The Edge of Anything

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The Edge of Anything Page 20

by Nora Shalaway Carpenter


  “Lennie?” Dad called. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m just checking something.” Len grabbed her boots by the tops and took them into the kitchen, stuffing them into a plastic Walmart bag. She opened the cabinet, pausing. She only had one other good pair of shoes, and the boots had cost almost fifty dollars. She’d saved up for months.

  She couldn’t just stand here. Her parents would ask what she was doing. She didn’t like how close the dirt was anyway, even though it was in a bag. Before she could overthink it, she took a deep breath, tied a knot in the bag’s top, and stuffed the whole thing deep inside the trash.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  SAGE

  LEN DID NOT HAVE CHILDHOOD DEMENTIA.

  Any Google search that lasted longer than five minutes revealed as much, though Sage could see how Len might have convinced herself otherwise, if she’d only spent a few minutes confirming what she suspected.

  Sage hitched up her backpack as she walked through Southview’s nearly empty liberal arts hallway, telling herself she was doing the right thing. Google had explained that sufferers of severe OCD could hold on to and obsess about ideas, especially fatalistic ones, no matter how irrational they appeared to others and, this was the kicker, despite being presented with logical evidence to the contrary.

  A shiver tingled Sage’s spine, as it did every time she thought about the inner workings of the human brain. She’d only meant to spend an hour or so researching Len’s supposed condition, but even after she’d ruled out childhood dementia for sure—Len would have shown signs since infancy and suffered from major neurological issues, like seizures—Sage had ended up spending most of Sunday reading articles about the brain.

  She had also surreptitiously called Dr. Surrage, but that proved less helpful than expected. Dr. Surrage was a general practitioner so knew very little about the specifics of how severe OCD could manifest, but the main takeaway had been clear: as long as Len wasn’t in danger, Sage couldn’t do anything to help Len without Len getting on board herself.

  The hallway forked, and Sage turned down the left corridor, hugging the folder containing the articles she’d printed. Her jaw ached, and she realized she was grinding her teeth. Was Len going to hate her for this?

  It was a little curious that Len had rallied on the hike and then seemed okay—that she’d pressed on, braving the entire loop. Sage had to admit, she was impressed. If Len did have severe OCD, then that had been an incredible feat of strength. It suggested that Len was a true fighter and she was doing everything she could to combat the disease terrorizing her brain.

  Everything, that is, except admitting she needed help. Mountain’s words about the difference between knowing something was wrong and admitting it were proving all too true.

  But there was no way Sage could sit by doing nothing while Len’s brain slowly choked off her rationality.

  Sage stopped in front of Ms. Lewis’s psychology and sociology classroom, which she hadn’t stepped into since last semester. Clearing her throat, she knocked and pushed open the door. Ms. Lewis sat at a table, waiting for her. “Good morning, Sage.”

  “Thank you so much for e-mailing me back,” Sage said. “And coming in early to talk.”

  “Oh, I’m here much earlier than this every day.” Ms. Lewis motioned for her to sit. “You said you wanted to talk about obsessive compulsive disorder? May I inquire why?”

  Sage kept her face even. She understood it was a teacher’s duty to refer students to the school counselor, but even if Len hadn’t asked her to keep her secret, she would never be responsible for Len having to see that man. Everyone knew he was counting the days to retirement, and this was way out of his league anyway. He probably thought it was still okay to call people like Len “crazy.”

  “It’s my friend,” Sage said smoothly. “She lives in Madison County, but we talk all the time, and lately, I’ve just been, um, noticing some things.” She explained Len’s strange habits and the way she avoided dirt. “And apparently,” Sage continued, “she had to have her friend wipe off her dirt-covered hands because she couldn’t touch her backpack to get the wipes out.”

  Ms. Lewis’s forehead folded into a deep crease.

  “Also,” said Sage, “her niece died from SIDS, and she thinks it’s her fault, even though no one else does. I read that trauma can cause OCD, too.” She leaned back in her chair, feeling winded. “So does that sound like OCD to you?”

  Ms. Lewis shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m not a certified psychologist. I can’t make a diagnosis, unfortunately. The best thing you can do is encourage your friend to talk to a doctor.”

  Sage fought the urge to make her frustration visible. “My friend doesn’t think she has OCD, which I read is a pretty common reaction among sufferers. How do I convince her that she needs to go see someone?”

  Ms. Lewis let out a low whistle. “How to convince a person with mental health struggles to get treatment? You ask easy questions, don’t you?”

  “I tried to look it up, but I couldn’t find a good answer.”

  Ms. Lewis crossed her legs. “That’s because there isn’t one, or at least one that works universally. Not that I know of.” Her mouth turned down sadly. “You need trust, of course, but even with loved ones, it can be a long, arduous process. In some ways, these types of conditions are like an addiction—the brain is working on a similar kind of loop. Unfortunately, it can almost be like reasoning with an addict at times.”

  Sage slumped back against the hard plastic chair.

  “I know that’s not the answer you are looking for. If the situation gets too dire, her parents might have to intervene.”

  Sage didn’t understand how Len’s parents could fail to see there was something wrong, but apparently Len hid it well. “And if her parents don’t?” she asked.

  Ms. Lewis looked pained. “There’s only so much you can do, Sage.”

  “That’s not good enough.” Sage opened the folder, like she might magically find an answer in the articles she’d already read.

  “What are those?” Ms. Lewis asked.

  “Articles. I thought if maybe I presented her with evidence…” Sage shrugged.

  “May I see?”

  Sage passed over the folder, watching as Ms. Lewis thumbed through the stapled papers. “There’s a lot of good research here.” Ms. Lewis held up an article. “Did you go on the library database to get this? JSTOR?”

  Sage nodded.

  “You must really care about your friend.”

  “I can’t just do nothing! Besides, it’s kind of fascinating, the way the brain can trick itself.” Sage looked to the floor, embarrassed.

  Ms. Lewis closed the folder and passed it back. “Last semester, in Intro to Psych, you never seemed that interested.”

  Sage stuffed the folder into her bag and stood, shrugging. “We didn’t get into this kind of stuff.”

  “No,” Ms. Lewis said. “I guess not.” She ran a finger along the crack in the table. “Perhaps I should add OCD to the curriculum.”

  Sage nodded, barely able to conceal her disappointment. She really thought her teacher might be more help.

  “In fact…” Ms. Lewis pursed her lips. “Do you have your senior seminar now?”

  “Next semester,” said Sage, confused by the sudden change of topic.

  “I’m surprised, honestly, by the amount of new data you found. So many people have outdated ideas about it.” She tilted her head. “An explanation with current therapies would make a marvelous senior project.”

  Sage shrank back. “I can’t use my friend’s pain as a project idea.”

  “Of course not. You wouldn’t have to study OCD. There is an unlimited supply of neurological fascinations.”

  Sage hesitated. She wondered why she hadn’t considered it before. “They told us last year we couldn’t change our topics. And Coach is my mentor, anyway. He’s already done the paperwork.”

  “Oh,” said Ms. Lewis. “You want to be a physical th
erapist?”

  Outside, heels clip-clopped down the hallway. Voices rose and fell. The clock above the door clicked off the seconds, steady as a beating heart.

  “I think I’m all set with Coach,” Sage said finally.

  Ms. Lewis nodded, but didn’t seem convinced. “Think on it,” she said.

  Sage’s heart pounded so fiercely she didn’t register the morning bell at first. She put a hand to her chest, thinking how tragically ironic it would be if she dropped dead right here. If her pulse was going to surge like this anyway, she might as well be playing volleyball.

  Then students tumbled in, Ms. Lewis turned to greet them, and Sage slipped away.

  * * *

  Sage didn’t even make it to her locker before her teammates swarmed her in the hall.

  “How are you?”

  “Did you get my texts?”

  “How can we help?”

  Panic swelled inside Sage, but before it could crest, Kayla pushed herself into the throng. “Give her some room,” she said.

  Sage shot her a grateful look, which Kayla’s eyebrows acknowledged. For a moment it was like nothing had changed.

  “Can we carry your stuff?” Hannah offered. “Are you allowed to lift things?”

  Kayla put a hand to her forehead. Sage took a deep breath and told herself they meant well. “I can carry my stuff,” she said. “But thanks.”

  Ella pulled her in close. “My mom says she has a great therapist if you need one.”

  “I’m good.” Sage forced a tight smile. “But thank you. I’m okay, really.”

  Ella hugged her. “See you at lunch?”

  “Um, yeah. Sure.”

  The team dispersed, giving Sage access to her locker. Kayla, however, stayed put, waiting for her like usual. Sage dug out a notebook and zipped it inside her bag.

  “So,” Kayla said, “about Saturday. Are we good?”

  Sage closed her locker, twirling the lock away from the last digit of her combination. Her throat went thick and lumpy, but she swallowed the things she couldn’t say and met Kayla’s eyes. “Yeah. We’re good.”

  Muscle memory made her hand twitch. This is where they’d fist bump. Sage hooked her hands under the straps of her backpack.

  “Okay,” Kayla said. “Cool.”

  They stepped into the stream of students.

  “You wanna come over after practice?” Kayla asked.

  A mix of guilt and relief jolted through Sage. “I can’t,” she said. “Not today.”

  Kayla nodded.

  A few feet ahead of her, Sage caught sight of a familiar sweatshirt. “Len!”

  The sweatshirt stopped. Turned. Len’s eyes slid from Sage to Kayla.

  “Did you go through the pictures?” Sage asked. “You should see them, Kayla, the new ones she took. They’re really good.”

  Kayla gave a half smile, then looked away. Sage pushed down her disappointment and turned back to Len. “Do you have a series idea?”

  “Maybe,” said Len.

  “We’re gonna be late,” Kayla said.

  “See you,” Len mumbled.

  But Sage didn’t wave bye as Len turned down the liberal arts corridor, too jarred by what she’d just noticed. For the first time since Sage had known her, Len wasn’t wearing her boots.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  LEN

  LEN HAD RECOGNIZED THE LOOK ON KAYLA’S FACE. MOST people would have read it as uncaring disinterest, but Len had used it too many times not to know it for what it was: the face of someone left out.

  Len had vowed never to make anyone feel that way, although she couldn’t deny it gave her delicious satisfaction, seeing someone who made her feel like an outsider every day forced to know what it felt like.

  The thought gave her heartburn. Maybe she was no better than people like Kayla, people who kept up their status and sense of worth by stepping on those around them. Maybe she would do it, too, if the positons were reversed. And what if she had, at some point in the past, without even realizing?

  It was an uncomfortable thought spiral, and she hurried into Photography to break out of it. The bell rang just as she reached Ms. Saffron’s desk.

  “I got them,” Len said. “The prompt images. And a series idea, too.”

  Ms. Saffron beamed. “Wonderful. Can you come in at lunch to review?”

  Len nodded, her body alive with an excitement she hadn’t felt in so long that she almost didn’t know it for what it was. But then, with a surge of energy, she recognized it: possibility.

  * * *

  “These are excellent!” Ms. Saffron said at lunch, flipping through the ten images Len had printed from the photo lab computer.

  The praise made Len feel expanded, like her whole body was smiling.

  “Hit me with your theme ideas.”

  Len flattened out the crinkled piece of paper she’d been carrying in her pocket, and which she’d continually added to all morning. “Well, at first I was thinking something abstract, something that’s really hard to define with words.”

  “Such as?”

  Len read the first idea from the paper. “Breath.”

  Ms. Saffron looked up, her head swaying slightly like she was bouncing the idea around her mind. “Interesting. Let’s keep that as an option.”

  “I also like the idea of darkness, so I thought, what about a collection titled Fragments of Dark? I could get really metaphorical.”

  Ms. Saffron’s nose wrinkled. “Too metaphorical maybe. You don’t want to sound like you’re trying too hard.” She flipped to a new photograph. “Oh!” She tilted the picture, the one with Sage in the rhododendron, so Len could see. “I like this a lot.”

  “That’s one of my favorites,” said Len. Inspired by Sage’s comment, she’d played with effects until it looked like light radiated from Sage’s palm, pushing open digitally enhanced blooms.

  “You haven’t done many images with people, have you?”

  Len shook her head as Ms. Saffron rifled through the rest of the pictures. Len had included another unenhanced photo of Sage in the hedge, and Ms. Saffron laid it alongside the first.

  “There’s a story in these two,” she said, “more so than the others. In this one”—she pointed to the unenhanced image—“I love that the person isn’t the focus. That she’s almost a part of the landscape. Or maybe it’s the fact that she isn’t quite part of everything. She’s trying but she doesn’t quite fit in.”

  “Or maybe she’s just about to fit in,” Len said. “Or about to claim her power, like in this one.” She pointed to the other picture. “She’s on the edge. It could go either way, couldn’t it?”

  Ms. Saffron looked at her. “Yes. I suppose that’s right.” She turned back to the photo. “There’s something about the not knowing that invites the viewer into the image. Is this subject on the edge of something good or something terrible?”

  “Both, maybe,” said Len. “It could be anything.”

  Ms. Saffron smiled. “I’m impressed, Len. Truly. These are stunning.”

  Len felt warm color rise to her cheeks. She slid her sweatshirt’s cuffs over her gloved hands.

  “I think you could create something really amazing if you played with this style,” Ms. Saffron continued. “This way you’ve upended the usual presentation of a person—you just need a theme to tie it together.” She looked back at the other pictures. “Did you say you had other theme ideas?”

  Len did have a few, but she didn’t like them anymore. Her brain spun with Ms. Saffron’s praise and the serendipitous way the photos of Sage had come to be. “None I like that much,” she admitted.

  “There’re four photos I think are perfect for submission,” Ms. Saffron said, laying two others beside the rhododendron pictures. “I also pulled three from last semester’s file that could work, if you need them.” She handed the file to Len. “You’ll either need the right theme to tie them together, or produce additional publishable-quality photos by next week. Do you think you can do that?”r />
  Len nodded as the excitement, the possibility, flared hot and bright again.

  “E-mail me as soon as you have a theme idea,” Ms. Saffron said. “And with any more photos you think will work.” She clapped her hands. “I know you can do this, Len. This first round is to weed out the people who aren’t really serious, and I know you can get through. You just have to buckle down, okay?”

  Len slipped the photos into the folder Ms. Saffron gave her and placed it in her bag. “Thanks.”

  “Len,” Ms. Saffron said as Len was about to leave, “you look more inspired lately.” Len could tell what she really meant was better.

  “Your friend,” Ms. Saffron continued, “the volleyball player. Is she helping you?”

  Len fingered the loose strap that dangled from her backpack. “Yeah,” she said. “I think she is.”

  * * *

  Len couldn’t wait to tell Sage about the success of her photos. When school ended, she waited outside the gym, planning to catch Sage on her way to practice. She tucked herself into an out-of-the-way corner that gave her a perfect sightline to the entrance while avoiding getting trampled by end-of-day madness. Added bonus: since nobody walked in the corners, the tiles were remarkably clean.

  It was still strange, the connection she felt to Sage, when they hadn’t known each other that long. But Sage had seen the rawest, ugliest part of her and hadn’t run screaming. Len hugged the folder with her photos tight against her chest.

  “She’s not here,” a voice said, startling Len so much she almost dropped the folder. She turned to see Kayla, a duffle bag slung across her shoulder. “You’re waiting for Sage, right?” Kayla folded her arms. She was even taller than Sage, and more solid, her shoulders definitively squarer. Len’s first impulse was to escape, to get as far from Kayla as possible, but whatever had reawakened within her in the art room stirred again and quelled her initial burst of fear. She lifted her chin.

 

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