The Edge of Anything

by Nora Shalaway Carpenter

  “I think that’s a good option,” Mom said. “Don’t you?”

  Sage blinked. “Huh?”

  Mom frowned, registering that Sage hadn’t heard most of what she’d said. “Coach said you can get on as a manager with a college team,” she explained, “and transition to a coaching position from there. Probably even a big-time program. He’s got lots of strings he can pull.”

  Something ugly wedged itself in Sage’s throat. What Mom suggested, being so close to people living out her dream, watching them every single day, while she had to sit there? Her body shook with loathing.

  “Sage?” Dad started for her, but Sage waved him off. She curled tight against her pillow.

  “She might not want to be a manager,” another voice said.

  Sage startled. Ian watched her from the beanbag chair beneath a shelf overflowing with MVP plaques and trophies. His long body hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Had he been there the whole time?

  “Why?” Mom looked genuinely confused.

  “It sounds like a fresh form of hell,” Ian said. “To me, anyway. Being so close to other people doing what you can’t do anymore.”

  Sage gave him a tiny, grateful nod.

  “Right,” Mom said. “Okay, we won’t decide anything now.” She rubbed her forehead. “Ian, honey, what time do I need to drop you at the field today?” Her eyes cut to Sage. “I mean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” Her face buckled, close to tears.

  “You can still talk about sports in front of me,” Sage snapped, fire blooming inside her. “I’m not fragile. I can handle it.”

  “I know you’re not—” Mom covered her eyes, but tears slipped around her fingers. “I’m sorry, Sage. I don’t—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Dad slipped his arm around her, like she was the one needing comfort. Sage didn’t want to feel pissed at them. They were trying to help, she knew that. Nothing prepares you for this kind of shit. Still, sparks of rage flicked inside her. Just the smallest breath, she knew, could ignite them. “I wanna be alone now,” she managed.

  Dad nodded. Mom kissed Sage’s forehead and said she’d be back to check on her, that they’d get through this together.

  “Would you like to go to the school later, to the gym?” Dad asked. “I could pass for you, if you wanted.”

  “Alek, no.” Mom looked like he’d suggested that Sage set herself on fire. “It’s too risky.”

  “It’s not like she can’t touch a volleyball,” Dad said. “Dr. Friedman said she can bump and set, minor things like that, as long as her heart rate doesn’t increase.” He glanced at Sage, expression pained. “As long as it’s on her own.”

  Sage curled back into her pillow. It was one of the most unfair things about the whole treacherous business. She didn’t have to never move, but she’d been ordered to “listen to her body.” To pay acute attention to any changes in her breath or heart rhythm. To slow activity immediately if she felt in any way stressed.

  Dr. Friedman had called Sage personally as soon as she and Mom got home from last night’s game. Sage suspected that Mom had called him after getting the second opinion, but he’d apparently requested to speak to Sage. Sage had asked, in every way possible, why she couldn’t listen to her body while playing on her team, but for as concerned as he was, Dr. Friedman was just as firm as he’d been in his office. Ethically, she could not be cleared to play. There was no changing that. No loopholes, no way around it, nothing at all he could do. Sage simply could not participate in any kind of practice or game setting.

  “What do you think, honey?” Dad nudged. “The gym?”

  “Not today,” Sage said, facing the wall. Her body, already thrown off by her missed run, ached to sweat. To sprint, to scream, to punch something until her hands bled. To fly on the high of her endorphins. But none of that fell under the “relatively safe” forms of exercise Dr. Friedman had listed.

  “This isn’t the answer, Sage. Staying in bed—”

  “Leave her be, Alek,” Mom said. Sage heard her approach again, felt the coolness of her palm stroking her forehead. “I’ll be back in a little while,” Mom whispered. “You just rest.”

  She heard the two of them leave together, their footsteps not quite in sync as they moved down the hall. Sage kept silent. She hadn’t heard Ian leave and was almost certain he was still in the room. She thought she heard him breathe.

  “Sage?” he asked after a minute.

  Her fingers clenched the pillow.

  “I just wanted to say—”

  “Don’t. Please.”

  “I’m sorry.” He said it anyway.

  She wished she could look at him, to give him permission not to feel guilty, like she knew he wanted. The pillowcase zipper dug into her chin, but she didn’t turn. No part of her body would move.

  “I guess,” Ian said to the back of her, “I’ll leave you alone, but—” His voice was deeper than usual, scratchy and hoarse from last night’s victory. Sage squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m around,” he said. “Okay? Like, if you need anything.” The floorboards creaked beneath him. “You just let me know.”

  Sage realized she was holding her breath. She forced herself to take in air, to nod. To acknowledge him. She could give him that much.

  Her ears followed his footsteps down the hall, down the stairs. The front door opened, as she expected, then shut. Like she did—or, rather, like she’d done until now—Ian dealt with things by movement. By pushing his body to the max to clear his brain.

  She imagined she could hear his steps still, his trainers thudding against the cracked sidewalk, gradually picking up speed. She opened her eyes.

  Ian was a good brother, miles beyond most teenage boys she knew. She was surrounded by good people, in fact. By people who cared for and loved her, all of whom wanted to help. She figured that would have made a difference.

  It didn’t, though. Good intentions were worthless when no one knew what to do with them. When no one had an inkling of what to do or say. When no one could even begin to imagine how she felt.

  She rolled over, wrapping herself in the comforter, exhaustion consuming her for no reason at all. She gave in to it, her last thought the recognition of dreaming of a small, empty boat. There was no way to steer it, she noticed. No motor, no sail or oars. She didn’t care, climbed in anyway, and let herself float off, adrift.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LEN

  LEN WAS USED TO BEING THE LAST TO KNOW THINGS. BUT as eyebrows raised and questions rippled through the crowd at Monday’s volleyball match, she knew she wasn’t the only one confused about why the team’s star sat the bench.

  Sage glanced at the scoreboard. Southview was losing spectacularly.

  Sage’s replacement, a junior with spiky, orange-dyed hair, seemed decent enough; it wasn’t like she was embarrassing herself, but even Len could tell she wasn’t in the same universe as Sage talent-wise. It wasn’t just that, though. The absence of Sage changed something much deeper about the team than the makeup of the roster.

  She watched a girl in the back row pass the ball, straight up, causing confusion about who should pass next. When Sage was on the court, they all moved together, almost like one organism. This match, though, the Southview players were subdued, their reaction times slower. Sage’s absence roared in the silence, her energy—now that it was gone—clearly vital to the team’s life force. Len wondered why Sage wasn’t calling out support from the bench.

  “This is gonna be three and done,” a man near her said. “I can’t believe it. That hasn’t happened all season.”

  “Don’t think that way,” said a woman. “They might rally.”

  The man snorted.

  Len tucked forward, elbows on knees. She was far from an expert, but she had to agree with the man on this one. If the team was an organism, Sage must be its heart. Without her, nothing worked right.

  “They’re going to drop three places in the standings at least,” the man continued. “I don�
�t get it. Hannah said Sage just had a sprain.”

  “Has anyone talked to Alek?” asked the woman. Together they turned to the top row of the bleachers. Len followed their gaze. A man sat there, alone, his high cheekbones a mirror of Sage’s. He hunched over a smartphone, typing madly.

  Coach’s sharp voice brought her attention back to the court. “Substitution.” His voice was loud, but stale. He’d screamed his head off the first two games, as if he could replace Sage’s missed energy; but now, as the third game wound down, he’d gone cold and quiet.

  Not for the first time, Len’s eyes trailed to Sage, who sat stiffly beside the assistant coach. As far as Len could tell, Sage hadn’t opened her mouth the entire match. Once, the girl from her study hall—Kayla—had put a hand on Sage’s shoulder, but not in the usual, shoulder-slap way. Her expression reminded Len of a funeral home. Len’s memory ping ponged back to Sage under the bleachers, how an almost-palpable despair had clung to her. Maybe something even darker. Len tried to shut the word from her thoughts, just in case, but it only slammed into her harder—death.

  The word burned her nose and behind her eyes, so Len pinched the inside of her thigh. The last thing she needed was to cry right now in front of everyone. She could already hear the taunts: crazy, crying Len, or Crybaby Lemon.

  She pinched harder, until the sting in her nose faded. Her eyes stayed clear. She’d probably have a bruise on her thigh, but it was totally worth it.

  “Excuse me.” The man from the top bleacher bench—Sage’s dad, Len assumed—moved down the aisle steps. He gripped a briefcase in one hand, phone in the other.

  Len leaned forward, watching him descend behind the team. He spoke, and Sage turned, her lips tight and thin. Whatever he said, she nodded, and he left, her eyes glued to the exit long after he’d walked through.

  The whistle sounded, and the team trotted to the sidelines. Sage stood up to join the outskirts of the huddle, and that’s when Len noticed: Sage was shaking.

  Len pulled her camera from its bag, zooming in to be sure, but yes, there was no doubt. Sage even grabbed one hand with the other, trying to get them to stop. She stepped away from her team and fanned herself. Len lowered the camera.

  No one else seemed to notice, and the game resumed. Southview rallied a bit, and for a moment Len thought they might force a fourth game, but no. The match was over. Sage stood, but instead of joining the handshake line, grabbed her bag from the bleachers and shot out of the gym.

  Len’s indecision lasted only a heartbeat. Then she was fumbling down the bleachers and out the door. She picked her way through the parking lot, keeping to the asphalt directly under the lights in order to see her footing.

  Just when she started to think her intuition had been wrong, she heard it. Stifled breaths. Gasping.

  She found Sage between two compact cars, doubled over and sucking air that her body didn’t seem to know what to do with. Len bent next to her, speaking before she lost her nerve.

  “I think you’re having a panic attack.”

  Sage’s eyes rolled up at her, pupils wide and dilated, just before she stumbled and dropped to one knee on the asphalt. Len wanted to touch her but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

  “You’re okay,” Len said instead, parroting the advice she’d read, about how to come down from an attack. “It doesn’t feel like it, I know, but you’re okay.” It was unnerving, seeing someone this way. Part of her wanted to flee, to give Sage privacy, because this was personal, and maybe she shouldn’t be seeing it. But a bigger part of her knew she couldn’t leave.

  Sage grabbed on to Len’s arm, making her flinch.

  “I can’t—” Sage gasped.

  “Can’t breathe,” Len said. “I know it feels that way.” She wished Sage would move her hand. “Just keep trying. The choking feeling will go away.”

  The hard crack of the gymnasium door banging open announced the crowd’s exit from the gym. Voices drifted nearer. Sage’s breathing got worse and she ducked lower, trying to hide from view. Len understood that feeling, too, though only now, seeing it on someone else, did she recognize it for what it was: shame.

  “Is one of these yours?” Len asked, nodding at the cars that flanked them.

  Sage shook her head, her eyes widening even further as she registered what that meant. People were coming. Lots of people. Someone was going to see her this way. “My dad,” she managed between breaths. “He… had to run… to his office.” She sucked in another gulp of air. “He thought we’d go to a fourth game.”

  Len made another split-second decision. “You think you can walk?”

  Sage nodded, her face ashen.

  “Okay.” She helped Sage up. “My house isn’t far, just across the road behind the trees. You can stay there, if you want, until the attack clears.”

  Sage choked down another breath and nodded. Then Len started walking, Sage shuffling as fast as she could beside her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SAGE

  SAGE WASN’T SURE WHAT SHE WAS DOING, LETTING LEN lead her away from the school. But Dad had left—an urgent call, apparently—and she had to get as far from everything as possible. Her brain felt like a bruise, and she tried to shove out the thought that refused to leave her head. Never—not since Sage first picked up a volleyball—had Dad left one of her games early. Not until today.

  She stumbled on a piece of broken macadam, and Len steadied her, leading her across the parking lot to the crosswalk. Sage’s breathing became more regular, her terror dulling to an aching discomfort. Still, her nerves were taut, her entire body on edge.

  “Right up here,” Len said, as they crossed into an unkempt neighborhood. Even though it was dark, she’d driven by this area enough to know exactly what it held: a cluster of trailers and cheap ranches built decades ago, before the area had become desirable. She’d always wondered who lived back here—she and Kayla had even talked about it once—in this place she’d only heard referred to as “the trash triangle.” A rush of shame ached her bones, and she lowered her head more, as if Len had heard her thoughts.

  They passed the first house, whose porch still had Christmas lights on the banister and a deflated Santa crumpled in its front yard. Sage hadn’t noticed the tiny, curvy side road before, but that’s what they followed to an even smaller house. The siding’s color, illuminated by a flickering light above the front porch, reminded her of what she’d expelled last night under the bleachers.

  Len turned the knob, then threw her shoulder against the door, which shuddered as it unstuck. She could leave, Sage thought. She wasn’t herself, but she wasn’t terrified anymore. She no longer felt like she was dying. But when she looked back toward the school, the gym lights just visible through the trees, the out-of-control feeling swelled again. The gym wouldn’t be vacant yet. Teammates and fans always loitered.

  Sage followed Len inside the house.

  Spaghetti smells tinged the air, mingling with something else, something industrial. Sage sniffed. Paint?

  “Hey, Dad,” Len said into the room on their left. A man sat on a tired couch, his hand flicking intense strokes over the canvas set up before him. If he heard them, he gave no indication. Len shrugged at Sage and kept walking. Somewhere, a woman’s muffled voice came through the walls—a one-sided conversation, like she was on the phone.

  Len opened a door. “Here.” She smoothed her comforter, a bright orange sunburst that caught Sage off guard. She’d expected lots of black.

  “You, uh, should probably lie down,” Len said. “I’ll get you some water.”

  As soon as Sage was alone, the tremor returned. She sat on the bed, wrapping her arms around herself to try to get a grip. She’d done so well, she thought, sitting the bench without cracking. Letting her teammates’ and the fans’ confusion roll off her without letting it in. She hadn’t been able to cheer, though. She’d have to work on that.

  Only yesterday had she told Kayla that she couldn’t play, and she’d only been able to text,
not speak the words aloud. Even when her phone exploded afterward with Kayla’s calls and texts—dozens of them—Sage had managed only the barest of responses:

  Kayla: OMG OMG. Should I tell the team?

  Sage: No

  Kayla: Ella? Hannah?

  Sage: No one. Not yet.

  Kayla: OK let me know what to do.

  Kayla: Im so sorry

  Kayla: We’ll figure it out.

  Kayla: How can I help? What do you need?

  She remembered the answer she’d wanted to type: a new heart. What she wrote instead: Idk.

  Kayla had kept texting after that, but Sage had turned off her phone.

  Part of her knew that keeping her condition secret wouldn’t solve anything. But she reasoned that her sudden ineligibility would be such a blow to her team’s confidence, and such a boon to their opponents’, that they might not even make the tournament. She wanted to delay a public announcement as long as possible.

  At least, that’s what she told Coach, and he’d reluctantly agreed to go along with her idea. For a little while, he’d said, and she’d pretended not to hear the concern in his voice.

  Sage pulled a loose thread from Len’s comforter. She really wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t lie down on a stranger’s bed. That was too uncomfortable.

  Len appeared at the doorway, a plastic cup in her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Sage said, fresh mortification washing over her. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Len handed her the cup. “You should drink this.”

  “Have you had one before?” Sage asked. “A panic attack?” She took a sip. “Is that how you knew what was happening?”

  Len rocked back on her heels, avoiding Sage’s eyes. It was a pretty personal question, Sage realized, so she added, “It was terrifying.”

  Finally, Len gave a tight nod. “It’s like a wave, you know?”

  Sage frowned. “What is?”

  “The panic.” Her eyes found the laptop on the Ikea desk beside her. “I read about it. The panic rolls over you, so you have to keep breathing even when it gets worse, when it feels like you’re drowning. That’s the top of the wave.” She looked back at Sage. “It gets better after, before it comes back.”