Compulsion (24 page)

Authors: Heidi Ayarbe

BOOK: Compulsion

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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.

She passes me a hot cup of cocoa. “Soy cocoa,” she says. “Soy is better for you than regular cow milk. Marshmallows.” She drops in a handful. “
Not
organic. Organic marshmallows taste like compost.”

I cradle the cup in my hands. Eight marshmallows. I flick one out.

Seven. OK.

“Are you okay?” She links her arm with mine.

The acid bubbles from my stomach, leaving a nasty film in my mouth. I sip on the cocoa, the hot liquid burning my throat, melting through the ice that has formed there, leaving me mute all these years. The spiders spin and weave their webs through every nerve, squeezing, crunching, reminding me I did everything wrong this morning.

Everything is wrong.

Everything has been wrong for a long time. But I don’t know how this can make it any better.

“Are you okay?” she repeats.

The words form in my brain, breaking through the fog, slipping through the silky webs. I cup Mera’s hand in mine, swallowing again.

“I don’t think so.”

Acknowledgments

I am so grateful for:

An amazing team at HarperCollins that works so hard doing a million things to make my books the best they can and make sure my books get out there: Cindy Hamilton, Renée Cafiero, Emilie Ziemer, Laura Lutz, and Jenny Rozbruch.

My first publisher, Laura Geringer, who took a chance on me, and my current publishers, Alessandra Balzer and Donna Bray, who continue to believe in my work.

My amazing editor, Ruta Rimas, who knows how to ask the right questions, pushing me to my limits as a writer.

My out-of-this-universe agent, who trusts in my crazy notions, somehow knowing that those vague ideas in my head can become novels.

My critique group and family who believed before I did.

Finally, this book would be nowhere without Lisa. She trusted me with her stories. She took a risk, sharing her world with me, and without her help, I would never have been able to imagine Jake.

Mental illness, of any kind, is commonly misdiagnosed, ignored; and those who suffer often suffer alone. I hope that this book, in some way, will open a door and maybe give someone who does suffer the courage to come forward. You are not alone.

About the Author

Heidi AyArbe
grew up in Nevada and has lived all over the world. She now makes her home in Colombia with her husband and daughter. She is also the author of FREEZE FRAME and COMPROMISED. You can visit her online at www.heidiayarbe.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Also by Heidi Ayarbe

FREEZE FRAME
COMPROMISED

Compulsion

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ayarbe, Heidi.

Compulsion / Heidi Ayarbe. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: Poised to lead his high school soccer team to its third straight state championship, seventeen-year-old star player Jake Martin struggles to keep hidden his nearly debilitating obsessive-compulsive disorder.

ISBN 978-0-06-199386-2 (trade bdg.)

[1. Soccer—Fiction. 2. Obsessive-compulsive disorder—Fiction. 3. Emotional problems—Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.A9618Con 2011

[Fic]—dc22

2010027826
CIP
AC

11 12 13 14 15 CG/RRDB 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

About the Publisher

Australia

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Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks

Canada