The Edge of Anything

by Nora Shalaway Carpenter

  “This is it,” Sage said, her hand sweeping toward the fallen tree. “This is the bridge.”

  Sage pulled herself onto the roots steps, using a higher root for balance. “Careful,” she told Len. She tested a spot with her foot before stepping on it with her full weight. “There’re a few rotten parts.”

  Len inched over to the drop off, but all she saw was an ocean of fog. “How far down does that go?”

  Sage shrugged. “Far enough to matter.”

  You shouldn’t do this, Len thought, at the same time she knew that she would. That she wanted to. She secured her camera around her neck and pulled herself up.

  “There’re seats over here,” Sage said. “Or sort-of seats. Come on.”

  Len found her way to where Sage had draped herself in a crook of overlapping branches, and squeezed herself into a similar nook. The branch she leaned against swayed slightly.

  Sage tipped her head back, eyes closed. Len stuck her camera through the tree’s crevices, snapping images from all angles—close-ups of the bark; of tiny beetles, which she fended off with a stick when they got too near; of the leaf patterns above them and the mossed-over rocks that peeked through the mist below. As she adjusted her lens, her boot nicked a piece of bark. It dropped silently into the abyss. Len peered over a little farther. It would be so easy, she thought, to move just a few inches forward. To let herself tip over and fall.

  Her body shuddered, scared by her brain, and she jerked backward.

  Sage opened her eyes. “Everything okay?”

  Heat rushed Len’s whole body. Don’t tell. Don’t let her know you’re crazy. But Len couldn’t help it. It was so tiring, keeping this to herself. She was so tired of feeling tired.

  “I was thinking,” Len began, “and this, uh, it might sound crazy, because I do not want to jump off a cliff or anything, really. But sometimes…” Her eyes strayed over the tree bridge. “Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like. And how easily I could do it. Jump. You know?”

  Sage frowned.

  “It’s stupid,” Len said. “Forget it.”

  “No,” Sage said. “I’ve felt that way, too.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah.” Sage pulled her knees to her chest. “Just like you said, I don’t want to jump, but I feel like, if I’m there too long, near the edge, maybe I will.”

  “Yes!” Len said. “Exactly.”

  “It makes me feel a bit better, actually,” Sage said, “knowing I’m not the only one.” She cocked her head. “Don’t you think it’s strange that we’ve both felt that way? Like, is it a thing? Some kind of universal feeling?”

  Len’s relief at Sage’s admission was too large to give much thought to the question. Maybe she wasn’t so alone after all. Whatever was happening to her—whatever was overtaking her brain—maybe she could fight it. Like the man Dad told her about. The brain was powerful—humans only understood ten percent of it, after all. She just needed to try harder, to will it into submission. She wanted her self back. Her real self.

  “I mean, where would it come from?” Sage continued. “If we don’t want to jump, why would our brains give us that feeling?” She rested her head on her pulled-up knees. “I would love to know.”

  Len didn’t really want to talk about brains. Instead, she asked a question she hadn’t even realized had been in her mind until it slipped out: “Do you believe in an energy force? Something that, uh, kind of unites the universe?”

  Sage turned her head, still resting on her knees, to look at her. “What do you mean? Like, God?”

  Len shifted. “Not exactly, although I guess maybe it’s what some people mean by God.” Len’s family had never been religious in the typical sense. “My parents call it the Life Force. I think in Chinese philosophy there’s something called qi that’s similar—that’s what my dad said.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think I feel it connecting things. Connecting people.”

  Sage stayed quiet, and for a moment Len worried she’d offended her. What if she was uber religious and thought Len was some kind of heathen? What had she been thinking, asking a question like that? She was so stupid sometimes. But then Sage smiled. “Life Force sounds a little woo-woo for me. But do you mean like The Force in Star Wars? Because I’m totally into that.”

  Len smiled. “Yeah, I guess so. Something like that.”

  A breeze rippled the leaves like wind chimes, then whirled stronger, sending a low, eerie whistle through the crevice below them. It was just the way sound worked, how wind created ghostly calls when channeled through tight spaces, but Sage and Len still looked at each other, wide-eyed.

  “Whoa,” Sage whispered. “That was weird.”

  “A sign?” Len whispered back.

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Sage said, “but it was cool anyway.” Another gust whipped up, and this time Sage played along, rising to her knees, arms spreading. “Take it in, Len!” She giggled, clearly self-conscious, but then, slowly, her face changed. Relaxed.

  It was happening, Len realized, right in front of her. The energy force Dad was always going on about—it was flowing right there and Sage was tapping into it, soaking it in.

  Len turned her face up, the wind catching her hair, tugging strands of it free. But it wasn’t enough, the light touch on her face. She needed more. Her whole body craved it.

  In a fierce impulse, Len peeled off her gloves. The wind kissed the chapped skin of her hands. It was delicious. Mirroring Sage, she lifted onto her knees, eyes closed.

  How had she survived without this for so long—the taste of the world on her bare skin, its wildness rippling through her. Part of her shouted, Danger! But no. She could do this. She could beat down those thoughts. She could win.

  “Oh!” Sage said. “Your gloves!”

  Len opened her eyes, smiling, pleased that Sage had realized what a big deal removing them was for her. But Sage wasn’t looking at her hands.

  “There!” Sage pointed, and Len turned just in time to see the wind whisk one of her gloves along the trunk.

  “No!” Len dived after it, but too late. The glove skipped farther, then turned, airborne, and dropped into the chasm. Len’s hands dug at the bark to maintain her balance. Something wet and mushy soaked under her nails. A beetle grazed her fingertip.

  A guttural cry scraped out of her, and she yanked her hand skyward, her fingers covered with dark pieces of who-knew-what. She shrieked, a shrill, almost unnatural wail.

  “What?” Sage asked. “What is it?”

  Len pushed herself up and staggered forward, practically diving back to the ground. She dragged her hand through the grass. Some of the dark pieces fell off, but her hand was still filthy and now she’d touched the germ-ridden ground.

  Don’t do this, she willed herself. You were so close. But then she was screaming, a feral, horrible sound. She heard her name, and there was Sage beside her, her face creased and terrified.

  “It’s okay—” Sage started.

  “Does this look okay to you?” Len screamed, and Sage stepped back. Len shook her head, shook it so wildly her hair tumbled loose, the whole unbrushed mess of it, covering her neck and shoulders. She bent over, stomach threatening to empty, and gagged, all while managing to keep her unclean hand away from the rest of her body.

  “It’s only a panic attack,” Sage said, like she was some expert now. Len’s body convulsed and she stumbled, her knees buckling. She screamed again as her hands and knees hit the ground. I’m going to disintegrate, she thought wildly, lungs burning. Whatever’s happening, I can’t take it. I’m going to splinter and fall apart.

  Twigs cracked, then footsteps, and Len couldn’t believe Sage was still here, that she hadn’t abandoned her like the freak show she was. She wouldn’t have blamed her. She should have known not to get close to anyone after Nadia. But that was Len’s problem. She wasn’t careful enough. She was never careful enough. If she had been, this wouldn’t be happening. If she was careful, she wouldn’t have ruined her fam
ily’s lives.

  “Len?” Sage’s voice was unsettled, but firm. It was not—Len registered—disgusted.

  Len hiccupped, sniffling. She couldn’t touch anything. She would be down here forever, trapped in a warped version of child’s pose. Maybe this was where she would die.

  “Can you hear me?” Sage bent down, and Len met her eyes. Everything was still, the forest silent except for her labored breathing. Even the wind had fled her.

  “Please,” Len whimpered. “Get it off.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SAGE

  LEN HAD LOST HER SHIT.

  No, Sage reminded herself. It was a panic attack, like the one Sage had had after the game. Now Len needed strength, and strength was Sage’s specialty.

  Sage inched closer. Len, still on her hands and knees, held her left arm out at an odd angle, like it was an unwanted growth. She spoke, garbled and unintelligible.

  “Here,” Sage said. “Let me help you.”

  Len jerked back. “Don’t touch my hands.”

  “What?”

  “Can you—” Len was visibly shaking. Sage grabbed her elbow without any protest from Len and helped her stand. Len held her hands out, zombie-like.

  “I’m here,” Sage said. “What do you need?”

  Len’s face twisted. “I’m sorry.” She was battling with something Sage couldn’t see. That was clear.

  “It’s okay,” Sage said. Her heart twinged with pity, but also with more fascination than she cared to admit.

  “My bag.” Len’s voice broke, but at least it was louder. “There’re wipes.” She stretched her hand out farther. “Help me clean my hand.”

  Sage swallowed. “Your bag is on your back,” she said slowly. “Right there.”

  Len wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Please,” she said. “My hands… I can’t… I can’t touch my bag.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Please.”

  This was more than a panic attack, Sage realized. This was something else. Sage’s body tightened, but her game face stayed even, her take-charge instincts kicking in. She stepped behind Len and unzipped her camera bag, careful not to let anything spill. She found a travel dispenser of antibacterial wipes.

  “Here,” she said, holding them out.

  Len stared at the ground. “Can you please wipe my hands off?” The words came out in a rush. She shut her eyes tight, her whole face scrunched, then opened them again. “I know it’s weird, but please?”

  Sage suppressed the urge to let her mouth fall open. This is more than weird, she thought. Way, way more. Something was seriously wrong. Something about Len was broken.

  “Please,” Len echoed.

  Sage took a deep, steadying breath. She didn’t particularly want to clean someone else’s hands with wipes. Kayla’s voice nudged into her. Clean your own damn hands. I’m out.

  Len’s eyes remained fixed on the ground. Sage pulled out a fistful of wipes.

  “Is this why you freaked out?” she asked quietly, because it was too uncomfortable to do this in silence, to pull dirt and tree debris from the finger pads of another person. “I thought it was because you lost a glove, but was it because you touched something?”

  Len’s eyes focused on Sage’s movements. “I don’t like dirt.”

  That might be an understatement, Sage thought. She’d gotten most of the dirt off, but took another wipe from the package and ran it over each of Len’s fingers again, the way the manicurists massaged each finger bone when she and Mom went to the salon.

  “I’m sorry,” Len muttered again.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No,” Len said. “It’s not okay. I ruined it.”

  Sage looked up. “Ruined what?”

  “Everything.”

  Sage waited for her to elaborate, but instead Len pulled her hands away. “Okay,” she said, studying her palms. “That’s good.” She stuffed her hands into the front pocket of her sweatshirt, relief visibly transforming her. “Thank you.”

  Sage nodded. “Okay, I guess… um…”

  “Definitely,” Len said. “Let’s go home.”

  * * *

  Len didn’t speak as they wound back down the Parkway. But Sage couldn’t stop herself. “In the picture,” she said, “the one in your room, you aren’t wearing gloves.”

  Len hugged her bag to her chest. Sage noticed she was careful not to let any part of it touch the grass stains on her knees.

  “And that picture,” Sage continued, “you said it was from last year. That’s not that long ago.”

  Silence.

  “Look,” Sage said, “we can pretend nothing happened if you want, but we both know what happened back there wasn’t normal. That wasn’t just a panic attack.”

  Len made a show of turning to the passenger window.

  Sage tried again. “When did you first start—?”

  “I don’t know,” Len snapped, which made Sage think that, in fact, she did.

  Sage gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Why’d you want to go hiking if you don’t like getting dirty?”

  Len put a hand to her temple. “I love hiking.” Her voice was thin. “Or loved. I wanted to still be able to do it. But I think it’s getting worse.”

  Dread crawled into Sage’s chest, dry and scratchy. “What is getting worse?”

  Len still wouldn’t look at her. “You don’t want to know.”

  When they pulled into Len’s driveway, Len muttered a quick “thanks” and jumped out before Sage could say anything else.

  “Hey!” Sage cut the engine and jumped out to follow her. Len turned, surprised.

  “I, um, need to go the bathroom,” Sage said.

  Len frowned. “Okay.” She jiggled the lock and the door open. “Back there, you remember?” She pointed through the kitchen. “First door on the right.”

  “Thanks.” Sage found herself in the small, green-tiled bathroom that probably hadn’t been renovated since the seventies. She hadn’t noticed before, but the shower curtain was whale themed. Several bottles of essential oils lined the mirror, as well as four different types of gemstones. Sage’s eyebrows rose. She couldn’t really get a read on the Madders. She waited several moments, stalling, then washed her hands.

  As soon as she returned, Len moved past her with a quick “you can let yourself out, yeah?” and it hit Sage that that must be the only bathroom in the house. The bathroom door shut, and Sage found herself alone in the tiny kitchen. A quick look around told her there was no one else home. Somewhere, wind chimes clinked, but the sound was soon drowned out by running water. Shower water. The hand wipes apparently hadn’t been good enough.

  Sage sat down at the table. There was no way she could leave Len alone, not after the major freak-out she’d just had. She pulled out her phone. The first phrase she Googled—freaks out if gets dirty—yielded a bunch of hits about the wrong kind of dirty.

  “Ugh,” Sage muttered, deleting the results.

  Wears gloves all the time didn’t fare much better. She scrolled through each hit, but none of them offered any kind of explanation. Sage slumped back in the chair. There had to be an answer somewhere, but she couldn’t figure out how to ask the question. She didn’t have the right words.

  She sat up, because that was it. It was just like her Lit teacher had said last year every time someone suggested a research essay topic: It’s not specific enough. How will you research that?

  Sage reopened the Google app, replaying Len’s despair over and over. Be specific. She bit her cheek and typed: severe panic attack from dirt.

  These hits were much more on target, offering the difference between panic attacks, panic disorders, and anxiety attacks. Sage’s eyes widened. Who knew they were different? She almost clicked on the first hit, but no, it wasn’t really what she needed. She thumbed down further, skimming the summaries of each one.

  “Come on,” she breathed. “I don’t know how else to explain it.” She scrolled again. There had to be something else. Something she was missing. />
  Suddenly, as she was about to clear the search and start again, a phrase caught her eye: contamination fear.

  “You’re still here.”

  Sage’s head shot up. Len stood in the kitchen doorway, fingering the neck of a new sweatshirt with her gloved hands. How many gloves did the girl own? The pink towel wrapping her wet hair slipped slightly. She couldn’t quite meet Sage’s eyes. “Why?”

  Sage made a face. “Um, I don’t know, to make sure you’re okay?”

  Len’s mouth pinched, like she couldn’t understand the answer.

  “What happened, Len?” Sage stood and took a small step forward, the linoleum creaking beneath her. “What happened to you?”

  Len’s hand shot up, freezing her. “Don’t,” she said. “Please, don’t.”

  Sage wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing, but not getting Len to talk felt worse. She took a breath. “I never had a panic attack before,” she said. “Not once in my whole life. Until I found out… until my life changed. Forever.”

  Len’s lip trembled with the effort of holding herself together. Sage recognized that look.

  “Something happened to me,” Sage said. “Something must have happened to you.”

  “If they knew,” Len started, and it was like she was talking to someone else, someone far away. Then she blinked and her focus returned to Sage. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I had to wipe dirt off your fingers, Len. Try me.”

  The words cracked something in Len, the tremble in her lips overtaking her body. She stepped forward, stumbling to reach one of the chairs. The towel holding her hair unraveled and dropped to the floor. “I didn’t mean to.” Sage took her elbow, cold seeping into her as drops from Len’s wet hair fell on her arm. “But it was me,” Len said. “It was my fault.”

  Sage guided her to the seat, then crouched beside her.