mind like mine, labels are moot. Feelings are involved and that's really all that matters. Dr Reeves starts explaining that butchering your body isn't uncommon in the fight to feel in control.

Like she's dealing cards, she lays three brightly coloured pamphlets in front of me. They all depict smiling folk basking under a summer sun. They're bright, cheery, shiny: everything self-harm is not. It's a series called Coping Without Cutting. Subtle. I'm sure all of the kids feel comfortable reaching for these.

‘Take a look,' Dr Reeves says encouragingly as she slides the first booklet a little closer to me. ‘Think of it like being prepared,' she says. ‘You might not need it, but it can't hurt to know a little something about what's happening.'

The author of the booklet is some guy called Adrian
Crowe. His name is written in Comic Sans because these guys are clearly down with the kids. I could breathe into a bottle of milk right now and turn it sour.

I peel back the first page, read the opening paragraph with my nose tipped so high I can smell the ceiling. I wish I could invest in the words instead of picturing myself being shut inside an asylum.

‘They're autobiographical. These people talk about how they used different techniques to combat their own struggles with self-harm. This guy—' She taps Adrian's picture. He's old, maybe late fifties, with white hair and glasses. He looks like he's lived most of his life in a library. ‘He used to draw pictures on his skin when he got the urge to scratch. And this woman—' She opens booklet number two and we meet Roxie Gaines, a girl only a little older than me but infinitely cooler with her bright blue hair and black make-up. ‘Roxie squeezed the stuffing out of stress balls instead of hurting herself.' Dr Reeves abandons the show-and-tell, ducks down, and disappears inside her snakeskin purse. It's faux; I asked the first day we met.

‘I got you something,' she says, producing a brown paper bag. She tips the bag upside down, and half a dozen rainbow-dipped balls roll out. They bounce around on the table for a couple of seconds, but Dr Reeves corrals them with her arms, and they come to a standstill. ‘Stress balls,' she says proudly. ‘I was thinking you could discreetly carry one around in your pocket and do what Roxie did.'

She picks up one of the rainbow-splattered rounds and squeezes it into a pancake. ‘The guy at the store told me they were almost indestructible.' It's adorable to watch her test this theory, teeth clenched, tugging and pulling the
ball in all different directions. Admittedly, I'm wondering if I could break one.

‘Your turn,' the doc says.

I pick up the ball that looks the most yellow. It's spongy but has a coating that feels like clay. I squeeze it, and I'm almost disappointed when my fingers don't pierce the outer shell regardless of how hard I push.

‘Norah, tell me what you're thinking.'

‘I'm thinking if I take this, it will be like accepting what you're saying.' I'm finding it very hard to believe that this whole time I haven't been in control of the one thing I thought I was.

‘Is that a bad thing?' Dr Reeves asks, taking more notes.

‘That depends on whether or not I'm going to end up in a hospital.' I can't look at her, so instead I roll the ball around in a figure eight.

‘Why would you end up in a hospital?'

‘Because hurting yourself is not exactly something stable people do.' I'm not fully invested in the idea that scratching and self-harm are the same, but I keep that piece of info to myself.

‘People hurt themselves for lots of different reasons, but right now I'm confident that you're not trying to escape life.'

‘I'm not at all,' I agree vehemently.

‘Right. But I do think we need to re-evaluate how you cope with stress. So what do you say, maybe we can give this a shot?' She's not really giving me a choice. All I want to do is erase this conversation with brain bleach.

I nod, can't say
yes
because scratching is a normal response, and I can't get past thinking everyone does it. I
don't hate myself for it. It can't possibly be the same as self-harm. I don't always break the skin, and when I do, the marks don't even scar. In fact, they totally disappear within a week. I've seen more damage from squeezing pimples, so how is it self-harm?

W
hen I get back to my room, the stress balls, along with the happy-shiny pamphlets, get dumped in the bottom drawer of my dresser, where I'm almost certain they'll stay until the day I die.

I'm tired and my bed looks so inviting, soft and safe, like a giant pile of feathers, willing me to come over and rest my head, which is suddenly so heavy my shoulders shudder under the weight. I want to burrow, sleep until next spring. This isn't good. I don't want to turn to sludge before tonight. I have to stay perky. Sunny. Excited. Shouldn't be a problem. I'm practically a pro at beating back sadness.

I veer left, drag unwilling legs away from my bed and plonk myself back at my dressing table. The chair that came with it is anything but inviting. I think at one point it might have been used as some sort of medieval torture device, despite the expensive velvet upholstery covering the seat.

Only two butt-numbing hours until Luke arrives.
At 6.45, Mom lets me know that she's making herself scarce and scuttles off to her bedroom. Exercise and I are estranged, but I have fifteen minutes to fill and I can't sit still, so I do laps around my room while chewing the inside of my mouth into a mini–mountain range. At least I'm not scratching.

I squeeze my hands to keep them from shaking. According to 90 per cent of the internet, everybody gets nervous before a first date. But then I guess it's pretty safe to assume most of that 90 per cent are worrying about making a good first impression, not wondering what sort of bacteria their date will be breathing into their airspace or trying to determine the odds of choking to death on a piece of popcorn.

I decide to avoid eating solids altogether . . . just while he's here.

Luke knocks on the door at 7.01, and I trip down the stairs, making a din like a running herd of wild wildebeests. I take the last step twice then race to the door, my arms only slightly bruised, my legs begging not to be used any more today.

‘Hi.' Luke flashes me that grin, and my motor functions fail. ‘You look really good,' he tells me. ‘You always look good.' He tips his head, rubs the back of his neck, and I think I see a slight red tinge blossom on his cheeks.

‘Thank you,' I reply, feeling a little flushed around the gills myself but happy I stuck with the lipstick.

One of the things I kept freaking out about on Monday was the prospect of silence. My mind isn't always where it should be, which makes conversation hard to carry. I guess I was worried we'd find ourselves stuck
in an atmosphere of not-knowing-what-to-say, but Luke doesn't let that happen.

He's talking about the two DVDs he's brought as we make our way to the front room.

‘Where do you want me to sit?' he says, eyeballing the couch. It's a three-seater, so we can share it without me getting weird.

I sit on the left, he flops down on the right, and an immeasurable black hole opens up in the space between us. I'd never really noticed how far away the other side of the sofa was until now. We may need cups and string to communicate.

‘So, what do you wanna watch?' Luke asks, his voice raised a little because he's noted the overcautious distance and is having a little fun with it.

‘I don't want to catch boy cooties,' I tell him. ‘You could have been anywhere, rolling around in anything, before you showed up here.'

‘This is true. Can I just note, I really admire your level of resistance to my raw animal magnetism,' he says, all snark.

‘I'm not going to lie.' I let out an exhausted breath. ‘It's been tough.'

We settle on a movie called
Zombie's Curse
. It's so loaded with cheese I start craving macaroni. We laugh a lot, don't talk much, but when we do, I find myself wanting to shuffle closer to him.

His hand rests on his leg. My eyes keep flitting over and finding it. There's a thick silver ring on his thumb, and his fingers keep tapping nonsensical beats against his jeans. Occasionally, his hand relaxes, flops off his knee, and lands on the couch like an upside-down spider in shock. That's
when I want to grab hold of it. It's such an unexpected want, it scares me.

I was slipping into unconsciousness the first time Dr Reeves ever touched me. It was a Monday, and I was trying to get across the parking lot to her office, already caught in the steely grip of a panic attack. Limbs like jelly, face melting off, lungs squeezing themselves into nonexistence, the usual. My body was heavy, too heavy for Mom to carry alone. That's really all I remember. When I came around, Dr Reeves was timing the beat of my heart against the slow-in-comparison second hand of her diamond-encrusted watch. She was pressing two fingers hard against my wrist. Her skin was cold, which surprised me because she has such a warm smile.

By the time I crawl out of my thought stream, the credits are rolling on the movie. Worse, Luke is looking at me looking at his hand, which has made its way back on to his leg. My jaw drops.

‘I . . . I . . .' I want to explain why I'm fixated on his lap, but I can't remember how to talk. My finger finds skin on my wrist and I start scratching until it stings.

‘It's okay,' he says, sitting up straight and sliding to the edge of the couch. ‘I promise. Whatever you're worried about, you don't have to be.'

The need to explain myself subsides. I take a deep breath. Breaching the black hole, I edge a little closer to him.

‘Norah Dean, is it possible you're curious about what it would be like to hold my hand?' he asks.

‘No,' I protest, my response slamming into his stomach like a fist. Just for a second, a blink, a flash, I feel like I'm on
a diving board and his question is at my back, poking me in the shoulder, trying to make me jump.

‘Wait,' he says, holding up his hands, more panic than person. ‘I wasn't suggesting that you should be. I mean, I'm not suggesting that you are. I'm sorry—' He's all jittery, and it's my fault. I'm so defensive. I shouldn't have reacted so quickly.

‘No,' I interject. ‘Please don't be sorry. You didn't do anything. I was . . .' I collect another lungful of air. ‘I was thinking about it.' My heart gathers speed until it sounds like it's slamming into my eardrums, and then, without saying another word, I press my hand down on top of his. My fingers slide seamlessly into the spaces between his fingers.

‘Is it okay that I did this?' I ask him, my eyes unable to meet his. Instead I stare at our hands. Study how perfectly they're slotted together, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

‘I don't know, is it?' I note how still he is, wonder if he feels like he's beside a wild deer and any sudden movement will scare me away.

I nod, but my mind is already starting to race. I'm thinking about all the things a person can touch throughout the day. And then that kid, the one who keeps coughing into his hand on the Monty's Cough Syrup commercial, is in my head.

We've been touching too long, I decide, and let go. My hands suddenly feel sticky, like they're coated in sugar. I eyeball the bottle of sanitizer on the table but don't want my OCD to hurt his feelings, so I excuse myself, head for the bathroom to wash my hands. I'm terrified, but I can't stop smiling.