Fictional response loosely based on [Fiction] Friday prompt: Tell about someone who is obsessed.

We moved next door to the Bismarks two weeks before I began my sophomore year. Mom and I had been through a painful year since Dad had left her, and we really felt a move was necessary: A new beginning without the painful place memories. I don’t know if I preferred the fact that Dad was now a state away or if I missed him too much. I was mad at him, but I still loved him, of course.

I knew something was odd about the neighbors from the beginning. On moving day, I was carrying a box of my mother’s books (one of the 15 boxes) out the car when I noticed the tinted windows. When I did a double take, I noticed the heavy blinds and curtains. I saw one blind flutter, but only slightly.

“What do you know about the neighbors?” I asked my mom when I entered the kitchen. I’d taken the box of books upstairs to her library, wishing with each step that we had purchased a ranch house like the neighbors’. Mom was trying, unsuccessfully, to open a box labeled “KITC MISC” with her fingernails. I tossed our car keys to her.

I watched as she slid the key through the tape and popped the box open. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about the odd, tinted windows.

“Ah ha!” she said proudly as she extricated an egg beater from the box and held it up to show me. “Finally!”

“So, the neighbors…” I started again.

“Oh, the realtor said the Bismarks are a little odd but good neighbors,” she said off handedly, pulling out more kitchen utensils. “And they have a little girl.” She smiled and nodded to me.

I’d spent nearly every afternoon freshman year watching five-year-old Lizzy Johnson; a good gig, but a bit exhausting by the end of the year.

“I think I saw her watching,” I said, nodding. I wasn’t sure I wanted another regular babysitting job. It was fine for a freshman, but for sophomore year I was hoping for more of a social life than five-year-old Lizzy Johnson.

“I’ll bake something for you to take over,” Mom said, unpacking the measuring spoons.

I rolled my eyes. My mom is a compulsive baker and the fact that we were surrounded by unpacked boxes in a still-partially furnished home didn’t stop her, it only encouraged her. She had to have her home-cooked goodness for the neighbors!

When Mom handed me a carefully covered plate of cookies a few days later, I was glad. I’d spent so much time inside unpacking and setting up the house that I was eager to get out. Besides, I didn’t know anyone, so I was on my own until school began.

The door only opened a crack when I knocked. Beverly Bismark peered out, just barely. There were bags under her bright green eyes, and her smile looked uncomfortable. I don’t think she was more than 35, but the wrinkles on her forehead and the graying hair made her look ten years older. I could barely see beyond her into the darkness of her home.

“I brought you these cookies,” I began. “We just moved in next door.”

She nodded and eyed the cookies.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I’m afraid there may be traces of nuts.”

“Well, actually, they are chocolate chip,” I said, extending the plate toward her. I was glad my mom hadn’t made banana nut, which were my personal favorite.

“Well, you see, I have a little girl,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, as if that explained it. She motioned the plate away.

She didn’t expound further. I apologized that we hadn’t known her girl was allergic to nuts.

She looked surprised as she explained that no, Elsa wasn’t allergic as far as she knew, but they weren’t taking any chances until she was a bit older: “The longer you wait, the less risk of a nut allergy developing. Obviously, nut allergies can be quite serious. I’m not taking any chances with my little girl’s life.”

Turns out Elsa was 7. I’d heard of paranoid parents, but that was a bit much for me.

I finally met Elsa a few weeks later. The semester had started and I’d finally met some people. But when Mom told me she’d bragged to Mrs. Bismark about my babysitting abilities and Mrs. Bismark had mentioned babysitting that Saturday night, I was eager for the spending money.

Mom had given her the names and numbers of the Johnsons and about four other families I’d babysat in Springvale. Mrs. Bismark had called them all. Apparently, none of them revealed any of my babysitting mistakes, because Saturday night at 6, I was ringing the Bismark’s bell.

Even though I spent just a few minutes (okay, more like 15 minutes) with Beverly Bismark, I could tell she was a bit uptight. She had a fifteen-page printed booklet with information and emergency phone numbers about Elsa’s care. She walked me through the entire house showing me the fire extinguishers, fire blankets, and the first aid kits in each room (yes, each room).

I confess now, I didn’t read the booklet.

Mr. Bismark (I never did learn his first name), on the other hand, stood patiently by the front door, his wife’s coat in hand, waiting for her to finish her routine. I could sense he was eager to leave.

Elsa’s green eyes peered from behind the door to her bedroom, just as her mother had out of the front door. When she emerged completely, all elbows and stringy red hair, I sensed her reluctance to let me stay with her. Mrs. Bismark could hardly stand to leave us. With Elsa quietly avoiding me and Mrs. Bismark sturdily repeating “I trust you, I trust you,” I wasn’t sure what to expect from the evening.

When the Bismarks finally left, Beverly shouting out last minute instructions even as the car drove away, I turned to Elsa, who was watching me.

Here goes! I thought to myself.

I don’t know how to explain the rest of the evening. Elsa loosened up rather well, but I felt like I just kept having the most bizarre conversations. For example, we went to the kitchen to make Elsa’s dinner. A leftover organic pasta dish of some sort was labeled in the fridge. When I headed for the microwave, Elsa stopped me.

“No!” she nearly shouted. “You can’t microwave that!”

I must have looked confused. When I stopped and looked at her, she clarified.

“Obviously, you can’t microwave things for children,” she explained as if I knew nothing. “The waves in a microwave are very bad.”

I think I must have nodded. Regardless, I reheated the food on the stove.

Mrs. Bismark called the first time while we were eating dinner. She’d forgotten to tell me not to use the microwave and she wanted to make sure I’d seen it in the booklet. I assured her all was well, and encouraged her to enjoy their business dinner.

Elsa piled her food in her mouth, almost inhaling it. It was amazing to watch. I think she must have been eager to eat without her mother correcting her manners.

I asked her about school, since the year had just begun.

“My mom’s my teacher,” she replied with a full mouth. “I can’t go school.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t realized she was home schooled as well. Did she ever leave the tinted-window house?

“Well, for one, the playground is not safe. She thinks I’m going to fall and die.” Now Elsa glared at me, as if daring me to agree. “I won’t, you know. I don’t like heights. I’d stay on the ground.”

I nodded and assured her I knew that.

“Let’s go outside,” I suggested when she finished eating. The Bismarks had a long but shallow backyard. It was fenced. Surely there was nothing forbidden about that. She nodded and stood up.

“Just a minute,” she said. She rushed to her room, while I put the dishes in the sink. When she returned, she had on a hat and sunglasses. Apparently, her mother was concerned that she’d get sunburned. Even when I pointed out that the sun was in the process of setting, she wouldn’t take them off.

“You’re not a redhead; you don’t understand,” she said stubbornly. “I could get really sick if I get too much sun.”

We played catch for a while with an inflatable globe I found in Elsa’s room. It didn’t work too well, but at least I got Elsa laughing. When the sun had mostly gone down, Elsa insisted we return inside. (“Mosquitoes can make you really sick, you know.”)

Later, Elsa explained that she couldn’t take a bath, only a shower, because there was a chance she’d drown in a bath, even in just a few inches. She couldn’t read in her bedroom because the lights were bad and she’d go blind. Her lists of forbidden activities just grew longer. Mrs. Bismark called twice more to check in.

Eventually, Elsa was asleep. And at 9:30, the Bismarks returned home. I thanked them and tried to give Mrs. Bismark the minute-by-minute rundown of our evening that she wanted. She didn’t seem happy that we’d gone outside, but I assured her that Elsa had worn her hat and glasses. Finally, I escaped the Bismarks’ clutches.

I never babysat Elsa again. The next few times they called, I had other plans; I’d just gotten my driver’s license after all. And by the next spring, they had their house with the tinted windows up for sale. Mom told me that the Bismarks were divorcing.

I thought of my dad, who I was still mad at but who I missed so much. And I felt the deep ache in my heart when I thought of skinny little Elsa Bismark trying to explain to herself why she can’t see her parents together anymore.

Apparently, Mrs. Bismark’s obsession with keeping Elsa safe couldn’t stop pain and reality from entering Elsa’s life.

There is always a shadow of truth in fiction. Lately, I’ve found I’ve been “obsessed” with ways my eight-month-old could die: drown in the bathtub, choke on his dinner, fall down the stairs. This story is my reminder to lighten up! I can never completely protect him: here’s a deep thought from Finding Nemo.

Marlin: I promised I’d never let anything happen to him.
Dory: Hmm. That’s a funny thing to promise.
Marlin: What?
Dory: Well, you can’t never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him. Not much fun for little Harpo.