I pressed my hands against the walls of the narrow staircase. It felt like they were closing in, shutting out air. I tried to breathe into my tight lungs and stepped down. The floor at the bottom looked so far away, then veered up toward me, then fell back down. Just one step at a time, I told myself, keeping my gaze on my feet now. Step down and breathe. Step down and breathe. When I made it to the bottom, I took my hands off the walls and forbade myself from turning around. I knew what I’d see: the walls of the staircase collapsing toward each other, closing me out for good.
The pain was physical. My whole body hurt as I crawled into the closet. I lifted off Cubby’s head, took one, then two of the strong oval pills that would help me relax, and waited for some of the pain to go away because I wasn’t sure I could stand it. I hadn’t felt this desperate since not knowing what to do about my parents, since feeling like my life was crashing apart. It was the type of hurt that felt like it wouldn’t ever let me go, that I’d carry it with me for the rest of my life.
I breathed in the soothing air and pressed my cheek against the cool wall, wishing I could just become a part of it. I let the pills seep into my cells, telling myself I’d feel better soon, that help was coming. And it did. I’m not sure how long it took, but the pills and the quiet and the walls of the closet worked together to build me back up. And eventually, what had happened drifted away into a haze of unimportance.
“Everything’s easy in here,” I said, lying down now, staring up into the dark. “If I don’t feel it, is the pain still there? Like the tree falling in a forest? Because I should care about Abby and Viv. But in here, I don’t.”
In here, none of that matters. What you don’t feel doesn’t exist.
“I like that,” I said. “That’s how it should be.”
Chapter 30
DURING THE NEXT WEEKS, my ability to concentrate almost vanished with the last of the tree leaves. Responsibilities faded into a sort of background noise that only rarely got loud enough so I’d pay attention. Not that I stopped attending class or doing homework, or that I wasn’t aware that college apps and interviews were looming, just that I felt sort of numb when I tried to care about any of it. Occasionally, I’d realize that I needed to pull myself together—when I got a B minus on an English paper,for example—but most of the time I couldn’t work up enough energy to make a difference.
Some colleges sent interviewers to campus. Columbia was one. The morning of my interview I woke up with the sudden realization that I’d done nothing to prepare. Hadn’t I received a Columbia catalogue? And hadn’t my college counselor given me a handout with interview tips? Well, if I’d ever had either of these things, I couldn’t find them. So instead of going to my Gender Relations seminar, I read everything I could on the Columbia website and printed out a few online lists of the most popular college interview questions.
After lunch I went home to change clothes and gather myself. I chose a black miniskirt, black tights, and a charcoal-gray turtleneck sweater. Then I went into the closet.
I turned on the camping lantern and settled into the corner with my list of possible questions. For a moment I closed my eyes and felt the calming effect of the space seeping into my mind and muscles. Everything was going to be okay. I had plenty of time to prepare. I just needed to concentrate.
I assigned Cubby the task of interviewer. I didn’t need her in here to hear her voice, but I’d have felt stupid being interviewed by the walls.
Why do you want to go to this college? she began, her schoolmarm tone perfect for the role.
“I don’t,” I said, then laughed. “No, wait. I don’t think that’s a good answer. Ask me again.”
Why do you want to go to this college?
Even in here, without the pressure, my mind was blank. I couldn’t say, Because I need to live in New York so I can shack up with my boyfriend. Not to mention that I’d read on the website that first-year students were supposed to live on campus. (There had to be a way around that, right?) Such a basic question and I couldn’t even think of an answer, couldn’t remember why Columbia had been one of my top choices this past summer. My eye twitched. Okay, I’d come back to that one.
I moved on to the next question.
What do you think you can bring to this college?
“Uh, I guess I bring a concern and caring for the … the health of the community. I’ll talk about starting peer counseling here.” I didn’t think I had to mention that I was on hiatus from the program.
What is your biggest weakness?
“Hmm … I’m supposed to say something that’s really a strength.”
You don’t know?
I pulled my turtleneck up over my chin. “My biggest weakness?” I had plenty of weaknesses, but none of them seemed like the type I could spin into strengths.
This one isn’t a strength.
What did that mean? What was I trying to say? “If you’re trying to make me less nervous for my interview, it’s not working.”
I pushed Cubby aside. This wasn’t the time to be worrying about all of the things that were wrong with me. Maybe trying to anticipate questions was stupid. Not to mention, my body was beginning to crave a nap, the way it often did after lunch. Resting was probably a better plan than making myself more nervous about the interview. I slid down and curled up with my head on a pillow, and let my mind go blank, a slight ache pulsing at my temples. The minutes ticked by. My limbs felt heavier and heavier. At 1:45 I made a motion to stand up, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was like a multiple snooze-button morning. I kept trying to get up, but my mind kept dragging me down.
“I don’t want to go,” I said. And I knew what I meant. There were many ways it was true. I didn’t want to go to the interview. I didn’t want to go to Columbia. I didn’t want to go anywhere.
No one is making you, Cubby said.
“But I have to.” I pushed into my palms, hoping I’d be able to raise myself up, hoping I wouldn’t be able to.
You don’t have to. You can stay right here.
David found me in the backyard where I was finally planting the bulbs I’d bought at Home Depot.
“Leena.” He crossed the yard with quick, long strides. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“Sorry. I’ve been out here for a while.” My cheeks, cold from the damp fall air, heated up.
“Didn’t you have your interview at two?”
“Mm-hm.” I turned my attention back to the hole I’d been digging for the next bulb. An angular stone blocked my trowel from going deeper. I reached down and worked it out of the hard earth.
“So …” he said. “How’d it go?”
“Okay.”
“Just okay? C’mon, you’ve got to give me more than that.”
David leaned his knees against my back. His hands raked through my hair, tingled my scalp. The affection intensified the guilt in my stomach.
“Good. It was good.” I nestled a lumpy tulip bulb in the hole. “Harder than I thought, maybe.” I couldn’t possibly tell him the truth: that I’d been twenty minutes late. And that my interview clothes had been rumpled and wrinkled from my time in the closet. A raw breeze slid across my scarfless neck. I shivered.
“Hard? What kind of hard?” David said.
Why couldn’t he leave it alone? I fil ed the hole with soil and smacked it down with the back of the trowel, then brushed my hands together. I stood up and turned to face him.