OCD Love Story

by Corey Ann Haydu

“I’ll just walk home,” Beck says. “Thanks, though.”

  “Walk home? You don’t live anywhere near here—” Beck glares. Shakes his head. Blushes. Holy crap, that’s a lot of feelings and reactions at once. “Oh,” I say. “You want to walk home. You don’t want me—”

  “I want the exercise,” Beck says. “I’m telling you that so you don’t think I am trying to get away from you. I’d love for you to drive me to the gym. I’m not mad or upset or anything. And I could lie and say I want to be alone. I could do that so that you don’t judge me or try to stop me from getting my workout. But I don’t want you to feel that way—”

  “Okay,” I say. Because he’s said exactly the right thing. Because in my book that kind of sacrifice is full-on romance. That risk. Most of all, more than (or maybe just as much as) he wants to protect his ability to go to the gym, he wants to protect me.

  I sort of hate how weak I am, and I definitely hate that I give in so easily.

  I drive him there. To the gym. We pick up a gallon of water and I lecture him on what I googled earlier about dehydration and the health risks of excess exercise. But I let him go in there. I watch him relax at the OPEN 24 HOURS sign. He relaxes enough that before he gets out he gives me a kiss on the lips. Not a lingering, wandering marathon kiss like before, but lips held against lips and his hand on my neck and another kiss behind my ear.

  “Thank you,” he says. He’s beaming. I guess I am too.

  A FEW DAYS OF CAUTIOUS daydreaming about Beck and taking Latin quizzes and avoiding the dangerous science lab later, I’m officially desperate for a good dose of therapy.

  Not for me, but for Sylvia and Austin.

  It’s Wednesday, so they have the appointment before mine. I get there at my usual superearly time and bring the notebook and three pens in case something happens and I lose one or one is faulty or running out of ink or something. I have to get enough from this session to last me another week, since I’m only seeing Dr. Pat for private sessions once a week now.

  I’ll let them walk in before getting out of my car. And I’ll go to the bathroom when their hour with Dr. Pat is up. I’m not messing around, and if I’m going to do stuff like take cigarette breaks with Sylvia, I definitely have to watch myself. Good thing I have OCD, because that makes me totally anal enough to cover my tracks.

  That’s a little OCD humor. Dr. Pat encouraged all of us in group to find some lightness instead of only seeing the diagnosis as, like, the worst thing ever.

  Austin and Sylvia are right on time. Separate cars pulling in at the same moment. I make a note of it. I wonder if their session will be even worse than usual, if their new means of arrival is a bad sign. She’s in an SUV and he’s in something that looks fancy. I’m not into cars, so I let those details slide. Besides, I don’t exactly need their plate numbers or whatever. That would be stalkery.

  Sylvia’s got on the kind of boots that look like a rabbit died on their behalf. Like, yesterday. And Austin’s rocking a leather jacket and a bright blue plaid scarf and a cold-weather flush to his cheeks. It’s so many kinds of fabulous it almost distracts me from all the other things I need to record about them. I would photograph them for my Costume Ideas folder that I have in my desk at home like a total nerd, but I don’t think I can get away with it.

  I take what feels like my first full breath of the day upon seeing him. They don’t hold hands, but he touches her shoulder and they smile just enough to make it seem like they’re not totally doomed.

  I tear my eyes away from them for just long enough to write down what they’re wearing and what the look on his face was when he touched her shoulder (wistful meets desperate). I count to one hundred after they get inside, long enough for the coast to be clear, and I let myself into the waiting room after peeking through the glass door.

  From the outside this place looks like a totally cozy house, but there’s a plaque on the side of the building that says NEW BEGINNINGS THERAPY PRACTICES and lists five other therapists. There’s no doorman or bell to ring. There aren’t even trashy magazines in the waiting room. Only one other girl is waiting for her appointment and she’s so lost in her phone’s screen that I doubt she notices I come in. So we wouldn’t have to interact at all. Except she’s in my chair. The only chair that lets me hear what I need to hear.

  So I guess I could just give up on the little fix I’m wanting. I guess maybe a few months, or even weeks, ago that’s what I would have done. But. If they are in there I have to listen. It’s not a choice anymore and I don’t know when exactly it stopped being a funny thing I chose to do and became a matter of life or death, but it’s pretty far on that side of things now. If I don’t listen in, Austin could basically drop dead. Or I could. Some people wear the same underwear for every baseball game or have little preperformance rituals like listening to a favorite song or jumping up and down seven times before stepping on stage. What I’m doing is the same thing. Except there’s no game or performance, just my life and my desire to be able to deal with it.

  I sit in a different chair for a minute. I tap my foot and strain to hear something coming through the walls.

  There’s nothing.

  Something’s probably wrong. With them, I mean. Something’s happened in there. I mean, it’s been like five minutes now and I haven’t heard a single word. I pinch, pinch, pinch my leg and it’s enough to make me focus, but not enough to stop the fast rise of anxiety.

  I try to breathe through it. But that’s useless because I’m about to drop dead and if not me, than one of them, and if not one of them, than maybe the whole world. So it’s not worth thinking about how bat-shit crazy it all will sound to the girl sitting in my perfectly situated chair. Because when you’re trying to save yourself or the world, there’s not really anything else worth your time.

  “That’s my chair,” I say to the girl. She has headphones on, which I hadn’t noticed, so there’s no response. Which means I have to actually walk up to her and then stand there, hovering over her. I don’t think I should touch her, just in case she’s like, homicidal or something. The hovering works. My shadow must finally register on her radar, and she looks up to find me staring at her. I push my mouth into a little smile because I don’t want her to actually think I’m insane, just serious. “Sorry,” I say when she pulls one of her earbuds out so that she can hear me. “I have to sit there. It’s kind of important.” The girl looks to the room of empty chairs.

  And that’d be enough to deter me under normal circumstances. But I am dripping in sweat by now. The little tremors in my hands have turned to a full-body hum of shakes and shivers and the hum is mirrored in my actual brain. A white-noise sound puncturing my actual head.

  So screw it. Seriously. It’s not totally crazy to think something could happen to them. Superstition exists for a reason, right? And the things we do matter. Like that whole butterfly-effect thing. Every movement we make, even the movement of butterflies’ wings, matters. That’s what that theory is about. So yeah, this girl doesn’t get why I’m doing what I’m doing, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. I clear my throat with more confidence and grip my right hand in my left to try to stop them both from shaking with anxiety.

  “Yeah. Sorry. You have to move. Now. Now.” I try to say it like maybe I’m an actual authority figure, but from the look on her face I’m not pulling it off. It doesn’t matter. She moves. Not just to a different chair but all the way across the room to a cheesily upholstered couch that’s trying really hard to make this place look warm and homey. And I settle in to my chair. I’m in so much panic I can’t determine if it’s more important for me to open my notebook up or if it’s more important to focus on the listening before attempting note-taking. I risk doing both at once.

  My heart is racing so fervently I worry that it could short out. That it will keep speeding up to new levels until there’s nowhere else for it to speed up to and it will burst. I pinch my thigh as hard as I possibly can and lean unabashedly against the wall with my pen poised above
the pages of my notebook. The girl is avoiding looking at me so she won’t notice and besides, she’s already written me off as a total lunatic.

  Screw it. I just start scribbling. I don’t care how it looks.

  Austin: We don’t have kids. We don’t have to stick it out.

  Sylvia: That’s not exactly the vow you took. Those aren’t the actual stipulations, you know.

  Austin: Sometimes I look at you and just think . . . Where’s my wife? Where’s that woman I—

  Sylvia: Right here. I’m right here. I can’t compete with every little girl you—

  Dr. Pat: Remember how we talked about not accusing Austin of liking “little girls.” We need to talk about that insecurity in some other way.

  Austin: Men have things on their computers.

  Sylvia: You think that makes it okay to—

  Austin: I don’t even know that woman.

  Dr. Pat: I’m sorry, can we clarify? Are we talking about someone specific or about pornographic material in general . . . ?

  There’s a long pause where no one says anything. My body’s cooled off, which leaves that horrible feeling of sweat gone stale all over. And my heart’s slowed down and I’m repulsed, kind of. But I also want to hear every word, to have the whole record of it right in my hands whenever I need it. So when the grumbling of voices starts again, quieter now, I close my eyes to hear it better.

  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.