OCD Love Story

by Corey Ann Haydu

  “Make the call. Then skedaddle,” he says. I try hard not to laugh at the word “skedaddle.” Then I scan the room for information and make a mental list that as soon as I’m back in my car I’ll transfer into a written list:

  Antique chandeliers

  One dark purple wall

  Cheesy/cheap black-and-white photography

  Mirrored coffee table

  The fleur-de-lis armchair I’m sitting in.

  I need a notebook in a really intense way.

  “You call your ride yet?” the doorman says. He sees the crazy in me. A total stranger and he sees the part of me I’ve been working so, so hard to cover up. I feel practically naked. He’s got a hand on his belt and I see it’s covering some kind of pager, like he’s poised to call 911 or something. There’s a horrible sickening feeling at being this exposed. At a stranger seeing up close and personal how messy I am.

  I nod but he’s not taking his eyes off me.

  “I didn’t see you even take out a phone. We’re not a waiting room, okay? I don’t want to have to kick you out or make you feel bad, but it’s time to make your call and move on.”

  Then, tears. Real ones. Dripping not just from my eyes but seemingly from my nose as well, until my whole face is a sopping wet faucet.

  “P-p-please . . . ” I don’t have anything else to say but that one word. I can’t leave without seeing Sylvia and Austin. If I could, I would. I’d love to spend this cold, rainy evening making myself from-the-box tacos and watching Netflix and living the normal life I used to at least be able to sort of enjoy.

  But I can’t. There’re too many other things I have to do.

  “Let me do it for you, okay?” the guard says. Softened up a little again. Or maybe just desperate and trying a new tactic. “I’m not trying to be mean. I gotta do my job. Let’s get someone to pick you up. Phone?”

  And I hand it to him, just like that. I mumble the name Beck, then melt back into the chair and wait for the rest of my life to fall to pieces.

  When he shows up forty minutes later, Beck doesn’t ask questions. He’s brought an extra sweater and some mittens and a hot chocolate and his nice, quiet, steadiness. It smells a little like the gym in his car. It looks a lot like forgiveness or understanding or somehow miraculously getting that the worse a situation is the more likely I am to vanish.

  It’s the best kind of silence all the way home.

  DR. PAT’S ASKED US TO meet her at a hiking trail outside of town. She says it’s Beck’s big day, which means it’s Beck’s horrible day, and he knows it. I’d take his place if I could, but Dr. Pat says I’m not ready for exposure therapy quite yet. I’d do anything for Beck in this moment. His silence the other night was so kind and unwavering it became full-on sexy. Hot, beautiful silence. I bet I could stay calm, I could be OCD-less, if I could just live in Beck’s car with the radio on low and Beck not speaking and maybe his arm against mine and his hand within reach of mine.

  These are the kinds of things I can’t say to him, but I hope my body next to his, steady and inching ever closer, communicates everything I’ve left unsaid.

  I wanted to call Lisha and get her advice on the best possible outfit for a group hiking exercise. Outdoor activities are the worst, because you have to look both cute and low maintenance. I kept putting my finger to her name in my phone, but not pressing the screen. I’m not ready.

  On my own I put together what I decided was a hiking ensemble: light jeans and my mother’s winter boots, a navy turtleneck, and an oversize down vest. No one looks like themselves out here. Fawn is in pressed pants and a fleece jacket. Beck’s clothes are actually loose for once, like he’s wearing borrowed clothing, and he’s piled it on in layers: a long-sleeved shirt underneath a short-sleeved one and a hoodie on top of it all, a knit cap covering his hair. Rudy and Jenny look like they’ve hiked up a mountain or two before and have the thick-soled shoes and backpacks to prove it. There’s something like a smile on Jenny’s face and she’s got deeper dimples than even Beck, and a more striking face by far than me. She’s blissed out and almost pretty except for the lack of eyebrows and the sad not-ponytail she’s worked her few strands of hair into.

  “So valuable to get out of that ugly room, huh, guys?” Dr. Pat says. I’m liking her less and less lately. I have a theory that she gets off on pushing us so hard out of our comfort zones. I stick near Beck. She hasn’t brought it up in session with me, but knows about us, I guess, and he needs me. He’s worked himself up into a mini–panic attack. It’s a funny thing because I associate the panic with meeting him, so it makes this mirrored experience almost romantic. I don’t hold his hand because I won’t break the rules, but I stand as close as I can without touching and we wait for Dr. Pat to tell us what to do.

  “It’s so pretty out,” she starts. “We’re going to hike up the mountain and have a picnic at the top. Beck, Fawn, no hand towels, no antibacterial soap, nothing. We’ll hike, eat, and then come back down.” Fawn looks ill but I try to focus all my energy on Beck and the way he’s looking at the mountain like it’s threatening him.

  It’s the same mountain we were looking at the other day. The one he said reminds him of his sister. His sister who likes hiking. Used to like hiking.

  I am the most self-obsessed person in the world because I am just now putting this together. I mean, either his sister stopped liking hiking at some point, or she’s gone. From the haunted look in his eyes and the way he keeps counting to eight under his breath, I have to assume it’s the latter.

  “Your sister . . . ,” I say.

  “Yeah. Later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Lish is the only person I’ve ever had that kind of shorthand with, and it makes me want to run away to Austin’s. Just that tiny bit of intimacy and knowing of each other and I’m singing Tryst lyrics in my head, and then under my breath, and then I guess loud enough that Beck hears them.

  “Tryst!” he says. We’re on the easy part of the trail. The part where it’s just a field and some dirt leading into the woody uphill climb.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been listening to them a lot.” Beck beams and it’s so light and beautiful on his face I forget why we’re here. We walk in time with each other, like it’s something we’ve done before. But the moment lasts only a few short seconds and then he’s breathing deep and tapping eight eight eight. His middle finger moves in quick little rhythms as it hits his forehead.

  I let him do it, but Rudy sees it and glares at me and I remember Beck’s not allowed to compulse right now.

  “What’s he doing?” Rudy says, all accusatory like it’s my fault that Beck’s freaking out. Rudy calls up to Dr. Pat. “Beck’s compulsing! Bea’s letting him do it!” Dr. Pat was apace with Jenny and Fawn but she comes back to where we are on the path and asks Beck, gently, to take his hand away from his forehead.

  “Bea saw. She’s letting him do it,” Rudy says again. His scowl is so deep it’s a gorge, a valley, and Dr. Pat nods with that stoic expression and puts her hands on my shoulders to move me aside so it can be her next to Beck, not me. Rudy runs up ahead to be with the other girls and I’m left on the outside of everything.

  I just wanted him to be comfortable. And Dr. Pat is systematically stripping us of everything we need and want.

  I try to be okay for a few minutes, notice that it’s finally warming up a little, and I guess if you’re the hiking type this is probably a good day to go hiking. There’s sun and the last few days have been warm, so all the snow has melted and the ground has dried out. There’s a satisfying crunch every few moments when I step on a twig, and I get why people do this. I get why Beck’s sister used to like this.

  Some of the branches on the ground are thick and have pointed tips, kinda like swords or something. I shove my hands in my pockets when Rudy and Jenny pick up walking sticks. If I keep my hands in my pockets all afternoon I should be just fine. Anyway, this isn’t my day to be working through shit, so I try really hard to keep i
t to myself. I go on singing Tryst songs under my breath and pinch the inside of my forearm, which is less impactful than my thigh, but easier to get away with right now. I try not to look at my feet where the dangerous branches are.

  Fawn’s doing well, heading up the trail at a fast pace with Rudy and Jenny. They’re keeping Fawn in line, I guess, because I don’t see any of her weird statue-stillness moments and she’s definitely not washing her hands. A few steps behind me, Beck keeps whispering anxiety level numbers to Dr. Pat, and they’re zooming up sky high.

  “I’d like you to reach over and touch this tree,” she says.

  “That’s going to make it worse,” he says. She nods and asks him again to please touch a tree.

  “For eight seconds?” he says.

  “No. Let’s try for five seconds,” she replies. She’s so calm she’s barely human. I hate it. Meanwhile Beck’s so huge next to her little frame; he’s so huge next to anyone’s little frame, that it seems ridiculous for him to be listening to a word she says.

  “I can’t . . . ” His voice is so small on its way out of that lumbering body, it seems impossible for it to be his.

  “Yes, you can. What’s your level?” Dr. Pat says. She’s leading him to a small tree, but I know she’s got her eye on the piles of dirt, the brown swampy rivulets over to the left. She has it in for him.

  Bitch.

  “Eight and a half . . . ,” Beck says.

  “Come on. I’ll do it with you,” Dr. Pat says. And I’ve finally got an in.

  “I’ll do it with you too!” I say. Dr. Pat looks over and I’m still definitely in the doghouse with her, but she nods.

  “What do you say?” she says to Beck. We’ve all stopped at the tree and are hovering around it like it’s some holy shrine.

  Beck’s tearing up and his breathing is so heavy I’m afraid he’ll pass out. Dr. Pat puts her hands on the tree and motions at me to do the same.

  “Is he okay? Beck, do you need a break?” I say, but Dr. Pat just glares and says he’s fine and invites him, again, to grab the trunk.

  His chest is heaving and he’s making a terrible honking noise as he cries, and finally Fawn, Rudy, and Jenny seem to have heard. They turn back around but keep their distance.

  “It’s fine,” I say to Beck. “It’s nothing. It’s a tree. You’ve done way worse.” I try to say it with a little attitude, a little sass, so he knows what I mean.

  We get locked in a seriously extended eye contact and it’s like he’s sucking in all my encouragement. Like he’s taking what he needs from me, and it’s feeding him. He takes a big last gasp that’s full of drama, then thrusts himself on the tree. His arms wrap around it, his whole body leans into it. He’s making a guttural, animal noise as he does it. Fawn, Rudy, and Jenny’s shoulders jump in surprise and Dr. Pat counts slowly to five and you can see he wants to hang on for those three more seconds but she puts a hand on one shoulder and I put a hand on the other and he disengages with the same throaty noise.

  It’s all drama and fanfare and I grin at him as he sort of half sobs into his hands.

  And it’s like we’ve conquered the world, the five of us fucked-up kids. We’re applauding and slapping high fives that never actually make contact (no-touching rule).

  “All this ’cause I touched a tree,” Beck says, and then it all shifts to the most delicious stream of laughter. Even Rudy is rocking back and forth from the force of the ridiculousness of it all, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

  And I’m laughing too, so hard it’s hurting my stomach, so hard I have to sit on the ground. And they all join me there, collapsing. Even Beck sits in the dirt, and stays there. And it’s fine. For that moment it is hilarious and fine.

  • • •

  Dr. Pat doesn’t therapy us for the rest of the hike. We pull ourselves up off the ground and it’s a quick forty-five minutes to the summit, where we can look out on a view that is really just more trees: New England pines that rise up green and familiar and crowded in the woods. We eat. There are sandwiches and cookies that Fawn picks at halfheartedly, and Beck says he’s not hungry, but Dr. Pat tells him she knows that’s really because he wants to wash his hands before eating. He sets his mouth in a straight, unanswering line, and bows his head. He takes a large inhale before every bite; with his huge shoulders and always-at-attention biceps, it is this, a turkey sandwich on rye, that threatens him most.

  “We did this together,” Beck says. We’ve all been staring out at the way the sun hits the trees, the way the birds burrow in the branches and then reappear, over and over again. “My sister and I. My sister who, you know, died. She loved being outside. We’d bring food up here. Hike and picnic. Just like this.” As a group we hold our breath. Beck has never talked about a dead sister before.

  “You’ve mentioned that to me,” Dr. Pat says in her even tone as she bites into an apple with gusto. She’s funny outside of her sweater sets and swinging bob. She’s all bundled up in fleece everything and a ridiculous neon hat she says her niece knitted for her.

  It’s the one and only time I’ve heard her say anything about her own life, her own family.

  “I didn’t know, man,” Rudy says. “How old was she?”

  I know the answer before he says it.

  “She was eight.”

  I mean, of course. Eight. We may all be crazy, but there’s logic behind even the craziest things we do.

  “She was eight and I was fourteen,” Beck says, his voice a little dreamy but not cracking with grief.

  “How?” Fawn asks, leaning in toward him.

  “Drowned. I couldn’t get to her in time. Not a strong enough swimmer. Or I wasn’t back then. I probably am, you know, now.”

  Not strong enough. Beck grabs his own arms; it’s awkward the way they fit, crossing his Superman-style chest. Everything is too built up, out of proportion. I want to hug him. I want to nestle into him and let him know he doesn’t have to be that strong.

  Even though that’s part of what makes me like him.

  Maybe more. Maybe love him.

  He tears up. It’s so beautiful in those blue eyes, I’m out of breath just looking at him. I’m not thinking of anything else but how badly I want to let him know it’s okay.

  “Violet. Her name was Violet,” he says at last. We all nod and I break the rules and wrap myself around him. Dr. Pat looks away, like if she doesn’t see it, it doesn’t count. The rest of them look away too.

  Beck’s lips hit the space where my neck meets my shoulder. And I know he’s getting better. I know he’s doing something big and real.

  And I know that I’m somewhere far behind.

  • • •

  What comes next is the fifth date.

  We stay on the mountain after therapy is over. Fawn, Rudy, Jenny, and Dr. Pat climb down when the ninety minutes are up, but Beck asks me to stay with him. Dr. Pat lets us hang on to her picnic blanket and we both lie down on it, side by side. I think, from the flash I catch of Dr. Pat’s face before she leads the rest of the pack down the mountain, that she is a romantic at heart. Under the oversize glasses and probing questions, she’s still someone who likes seeing two people fall in love.

  I know that’s what we’re doing as soon as we’re alone and Beck takes my hand and pulls me into him so that I can find a space for my head on his chest.

  “Violet’s a pretty name,” I say. I’ve never known someone with a dead sister. I’ve never known someone who’s drowned. It’s not the kind of thing I’m interested in researching. Drowning isn’t usually something a person does to another person. Drowning is a different kind of accident and it’s not part of my OCD repertoire. So there’s nothing to distract me from listening to him talk about her. I don’t compulse, thinking about how sad it is. I just let it be sad.

  My heart’s banging around my chest, but not with the worry about accidental drowning. And there’s nothing sexy about this kind of tragedy, but that doesn’t stop Beck from pulling me on top of him. The kissing is profou
nd. Deep and unrestrained in a way it never has been with him before.

  And the touching.

  He’s not pulling back from me. Something about hugging that tree and laughing it out and speaking aloud his sister’s name seems to have changed him. Or at least has made him want me more. Because in a moment his hands are sliding down, underneath my pants, and we’re taking our clothes off, and maybe someone could come by at any minute, but I don’t think we care.

  Which is saying a lot. We have OCD. We care about everything.

  • • •

  I don’t know that I’d ever wanted to have sex before Beck. Not that I hadn’t said yes to other guys, because I had, but it had always been a passive choice. A kind of giving in to something, or a not needing to make a big deal about something. But with Beck right now, on the picnic blanket with the threat of random dog-walking or outdoors-loving strangers hiking by, I want him. And what we do there is a little bit illicit, it being outside and all, but mostly it’s just sweet and good and surprisingly real.

  Beck strokes my hair afterward. Twirls it in his fingers. Sighs out a single syllable “wow.”

  “I think I love you,” he says. “I don’t know much about you. But you make me feel calm. You make me feel like it’s okay.”

  “Like what’s okay?”

  “Pretty much everything,” he says. “Is that weird? Is that okay?”

  “Yes to both,” I say, and lift my head to kiss him.

  • • •

  We hold hands the whole walk back down the trail. Now that late afternoon is hitting, normal March temperatures seem to be taking over and I think by tonight it will be almost winter again. Like what happened up there this afternoon was an almost impossibly perfect thing: warm and sun-hit and captured in that one unlikely moment.

  THERE WAS AN INCIDENT LAST year. it’s not like they gave me an official restraining order or anything. There was just some legal jargon and a strong talking-to and some extra sessions with Dr. Pat and an evaluation with another psychiatrist who looked like Mr. Potato Head. A couple lawyers. A few papers. They put me on some extra Zoloft and called it a day, basically. It wasn’t some huge thing.