The house is quiet and dark, the kitchen only illuminated by the clock on the microwave and the fridge light when I open the door. I feel dizzy from not eating, so after my eyes adjust to the darkness I sit on the floor, nibbling cheese and crackers. I listen to the night sounds—the clock ticking, the fridge humming, a dog outside in the lane. I’m not sleepy, so I watch an hour of TV, mindless home-renovation shows and infomercials for dance weight-loss programs and pressure cookers. I try to write about the darkness of the night, about the fog, how it creeps and builds and thickens. My head like a brick, like a thickness I can’t shake, like a mist wrapping about my feet and rising up, like a cloud I can’t step out of. Everything I write is exceptionally bad. The wrinkled stubs of the pages I ripped out from the “I Fear” free-write are like a scar in my book. The journal falls open to those pages from the stress on the binding, reminding me of everything I can’t deal with. What I wrote about not being able to get up has come true.
I finally sleep again in the early morning, more out of desire not to face the next day than out of exhaustion. When I awake midmorning, the fog is so thick I am the fog. I feel strangely weightless and yet very dense. I don’t think I can move. The house is quiet, daylight pricking around my blinds. A stream of texts litters my phone.
Are you there Syd? Sofia texts.
Picking you up at 3:30 xoxo, Mom writes.
Hey, Sydney, I hope you’re feeling better, Paul texts.
Zeyda leaves a message on my voice mail. “Nu, what happened to you yesterday? Not even a phone call to say you weren’t coming? I want to know how your portfolio is performing.” I had completely forgotten about the contest.
Abby has emailed me a link to a dance video. Movement makes people feel better, she writes.
Hours pass. I’m amazed at how little I can do. I can’t move because I am nothing but fog. Around noon I get hungry enough to get out of bed and crawl upstairs for cereal. I have three and a half hours until Mom arrives to take me to Dr. Spenser. And if I refuse to talk, what happens then? Talking doesn’t help—it only makes me feel ashamed. Only movement helps, the kind that is so all-consuming it dulls other sensations.
Yes, movement. I would like to move, to get off the floor, to feel like the dancers in Abby’s videos, fluid and powerful, instead of the wooden block that I am. I haven’t responded to any of the texts. I call Fen instead, even though he’s in class.
Fen doesn’t pick up, so I keep trying until he does.
“Why are you calling me now?” he says when he finally answers, sounding exasperated. “You know I’m in French—I had to ask to go to the toilette, but Madame Govier totally knows what I’m up to.”
“I’m sorry, but I need help.”
“Why aren’t you at school? Are you sick?”
“Sort of.”
“What’s up?” Fen asks.
“I need to go biking.”
“Great, Syd. I’ll meet you at three thirty.”
“No, I need to go now.”
“Now? What about school?”
“Fuck it. I need movement.”
Fen sighs. “I know how you feel. I forgot to take my meds the other day, and I was a disaster.”
“Will you come with me?”
There’s a pause, and Fen says, “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere out of the city.”
Fen waits for me to say something else, to suggest a route. When he realizes I don’t have any ideas, he says, “Okay, give me a couple of minutes and I’ll call you back.”
I lie on the kitchen floor and stare at the ceiling. I don’t want to talk to Dr. Spenser. Even if I don’t have to make eye contact with her, I hate talking about this thing. What if I refuse to get out of bed? Would an ambulance take me away and put me in the psych ward? My breathing starts to speed up, and I recognize the signs of a downhill slide. Oh good god, please call back, Fen.
I count to one hundred, but Fen doesn’t call.
I take out my journal. Fenny, henny, savior, penny. Still the phone doesn’t ring. Okay, worst-case scenario. I’ll write Dr. Spenser a letter, and if I have to go see her, I’ll give it to her.
Dear Dr. Spenser,
There’s a fog all around me, and it’s heavy and dark and it’s trying to squash me. And no matter how hard I try to be the light, to find it inside me and let it shine (like the song!), the fog is too thick. And it’s hard to move when there’s fog, and worse, it’s hard to talk to people. They have their own lights, and they’re shining on me too brightly, and they can see me (and the spinach stuck in my teeth, or the sweat under my arms), but I can’t see them. And sometimes I can’t even hear them. And Paul will see how broken I am. That’s why being in my closet is good. There’s no one there, and I don’t have to be anything. So can I just stay in the closet? I could set up a whole world in there. Abby could bring me food, like falafel and tabbouleh, and palak paneer with naan, and some days yogurt parfait with strawberries and granola, and if I wasn’t freaked out, I might even be interested in eating. I could do online investing and maybe market analysis, all from my own little hovel. And since work would be on my own schedule, I could bike a lot. Maybe I could live on some island and bike there.
If only Fen would call.
I pick up my phone and text him. Route?
Almost got it.
My phone rings. “Okay,” Fen says, “we bus to Ladner to avoid biking the tunnel, and then we go west and cross over to Westham Island. My mom took me berry picking there once.”
I exhale. “What’s it like?”
“Not much traffic, country roads, farms. It should take us all afternoon. Bring power bars, lots of them.”
“Fen?”
“Yes?” He sounds impatient.
“Thank you.”
Fen sighs. “You owe me.”
“Okay.”
We hang up. And then, even though it hurts to move, and even though Paul is texting me—Where are you? Is everything okay?—I get up and put on my bike clothes. I text Mom that I’m going biking, so she doesn’t think I’ve disappeared or done anything weird, and then leave my phone on my bed.
Fen and I take the bus south, our bikes on the rack on the front of the bus, and then we bike through Ladner, stopping for traffic lights. Once we are on the island, my mind fills with the low, dull hum of my aching muscles, and I’m happy to feel my body complaining rather than the circular thoughts of my stupid brain. Legs, I think as I pedal, legs, legs, legs.
We pass fields with horses and cows, and I pick up a whiff of scent from an apple tree in full bloom as we bike by. Fen picks up the pace, and we race along a road by the sea. The fog doesn’t lift, but under the fog I can feel my body, legs pumping, heart chugging along. If I breathe hard enough, I might be able to blow the darkness away.
After an hour Fen slows down, and we get off our bikes by a dike and rest in the shade of a bridge. I walk around stretching out my quads while Fen inhales power bars.
“Why are we doing this on a school day?” Fen asks. “I’m missing rugby too.”
“’Cause I needed to, and I couldn’t do it myself.”
“Oh. Okay.” Fen nods. “I’m trying to find a university with the most access to biking. I figure if I could go to class for an hour and then get on my bike for an hour, I’d be good.”
“Maybe you could study on a stationary bike somewhere on campus. You could sweat all day.”
Fen shakes his head. “Not good enough. I’m thinking of a school somewhere in the middle of nowhere, but with good biking weather, like Colorado.”
I nod. “Thanks for coming with me today.”
Fen gives me a big sweaty hug, which is a little disgusting but also feels good. And it’s just a hug. And I don’t have to look at him while we do it.
We bike at a more leisurely pace back to Ladner, both of us having ridden out some of the things crawling up our spines. Fen is more relaxed, pedaling beside me and telling me stories about the rugby players and som
ething he calls What Guys Do to Prove Their Manliness. When we get back on the bus, he checks his phone.
“Sofia says Paul is wondering if I know where you are. Apparently you aren’t responding to texts.”
“I didn’t bring my phone,” I say.
Fen swats me with a cycling glove. “Syd, that’s too weird.”
“I don’t even know what time it is. Just tell them we went biking.”
Fen shakes his head. “It’s four thirty. Trouble in lovebird paradise?”
Four thirty. I’ve missed my appointment with Dr. Spenser. I turn back to Fen. “You could say that.”
He types for a minute, his fingers jutting over the screen like his neck does when he’s wound up. “What’s up with Paul?”
“It’s, well, a lot of eye contact.”
“Ah, like you actually have to talk to him?”
“Yes.”
Fen grins. “I can see how you would totally suck at that.”
“Thanks.”
“This is going to sound awful, but maybe you weren’t meant to have a boyfriend. I mean, not right now.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“Then call it quits.” Fen rubs his gloved hands together as if washing away the word boyfriend.
“But I like him.”
“Oh. So you’re caught in the middle of wanting and not wanting?”
“Pretty much.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Play hooky and go biking with you?” I step on Fen’s toe lightly.
“Every day?”
I wilt a little. “I’m only dealing with today.”
Fen steps on my toe, a little harder than I did his. This is the kind of boyfriend I need. Not Fenny, exactly, but one who understands communication through toe pressure.
I don’t want to go home, but I’m sweaty and hungry and there’s nowhere else for me to go, so Fen and I say goodbye and I bike back home. When I let myself in by the back door, Mom is sitting at the kitchen counter, in her work blouse and skirt, with Paul. I stop in the doorway and finger my sweaty ponytail. Paul looks relaxed sitting with Mom, and I wonder how long he’s been here and what they’ve been talking about. I stand for a moment in the doorway, my heart hammering away in my chest like I’m still on my bike. “I went biking,” I say stupidly.
“I see that.” Mom stands and licks her lips like she does when she’s pissed off. She glares at me. “I’m glad you were feeling up to it,” she says, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
Mom starts looking less pissed off and more relieved. “Paul was telling me about the investor’s club. He says you and Sofia are leading the competition.”
“Zeyda’s helping us,” I say quietly.
“I bet,” Mom says. “Sydney, can I talk to you a moment?”
I follow Mom into the front hall. I can tell from the way she walks that she’s still angry with me. She stands in the front hall, hands on her hips, and whispers, “I’m going back to work for a couple of hours, since I spent most of the afternoon worrying about where you were and if you were okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Mom closes her eyes for a moment. “When you stopped responding to texts and then we couldn’t find you…” She swallows back tears.
I bite my lip. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
Mom waves a hand in the air. “I’m glad you’re okay.” She starts putting on her coat and picking up her purse. “Now, you need to text Dr. Spenser and let her know why you missed your appointment. Then I need you to make dinner.”
“Dinner?” I repeat.
“Yes, if you’re up for biking, you’re up for dinner. There’s chicken defrosting in the fridge, and potatoes and broccoli too. Zeyda’s coming.”
“Zeyda’s coming? He never leaves his house.”
Mom cocks her head. “He said for you, he’d come. He also asked that we not make chickpeas—they give him too much gas.”
“Oh,” I say. “Gross. Wait, why’s he coming for dinner?”
Mom steps into her heels. “It’s Shabbat, and he wants to make sure you’re okay. You didn’t visit today or yesterday or even call. He was worried.” She sighs. “We’re all worried.”
“Oh.” I wrap my arms around myself. I was so busy thinking about myself, I didn’t even remember Zeyda. I start to shiver from my cooling sweat.
“You don’t feel well?” Mom says.
“Just hungry and cold. Normal stuff.”
Mom chucks me under the chin, like I’m seven, and picks up her purse. “Have dinner ready for around seven, please. I’m picking up Zeyda, and we have to wait for Dad to get home from the hospice.”
“Okay,” I say.
Mom goes out the front door, and I wander back to the kitchen. Paul looks so cute sitting at the counter, spinning a little on the stool, holding one of Mom’s ceramic mugs. I hold on to the counter to stop my hands’ shaking. I’m not sure if they’re shaking because I’m starving or if it’s because Paul is here in my kitchen. “Did my mom make you tea?” I ask.
“She did,” Paul says. “She also offered to make me a sandwich.”
I move around the island to pour myself a bowl of cereal. “How long have you been here?”
“About half an hour. I hope you don’t mind me showing up. I was worried you were mad at me and that’s why you weren’t returning my texts. I thought I might walk over.”
“Not mad, just other stuff going on.”
“Sofia said.”
“What did Sofia say?”
“She said you were taking a few days off.”
I nod. Even though Paul is watching me, I shovel cereal into my mouth, chewing quickly. I sigh as the sugars start taking effect. “I’m pretty cold.” I run my hands through my sweaty hair.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Can you wait a bit while I shower?”
Paul nods, and I leave him sitting at the counter while I go downstairs. I drum my fingers on the shower wall as the hot water pounds down on me. Paul is in my house, in my kitchen, waiting for me, and the fog might knock me down at any moment. I wash quickly, trying to use up my nervous energy. Then I pull on jeans, a sweatshirt and thick socks, and comb out my hair. I text Dr. Spenser, Please excuse my absence today. I had a therapeutic bike session to attend.
She writes back, How about we talk Monday at 4 pm?
It’s really not necessary.
Come in on Monday and we’ll go from there.
I shove my phone in my pocket and head back upstairs. Paul is still sitting at the counter, still making my heart pound.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes.” I put the kettle on.
“You were biking today?”
I nod. “It was necessary.”
“Why biking?”
“If I move, then I don’t have to think about things.”
“I see.” Paul looks down at his mug. “I wish you had answered my texts.”
“I couldn’t. I mean, I didn’t know what to say.”
“If you don’t want me to call you or anything, I’ll stop.” He means if I don’t like him.
“No,” I say, “I want to keep hanging out.”
“Oh.” He looks relieved.
Fen said I wasn’t ready for a boyfriend. “I think it would be okay if we did homework together and cloud-watched and played pool.”
“Like, if we were friends?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Paul looks crushed.
“But not just friends.” Shit, I don’t have the right words for anything. “Here.” I thrust a potato at him. “Can you peel this for me?”
Paul takes the potato and the peeler. I grab another peeler, and we silently make a hill of peel between us. The kitchen is full of the fog as well as the nervous energy of being with Paul. I peel furiously. “What are we making?” Paul finally asks.
“Potato kugel.” I keep my head down.
&n
bsp; “Potato what?”
“Grated potato with egg and onions. Kind of like a giant hash brown, but you bake it.”
“Sounds good. What else are you cooking?”
“Chicken. Dinner can’t be too adventurous because my zeyda is coming, so I’ll probably roll the chicken in breadcrumbs. I’m also making broccoli and a challah.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s this traditional bread Jewish people eat on the Sabbath. It’s kind of sweet, and you braid the dough.”
“Can I help you make it?”
“Sure.” Mom didn’t ask me to make a challah, but it seems like a good activity, something to keep me busy.
I pull out the yeast and sugar and other ingredients and talk Paul through the recipe. By the time he’s finished kneading the dough, I’m exhausted—from biking, from talking, from being me. “I think I need to lie down now,” I tell Paul, and he nods.
I walk him to the front door. He says, “Will I see you at school Monday?”
“Yes,” I say. “My mother will kill me otherwise.”
“We could work on our homework again after school.”
“Maybe. There’s this coffee shop on Main Street we could go to,” I suggest.
Paul smiles slowly. “Like a date.”
“Okay. Whatever.” I step on his foot lightly.
Paul looks down. “Is that your way of saying goodbye?”
“Yes, it’s Sydney-speak for goodbye.”
Paul punches me gently on the shoulder. “This is Paul-speak for see you later.”
I want to grab him and hug him tight. Instead I watch him amble down our front steps. Then I leave the challah to rise and collapse onto the couch in the living room and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I wake with a blanket on top of me and Zeyda sitting by my feet, sipping a Scotch. Mom and Abby are in the kitchen, taking food out of the oven. Dad’s setting the table.
The Most Dangerous Thing Page 12