I'll Time You

Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash

creative non-fiction
by Jillian Schedneck

My college roommate was afraid to leave our room. She needed something from the kitchen—perhaps a utensil, or to check on whatever she had simmering—but between her and that quiet task lay the lounge, thick with the other girls from our suite. We sat on our twin beds while she fretted. I offered to go instead, but the task was too specific. It had to be her.

What was she afraid of? Our suitemates were talking and laughing as usual, orbiting the shared lounge with their jokes and stories I was never part of. My roommate, more friendly and likeable, usually floated among them with ease, while I stayed at the edges, if I joined at all. But tonight she was worried they’d draw her in. She couldn’t manage small talk, couldn’t summon levity, or even pretend to smile. I wasn’t exactly sure why, only that I’d seen this before. Some nights, the world outside our room was too much for her.

“I’ll time you!” I shouted, the plan forming as I spoke. “If anyone talks to you, just say, ‘Can’t talk—Jillian’s timing me!’ and dash back!” She laughed, then quietened. And then, out of options, she agreed.

She raced out of our bedroom as I began my count. I imagined her in the kitchen, completing whatever vital task had sent her there. I heard her say something to the other girls, like, “I’m being timed!” I listened to her nervous giggle. And then she returned.

“Twenty seconds!” I said. “That must be some kind of record.”

We lay back on our beds, our heads on our pillows, laughing.

I was glad, most of all, that she’d returned, that at least on this night, she preferred me, even though our suitemates were louder, flashier, part of social worlds I had no access to or interest in. But I did have something they didn’t. With me, she felt safe. I never considered that my roommate might be depressed, or anxious, or caught in thoughts that didn’t quite line up with the world around her, only that on this one night I could give her some relief.

Years later, I still use that trick. My family and I time each other often. “Go! Close the curtains—quick! I’m timing you!” “C’mon, get the chicken out of the freezer! Ready, one, two, three...”. Sometimes the other family member even falls for it, but we always laugh. Every time, I think of my roommate, that moment, and how, more than twenty years later, she killed herself.

She was the one who everyone liked. I only lived in that dorm suite because she invited me—under her good grace, her kind eyes and infectious laugh. I didn’t know what she battled, not clearly enough to name it. When I saw the news on social media, in a tribute post with photos of her smiling beside her husband and children, I couldn’t believe it.

And then I could.

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Jillian Schedneck writes speculative fiction and memoir. Her stories and essays have been published in Tahoma Literary Review, Brevity, Cleaver Magazine, Redivider and elsewhere. Her memoir was published with PanMacmillan. Her work has been chosen as a notable essay in the Best American Essays series and won multiple Solas Awards for Travel Writing. She lives in Canberra, Australia, with her partner and two children. Follow her work at jillianschedneck.com.