OCD Love Story (17 page)

Austin: She's twenty.

Sylvia: She.

Austin: Lei-Lei

Sylvia: . . . nickname . . . for the love of . . .

Austin: . . . focus on the most arbitrary . . .

Sylvia: . . . tell me what to feel . . . and then you write songs about other women . . . and I sit there singing them for the love of . . .

Dr. Pat: (about five minutes of communication lecturing)

I'm smart enough to guess at some of the pieces. He's having an affair, or has a crush, or has some webcam girl named Lei-Lei that he's in love with. And Sylvia's pissed. And apparently he writes songs about all of it and makes her sing them. Or something.

But it's not the guesswork that interests me. It's not the pitter-patter of marital back-and-forth that's so enthralling either. I mean, it's intriguing and scandalous and exciting, but I wouldn't be here if that's all it was. It's not interest, it's
necessity
.

And the real mystery here isn't whether or not Austin is sleeping with some twenty-year-old or what kinds of communication methods are best for their marriage. Those aren't the big questions that I am working so hard to answer. What I want to know is:
Why am I so focused on them?
When I was superfocused on Kurt it was because I really, truly loved him, and when I get all amped up about Jeff it's because he was my first kiss and because he turned out to be kind of scary. And Reggie was practically infamous and all over the papers and knew my mother. But with Austin and Sylvia I can't point to love or fear or trauma to explain the obsession. Aside from Austin being hot and looking a little like an all-grown-up version of Jeff, and Sylvia being basically a hipster glamorama life-size Barbie doll, there's no real reason for me to latch on to them.

I have pages and pages of notes by the time their session is over. Some of them are well laid out in full sentences and some of them are chicken scratch, but it's all there, semidecipherable and then tucked away into my huge purse so that Dr. Pat doesn't see when it's my turn to sit on her couch. There's the shuffling of feet and pleasantries that mean they're done with their session. I planned on going to the bathroom and hiding out so they don't catch sight of me, but I can't bring myself to get out of the chair. I want one more glimpse of them. So I hide my face in my scarf and then tuck myself away behind a book. And the safest thing to do would
be to bury myself there, in the pages, chin all the way to my chest, eyes all the way down.

I can't.

They're talking casually to each other when they open the door, and I have to catch sight of them. Because if I just look this one last time I'll be fine; I'll remember what they look like; I'll let it go.

That's not what happens.

“I gotta pee,” Sylvia says. “Wait here a second?” Austin nods and sits down near me. It is the closest I've been to him and nothing can break the spell because Dr. Pat is on her fifteen minutes of unwinding time and Sylvia can't recognize me if she's in the bathroom, and there's this euphoria at the idea that it's all going to work out in some magical jigsaw-puzzle way.

The girl who was in my chair earlier has obviously been in her own appointment for a while now; she didn't show up an hour early like me. So with Sylvia in the bathroom, it's just me and Austin in the waiting room. I can smell him: woodsy and strong, like cologne made for guys who don't wear cologne. Maybe deodorant. It's a thick smell. His sneakers are soaked through from the snowy mix outside and I'd like to take my time raising my gaze from his feet all the way up to his face but there
is
no time, so I make myself just look right at him.

My throat's on fire with words. I am the worst kind of outgoing.

“I have the appointment after yours,” I say. Not that he was asking. Not that he was even looking at me, or knowing in any vague way that a person was next to him. And now my cheeks are burning up: “little apples,” my dad calls them, since the combination of cheek bones and baby fat and light pink blush highlight that line of my face more than anything else. Some girls are all eyes or all boobs. I am all cheeks.

It's not the worst thing in the world. I'm cute and fresh faced. I'm wholesome.

“Oh, okay,” Austin says with a half smile. I hadn't noticed how many tattoos he has. Of course I'd taken note of them, but I'm going to need to make a whole list of them now. I'll make it in my head first, and then hopefully I'll remember them all later in my car.

Sylvia's name on his wrist and around his ring finger.

Chinese symbols checkered up and down his forearms.

An angel crawling up his neck.

The word
ECLIPSE
right above the neckline of his T-shirt.

“You have so many tattoos,” I say.

“Ha, yeah,” Austin says. “You got any?” I practically fall out of my chair at the fact that Austin has asked me a question,
because this signifies, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he is having a real conversation with me now.

“My mom would kill me if I showed up with tattoos.”

“That's no excuse,” Austin says with a wink. He's the kind of guy who can pull off winks and high fives with a sophisticated, tongue-in-cheek irony. Austin takes out a phone, and I should take that as a signal that the conversation is over, but I can't. I dig my thumbnail into my thigh but it doesn't matter; the words are going to come spilling out anyway.

“ ‘Eclipse.' What does that mean?” I point to his neck and smile. But I'm an idiot because Sylvia will be back any second and Dr. Pat hasn't come to the waiting room to get me yet.

“Long story. I'll tell it to you sometime.” Then there's another wink and then Sylvia's pushing open the waiting room door to get Austin. I pull my scarf up a little more but it's useless. I don't have one of those faces that people confuse with their sister's best friend or their mortal enemy from grade school. I don't remind people of anyone but me. Sylvia's not going to struggle with how to place me or where I am in her index of names and faces that she, like the rest of the world, spends every day building upon.

She'll know exactly where she's seen me before. I go red again.

Sylvia has reapplied whatever makeup got cried off during her session. She's twisted her hair into a loose bun and her lips are now a dark, expensive, purple shade. She doesn't
say anything though. Doesn't wave or smile or ask what the hell I'm doing here. But the recognition registers on her face, followed by a moment of total chaos in her head, and then nothing.

“You ready?” she says to Austin. And maybe it seems like everything's fine, but I can see her tucking the moment with me away until later.

“Sure I am,” Austin says. “Have fun in there,” he adds, head cocked in my direction. Sylvia does another set of calculations in her head, I think, and then they're off and Dr. Pat's calling me in and I've just crossed one more line.

• • •

“I need to tell you a little more about what to expect,” Dr. Pat says when I've settled into the corner of the couch closest to the door in her office. I have a theory that she judges you based on where you sit, because she always gestures vaguely to the couch and the two armchairs, and doesn't sit down until I have chosen a place to park myself. I always choose the couch.

“Expect?”

“In group,” Dr. Pat says. “I think you saw a little of my system with Jenny the other day, and I wondered how you were feeling about it.”

“Like, you not letting Jenny pull out all her hair? I think that's a good idea,” I say, adjusting the pillow behind my back so that I can lean into it more easily. There's nothing I hate
more than Dr. Pat thinking I look all awkward and uncomfortable during therapy. I like to at least give the illusion of ease.

Fat chance.

“That's right. Not letting Jenny compulse. I'm sure you saw how difficult that was for her,” Dr. Pat says. It's all so pointed, but I'm not sure why. I do not pull my hair or pick my face, so I don't know quite what she's getting at. But Jenny was sweating and groaning by the middle of group last time. The urge to pull her hair was so strong I thought she might vomit from the force of it.

Which would not actually be funny, but the idea of someone projectile vomiting in a room full of hypochondriacs and germaphobes makes me smile anyway. Dr. Pat says my healthy sense of humor will save me. Here's hoping.

“Seemed tough,” I say.

“Next week we will be doing something similar with Rudy and his compulsions. Eventually we will do that with everyone. Put you each in a situation that exacerbates your anxiety, and prevent you from compulsing. How does that sound?”

Uh, terrible?

“Okay . . . ,” I say. By the end of the session with Jenny, her moans and sweat and shaking eventually subsided a little. She didn't suddenly become a zen monk or anything, but the panic attack turned into what looked like total exhaustion, and her hands folded in her lap looked less like they were
tearing at each other and more like they were just resting.

“It's called exposure therapy, and it's scary but really effective.”

“I'm not really sure I need that,” I say. It's not like I think Dr. Pat's going to actually tell me I don't have OCD, but I want her to at least admit I'm less severe than the rest of them. She's doesn't.

“I see—and why's that?” she says instead. Picks up her pen, hovers it above the notebook.

“I just . . . what would you expose me to?”

“I think we still have a lot to uncover about what your triggers and compulsions really are, don't you? But certainly we would expose you to driving without stopping to check, driving at a normal speed, taking fewer notes. Things like that. Some of it would just be you and I, some would be with the whole group. Everyone's different.”

“Ah.” There is a world of difference between someone who pulls hairs out of her scalp one at a time and someone who is cautious on the road, I think. And taking notes about people and situations isn't exactly ruining my life. There's no way to say that to Dr. Pat, but she seems to sense it anyway. Sometimes I think she can hear my thoughts. Like she's not just a therapist but also a psychic or something.

“Is Jenny okay?” I say at last. Sometimes the silence extends for too long and the discomfort drives me to blurt out random thoughts and I guess this is one of those moments.

“How do you think she did?”

“Looked . . . hard,” I say. Dr. Pat glances behind my head where the clock is. I can't ever check the time without craning my neck, but I always notice when she does.

“Yes?” Another tactic to make me keep talking. She knows I hate the empty space where conversation stalls or halts completely. She knows I'll be driven to fill it, with total crap if I have to.

“I mean, it's kinda like, maybe Jenny's happier being able to do whatever she wants to do. I don't know. Not that she wants to be bald, obviously. But it seems like doing her, um, compulsions or whatever, helps her and that maybe it's not so nice to take that away from her, right?”

“Interesting.”

“I mean, I don't know. I guess, like, I always feel bad for those little kids whose parents take away their blankies when they turn seven or whatever. Like, what's the harm in making yourself feel better?” Dr. Pat nods and I don't even really know what I'm saying. It's not exactly something I've given much thought to, but I'm creating a whole theory about this stuff on the fly. “I mean, when my parents stopped letting me sleep in their bedroom after that Jeff thing, I thought it was really mean, you know? Like, sleeping on a mattress in their room really helped my nightmares and stuff, and then they just took it away from me, and I don't know, that seems kind of wrong, right?”

I'm surprised to hear Jeff's name come out of my mouth. Dr. Pat knows all about him, but only from my mother, never from me. I don't think about Jeff, or my parents sleeping in my room for a while when I was fourteen, or any of that stuff, but suddenly I'm all weepy and Dr. Pat is reminding me that there are tissues on the coffee table if I need them, and I'm insisting I'm fine, fine, fine.

“Good work today, Bea,” Dr. Pat says when the clock has told her it's time for me to go. She says “Good work” every time I cry. Leaving the office, I wish Austin and Sylvia had the appointment after mine and not before, because with my head aching from the tears and my heart pounding from having mentioned Jeff and hearing way too much about exposure therapy, I could really use a distraction.

No such luck. I'm gonna have to get through it on my own. Sort of like my very own exposure therapy. Except, of course, I have my notebook. I flip through it in the bathroom before heading out to my car. Then I can breathe again.