Under Rose-Tainted Skies (15 page)

I wince. ‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. When I start thinking about stuff, when my mind gets too busy, more often than not I forget to engage a filter—'

‘Norah, it's okay,' he interjects. ‘You don't have to panic. I don't mind talking about it. Besides, I think I owe you a little bit of background, right?' He smiles and I wonder if it's too soon to suggest we get married. ‘My dad has what my mom calls wanderlust.'

‘Wanderlust?'

‘He likes to travel. Like, he really likes to travel.' He's looking at me as though I should understand. I don't think he realizes how little he's said, but the puzzled expression on my face clues him in.

‘This is going to sound so messed-up,' he says right before he jams his thumb knuckle in his mouth and starts chewing on it.

‘Messed-up is kind of my default.' I smile, can't help it. Can't help noticing that he just inadvertently told me he doesn't see all the things that are wrong with me.

‘So my mom's been a flight attendant all her life,' he says. ‘She met my dad on board a flight to Argentina when they were in their early twenties. He's a traveller. A real home-is-where-I-hang-my-hat type of guy.'

‘The souvenir stickers on his van?'

‘All the places he's been.' Wow. There were a lot of stickers. ‘My mom doesn't think he'll stop moving until he's been everywhere there is to be and seen everything there is to see.' You can tell his mom said that. The words are romantic, spoken by a woman in love. His hands ball into fists; he pushes his knuckles together and they pop.

‘Are you angry at him?'

‘No. Not any more, but I used to be.' Luke turns his chin and looks at me, his eyes narrow, pain clouding the usually luminous jade of them. ‘It's a sickness. He tried to stay with us, build a home. Actually, he's tried it a few times, but he gets so depressed when he stops moving.'

Huh. He's like me, only in reverse.

‘So, your parents, are they separated?'

‘They're separated in the sense that there is physical distance between them. But they're still married. Still
madly in love. That is, he's not trawling the world looking for a new family. He says it's not about us, that he loves us both unconditionally.' Luke takes a breath. ‘It's such a noble word,
unconditional
. Brave. Blindly committing to situations it knows nothing about.' He gets lost staring at the space in front of him, focusing on nothing in particular. I don't know where his head is. I'm not sure he does either. I wish I could lace my fingers through his and lead him back to the safety of my stairs.

‘I used to get mad at my mom because she wouldn't make him stay. She would tell me I was too young to understand. But what was there to understand? He couldn't have loved us because he kept leaving us.' He dusts his bottom lip with his thumb, and for a second, I wonder if he's going to start snacking on his nails. Because I would. Instead, he stands up, trots down the stairs, and starts pacing. I don't hold him back. I don't hold him back or try to make him sit because I hate it when I'm spinning and people try to make me be still.

‘Then, three years ago, the summer I turned fifteen, he comes home, rolls up the drive in his camper, bearing gifts of ice cream cake and a replica Super Bowl ring. There's something different about this visit, though . . .' He turns to look at me for the first time since he started moving. ‘I mean, he's always happy to see us, but this particular time I remember thinking,
He's not just happy, he's relieved
.

‘One week turns into two, two turns into three, and he's still hanging around eight weeks later.' His eyes twinkle as he relives the memory. I like this part of the story.

‘We didn't even do anything, just hung out at the old house like a pair of losers, eating Cheetos and watching
Cartoon Network. My dad is a nice guy, you know? Not like one of those phony family guys on infomercials, with the blindingly white teeth and side parting. I mean, he forgets to shave and has zero sense of style, but he's warm. He smiles a lot, sees the good in everything and everyone. He hurts for people he's never met, pays it forward like it's his religion. I think you'd like him.' I nod because I think I would too.

‘So my mom gets him this job at the airport, working in security, and I get the biggest kick out of seeing him at the breakfast table every morning. Both of them grabbing coffee before they head off to work. Real Rockwell kind of moments, you know? I thought, this is it; he's staying for sure. Whatever crazy stuff was happening inside his head has vanished, and he's going to be able to stay happy here now.' Luke stops moving, like he's bumped into a brick wall. I don't speak because I can see he's trying really hard to work through his thoughts, possibly push down some unwanted emotion.

He closes his eyes, inhales strength, exhales sadness. ‘The smiling happy faces made it easy to ignore him pacing around at night, skipping meals, all the sudden onsets of silence. I'd never seen him cry until the week before he went again, when I found him curled up on our kitchen floor, drawing circles in some sugar that he'd spilt. See, the plan was for him to come home and stay home. But the depression came back and started kicking his ass until he couldn't stand it.

‘I love him . . . unconditionally. I mean, yeah, sometimes I see how miserable his calls to cancel a trip home make my mom. And sometimes, as you know, I lose my shit and
yell at him over the phone in the middle of the night. But then I remember that I would give back those eight weeks, every single minute of every single day, if it meant never having to see him that broken again.'

‘I'm sorry,' I tell him. I'm not sure if that's the right thing to say. I'm not sure there even is a right thing to say.

‘Don't be.' He pauses. ‘This might sound odd, but I can't wish he were any different, you know? Like, I can't start wishing away pieces of his personality, because then he wouldn't be my dad.'

The bridge of my nose pricks. I keep my eyes wide open because I know if I blink, I'll leak tears. Mom's said the same thing to me, about me, more than once, usually after I've apologized for acting like a freak.

‘You must think I'm awful.' Luke's chin touches his chest. ‘Shouting at him like that when he can't help the way his brain is wired.'

‘No!' I counter vehemently, clinging to the banister bars and pushing my face up to the gap. ‘Are you kidding? Some days I wonder how my mom hasn't killed me. We've only argued a couple of times since I got sick, and hell, we scream the place down. But no matter how loud we yell, we never love each other any less. I totally get it. It's hard from both sides. I understand. I really do.'

‘Wow.' He chuckles through the following few moments of awkwardness, then comes back and sits down on the stairs beside me. ‘You know, you're the only person I've ever told about all of this.' I feel honoured. Privileged. I know how hard it is to part with private information. ‘He's not around often. I'm pretty sure that's left most of my friends thinking he's dead.'

‘They've never met him?'

‘No. You're the first to even see him, which feels kind of odd.' He looks up, looks down, picks at the seam on the side of his jeans before turning to me again. ‘It feels kind of good to get it off my chest too.

‘Anyway . . .' he says, clearing his throat. He straightens his shoulders and coughs testosterone around the room. ‘He's coming back at Christmas. Has promised to stick around an entire week this time.'

‘That's awesome.' I fix a fake smile and nod enthusiastically. The urge to cushion a potential fall with clichéd warnings about not getting his hopes up is strong, but somehow I swallow it.

I'm exhausted. I try to sit up straight, but my spine is made of sponge, so instead I slump forward, lean on my knees, and stare idly out of the porch windows. He does the same.

‘You know those people who bring down a banging party by singing ultra-slow, bleeding-heart ballads on the karaoke?' I ask him.

‘Yeah?'

‘We should do that as a job, but, like, tell our stories instead of singing,' I tease. He bursts out laughing. Like a yawn, I catch it, start laughing until my sides split open and all the misery that's been burning my lungs spills out on to the stairs.

‘Well, Neighbour, it's been a ton of
fun
, but I gotta make tracks. Face the music.' He's nearly two hours late for school already. I guess it wouldn't be fair of me to suggest he stay until we run out of words. Plus, I have grades that are in serious need of inflation.

We stroll towards the door in silence, both trying to make the walk last longer by taking slow steps. Well, that's what I'm doing, and despite having longer legs, he keeps pace beside me, so I think it's safe to assume it's what he's doing too.

‘I have a question,' Luke says as he heads out on to the porch. I'm kind of impressed he can fight the friction enough to spin on the balls of his boots, but he does. ‘It's hypothetical.'

‘Okay.'

This might be serious. His lips pull into a straight line and I brace myself against the door frame, ready, for the past hour, to be blasted to smithereens by what he has to ask.

‘How does a person, let's say a guy, in this case, go about making plans with a girl who can't leave her house?' He lowers his chin, looks at me from under his eyebrows. ‘Hypothetically,' he reminds me. It's lucky I'm holding on to something so I can't fall down dead.
Her heart just exploded
is what they'd have to engrave on my headstone.

‘Well,' I whisper, because this has to be a dream and I'm afraid talking too loud will wake me up. ‘
Hypothetically speaking
, he would probably have to ask her. Then, I don't know, maybe if the girl likes movies, they could watch one together?' I shrug, wish I were wearing a sweater so I'd have a sleeve to hide behind. I toe the brass runner at the bottom of the door.

‘Hey, Norah, you wanna watch a movie with me on Friday?'

‘Yes.'

I
spend Tuesday walking around on colourful clouds. Sort of. Occasionally my brain forces me to think about all the ways my date with Luke could go wrong, then my energy goes into trying not to fall off the clouds and land in a mangled mess on the ground below.

On Wednesday it takes me almost six hours to complete a math assignment. Luke is in my head (sans all the morbid BS about disaster dates), and I don't want to waste time trying to figure out angles of triangles. I want to listen to the Love Life Live acoustic sessions on 98.6 FM and think about the colour of his eyes, the curve of his jaw, the sound of his voice.

Thursday goes like both of the above, except there's this low-level buzz of frustration simmering beneath my bones. I'm moody, irritable. I want to scratch off my scalp when the obnoxious guy on TV starts raving about politics with what seems to be nothing more than a first-grade education. Mom's response to my ranting and raving is ‘You've got it bad for this boy.' I've no idea how she's
deduced this. I was simply trying to explain that people who don't know facts shouldn't be allowed to contribute to important discussions.

My mood lifts around seven that night when I find a neatly folded note on the doormat and read a single line written in perfect handwriting.

See you tomorrow, Neighbour.

It's Friday. Thank God. When did they start adding hours to weekdays?

I climb out of bed like a normal person, no rolling, flopping, or crawling. Straightforward steps, all grown up. I pull on jeans and a black, slightly fluffy, slightly sparkly sweater without wincing once. It's like New Year's Eve up in here. I'm making resolutions to better myself every five seconds.

I sit down at my dressing table, something I haven't done in for ever. The thing is antique, dark, way too big for my room. It's the sort of dresser you see on the set of a horror movie. That's what my gran said when she gave it to me. We both agreed it was magnificent.

Good Lord. I get a sharp shock when I first see myself in the mirror; it's like being snuck up on by a ghost. My enthusiasm for today wanes a little.

An increase in worry and a decrease in sleep has been screwing with my face. Pretty sure my current diet of cheese and sugar isn't helping anything either. Like a sculptor, I pull at the skin on my cheeks, the sag under my eyes, the creases on my forehead, but I am not clay. No matter how hard my fingers try, they can't banish the Crypt Keeper from my reflection.

I open my dresser drawer. It's full of make-up samples
that Gran used to send me every time K. Maine launched a new something-or-other. It's all unopened. Make-up takes a lot of effort for someone who only puts on real pants approximately fifty days out of the year. I'd been planning to sell it online, buy myself a new phone instead, but today seems like a good day to indulge. Plus, Gran used to swear that a smear of lipstick and a dash of mascara was magic because it never failed to make her feel more confident. Confidence is something I could always use more of. Especially when I have a date.

I root through the drawer, check labels, tear off cellophane, and streak various shades on the back of my hand. Who knew lipstick came in so many colours? I find five different reds, four pinks, three browns, two purples, and a stick of jet black.

I line them all up in a neat little row along the edge of my dresser, select one, and test it against my cheek. It's times like this when I could really use a girlfriend to come over and help me figure out which shade suits me best. At this rate, I'm going to miss my date completely.

I'm pretty sure I break the record for time spent choosing lipstick. I've lost two hours, and after all the
umm
-ing and
ahh
-ing, I settle on the first colour I found.

It had to be red. Red makes my eyes pop and my pale skin look less like a tragedy and more like art. Rose red. I'm not brave enough to wear the shade called Fire; it looks too much like blood and makes me think of vampires.

Thank God there are only two types of mascara. And as my life is no John Hughes movie, I put the blue colour
back in the box and paint my lashes black. Easy.

This time when I catch sight of my reflection, I'm startled for a whole new reason. A better reason. The Norah staring back at me in the mirror looks so different from the Norah that was here before. This Norah looks vaguely normal, alive, not consumed by her mental health.

‘Norah.' Mom knocks on my door. I jump, lift my wrist, ready to wipe the lipstick from my mouth. I'm not sure why, but I feel like I'm five and she's about to catch me using her expensive perfume as furniture polish.

‘Nor, are you awake?'

My door opens. She's coming in and I still haven't wiped away the red lipstick. It's bright and I'm worried that if I smudge it across my face, it'll stain the way cherry soda does. Panic pulls Mom's mouth open when she looks at my already-made bed and doesn't see me lazing around on it.

‘Hey,' she says when she finally finds me, all shock. I can't decide if it's because I'm wearing clothes or because I'm sitting at a dressing table I haven't used since the day it arrived. ‘I thought you'd still be in bed.'

‘I thought you'd be at work,' I mutter from behind my hand. I wonder if I can get away with sucking the lipstick off. Probably not. She's shocked, not stupid. Besides, I'd have to google side effects of eating lipstick before I'd feel comfortable swallowing it. Thick lines of worry crease Mom's brow.

‘I'm taking the day off. What's with the floating hand?' She heads into my room, limping. With a wince, she sits down on the bed and straightens out her legs. She's wearing oversize zebra slippers and I can't quite make out
what's wrong with her feet.

‘What's with the limp?' I say, still hiding my mouth.

‘Nothing much.' Mom flinches, ever so slightly, but there's not a lot I don't see.

‘Your hip hurts?' I ask. Mom rolls her eyes because my all-seeing anxiety never lets her have secrets for long.

‘I guess I'm having a little trouble putting weight on it today.'

I forget about my mini-makeover, drop my hand and flee to my cell at the side of the bed. ‘We should call the doctor. What if the hospital missed something? What if it's broken? Did you know people can walk around for years with broken bones? It's like that doctor said about your wrist – broken bones can set funny and cause years of endless agony.'

‘Gee. Thanks for that, Little Miss Sunshine.' She snorts. Right. That was perhaps a touch morbid. ‘It really suits you, by the way.'

‘What does?' I grab hold of my cell. My agony until the sweet release of death drags you under comment might have been morbid, but the concern still stands. I'm getting ready to call a doctor.

‘The lipstick.'

‘Oh.' I shrug, channelling my embarrassment into scratching off a scab on the side of my thumb. ‘I think I feel silly. I mean, I didn't when I first put it on, but when you knocked, I wanted to take it off.'

‘Why?' Mom pats the bed beside her. I slump over, slosh through the murky puddle that is this morning's can-do attitude, and flop down beside her.

‘I don't know.' But I do know, and she knows it, which
is why she waits for me to elaborate. ‘Does it look like I'm trying too hard? I don't want him to think I'm trying to be flashy. And what if he doesn't like it, or thinks it looks bad? What if—'

‘Stop.' Mom grabs my shoulders, pushes her face into mine, and eyeballs me. ‘Go back to that second you first put it on. Can you do that?' I nod, a little too scared to do anything else. She makes me think of one of those angry guys on TV, the ones who try to sell beds at crazy discounted prices.

‘How did you feel? Just you? Nobody else.'

I close my eyes, cast my mind back to the second I saw my reflection. It's like Gran said, I felt confident. My lips feel slick as they pull into a smile.

‘I felt good.'

‘Then that's all that matters. You are beautiful, always. You would be beautiful if you got a giant butterfly tattooed across your face. Beauty comes from how you treat people and how you behave. But if a little lipstick makes you smile, then you should wear it and forget what anyone else thinks.' That's exactly how she lives. Just ask her closet full of bright colours and crazy patterns.

I open my eyes, give her a hug, kiss her on the cheek, and stamp it with a big red rosebud.

‘Now, about my hip . . .'

‘Right. Call the doctor.' I unlock the screen of my phone.

‘Hold your horses, sweetie,' she whinnies at me. ‘I don't need a doctor. I had it X-rayed at the hospital. It's not broken, just badly bruised. So you can quit worrying about the bones setting out of shape.' I'm still ready to call
a doctor. Bruising means bleeding.

‘It is fine,' she repeats. ‘What I need to do is rest it. Doctor's orders, which I've maybe ignored a little bit since I got back home.' I don't yell at her. She's in pain so I let this one slide.

‘Then rest,' I reply. ‘No more pottering around the garden or popping out until it feels better . . .' She sees the second I remember what's supposed to happen today.

‘Yep,' Mom says.

‘Ugh. I have a therapy appointment.'

Forgotten again.

What is it about Luke that sucks away part of my memory? Is this normal? On The Hub, people talk about kissing. The kids who are lucky enough to have evaded detection by family members sometimes post about reaching second base. They talk a lot about where they eat and post the funny snippets of conversation they have, but to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever mentioned memory loss. Mental note: after my date, research the side effects you encounter when in the presence of good-looking guys.

So today I get a date with Luke, and, seeing as how Mom can't walk, let alone work a brake pedal, an impending free pass on therapy, maybe?

‘Don't get too excited, missy . . .' Maybe not. ‘I really don't think you should be skipping a session right now. I'm going to call and ask Dr Reeves if she wouldn't mind paying one last visit to the house instead.' It's like spending all of your allowance on a triple-scoop ice cream cone with hot fudge sauce only to drop it before you get a single lick. Don't get me wrong, Dr Reeves is great, but I
could have done without the emotional trauma of a session today. Damn. So close.

Dr Reeves won't mind. She'll come over, I know she will, because despite the fact that Mom pays her, I think she quite likes me.