“Very good,” Stenson says with a little too much surprise in her tone. “Good relationships should benefit both parties. What’s it called if only one party benefits? What might be happening?”
“Parenting,” Red says and then flushes at Stenson’s attention.
“Oh, good point,” Stenson replies. “Parenting is a very close and important relationship in which both parent and child benefit from trust and love. How should a child benefit from a parent?”
“I was making a joke.” Red starts her twitch.
“It’s a good point, Red. There are different relationships like a friend to a friend, a parent to a child, or a child to a parent. These should all be positive, but in different ways.”
“Yah,” Vanet says. “Like I’m sure your dad’s probably coming tomorrow with the keys to a new car. Total win.”
Red seems to freeze, her eyes wide at first and then they shut tight. She shouts, “No!”
When she opens her eyes again, there’s panic in them.
“What are you seeing, Red?” Stenson asks. “Is it the car crash? Are you seeing your mother?”
I don’t know how long Red’s been here. I think longer than everyone. She’s searching the room, and when her eyes reach the exit, she jerks up. But Stenson opens her arms to her.
“No!” Red screams and then drops to her knees. “Mommy, no . . . .”
Stenson folds Red’s head into her lap and then nods for us all to disappear.
After getting Pig and Vanet into trouble, I don’t have many people I can talk to, so I follow Rottengoth to a corner of the rec room.
. . . “What’s up with Red?” I whisper.
Red’s still sobbing, but there’s really nowhere else to go.
“PTSD,” he says. “Post-traumatic stress disorder. A lot of us know one another from before. This is my third time through. Red relives a car accident she was in with her mom. Her mom died. Red survived. Happened months ago. She’s been in and out of here ever since. Stenson keeps trying to bring it up, get her to see it as normal I think, but just talking about it really freaks Red out.”
That makes sense. Seeing your mom cut out of a car would give anyone PTSD.
. . . “When are you going home?” I ask. “You seem a lot better.” Part of me realizes that if Pig leaves and Red leaves, by next week I’ll be the one explaining all of this to the new kids. I’ll be the one newcomers look at sidelong and wonder if they belong with the likes of me.
Rottengoth shrugs. “I don’t really care. At least here I don’t have to deal with stuff.”
. . . “I didn’t mean to get Pig and Vanet in trouble,” I say.
“I wouldn’t worry about Vanet—Pig’s mad, though.”
Over in group, Red’s calmed enough to sit back in the chair and talk quietly with the nurse. Pig glares at me over the top of a book that I know she’s only pretending to read, because it’s upside down. Peter’s collecting coins with a game controller and I watch him, getting lost in the video-game fairy world of bright lights and sounds. It seems a bit hypocritical. They say Peter shouldn’t be encouraged to dress up, but he’s allowed to become a character in a game and play out his fantasy?
. . . “What’s your fantasy?” I ask Rottengoth.
“What?” He’s reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
. . . “What’s your fantasy, not your dream, because I think dreams should be possible, your fantasy?”
“To obtain the one ring to rule them all,” he says.
. . . “Come on.”
“You first,” he mumbles and turns the page.
. . . “I don’t have one, that’s why I’m asking.”
“Nope. You first.”
. . . “You know that short answers really suck for people who have to count. Anyway. I guess mine’s to see my mom again. But if I can’t have that . . . I want to kill the wolf.”
“What wolf? You don’t have to count, by the way. That’s just a compulsion.”
. . . “See, too short. Talk for a bit. I can count while you talk, and then by the time you’re done I can speak, see? For the last three years I’ve been hunted by a wolf—wait.” I hold a hand up. “I know it sounds crazy—but I’ve been holding it back with my count. It works like a magic spell, and it keeps others safe too, everyone. I’ve felt the wolf. I’ve seen it.”
“Uh, huh. Balder calls them hallucinations. Nothing electroconvulsive therapy can’t solve.” To my eye roll he adds, “I just want to read. My short answers mean I have a hundred count to read. As for ECT, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Works for me every time.”
. . . “You’re so annoying. I don’t need shocks. If I kill the wolf, I won’t need to count. I won’t have OCD.”
He lowers the book to stare over the top at me.
“Don’t you get it? That’s your wolf. Your OCD is your wolf. You don’t need to kill anything, just need to see it for what it is and face it. Listen, man, we’re all here because we’re messed in the head. ECT and drugs, they’re your shield against this wolf, but it’s up to you to change the way you think about it.”
It’s my OCD. I hear it, and I hear it again. That OCD is something my brain has come up with to manage my anxiety. Staring at Rottengoth, seeing myself through his eyes, I get the tale about the chick who chose the pig farmer as her husband. I’m like the daughter who chose the huntsman and was never happy. It was all in her head. The pig farmer’s wife took everything in stride and chose to be happy with what they had rather than unhappy with what they didn’t have. That was her bow and arrows.
Rottengoth is back to reading.
I use the count to leave.
Nurse Jackie approaches with a smile, but her eyes are sad and glassy. “I was coming to find you. Doctor Balder wants to see you.”
. . . “Where’s Nurse Abby?” The smile on Jackie’s face wanes.
“Nurse Abby is taking a short leave from work.”
Oh. She’s in trouble for what happened to Peter. For what I did. Jackie’s having to take an extra shift. I try to remember if I counted properly yesterday and shake myself free of the urge.
It’s your OCD.
A woman with a snake around her shoulders and a small cage is buzzed onto the unit.
That freaks me out.
I hurry toward interview room two, but the woman practically sprints to catch me, the snake’s head bobbing.
I’m still counting when the white snake flicks its pink tongue at me.
“My name’s Adelia, and these are my pets. I’ve never met you before. Would you like to pat Slither or hold Scabbers the rat?” She lifts the cage hanging from her forearm. Whiskers poke out of slots. “Snakes and rats are hypoallergenic.” I shake my head at Slither’s cold eyes. “Well, let me know, but you’ll have to wait your turn for Scabbers. Red has a special connection with him.”
I hop into the interview room and sit.
As I wait, I listen to her go from room to room, asking if anyone wants to hold her creatures—some kind of pet therapy. Balder’s on doctor-schedule and arrives ten minutes later. By that time, I’ve decided not to tell him about the wolf. If I kill the OCD, I kill the wolf. If what Rottengoth says is correct, Balder will see it as hallucinations and will put me on more drugs, or shock me, and that will keep me from the dance for sure.
“Sorry,” the doctor says and flips up the chart as he shuts the interview room door. “Romila—Milly, okay, so you’ve had a few days now and I understand from Nurse Stenson that you’ve been an active participant in group activities. Which is good, because we won’t let you leave otherwise.” He laughs at that as if it’s a shared joke. “I’m going to ramble on for a bit given the OCD counting ritual. I’ll be removing Todd. Not that you’re eating as much as we’d like, but I don’t see any significant evidence of an eating disorder that isn’t related to your OCD. Control the OCD and you’ll eat well. We are going to continue the liquid meal supplement with your diet. Any questions so far?”
I blink a
t him. His lips twitch at the sight of my counting.
. . . “Yay to no more Toadie, and I told you I didn’t have an eating disorder. I do have a question. Can I go to the dance?”
He waits for long enough to ensure he’s not interrupting and then replies. “It’s not polite to call Todd names. As for the dance, we’ll have a family meeting tomorrow morning, and we’ll make a decision then, that seem fair? No more fainting? You’re okay with what happened with Pig and Vanet?”
I shake my head.
. . . “A meeting with my stepmom isn’t a family meeting.”
“Point taken. But I think it’s time to challenge your OCD. Let’s set a goal. A small goal. How would you like to get rid of that hop of yours?”
I nod, but even thinking about it sends a wave of anxiety crashing over me. My cheeks heat while my stomach roils. This is it. This is what Rottengoth talked to me about. Facing the wolf head-on. Then why do I feel naked and hollow?
The doctor claps his hands. “Great! What I want you to do is stand next to the door and complete your count so that you’re ready. When you’re done, I’ll count to three, and I want you to crawl through the door. You can’t hop while on your hands and knees, so crawl.”
Out of all my compulsions, the hop is one I see as a bit silly. I mean, I’ve already counted so, whether real or not, the wolf is held back. The hop is like punctuation.
I slowly kneel and place my hands near the threshold.
“Well done,” Balder says. “I want you to rate your anxiety level. Ideally I’d love to hear your thoughts, but under the circumstances . . . maybe you can use your fingers. With ten being I can’t take this anymore and one being no anxiety at all.”
On my hands and knees, I lean out over the threshold and hold up seven fingers. Hop or die. I cringe. Shut up, OCD—hop and look like an idiot. I swear it’s like someone has clamped their hands around my throat.
“Your OCD can’t hurt you,” Balder says. “It’s your mind telling your body to react.”
Still, this doesn’t feel right. Eight fingers. I’m not ready. How can I use a weapon that’s fighting me? The hero hasn’t completed her training.
I place a hand on the other side of the threshold—but pull it back as if it’s burned. Nine fingers. The wolf’s swinging back, crashing through trees. The Dark Wood presses into the room. I’ve waited too long now and have to count again. Balder seems to get it.
“It’s okay. This time try both hands and if that’s okay, a knee. You will feel anxious about it, but it can’t hurt you.”
He’s not the one unable to breathe. Eight fingers. Eight. I can tell you no more.
This time I manage the two hands, but when I slide my knee up, I retch. Ten fingers—at least, I’d show him ten fingers if I wasn’t so busy trying to hold in barf with them. Does it matter if the wolf’s not real? Isn’t my OCD just as bad?
“Great work,” Balder says, and I don’t know what he’s talking about, because I almost threw up and then died. I had no idea I was so sick. Tears well in my eyes and I struggle to hide them. “Let me get back to the roots of your OCD.”
We both sit back down. I draw deep breaths, my OCD reminding me with the renewed threat of retching this isn’t over yet.
“Tell me about when you first started counting. The first time you recall the urge.”
A sense of danger sweeps through my bones. . . . “I’d had some rituals before. Kid stuff. Using the same cup. Always putting on my shoes the same way. But it really got going after my mom became sick. I’d do the cooking, and I’d check the oven ten times to make sure the oven was off, and I worried that our dog had crawled into it and would be baking like the kids in Hansel and Gretel.
“I measured everything to make sure the recipes were okay, and I wasn’t giving everyone diabetes or poisoning them, but still, I’d ask if they felt okay after. But everyone makes mistakes, right?” I shake my head. “When my dad met Adriana, she cooked, and at first it was a big relief, but then other things didn’t feel right. The OCD changed to counting. As long as I do the count, it feels safer, more right, and I’m allowed to speak or move and it will be okay, nothing will attack me. I also wondered if my stepmom was trying to kill me or my dad. So I wouldn’t eat.”
I can tell by the interest on Balder’s face that he really thinks we’re getting somewhere and hope blooms warm in my gut.
“So you remember a time when you didn’t count, but had other compulsions?”
I nod. And it’s true. The wolf hasn’t always been there.
“This won’t be easy,” he says. “It’s work. Hard work, but I know you can do it. Milly, I’m going to start you on a low dose of an antidepressant.”
Am I always going to need drugs now?
“Do you understand that your counting is a compulsion to count, not actually saving the world? That’s why compulsions can change. It’s your OCD and OCD is manageable.”
I’m not buying it.
“I want you to work on tab yellow in Rock-on. And there’s someone I’d like you to meet tomorrow,” Balder continues. “He’s in an acute room and I think he’d like some company and you’d both benefit from the experience.”
I’m counting as fast as I possibly can.
. . . “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, holding up nine fingers.
“Why not, Milly? What are you afraid of?”
There are some doors you simply don’t open. Doors that hold wolves.
. . . “Isn’t he a total zombie?”
“Nope, his treatment is progressing well. Wolfgang’s here for help with OCD just like you.”
Just like you. Wolfman is just like me?
“And he’s grown much stronger.”
That I can believe.
Chapter 19
I count very carefully as I cross the thresholds back to my room. I’m stunned that I will meet the wolf tomorrow. Face-to-face.
He’s grown much stronger.
I want to talk to Bill but he won’t be home yet, so I start on homework as a distraction. Red twitches at her desk beside me. She’s patting Scabbers the rat. Pig lies in her bed staring at the ceiling.
. . . “Sorry about your mom,” I say to Red.
Her head snaps around. “Don’t talk about her.” And then she goes back to twitching and patting the rat.
. . . “Maybe your dad—”
She screeches, covering her ears with her palms.
I hold up my hands in surrender and doodle on a biology assignment. Stenson comes in and replaces Sleeping Beauty’s IV bag, and the girl sleeps on. Healing with or without Jesus, while Toadie sits by her bed.
I count for her. I guess it’s a form of prayer. My family has never been big into religion; I wonder if I’d be a counter if I had a god to talk to. To pray to keep the devil back. Imagine if I swapped Hail Mary’s for counts! A hundred Hail Mary’s? I’d never get anything done.
The title to the yellow tab reads Freak Out Here.
Everyone freaks out a bit, but you do it a lot. Get a grip on it here. Write down anytime you think things like:
What if some dude sees me flip out? Or, what if I botch it? Or, what if they think I’m candy-ass and hassle me?
Put those in column one. In the second column write down something that runs against those dumbass thoughts. Who cares, man?! So they hassle me, then what?
But dude, you’re messed, right? So your head keeps jamming and says if that happens, then kaboom, right? Total meltdown. They’ll think I’m wiggin’ out! They’ll beat me up. They’ll say I suck.
Put all that stuff in column three and then write what you really think about all that crap in the fourth column. Who cares what they think? What are the chances that they’ll actually throw a punch—not high, dude! I don’t suck, they suck.
But you’re thinking, what if it does happen, right? They start beating on you. What would you do? Write that in column five. I’d go to the heat and finger the badasses, but you come up with your own gnar
ly ideas.
At the bottom of the page is written: Get in the zone!
This is messed. But I like it. I have these thoughts all the time—minus the sixties slang. Like, every other minute I have thoughts like these. They’re so automatic I’m not even sure I thought of them as thoughts, more like truths. Things so obvious I didn’t really need to pick them apart. Of course there will be doors at the mall, so I shouldn’t bother going. Even if I do count right, I’d slow down my friends. People would make fun of me. They might leave me behind and then I’d be alone and someone could murder me. Yeah, stuff like that. All because of—doors. Doors lead to death. The Dark Wood.
I set to it and for half an hour fill the page in before I run out of things to say. The snake woman knocks and enters the room. Red has nearly petted the fur off the rat.
The pet person plucks the rat up by its tail and the snake around her neck becomes very alert. “What a good boy,” she says.
Red nods to her desk and wrings her empty hands.
. . . “I’ve never heard of therapy rats and snakes,” I say.
“I know,” the woman says, “so misunderstood, some of the most loving and cuddly creatures on Earth. Besides, rats are cheap and some of my patients have trouble with how much love they show. This here’s Scabbers the Fourth. Do you want to hold Slither? I’m on my way out, but I can stay a moment.”
Slither’s jaws are open and the head is slowly moving toward the upside-down rat.
. . . “Slither’s looking a little too cuddly, I’ll pass,” I say.
The woman swats the snake’s head without even looking and it pulls back. She shrugs and slips the rat into his carrier as she leaves. The IV bag must be empty too, because Stenson pops in, unhooks the IV and follows Toadie out.
When they’re gone, I summon the courage to talk to Pig. . . . “Can I ask you a question, Pig?” I wince, ready for her to snap.
“You’re talking to me?” she says. “Seriously?”
. . . “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know you guys were a thing. I didn’t mean to cause a problem.”
“We’re not. Just sex.” She flips over and buries her face in her pillow.
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