Compulsion

by Heidi Ayarbe

  I stay under the eaves, my legs tucked under me so I’m not technically outside. So I don’t have to touch the flamingo before going back in. Luc tosses me a CD. “This was in your mailbox. Your dad said it had to be yours.”

  I hold the CD in my hands. Bolero. “Thanks.”

  “What is it?”

  I show him.

  “Classical stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s cool.” Luc hands me an ice-cold can of Coke. “Thought you could use some company.”

  “Did my dad ask you to come?” I ask.

  “No, guevón. You’re my friend.” He looks at me like I’m Idiot Jake, not Crazy Jake.

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  I pop open the Coke, listening to the fizz, feeling the spray, drinking the first sips too fast and ending up with a nasty case of the hiccups. The hiccups stop after I get to fifty-eight.

  Fifty-eight. Five plus eight is thirteen. OK.

  Eight minus five is three. OK.

  “Thanks for the Coke. Add it to my bill.”

  “Nah. This one’s on me.” He taps his fingers on the top of his Coke can and pulls back the tab.

  “Thanks,” I repeat, and stare at the time.

  5:27

  Five twenty-seven. Five minus two is three plus seven is ten divided by two is five. OK.

  Stop.

  Stop.

  Stop.

  I dig my nails into my palms and squeeze until half-moons are embedded in my hands. I scrape my nails across my hands, pulling me away from the numbers, back to Luc. He sips on his Coke, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He nods toward the house. “She’s okay, right? Like nothing weird went on last night.”

  “Nothing weird. I guess her blood alcohol content was something like point two three—insanely high.”

  “Mierda. That’s one hangover.”

  “Yeah. All she’s done half the day is sleep, moan, roll over, and go back to sleep.”

  Point two three. Three plus two is five. OK.

  We sit in silence. Luc doesn’t even try to talk to me about the game or anything. That’s good. I don’t have the energy to pretend today. We watch the street. Silence. But a comfortable kind of silence that makes me glad Luc’s my friend.

  It’s getting cold. Luc stands up. “Better head home. I haven’t even touched my homework; Juancho’s working on some engine and wants my help.”

  “You like that?” I ask. “Working on cars.”

  Luc pauses, like he’s never been asked that before. And I realize that it goes both ways—the asking stuff. He nods. “I do. I’m good at it. You know, it’s nice to be good at something.” He gives me a half hug and claps me on the back. “Come by. You can check out my work.”

  “Will do,” I say. “Maybe you can teach me how to change the oil or something.”

  “That coming from the guy who’s driven a total of three times since he turned sixteen? You probably better stick to learning how to drive first. I’ll be your family mechanic.”

  I laugh. “Fair enough.”

  Luc looks back at the house. “She’s kinda like my baby sister too.” He steps out into the yard, standing next to the pink flamingo. His fingers brush the beak.

  “You need to come inside?” I ask. “It’s cold.”

  He touched the beak. He has to come in.

  Stop. It.

  “Nah, man. I’ve really gotta go.”

  Let. It. Go.

  My fingers burn—like they’re the ones that touched the beak—urging me inside. I stare at the tips, waiting for blisters to form.

  Luc’s halfway down the walk when I look up from my fingers. How come he doesn’t need to come in when he touches it?

  “Hey, Luc,” I call after him.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “You’re not him, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Your dad. You’re not even close.”

  Luc crunches the Coke can in his fist. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “Thanks,” Luc says. He looks relieved. “I needed to hear that, you know. That’s good to hear.”

  I nod. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Luc lets the question sink in. He jingles his car keys. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  And I believe him.

  One Hundred Fifty-Seven Asking the Impossible

  Sunday, 6:13 p.m.

  Six thirteen. Six plus one is seven plus three is ten times six is sixty plus one is sixty-one. OK.

  Kasey’s gone to her room. Mom’s asleep. Dad’s sander buzzes in the garage.

  I pull out a frozen dinner and pop it into the toaster oven, watching the heating element turn crimson, feeling the heat on the door. The kitchen clock ticks as the second hand works its way around the circle, and I like the way time is circular; the beginning is the end.

  The timer dings and I pull out the steaming plate of roast beef, fake potatoes, and sludge-brown gravy. It all tastes like cardboard, but I’m hungry, so I eat, tapping my foot whenever the second hand hits a prime.

  I throw the plate in the garbage. A thousand years from now a scientist will know what I had for dinner on November 6. And maybe they’ll have the technology to study my DNA and figure out why I was a mutant. Why I am the way I am.

  I sit at the base of the steps and wait.

  And count.

  I don’t even try to keep the webs from crowding my brain, because maybe Dad and I can figure things out together. I’m just so tired of doing it all alone.

  Dad’s sander dies down. I listen to the soft brush of the broom across the garage floor. He walks in the door, flicking on the light. “Jacob!” He jumps. “Why are you sitting in the dark like this?”

  “I dunno,” I say. I didn’t even notice the dark. It just felt good to be invisible, I guess.

  Dad pours himself a drink from a dusty bottle tucked behind the cabinet. He plops two ice cubes in and swirls the drink around the glass, making a whistling sound, taking a sip, bracing his body for the burning liquid. He comes and sits next to me on the staircase. “Jacob, about this morning—”

  “I know,” I say. “I know. I just couldn’t—” I’m trying to find the words to describe everything that happened this morning to make it sound right. Sane. “I’m sorry.”

  Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes, shaking his head. “You’ve had to grow up quick, take a lot of responsibility. I know it’s a burden.”

  He knows.

  Not you too.

  I brush it off. He’ll be okay with it. He has to be. He’s my dad. That’s why we’re talking. He wants to know.

  I just hope I can say what’s real.

  “All that hiding. All that trying to be something that—” Dad looks at me and I don’t look away. I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what I should say. Where should I begin? When did it begin? It’s hard to imagine what will come out when I’ve been saying the other script—the “right” words—for so long.

  A draft comes from under the door. It’s cold. I shiver and go to the hall closet to pull out my coat. The door swings and clicks shut behind me, enclosing me in blackness except for the green light of my Indiglo watch. The doorknob is jammed.

  There’s a snap and the sickening sound of bones breaking—the rat’s chest rises and falls, then shudders. It whines out its last breath, the trap shoved between a rubbery Halloween clown mask with bulging eyes and a rubbery winter boot.

  Silence.

  Waiting for Mom, listening to Kasey’s screams.

  Waiting, counting, staring at the Indiglo watch face, trying to clear my brain because I know if I don’t, I’ll die.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  The numbers keep me alive. Keep Kasey alive. Just count. Make the numbers work.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock. . . .

  Yesterday, it was supposed to end.

  Magic number three.

  My feet remain glued to that spot—that moment. It’s like being chased in a dream, lead
en legs pushing through thick tar, and just as soon as I move away, something snaps me back to the place where the spiders will get me.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  “Your mother just isn’t well. I can’t understand it, because she’s fine. But she’s not. It’s so—”

  I pause. “Mom.” What about me?

  “With overtime at work and taking carpentry orders for Christmas, I’m going to need you to be prepared to take on more responsibility around the house. We need the money.” He rubs his hands together, making a scratchy sound from the rough calluses on his palms. “It’s not fair. I know. But with your mom sick . . . ”

  “What is it?” I ask. “What does she have?” I want the name. At least give me the name for it.

  Dad shakes his head. “I don’t understand it. It’s almost like she’s a child sometimes. And I can’t remember how we got to where we are right now. I used to think it was cute we’d have to drive back to the house to make sure everything was turned off. And she’d save all the receipts—of groceries that we’d bought the year before. And your presents. She still has a box of receipts of everything she ever bought for you and Kasey, just to make sure.”

  “To make sure what?”

  Dad stares into his drink, like it can offer the answers. “It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand why—” Dad finishes his drink. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. We just have to work through this until she bounces back.”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll take care of things.”

  “We’re okay, then.” He says it like it’s an irrefutable fact. We. Are. Okay. “I’m counting on you.”

  Counting.

  I can hear my voice sounding strong, steady, while everything inside feels like it’s melting. “Dad, is there anything I can do?”

  “It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be better.”

  I rub my temples, trying to calm the dull pounding inside my brain. I just have to get through the day. Tomorrow will be better.

  But somehow I know that tomorrow will be just like today and yesterday.

  I’m so tired of the same.

  Dad ruffles my hair. “Jacob, I’m proud of you. Do what you love. Keep playing soccer, go to the best college you can, get a degree. After this year, it’s your time. I promise to never ask the impossible from you again.”

  He doesn’t get it.

  He just did.

  One Hundred Sixty-Three Night Whispers

  Monday, 3:14 a.m.

  Three fourteen. Three plus one is four plus four is eight minus three is five. OK.

  Everybody sleeps.

  That’s what everybody’s supposed to do at night. Sleep.

  The numbers rip through my head.

  I can hear the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink faucet. Drip, drip, drip, dri-ip. At first it sounded like cymbals, softly tapping together. Now the sound is muffled, deep, and the drips thud into a puddle of water.

  The wind rustles the trees outside and whistles in through the broken downstairs window.

  Whistle, drip, whistle, drip.

  I count them.

  Fuck.

  I put in my earphones and crank up Bolero, trying to push away the sounds of the night—of the house. The melody gets louder and louder but the steady beat behind it traps the melody in the song. Dum dadadadadada dum dada dum; dah dadadadadadada . . .

  I hate this song.

  I rip the earphones out and stare at the clock.

  3:17

  Three seventeen. Three plus one is four plus seven is eleven. OK. Seven minus three is four minus one is three. OK.

  I turn over in bed.

  Drip, drip, drip, dri-ip. Whistle, drip, whistle, drip. Thud.

  3:19

  Three nineteen. Three plus one is four plus nine is thirteen. OK.

  I slip my left foot out from under the covers and count. One, two, three.

  Fifty-six, fifty-seven—

  Right foot. One, two, three.

  Fifty-eight, fifty-nine.

  Up.

  I slip downstairs and freeze when I see Dad. But I can’t go back upstairs until I fix the drip, so it’s like I’m stuck in syrup, like those bugs they find in tree sap thousands of years later. I’m frozen in time like a prehistoric mosquito.

  Dad sits at the dining room table, bills splayed on the table in a fan of red overdue notices. He tidies papers into small piles, then pauses, like he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to be doing, then tidies more, piling again, re-

  organizing, taking papers off, finally leaning back against the chair and closing his eyes. He doesn’t see me see him.

  I step forward and put my arm on his forearm. “Dad,” I say, and search for the right words. “It’s okay,” I whisper. His rough hand slips into mine.

  One Beginning

  Monday, 4:31 a.m.

  Four thirty-one. Four plus three is seven plus one is eight divided by four is two. OK.

  What would it be like to be real? Just once. Even just for one morning?

  There’s a Bourdain marathon on. He’s eaten his way through half of the Middle East and is now at some state fair in Georgia bingeing on deep-fried Oreos, pickles, Coca-Cola, and Cadbury Creme Eggs. Tanya would probably gain weight just watching it.

  I wonder if Bourdain has some special kind of health plan that won’t cover artery damage.

  I wonder if Mera is watching.

  The light sputters outside. I can see the flicker on my curtains. Sputter, sputter. I don’t hold my breath and stand up, getting out of bed. My body feels clammy. I fight nausea and turn my back from the window, pulling on my clothes and then stepping into the hallway.

  The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. I realize I’m gnawing on my raw cheeks, breaking the blistered skin.

  Stop.

  What if . . .

  Nothing happens. Nothing changes. The house still sleeps even though I’m up before dawn and haven’t held my breath, waiting for the sputtering to end.

  Nothing changes.

  Just like in Bolero.

  Maybe that’s what it’s all about—setting the limits and sticking to them, no matter how much you want to scream.

  That’s what I’ve always done. I thought there was an end to forever. Saturday was supposed to end it. It didn’t work.

  Since I don’t eat like Bourdain, I probably will live till I’m eighty or ninety.

  Forever’s a long time.

  Getting to the top of the staircase is like trying to walk through drying concrete. How is it that I can’t just do a simple thing?

  Leave before dawn.

  Just leave.

  I push myself downstairs, skipping eight, then four. I step on the bottom stair, and it sends a deafening shriek through the house.

  Nobody stirs.

  A soft clicking noise comes from the heater, followed by a whooshing sound of air being piped into the rooms.

  Outside, the inky sky is painted a black so thick, stars can’t even shine through.

  I’ll wait. Until dawn. Then it’ll . . .

  It’ll be the same tomorrow and the next day and the next day . . .

  Forever’s a long time.

  I tap the grandfather clock, open the door with two hands, and step outside into a couple inches of snow. The flamingo is dusted with a layer of powdered-sugar snow. I’m glad I don’t have to touch the beak, marring the perfect coat.

  I count my steps.

  Eight hundred fifty-seven. Eight plus five is thirteen plus seven is twenty minus eight is twelve minus seven is five. OK.

  4:53 a.m.

  Four fifty-three. Four plus five is nine plus three is twelve minus five is seven. OK.

  The second hand works its way around the watch, but for some reason the second hand does this weird pause when it hits forty-seven seconds. I tap the watch, shake it, but the second hand pauses.

  This is wrong. All wrong.

  Light floods the driveway for a third time. Time ticks ahead. 4:54. 4:55.


  I stand in the shadows, then move forward.

  4:56

  I try to time my steps. Four fifty-six. Four plus five is nine plus six is fifteen minus four is eleven. OK.

  It’s perfect. It’s time.

  I walk up to the front door and look down at my watch. Four fifty-seven. The numbers don’t work. Sixteen. Eight. Nine. I can feel the tension creep up the back of my head and extend its tentacles, releasing fire ants in my nerves. The pain seizes me and, again, I’m stuck in the shadows between the numbers.

  Darkness sweeps across my eyes like a veil. The door looks blotchy, but I move forward, holding my hand out to ring the bell.

  5:01

  Five-oh-one. Five plus one is six. Five minus one is four.

  Not OK. OK.

  “Jacob Martin?” The door swings open. Mera’s dad stoops down to pick up the newspaper. “What the hell are you doing here at this time of day?”

  I stare at my shoes—the laces tied, double-knotted. “Can I see Mera, please?” I can’t imagine he can hear me above the percussion pounding of my heart. “Is Mera here?” I repeat.

  “Son, I’m not deaf. Mera!” he hollers down the hallway. “Jacob Martin is here.” His tone softens. “About the other day at the shop—”

  I can see lawsuit written all over his words. I want to tell him the damage was done long ago, though, so not to worry. I hold up my hand. I can hardly hear him through the pulsing arteries in my brain. “It’s okay, Mr. Hartman.” Just a whisper now. “It’s okay.”

  Mera comes to the door and stands next to her dad. “Thanks, Dad.” She’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a heavy sweatshirt. “Do you want to come in?” she asks. “It’s pretty cold out there.” Her words come out with puffy white breaths, circling us, then swirling up to the blackness.

  I shake my head, cradling it between my hands, trying to stop the pain. I sit down on the porch steps, wet snow seeping through my jeans.

  Mera leaves and returns, draping a blanket over my shoulders. She sits next to me on the porch, smelling like sleep and warm gingerbread.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Inhale.

  I listen to her get up, go inside, and come back out. A comfortable silence surrounds us. I pull my head up, waiting for my eyes to focus.