Ticker

Ticker - Part 3

I never got a driver’s license because of my medical condition.  It was always Mom or Dad or my sister hauling me around.  I ask Mom to take me to Kat’s.  I tell her that we’re going to play video games.  She instantly stops what she’s doing, eager for me to have this friend.  

I’ve decided I’m going to tell Kat everything.  She’s the only one who will believe anyway.  I don’t know why, but I think she’ll know what to do.  

Mom pulls up to Kat’s small brick house on the other side of town. “When should I be back?” she asks.

“A few hours.”

“Okay.  Be nice.  And have fun.  But seriously, be nice.”

I walk up to Kat’s house as Mom pulls away.  

I ring the doorbell.  

A car comes down the street.  Maybe I notice it because the car moves so slowly.  The windows are dark and the way the sun hits the glass, I can’t see the driver.  I watch as the car passes, finally picking up normal speed and continuing on. 

I turn back to the front door, wait for several long moments and then ring the bell again.  Maybe I have the wrong day.  I scroll through my cell, looking at the texts Kat and I exchanged right after my bizarre seven mile stroll.

Nope.  I have the right day.  Right time.

I start to ring again when the door suddenly opens.

Kat’s father stands there.

He doesn’t say anything.

And neither do I.

I’ve seen this expression before on other parents’ faces.

I spare him having to utter the words that his daughter is dead.

But I can’t stop my phone from slipping out of my fingers, the glass cracking as it hits the pavement.

I’m drawing it again. 

That triangle.

The straight line.

Two curves underneath.

I fill in blue marker all around it.

What is this?!

I’m going mad.  

I rip up the drawing and scream into my pillows.

I push off the bed and head out of my room.  I move down the stairs.  It’s late.  The house is quiet.   

I step into the kitchen and stand there.  Restless.  I need something in this room.  But what?  Like I’ve done so many times in the past, I open the fridge and grab a bottle of Dad’s white wine.  I drink straight from the bottle.  I wipe my mouth with deep dissatisfaction, revolted by the taste.  I shove it back in the fridge. 

Today’s newspaper sits on the breakfast nook.  Is this what I’m supposed to see?  I flip through the sections, scanning headlines, photos, stock market prices.  I want something to jump out at me and quiet this nagging feeling racing around my head so I can get on with my life.  But there is nothing.

And now I notice a set of car keys at the far end of the counter.  

My eyes can’t leave them for some reason.

They mean something.

All of a sudden, the keys twitch.  Ever so slightly.

“What the hell?” I whisper.