Devil in the Details

by Jennifer Traig

  Well, then, I’d just have to act normal.

  By August I was pretty sure I could. The morning I was to leave, I perched on my torturously uncomfortable prayer chair and said my devotions for what I knew would be the last time. I prayed for a good year, nice roommates, decent grades, and frizz control. Then I finished packing up my things, taking two prayer books but not my makeshift yarmulke, my shampoo but not my anti-bacterial bleach spray, my calculus notes but not my collection of lists. I was ready. We loaded up the car and we were on our way, and I only made us turn back once to check the outlets. Alone in the house, I said goodbye to the walls and floors, my hiding spots and sanctuaries. Goodbye, goodbye. Shalom, bayit.

  Three hours later I was all moved in to my new room. I would have to share the phone and the closet, but the southwest corner was all my own. I could set it up any way I wanted. If I wanted to spread a tarp over my bunk, well, that was my decision. If I needed to align my books by height, I was free to do so. Mostly, however, I just worried about aesthetics. Did the Klimt look better over the bed or over the desk? What did the Monet print say about me? Did it convey my sophistication and sensitivity? Or would I be better off with the Matisse?

  After several hours of ordering my father around, not there but there, things were just the way I wanted them. My parents left, and it was perfect. There had been some discussion of trying to find a new counselor at school, to ease the transition and prevent a relapse, but as soon as my parents said goodbye I realized I wouldn’t need one. I’d expected to feel scared, or at least wistful. Instead I felt fantastic, so good I wanted to jump on the bed, so good I didn’t care if my shoes rendered the bedspread unclean. I could wash it a hundred times if I wanted to, or throw it away, or not worry about it at all.

  I wasn’t worried. I could make any decision I wanted now. I would make some bad ones – it’s a fact that I ate Raisin Bran for every meal that first year – but on the whole I did pretty well. I passed all my classes, made friends, fit in. Nobody at college knew how crazy I’d been, and they treated me as if I was perfectly normal. Maybe I was. I kept waiting for the scrupulous impulses to come back, but they didn’t. I did just fine.

  Now my parents were in the parking lot. I waved goodbye out the window, shalom, shalom. This was great. I could do anything. I could join a cult. I could follow the Dead. I could grow out my bangs. I could take up drumming. I could learn Chinese. I could become an anarchist or a vegan. I could stop wearing socks. I could run down the hallway and touch every doorknob. I could stay out, sleep late, run away, run back. I could do anything. Shalom.

  EOF