The Edge of Anything

by Nora Shalaway Carpenter

  Sage put two fingers to her throat, gauging her pulse. You’re fine, you’re fine, she told herself. Any minute now it’d return to normal.

  Ketia nudged her arm, and Sage realized everyone was looking at her.

  “Sorry,” she said. “What was that?”

  Flick’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Oh. No.” She stared at the paper, which outlined a few different plays, but nothing tricky. “No questions.”

  Flick nodded. “Right. Get a good night’s rest everyone. See you tomorrow, no later than six fifteen.”

  Mountain saluted her. Sage hesitated, then trailed him across the lot. When they were out of earshot of the others, she called to him. “Hey, Mountain?”

  He turned.

  “I was just wondering… if my friend does have something like that magical thinking or whatever, what helped your cousin? I mean, is he okay?” As soon as she asked it, she realized how personal the question was. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. But… I’m worried. What should I do?”

  A sadness crossed Mountain’s face. “Things like that,” he said, “they’re tough, you know? I don’t know all the details, but my aunt—I know it was rough for her, seeing her son go through that.” He gave a small shrug. “Sometimes the toughest part is getting the person to admit there’s a problem.”

  “I think my friend knows,” said Sage.

  “Good.” He nodded. “That’s good. But knowing’s one thing. Admitting—that’s something else.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, you can’t do it for them.” Mountain opened the driver’s door of his Jeep. “They have to let you help them. They have to want it, you know?”

  Sage wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded anyway.

  “Wish I could be more help.”

  “No,” Sage said. “That was definitely helpful. Really.”

  Mountain nodded. “Till tomorrow, Tiny.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  LEN

  LEN WOKE TO A SOUND. IT STOPPED BEFORE SHE COULD place it, but the damage was done—the haven of sleep was breached, and her consciousness streamed in. She strained her ears, her brain slowly registering other noises: steady drips from the kitchen tap, her parents’ whispers, the calming whir of the fan near the front door.

  It took her a disoriented second to place herself on the sofa. Under a blanket. To reconstruct how she’d gotten there.

  Sage.

  Len opened her eyes, but closed them quickly as she remembered. Everything. She’d told Sage everything.

  Footsteps thudded close by and she sensed movement on the other side of her eyelids. A hand touched her arm.

  “Lennie?”

  No. She wanted to sleep. Everything was fine in sleep. Sleep was safe.

  “Len?” her mom said again, gently shaking her. “Wake up, sweetie. Diane wants to talk to you.”

  Len’s eyes leapt open. “Diane?” She sat up, pulling her damp hair away from where it had matted against her neck. “Why?”

  “Why don’t you find out?” Dad suggested. He stood in the kitchen, holding the receiver. The final wisps of slumber lifted from Len’s brain.

  She stood and shuffled slowly to the kitchen, one arm tingly from the way she’d slept. She had so many excuses ready for why she couldn’t talk to Fauna. But Diane? She couldn’t think of a single one.

  She took the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Len! Hey, thanks for talking to me.”

  She hadn’t heard Diane’s voice in months, but she knew immediately the tone was off.

  “What’s going on?” Len asked.

  “I’ll get right to it.” The phone crackled as Diane took a breath. “Why won’t you talk to Fauna anymore?”

  The question punched Len’s breath away. Because I killed her baby. Your baby. Len steadied herself against the doorframe. “I… I talk to her.” Her voice pitched unnaturally high.

  “You haven’t talked to her in, like, six weeks.”

  “I’ve been—”

  “Yeah, you’re always out when she calls. Convenient.” Diane’s voice cracked, and the annoyance in it made Len feel like garbage. “She needs you, Lennie. She needs her sister.”

  Tell them.

  Len closed her eyes.

  Tell them!

  “They’ll hate me,” Len whispered, before realizing she was speaking aloud.

  “What?”

  Len’s head went fuzzy. She needed to sit down. Instead, she made a deal with the universe. If Fauna is there, I’ll tell her. The receiver cut into her ear. “Is, uh, Fauna around?”

  “No,” Diane said. “That’s why I’m calling now. She told me not to. Said everyone grieves in their own way.”

  Len didn’t know what to feel. Her body stayed numb. “How is she?”

  “A mess,” Diane said. “We’re both—” her voice choked off and Len was pretty sure she put down the phone. “I should go,” Diane said finally. “Maybe answer next time she calls, yeah? And actually talk to her?”

  Before Len could respond, the line went dead. She held on to the receiver until the phone dial sounded so angry she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Lennie?”

  Dad stood at the door to the meditation room, motioning Len toward him. “We need to talk,” he said, not upset, but determined.

  There was nothing Len wanted less at the moment than a talk with Dad. She had done far too much talking already—it had probably cost her her only friend—but she followed him into the meditation room anyway. Mom was gone. She must have slipped past Len while she was on the phone.

  Dad scratched the back of his head. “Have a seat, sweetie.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the phone call, Dad. Diane and I—”

  “I don’t want to talk about that, either,” Dad said. “I want to talk about this.” He held up a scrap of paper. Len stepped closer. It was a note. From Sage.

  “Your friend seems pretty worried about you.”

  Len’s numbness bled out, leaving her cold. “I told her today. About Nadia.”

  Dad reached for Len’s shoulder, but she moved away, hugging herself instead.

  “Look,” he said, “I know this has been hard on you. It’s been hard on us all. We all loved that little girl.” A deep line creased the center of his forehead. “But Mom and I, we’re worried.” His voice fell. “You’ve got to get a grip, Len. You’re not the one who lost a baby.”

  Len took a step back, like he’d slapped her.

  “Fauna and Diane need us right now. We’ve got to be there for them.”

  If he said anything else, Len didn’t hear it. The room started to spin and she couldn’t catch her breath. She stumbled and Dad’s arm was there.

  Len tried to speak, but it came out all muddled and she was pretty sure she was crying. Just ride the wave, she told herself. Let the panic wear itself out.

  “I think…” She swallowed a sob, but it leaked out anyway, ugly bursts of tears and sound. She wiped her face on her sleeve. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

  Dad pulled her close and this time she let him. “No, sweetie, no,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with you. This is an awful time, but you’re strong.” His chin rested on her head. “Mom and I know how strong you are, how strong you’ve always been, and we’re so proud of you for that.”

  Len nodded into his shirt. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those words.

  “You’re strong enough to get through this,” Dad went on. “And to help your sister. You know that, right?”

  She nodded more, crying until the panic drained away. The hug felt good. She wished she had more hugs, but that would mean more touching and everything was so dirty. People were so dirty. Had Dad even showered today?

  She released him, even though she didn’t want to. Why couldn’t she stop thinking—stop worrying—for just one second? It was exhausting.

  “Do you really believe that thoughts have power?”
she asked, wiping wet streaks from her face. “Like, real power?”

  He squinted at her, and she didn’t think she imagined the disappointment. “Look, Len,” he said. “There’re all kinds of things in this world we can’t control. Too many. Our thoughts are one of the few things we can. And every day, science reveals more and more about the power of positivity and our mind’s ability to impact our bodies and our experiences.” His eyes went wide with fascination. “I think that all speaks for itself, don’t you?”

  Len stared at the rug beneath her. There was a stain just to the left of her right foot. She hadn’t stepped on it, had she? Maybe she should Lysol her boots again.

  “Len,” Dad said quietly, “have you been meditating at all?”

  She shook her head.

  “You know it will help, don’t you? You’ve felt it work before?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I know. You’re right.”

  Dad checked to make sure Mom wasn’t in the adjoining family room before turning back to Len. “There’s something else,” he said, his voice much lower now. “Mom doesn’t like to talk about it. She doesn’t want to upset you more, but Nonni…” He rubbed his face. “She’s not doing well. And between that and Fauna, plus all the usual crap she deals with at work, your mom—” He glanced out of the room again, and for the first time in Len’s recent memory, he looked scared.

  Len looked toward the back of the house, the cold spreading out to her hands and feet. “Is Mom okay?”

  Dad nodded a tad too forcefully. “She’s okay. Just a little distracted, you know? Talking to Fauna each night, absorbing all that pain.” He took a deep breath. “Mom is an empath, and, well, it’s just a lot. I need your help, Lennie,” he said. “We’ve got to be the strong ones.”

  Len nodded.

  “Thatta girl.” He gave her a quick smile. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SAGE

  LEN DIDN’T SHOW UP IN THE CAFETERIA ON FRIDAY, AND Sage discovered her leaving the art room just as the lunch period ended. Ms. Saffron, Len explained, had agreed to let her eat there while she worked on the Melford Scholarship.

  “That’s great,” Sage said, but Len wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. Sage lowered her voice. “Look, about yesterday,” she said, “you don’t need to feel—”

  “I’m feeling much better,” Len cut in, and the plea in her tone was so strong Sage understood not to mention it again. Secretly, she wondered if speaking her fears had helped Len see how irrational they were, because something about Len had changed overnight. She was embarrassed, Sage could tell, but Len also seemed more determined somehow, like something inside her had been set ablaze. Sage wanted so badly to ask about it.

  Instead she said, “Okay, well, I’m glad.” Then the bell rang, and Len was gone.

  Sage might have dwelled more on the conversation had her first Hendersonville match not been mere hours away, but her attention and body were both hyped up for the game. She even sat through practice with less numbness than usual. Everyone—her parents included—was going to the away football game, so she didn’t have a single worry about being found out.

  After the second opinion results and her freak-out at the last game, her parents hadn’t blinked an eye when she told them she wasn’t going to any football games for a while. Mom had offered to stay with her, but Sage had convinced her she needed some time to herself.

  “You sure you don’t want to come?” Kayla asked after Coach dismissed them. “We don’t have to sit with the others, if you don’t want.”

  “You go ahead,” Sage said.

  Kayla frowned. “I’m not sure it’s good for you to be by yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Sage. “Really. Text me about anything good, okay?”

  There was something about the way Kayla nodded, the way her mouth never fully settled into one expression, that made Sage uneasy. “What?”

  Kayla broke eye contact. “Nothing. If you’re sure you want to be alone.”

  Sage nodded, barely able to contain her excitement. She held up the side of her fist, but Kayla had already started walking away.

  * * *

  The nerves took Sage by surprise. It was only a rec league tournament, she told herself, because she couldn’t think too deeply on what it really was—her last chance to win a state title and the dream she’d harbored since she was a child. Her heart might have ruined every other dream, but she refused to let it have this one.

  It took exactly three plays for everyone in the gym to recognize the caliber of Sage Zendasky. Set up for a cross court attack, Sage rotated her body mid-jump, deceiving the defense, and smashed the ball down the sideline. Lucy and Mountain let out simultaneous bellows of glee. Jon whooped from the bench. Even Flick flashed her a smile.

  Sage went temporarily light-headed with the ecstasy of belonging—of doing what she was built to do.

  “Pulling your weight,” Flick said as she passed Sage on the way to serve. “Keep it up.”

  Sage nodded before sinking into her stance. God, she had missed this. The pull of her muscles as she waited on the balls of her feet, the rush from unloading her full force into the ball. Her body pulsed so fast with endorphins she could taste them.

  For the briefest moment she wondered if it was a mistake. If she really was playing Russian roulette with her life.

  She sunk lower, quads almost perpendicular to the floor. This was no mistake. Not when it was the only thing that made her feel like herself.

  Flick served an ace and that was pretty much it. The opposing purple-shirted team was decent, but not entirely cohesive as a group—and the three-game match lasted barely an hour.

  “Good work tonight, people,” Flick told everyone as they debriefed after the game. “But we can’t lose focus. Next week won’t be anything like this.”

  Lucy ground a fist into her palm. “Next week is personal.”

  Sage wanted to ask what she meant, but the line of Flick’s mouth told her now wasn’t the right time. Flick handed out more papers. Plays with new names.

  “Memorize for Monday,” Flick said. “See you then.”

  * * *

  It was a relief coming home to an empty house. Ian’s game wouldn’t end for at least forty minutes, and since it was all the way across town, Sage had a good hour and a half left to herself. She tossed her keys onto the island, hesitating at the small mason jar of sunflowers that had appeared since she’d left that morning. A note leaned against them. It read simply “I love you, Mom.”

  Sage’s jaw muscles twitched. It was such a sweet gesture, and she knew Mom meant only to help, to bring a small piece of light to Sage’s darkness. How was Mom supposed to know that the flowers, simply by reminding Sage of why she was given them, made Sage feel worse?

  Her phone buzzed. As if Mom had sensed Sage’s thoughts, she’d sent a text:

  You OK?

  Sage moved the flowers to the sunroom, where she didn’t have to look at them, and dropped the note into the recycling bin. Her phone buzzed again with the same text. Fine she sent back, then tossed her phone onto the counter and raided the fridge, settling on a bag of baby carrots and a hummus pack. Another buzz. Mom again. Sage took the phone to the couch.

  You want me to come home?

  Nah. I’m good.

  Already the adrenaline was leaving her, her good mood slipping away. But she couldn’t help herself. She typed:

  How’s Ian doing?

  After a moment, Mom sent back two high-five emojis. Sage stared at them, trying to cipher out an underlying message. Two weeks ago, Mom would have sent a paragraph response to that question, detailing every kick and why Ian was or was not doing well.

  Not anymore. Sage’s whole body went hot. No one would ever treat her the same again.

  Not true, she realized. Len wasn’t weird around her. Well, not weirder than she was anyway, and shit, she’d forgotten to Google that term Tiny had mentioned.

  She opened her phon
e’s browser and thumb typed into the search bar:

  magical thinking OCD

  “Holy—” Sage breathed, because the results seemed endless. How had she never heard about it before? She crunched a carrot and settled back into the cushions, clicking article after article. It seemed that almost everyone engaged in some kind of magical thinking. Len had been right—magical thinking was prevalent in sports, but most people accepted limitations. Most people, for instance, would still wear “lucky socks” again even if their team lost while they had them on, because they could separate the magical element from reality. Sometimes, though, magical thinking spun out of control. That’s when it could grow into a form of OCD.

  Sage clicked onto a site that detailed the brain and its wiring, how thought patterns were established chemically, and how the brain could literally rewire itself. The stuff that OCD sufferers believed—that loved ones would die if they didn’t do everything a certain number of times; that the mere thought of a disease could make them sick with it; that wearing the same clothes they had on for a funeral could cause another death—it seemed so outlandish to Sage, so irrational, that it was nearly impossible for her to fathom. Were these sites even real?

  She double-checked the sources. Some of them were random people’s blog posts, but others were definitely legit: the National Institute of Health, Psychology Today magazine, the International OCD Foundation.

  It was absolutely real, as was explained by one particularly helpful article written for family members of OCD suffers. Even if Len’s supposed ability to kill someone with negative thoughts was only imagined, her belief in that ability and the fear that came with it was so real that it changed both her body chemistry and the neurological pathways in her brain.

  Sage checked herself, realizing she was devouring the articles with a kind of hungry fascination. She should feel sorry for Len, not intrigued as if she were some kind of science experiment. And Sage did feel sorry. She felt awful. This disease sounded miserable—the way it could warp and control your mind. But—she couldn’t help it—it was also downright enthralling.