Kissing Doorknobs (7 page)

I’d say it five times. Every word perfectly pronounced. Then I’d carefully set the prayer plaque back on the dresser, walk back down the hallway to the kitchen and stand directly in front of the clock on the stove.
Directly in front of it.
And read the time. From there I’d walk to the living room and stand directly in front of another clock.
Directly
in front of it, and read the time. Then I headed for the front door.

First I’d turn the doorknob carefully with all ten fingers … equal pressure on each one. Then I’d walk down the front steps, across the lawn and into the middle—the very middle—of the street. Sometimes it’d take me a while to make sure I was exactly in the middle. Then, when I was satisfied that I was balanced, I’d look both ways twice. Left and then right and then right and then left. Then I’d go back inside. If I was still nervous, I’d start over. Prayer, clock, clock, street. If anyone interrupted me, a neighbor, my sister, a car, I was enraged, because I’d have to start over.

That inner rage was always a surprise and scared me the most. I didn’t know I had it in me, and only saw it when I was being thwarted from completing a ritual. Part of it was the frustration of having to do the ritual again, but there was more that I couldn’t justify as
annoyance. One night even the ritual couldn’t help, and in a state of anxiety, I woke up my sister.

“They’re not home yet!”

“Huh?” she said sleepily.

“Mom and Dad. They’re not home yet!”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Then go to sleep.”

“I can’t! They’re not home yet!”

“So?”

She didn’t understand. “Can I sleep with you?” I whined.

“If you
have
to.”

I had to. Just like I had to count the cracks and say the prayers and look at the clocks from just the right angles and stand in the street looking both ways so that I was even. I had to. But it didn’t help.

Lying next to my sister’s little body and listening to the regular rhythm of her breathing, I felt fear rush through my veins like hot snakes. Why couldn’t I be like her? Why was she sleeping peacefully when I was in agony? She was probably dreaming of something beautiful. I was picturing our parents dead. I could see the policeman and social workers coming to tell us. I saw myself fall apart.

Greta felt my anxiety. “It’s okay,” she whispered. But it wasn’t. Waiting was agony. I felt as if my skin was on too tight. Then the urge overtook me.

“I’ll be back,” I whispered.

I dialed the number and asked Mr. Spivac to page my mother.

“But when are you coming home?” I whined.

“Schoon
, honey.
Schoon.
Go to bed.”

“Are you drunk!” I demanded.

“A little,” she admitted with a giggle.

I was furious. “I can’t go to bed!”

“Right. Well, honey,
shouldn’t
you be
usching
this time to smoke cigarettes, have boys over, be bad for once?”

“Can I talk to Daddy?”

“No.”

“Can I call you back in a half hour if you’re not home yet?”

A long pause. Finally, “If you want to.”

“I don’t
want
to! I
have
to!” I shouted. I hung up and headed for my parents’ room. I cried lightly while saying my prayers to the Virgin Mary, checking the clock and touching the doorknob. Actually, it was more like whimpering while checking the clock and touching the doorknob.

When I stood in the middle of the street I saw Mrs. McQuade looking out her window at me. I was vexed beyond belief. Didn’t she have a life?

I continued with my ritual, ignoring her as best I could. But I felt her watching me. She knew this wasn’t normal behavior. I knew she knew. She knew I knew. I didn’t want her to tell my parents. So far, they didn’t know about this quirk. Now I wouldn’t be able to spare them this either.

My heart was pounding with shame and fear. My chest started to hurt. I wondered if it was my lungs that were the trouble all along. Panting with anxiety, I ran into my sister’s bedroom again.

“Wake up!”

“What’s wrong now?” she asked. Her sleepiness was dulling the irritation in her voice.

“Mom and Dad are still not home!” I was exploding with emotion.

“So?”

“It’s after midnight.”

“So?”

“I’m—I’m worried!”

“Are you sick?”

“Yes!” I said. “I’m panting.”

“That’s because you’re running another one of your midnight Cinderella marathons.”

“So?”

“You’re not sick.”

“I’m scared.”

“Come here. Go to sleep.” I can’t!

“Then get out of here and leave me alone.”

She was maddening. I turned on the bedroom light and sat on her bed.

“Shut that light off.”

I ignored her command.

She squinted at me. “Maybe you are nuts.”

“It sure looks that way,” I admitted.

“Just go to sleep.”

“I can’t! Not until they get home. Do you think they’re all right?”

“They’re a lot more all right than you’re going to be if you don’t get out of here!” Greta staggered out of bed and looked at me menacingly. “I’m getting really sick of this, Tara. We all are. Now shut off that light and get out …
okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry too. But get out now.”

I did. And then I did my ritual five more times. All of it. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Until I saw their car turning the corner onto our street. Then I ducked back into the house and lay in my bed, pretending to be asleep. Pretending to be normal. Scared to death because I wasn’t either. Knowing they knew it too. The phone screamed like a siren. It’s never good news when the phone rings late at night.

“Hello.” My mother’s voice sounded tired. “She did
what
in the middle of the
schtreet
… street? Tonight? Hmmm.”

I was sent to another psychiatrist for an evaluation—a woman whose teeth were so badly capped that she was storing her last Cobb salad between them. She was very casual, and I don’t just mean about flossing. Her desk was untidy, and when I looked closely I could see tiny flaws or rips in her clothes. I suspected she bought them that way at a discount, and I doubted her hygiene was up to par.

“How would you describe yourself, Tara?”

I looked from the spinach in her teeth to an ashtray overflowing with paper clips. “Neat. I’m neat.”

I tapped the smooth surface of the leather chair with my right index finger. Then I did it again … and again. I felt odd, out of balance. As if I might tip over. So I tapped the smooth surface of the leather chair with my left index finger to balance it out. I realized instantly
that even if you balance yourself that way, one side always starts first. So one side always starts second. Therefore, you can never really achieve perfect proportions unless you tap at the same time with equal pressure every time. I thought about walking. Did I always start with my right foot? Did I always raise my right hand? If I did, I wondered whether my left side would wither and come to look like a big beige raisin with eczema.

“Neat as in special or cool?” the shrink asked.

“No. Neat as in orderly. I like things to be neat. Really neat. Actually,
really, really neat.”
I couldn’t help looking at a pile of messy papers on the floor behind her for emphasis.

“You mean like tabletops and counters and floors?”

“No. I mean like eyelashes, flower petals and even rice.”

“I think we’ve got a lot of work to do, you and me,” she said, in such a controlled monotone I wondered which one of us was odder.

Diagnosis: Attention Deficit Disorder. Immaturity.

B
y winter of seventh grade, my friends were sick of ignoring my quirks and started ignoring me. I couldn’t blame them. I was so wrapped up in myself that I hadn’t been much of a friend to them. Kristin was busy being hospitalized for anorexia, where she was actually scouted by a modeling agent and signed right there in her hospital room.

When Keesha heard that, she gave up all hope of ever liking Kristin, or fashion magazines, ever again. Even I didn’t have much hope for Kristin’s future, though I was sure she’d be rich and famous and happy to be getting a lot of attention for a while.

Anna was playing on a volleyball team that took up all her time. And even though Keesha and I still ate lunch together, it wasn’t fun anymore. We missed our old selves. We missed Kristin. And we really missed Anna, who now ate lunch with Wendy, the volleyball captain who hated me. I couldn’t help feeling betrayed by a weird fate. And sad. Also, it was a really cold, snowy winter and most of the cracks in the sidewalk were covered, which was not impossible, but irritating, to deal with.

Sometimes I’d just count a crack that was covered because I
remembered it was there.
And then I’d be plagued by doubt. Sometimes I’d have to kick the snow away to be sure. I hated people who didn’t shovel their sidewalks.

“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred, a hundred and one, a hundred and two …”

“Hey, Tara!”

“A hundred and three, a hundred and four …”

“Tara! Wait up!”

It was Keesha. “A hundred and five, a hundred and six …” Despite the intense cold, I was sweating.

“Tara!” Her voice didn’t sound mocking this time. She sounded
angry.

I got angry too. It felt as if my body fluids were starting to boil. I silently begged God to make her go away. “A hundred and seven, a hundred and eight …”

“Taarraa!” She was definitely pissed.

Beads of boiling sweat were snowplowing down my back. “A hundred and nine, a hundred and ten …”

“Taaarrraaa!”

She was as stubborn as I was possessed. “A hundred and eleven, a hundred and twelve, a hundred and thirteen, a hundred and fourteen, a hundred and fifteen …”

“Ta—”

“What!” My
response was furious. I was furious. My heart was beating so fast and so loud that I instinctively grabbed at my chest as I looked up to see my friend Keesha standing before me, frowning.

“Girrll, we are so sick of you!”

“Go away!”

“And if I don’t?”

“Please leave me alone, Keesha!” I was amazed at how much I was hating my old friend.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why, Keesha? Why can’t you just leave me alone! Huh?”

Keesha looked at me for a long time. “I did leave you alone. We all did. But you didn’t get better. You didn’t stop. You’re still doin’ all your weird shit. And I think it’s time to stop.”

“You think it’s time to stop!” I exploded, and lunged at her with my hands outstretched. I pushed her real hard. She almost fell down. “
I
don’t care what time
you
think it is!”
I screamed. “Do you think I want to do this! Do you think I like it?”

“You pushed me!”

“Yeah. So what?”

“You’re so afraid of being interrupted that you pushed me!”

“I’m not scared of being interrupted, you jerk! I’m … I’m scared … I’m scared of
being”
I crumpled into a ball and sat down where I was standing. I sat on a crack. Unevenly.

“Who are you anymore, Tara?”

Tears spilled over my frozen lashes and disappeared across my cheekbones. I had never felt so defeated. “I don’t know.”

Keesha leaned in toward me, but I held back. “Please,” I begged. “Leave me alone.”

“Okay.” Her face was a mask of resigned sorrow and confusion. “I will.” It was almost a whisper. And with that she turned around and started to walk away. “We thought you’d get over this …”

We who? Over this!
I felt like fainting. Instead, I screamed so loudly that Keesha froze on the spot.
“Well
…
I’m
…
not!
I’m not over it! In fact … I don’t even know what
it
is!”

“I’m sorry, Tara,” Keesha said kindly. “I just miss you. We all do.”

“I miss you too
…
and I-I miss … I miss me … I miss
me!” The icy sidewalk beneath me felt good in contrast to the heat coming out of my pores. In a fetal position, I rocked myself like a sad baby in a cold white crib. I had no language to describe my pain. I had no company in my pain. I just had pain. Isolating, solitary pain. And loneliness. And humiliation.

Keesha dropped down beside me and held me, cradling my head in her lap. “I’m sorry, Tara. I didn’t mean to make you cry! I just wanted to walk to school with you.”

I sobbed more loudly.

“Shhh. Hey, girl … it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” she said softly.

If my
eyes
hadn’t been swollen shut, I still wouldn’t have been able to look her in the face. Her kindness dissolved my very last resistance against hysteria. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to walk to school with her or anybody else ever again. I missed the way we all used to be, so badly that I felt sick. But the only thing I could do was wail. Breathless, heartbroken, frightened sobs.

B
etween March and June, several horrible things happened almost simultaneously. First and worst was my father’s heart attack.