OCD Love Story Read online

  “Feelings manifest in all different ways,” Dr. Pat says with a heavy glance at me and Beck. She can’t get us in trouble for emoting but she also doesn’t want to promote that kind of behavior. “But we’re all here to support each other. I’m sure Jenny could use a little more emotional support, Bea. Beck. Just be present for everyone else in the group, okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” Beck says, and he sounds like he means it. I feel bad then too, because I really wasn’t laughing at Jenny; I was laughing at being in this room with Beck. “It’s cool,” he keeps going, eyes right on Jenny and hers on him. “You’re cool. The way you tell us everything. The way you show up and don’t hide . . . anything.” Jenny’s eyes sparkle from attention. If I could, I’d say something like what Beck said, but I can’t come up with the right things. So I nod really vigorously to show how much I agree. “This shit sucks,” Beck concludes. His neck bulges a little on the word “shit.”

  A tiny bubble of tension releases in the room. It’s slight. It doesn’t change too much. But Dr. Pat tilts her head and smiles at Beck, and the rest of the session feels like a cafeteria conversation. Jenny giggles and Rudy leans forward and looks at everyone when they’re talking. Fawn shifts in her seat and yawns.

  It’s not so bad.

  • • •

  Beck and I do an awkward dance at the end of the session. Not really speaking but not really avoiding each other either. We make eye contact and open our mouths like little fish and walk a few paces apart toward our cars.

  I turn away from the way he looks: hand tapping on thigh, half a dimple peeking through from the beginning of a smile, licking lips like he’s recalling the kiss from the other night. He gives a little wave even though I’m mostly just looking at the pavement. I wiggle my fingers back at him and let myself look up into his eyes for one half second before getting into my car. I have to wait for him to leave first. I’m not the best driver, and I don’t want him to know that yet. Plus, I don’t want to nick his car or, worse, his body.

  Once he’s out of view, crummy SUV shooting down the road, I can start my own engine and drive the few miles home at a snail’s pace. If I could drive faster, I would.

  • • •

  I’m here, I text to Lisha. My car found its way to her driveway instead of my own. Cooter and I made orange mac n cheez, come on in, she texts back, like it’s too hard to come outside and tell me. Lisha’s family doesn’t lock their doors. My family didn’t used to either, but really that’s just not safe.

  Lish and her brother, Cooter, are on the couch and Law & Order: SVU is just starting up on the TV in front of them. Even the music arrests me, that opening shoock-shoock noise that says, Something terrible is about to happen.

  “If you want some delicious orange food, you’re gonna have to let us watch what we like,” Cooter says right away. His dirty-socked feet are stretched out on the coffee table in front of him, and he’s eating out of a saucepan instead of a bowl.

  “Shut up,” Lisha says, and hands me the sad remains of the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese clinging to the plastic mixing bowl they use almost every night for just this purpose. “Grab a fork and join us. She’s fine, Cooter.” This isn’t totally true. I hate the Law & Order franchise, but I’ll grin and bear it if it means Cooter starts thinking I’m cool again. I sit far away from the television, at the little breakfast table in the corner of the large family room.

  Lisha raises her eyebrows and joins me at the table. She takes the chair that faces the TV, and I face away from it, and it is in this exact formation that we can both get what we want. “Sorry, it’s a good episode, but I swear I’m paying attention to you,” she says. I shrug and she doesn’t push the issue. She knows when to put something aside, which is what I maybe love most about her. That and her love of Catholic school uniforms. She usually makes it a point to wear at least one element (plaid skirt or knee-high socks or tight navy blazer or starched white shirt or even just a little gold cross necklace) of a uniform every day. As far as Lisha’s concerned this qualifies as gutsy fashion sense.

  No one ever notices. But it makes her feel good, to have a little irony to her prep-school sensibilities. Even if it’s our secret. Otherwise, she wears what everyone else at school is wearing and does what her parents tell her to do. Even right now she’s in ill-fitting, laundry-day jeans and a turtleneck, but she’s got a little vest over the ensemble, and the emblem over her heart tells me it’s from St. Mary’s School for Girls. Probably circa 1985, judging from the boxy shape and gold buttons.

  Shoock-shoock, the television says, and Lisha turns her full attention to me.

  “How’s group therapy?” she asks, and my face must betray just how awkward my afternoon was, because she leans forward right away. “Oh my God, what? Are they all freaks?”

  “You’re not going to believe this,” I say. I can barely believe it myself. “The Smith-Latin guy I made out with at the dance last weekend is in group therapy with me.”

  Lisha’s mouth drops open. Cooter turns up the volume on the Jordan’s Furniture commercial.

  “I know,” I continue. “What are the chances, right? It’s basically the most humiliating situation possible.”

  “Oh my God,” she says at last. “Oh my God. Okay. All right. So? What does he look like?” There’s no mention of coincidence or fate or impossibility, ’cause she knows that would just make me crazy (excuse me, crazier). But I’m pretty sure she’s going to consult the stars and the planets and her tarot cards or whatever to see what it means that I’ve come across Beck again so quickly.

  I shrug. Law & Order has started back up, but Lisha’s focus is on me. I try to block out the doctor’s description of the autopsy results and the normal-looking guy who I already know is the killer.

  “The Beck guy is cute,” I say, when my shrug isn’t enough.

  “Oh my God, come on. Details.”

  “Yeah! Details!” Cooter says, imitating Lisha’s semisqueaky voice.

  “Muscles. Shaved head. Typical Bea territory.” I have a type and apparently it’s so much a part of me that even in the dark I can find him. I know she’s looking for details on his actual face, his smile and eyes. But he’s still faceless, even after seeing him at therapy. I can’t get beyond the darkness of the blacked-out gym, the strange nontime we spent together. Like a pause button had been pressed but we kept going.

  “The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Stupidly, irritatingly blue,” I say.

  I pinch my thigh. Lisha doesn’t notice. I barely notice. I mean, it’s nothing.

  “Did you guys talk? Are you gonna make out again? Do you seriously not think this is the most romantic thing ever?” Lisha’s practically panting for more information but I suddenly don’t feel like talking about Beck. Every time the kiss replays in my head, my heart pounds out of control and my chest gets all constricted. I fill the space with a fork full of fake-cheesy goodness. Cooter didn’t even mix the powder in all the way, so the bottom of the bowl is thick with the stuff. Pasty. Delicious.

  “Dr. Pat’s group therapy for crazy teens is not romantic, Lish,” I say with a full mouth.

  “You’re just scared,” Lish says. “That’s what Dr. Pat will say when you tell her all the details.” Lish has never met Dr. Pat, never seen her or talked to her or anything. But that little fact never stops her from feeling like she knows what Dr. Pat would think. With Lisha it’s sometimes a little like some poorly constructed version of Dr. Pat is sitting at the table with us. I’m tired of Dr. Pat. Even fake Dr. Pat who is not here at all.

  “Sure I’m scared, I made out with someone more messed up than me,” I say. “I mean, he said it himself. He admitted that he’s some freak.” This isn’t quite how it went, the night of the dance. I know that, but I’m not ready for Beck to have a face and a life. He’s just some guy who washes his hands a lot and has amazing biceps and issues that I’ll hear alllll about in group sessions. That’s not the kind of guy I need to fall in love with. There’s not gonna be any mystery t
here.

  I like the other Beck too much to give him up. The one in my head. The one in the dark.

  “You’re not that messed up,” Lisha says with a big, teasing smile. She knows I don’t want to talk about it. I smile too, because when she teases me, it’s almost like I’m just a little quirky, and not some total disaster.

  Cooter scoffs. Shoock-shoock, the TV says. The normal-looking guy is on the stand, of course. He’s sweating. He’s guilty. People are so messed up. All of us, I mean. We’re all so screwed up.

  DR. PAT WAITS UNTIL THE very end of our session to give me the pamphlets. She waits until I have discussed missing Kurt: It happens in waves, and there’s nothing I can do about it, since I’m not allowed to contact him. I have about a dozen unsent e-mails in my drafts folder. Dr. Pat gives me a strong warning not to send them, and says she’ll have to tell my parents about them. Legally speaking.

  “What made you miss him this time?” she says. Dr. Pat likes to find reasons for everything. Motivators.

  “I don’t know. I guess I was thinking about him on my way home from Lisha’s house last night. We watched this horrifying SVU episode, and . . . I don’t know. It didn’t make me think of Kurt or anything, it just upset me, and when I’m upset about one thing I’m sort of upset about everything, you know?”

  She nods her head as I talk. “What was so upsetting about the episode?”

  “The criminal—the rapist guy—he looked like a dad, you know? He looked like a golf-playing, tie-wearing dad.”

  “Did he remind you of your dad?” she asks, totally missing the point.

  “No, he didn’t remind me of anyone. I just think we’re all really capable of scary stuff, you know? I mean, even me. Who knows, right?”

  “Well, no, not right. We know you aren’t capable of anything truly terrible,” Dr. Pat says, but she’s taking notes at breakneck pace.

  “We don’t know that. Read the paper, right? They’re always surprised when a little kid or a nice old woman or a pretty girl does something awful. They always say they seemed so nice.”

  I’m thinking about that kid Reggie again, the one we discussed in my current events class. I’m thinking about the way his eyelashes were long and that the picture in the paper had him wearing a blue button-down shirt, and that his chin had a little dimple on it. I open my mouth to recount the harrowing story of Reggie, but Dr. Pat’s heard it before, and she interrupts since we’re almost out of time.

  “I want you to look these over,” she says. “I just want you to let me know if anything in there resonates. We can talk about it here, or in group if that’s comfortable.”

  “I won’t want to talk about it in group,” I say. I smile with the words. Dr. Pat and I sometimes joke around, and I love when her smile reaches all the way to her eyes and for a moment I can pretend we are friends.

  This time Dr. Pat doesn’t smile. She cocks her head to the side and puts the pamphlets in my lap, since I haven’t reached for them.

  Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder: Managing Your Compulsions, Living Your Life.

  I giggle.

  It is the worst response. But then I can’t stop giggling. It’s not funny at all, but the laughs are coming from deep inside my stomach and I can’t seem to control the waves. My eyes tear up, and I’m afraid I might do that thing where you laugh and cry at the same time, because strong emotions are all so close to each other that sometimes your body gets confused.

  The other pamphlets are more of the same, and just when I think I’ve gotten the laughter under control, it bubbles up again. Sputters to the surface, so that even when I clamp my mouth shut against it, a little spit and giggle burst through my lips. Hot.

  “I’m guessing you’re uncomfortable,” Dr. Pat says when I have taken a few deep breaths successfully and the giggles have subsided into me just shaking my head and scrunching my nose.

  “Um, I’m mostly confused. You think I have OCD? Like, the hand-washing disease? Have you seen my room? Or, like, my general hygiene? I don’t even floss.” Today I am wearing secondhand huge bell-bottom jeans and a secondhand flannel shirt and (even though I know it is the big taboo) secondhand shoes: brown platform boots that are fit for someone else’s feet. With every step I am more and more aware of the previous owner. These are not the actions of someone with OCD.

  “OCD is really just a type of anxiety,” Dr. Pat says. She slides forward in her seat, the signal she uses week after week to alert me that it is time for me to hand over my mom’s check. “And it shows up in lots of different ways. Some of the things your mother and I talked about, and some of the little behaviors I’ve noticed in you myself—”

  “A lot of people get nervous driving,” I interrupt.

  “I know it sounds really scary, but it could actually be great for us to put a name to some of your behaviors and fears, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I think you’ll feel better after you read some of that information,” Dr. Pat goes on, speaking over my small-voiced reaction. “I know I’m throwing a lot at you, but I think it’s best if you process this alone and then we chat in group about it, okay?” This must be some lesson she learned at therapist school, so I just nod and smile and grip the pamphlets with a violent force I always suspected I had.

  On my way out the door I catch sight of Sylvia and Austin heading in. I usually only see them before my Wednesday session, but maybe they’ve added a second session this week too. Given the decibel at which they yell at each other in there, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  I grin at the sight of them. Just what I needed. My chest is tight from my session and the car ride ahead of me, but the clack of Austin’s cowboy boots on the linoleum gives me a shot of relief. And I know I need more where that came from.

  My car feels exceptionally small. I turn it on, knowing I’m not leaving the parking lot anytime soon. But I need the heat and the radio tuned to Oldies 103.3 and the saving grace that is “My Girl” playing at full volume.

  I read through the pamphlets. But that is not why I wait in the car in the parking lot for an extra hour after my session. Here’s what I learn in pamphlet number two, Your Brain and Your OCD: Apparently, obsession and anxiety go hand in hand. OCD has gotten a bad rap, but is totally workable. A person with OCD has to face anxiety head on. Compulsions are just a way of delaying the inevitable rush of feeling and fear.

  These are the kinds of things people like Dr. Pat say to make you feel like OCD isn’t a death sentence.

  Austin and Sylvia don’t hold hands on their way out of the building when their forty-five minutes are up. But their legs walk in time with each other, spider-long limbs striding across the pavement in record time. Sylvia drives and Austin sits in the passenger’s seat, a fact that I sort of secretly love. I write it down in the pink notebook with the star on the cover. Scribble it out, because they zip away fast and I have to follow closely, without crossing the speed limit.

  I have one of those innocuous cars that is just the right shade of dusty navy blue to blend in with the pavement or the sky or streets full of other similarly blue cars. There aren’t scars of abuse on its surface but it’s also never newly shiny and clean. It’s like me: not all used up and dirty but not exactly beautiful either. Nice enough. Normal enough. Pretty enough.

  But I love the thing anyway, and not just because it gets me around. I have Mardi Gras beads from a great New Year’s Eve out in Boston with Lisha hanging from the rearview mirror. Gold and green, my favorite colors, clanging against each other as I drive. The rest of them are in Lisha’s car, hanging from her mirror. We decided they’re good luck, though so far nothing too exciting has happened in either of our cars. Besides, I think Lisha just being in my life is good luck. Really.

  I keep a minilibrary of my favorite books in the backseat, just in case I’m caught without anything to do, or if Lisha’s running late to meet me. There’s a hardcover of poems by Mary Oliver, this poet who writes about nature. It was a gift. To be honest it
’s something Kurt owned and gave to me a few weeks before he dumped me. The spine is broken so it automatically opens up to his favorite poems. I try not to think too much about why they were his favorites. And more books too: old-school favorites like Judy Blume. The Fountainhead, which is my favorite book of all time. I can open any of them up to any page and get lost for twenty minutes or an hour, depending on what the situation requires. Add a couple of blankets, and my car would be just as fantastic as my bedroom.

  It’s not a short drive to where they live. We make our way through crowded rush hour traffic from the suburbs into the city. I have to drive fast to keep up with their zippy VW, so my heart’s pounding. I hate driving fast. I try to be a hawk, watching for pedestrians and oncoming traffic with the full knowledge that if I’m not careful, I could hurt someone. I find that if I blink my headlights in warning every so often I can deal with the windier roads, the merges, the heart-pounding intersections. So that’s what I do, all the way from Lexington to a high-rise on the waterfront. We are somewhere between the old-school Italian charm of the North End and the tourist trap that is Faneuil Hall. I pull over across the street. Austin and Sylvia park somewhere around the block but quickly get back to the entrance of their urban palace. It is all windows, all silver and mirrored facades. It’s not the kind of place where people actually live, not really, and maybe that’s why they’re so miserable that they have to go to therapy multiple times a week like me.

  How could you live somewhere so icy cold and imposing, so clearly in conflict with the rest of the city, the rest of the human population, and stay in love? As far as I can tell, love takes place in townhouses and cozy cottages and cramped studio apartments and rundown guest houses. This place might as well be an office building or a spaceship.