ritual again, but there was more that I couldn’t justify asannoyance. One night even the ritual couldn’t help, and in a state of anxiety, I woke up my sister.
“They’re not home yet!”
“Huh?” she said sleepily.
“Mom and Dad. They’re not home yet!”
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Then go to sleep.”
“I can’t! They’re not home yet!”
“So?”
She didn’t understand. “Can I sleep with you?” I whined.
“If you
have
to.”
I had to. Just like I had to count the cracks and say the prayers and look at the clocks from just the right angles and stand in the street looking both ways so that I was even. I had to. But it didn’t help.
Lying next to my sister’s little body and listening to the regular rhythm of her breathing, I felt fear rush through my veins like hot snakes. Why couldn’t I be like her? Why was she sleeping peacefully when I was in agony? She was probably dreaming of something beautiful. I was picturing our parents dead. I could see the policeman and social workers coming to tell us. I saw myself fall apart.
Greta felt my anxiety. “It’s okay,” she whispered. But it wasn’t. Waiting was agony. I felt as if my skin was on too tight. Then the urge overtook me.
“I’ll be back,” I whispered.
I dialed the number and asked Mr. Spivac to page my mother.
“But when are you coming home?” I whined.
“Schoon
, honey.
Schoon.
Go to bed.”
“Are you drunk!” I demanded.
“A little,” she admitted with a giggle.
I was furious. “I can’t go to bed!”
“Right. Well, honey,
shouldn’t
you be
usching
this time to smoke cigarettes, have boys over, be bad for once?”
“Can I talk to Daddy?”
“No.”
“Can I call you back in a half hour if you’re not home yet?”
A long pause. Finally, “If you want to.”
“I don’t
want
to! I
have
to!” I shouted. I hung up and headed for my parents’ room. I cried lightly while saying my prayers to the Virgin Mary, checking the clock and touching the doorknob. Actually, it was more like whimpering while checking the clock and touching the doorknob.
When I stood in the middle of the street I saw Mrs. McQuade looking out her window at me. I was vexed beyond belief. Didn’t she have a life?
I continued with my ritual, ignoring her as best I could. But I felt her watching me. She knew this wasn’t normal behavior. I knew she knew. She knew I knew. I didn’t want her to tell my parents. So far, they didn’t know about this quirk. Now I wouldn’t be able to spare them this either.
My heart was pounding with shame and fear. My chest started to hurt. I wondered if it was my lungs that were the trouble all along. Panting with anxiety, I ran into my sister’s bedroom again.
“Wake up!”
“What’s wrong now?” she asked. Her sleepiness was dulling the irritation in her voice.
“Mom and Dad are still not home!” I was exploding with emotion.
“So?”
“It’s after midnight.”
“So?”
“I’m—I’m worried!”
“Are you sick?”
“Yes!” I said. “I’m panting.”
“That’s because you’re running another one of your midnight Cinderella marathons.”
“So?”
“You’re not sick.”
“I’m scared.”
“Come here. Go to sleep.” I can’t!
“Then get out of here and leave me alone.”
She was maddening. I turned on the bedroom light and sat on her bed.
“Shut that light off.”
I ignored her command.
She squinted at me. “Maybe you are nuts.”
“It sure looks that way,” I admitted.
“Just go to sleep.”
“I can’t! Not until they get home. Do you think they’re all right?”
“They’re a lot more all right than you’re going to be if you don’t get out of here!” Greta staggered out of bed and looked at me menacingly. “I’m getting really sick of this, Tara. We all are. Now shut off that light and get out …
okay?”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry too. But get out now.”
I did. And then I did my ritual five more
“They’re not home yet!”
“Huh?” she said sleepily.
“Mom and Dad. They’re not home yet!”
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Then go to sleep.”
“I can’t! They’re not home yet!”
“So?”
She didn’t understand. “Can I sleep with you?” I whined.
“If you
have
to.”
I had to. Just like I had to count the cracks and say the prayers and look at the clocks from just the right angles and stand in the street looking both ways so that I was even. I had to. But it didn’t help.
Lying next to my sister’s little body and listening to the regular rhythm of her breathing, I felt fear rush through my veins like hot snakes. Why couldn’t I be like her? Why was she sleeping peacefully when I was in agony? She was probably dreaming of something beautiful. I was picturing our parents dead. I could see the policeman and social workers coming to tell us. I saw myself fall apart.
Greta felt my anxiety. “It’s okay,” she whispered. But it wasn’t. Waiting was agony. I felt as if my skin was on too tight. Then the urge overtook me.
“I’ll be back,” I whispered.
I dialed the number and asked Mr. Spivac to page my mother.
“But when are you coming home?” I whined.
“Schoon
, honey.
Schoon.
Go to bed.”
“Are you drunk!” I demanded.
“A little,” she admitted with a giggle.
I was furious. “I can’t go to bed!”
“Right. Well, honey,
shouldn’t
you be
usching
this time to smoke cigarettes, have boys over, be bad for once?”
“Can I talk to Daddy?”
“No.”
“Can I call you back in a half hour if you’re not home yet?”
A long pause. Finally, “If you want to.”
“I don’t
want
to! I
have
to!” I shouted. I hung up and headed for my parents’ room. I cried lightly while saying my prayers to the Virgin Mary, checking the clock and touching the doorknob. Actually, it was more like whimpering while checking the clock and touching the doorknob.
When I stood in the middle of the street I saw Mrs. McQuade looking out her window at me. I was vexed beyond belief. Didn’t she have a life?
I continued with my ritual, ignoring her as best I could. But I felt her watching me. She knew this wasn’t normal behavior. I knew she knew. She knew I knew. I didn’t want her to tell my parents. So far, they didn’t know about this quirk. Now I wouldn’t be able to spare them this either.
My heart was pounding with shame and fear. My chest started to hurt. I wondered if it was my lungs that were the trouble all along. Panting with anxiety, I ran into my sister’s bedroom again.
“Wake up!”
“What’s wrong now?” she asked. Her sleepiness was dulling the irritation in her voice.
“Mom and Dad are still not home!” I was exploding with emotion.
“So?”
“It’s after midnight.”
“So?”
“I’m—I’m worried!”
“Are you sick?”
“Yes!” I said. “I’m panting.”
“That’s because you’re running another one of your midnight Cinderella marathons.”
“So?”
“You’re not sick.”
“I’m scared.”
“Come here. Go to sleep.” I can’t!
“Then get out of here and leave me alone.”
She was maddening. I turned on the bedroom light and sat on her bed.
“Shut that light off.”
I ignored her command.
She squinted at me. “Maybe you are nuts.”
“It sure looks that way,” I admitted.
“Just go to sleep.”
“I can’t! Not until they get home. Do you think they’re all right?”
“They’re a lot more all right than you’re going to be if you don’t get out of here!” Greta staggered out of bed and looked at me menacingly. “I’m getting really sick of this, Tara. We all are. Now shut off that light and get out …
okay?”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry too. But get out now.”
I did. And then I did my ritual five more
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