I am in a full-on solar eclipse when I light up on the patch of pavement in front of their building. I don’t even check to see if the doorman who kicked me out (is it Kevin? I think his name tag said Kevin) is manning the front desk today. I just lean against the building and wait.
And though I’m waiting for Sylvia or Austin or a sign that they are fine and I can leave, it’s of course Kevin who finds me.
“I’m Sylvia’s friend,” I try, like the conversation the other day never happened. Like he won’t remember me now that I’m in wool tights and a bomber jacket and a huge floppy purple hat.
“So I’ve heard. Sylvia’s home,” he says, not breaking eye contact, not blinking. He crosses his arm and widens his stance, so I won’t be able to get by, I guess.
“Oh, great,” I say. I stare right back. I have to see her. “. . . with her husband?”
Eyes on me, Kevin takes out a cell, dials, and smiles when someone picks up.
“You have a friend waiting for you down here, Ms. Bannerman,” he says, but I will not move. I can do this, I can find some way to make this whole thing okay. I try to brainstorm excuses and reasons for being here and casual ways to convince Sylvia that I’m not whatever it is she thinks I am.
God. I’m in for it. Even superkind Austin will think it’s messed up that I’m visiting right now.
Kevin uh-huhs and mm-hmms a dozen times. He is probably (definitely) figuring out how to have me arrested or put in the psych ward. He is probably taking down my vital stats (is that a thing?) and—
“I’ll bring her up,” he says. There was no announcing my name or what I look like, so I get the distinct impression that they were expecting me.
• • •
Kevin hangs in the door of the apartment and it weirds me out for a second. Sylvia’s funny too, squirrely and not acting anything like the rock star, plastic-surgery goddess she is. She keeps raising her eyebrows at Kevin, and I could easily get caught up in the weird back and forth of their expressions and nonverbal ticks, but Sylvia says to come on in.
“Take a look around,” she says. She stays by the door with Kevin. I think it’s weird to just walk around their place like I’m a real, live guest, but with the open invitation and the two of them guarding the door, I don’t really see a way to say no.
Here’s what I notice right away:
Sylvia and Austin have portraits of themselves in large gold frames. They’ve signed them, like they might at some point forget their own celebrity. I stall in the living room like any normal person might do, but everything in my body screams at me to explore more, and Sylvia hangs back, not stopping me.
“Um, can I . . . ” I gesture to the rest of the apartment and blush. My mother would murder me, being this rude, and in a few hours I’m sure I will relive the awkwardness of the request and want to vanish forever, but my feet move regardless of what my rational mind is telling them to do, and Sylvia nods after a quick glance at Kevin.
The bedroom is worse than the living room. Mirrors. Everywhere. Reflecting on each other. Mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors, and the idea of Austin and Sylvia fucking in between.
No matter how far gone they think I am, there’s nothing sexy in that. Besides, their inherent lustiness is a sidebar to the main event: my needing to vigilantly watch them and thus somehow protect them.
Sylvia and Kevin hang a few steps back, but follow as I push open different doors and lean into different rooms.
There’s no room for anything else here but their perfect faces, the unmistakable lines of their bodies, the way love and success fit them. In their CD rack, which hangs next to an expertly installed stereo system, there’s a few embarrassing holiday compilations and a stack of blanks, and then two full rows of their own albums. I recognize it all from my google binge the other night: everything from their self-produced Boho Love Story Redux to the most recent HotDirtyLonely.
“Cool,” I say, making fleeting eye contact with Sylvia. Her smile is tense and her lips are blown up to twice their normal size, but she seems at least a little bit proud to have someone check out her digs.
“I love this place,” she says with a shrug, in a way I know she’s done probably one hundred times.
There’s something inherently and impressively embarrassing about these details. I want to look away. Which is of course saying a lot. I’ve made a career lately out of looking more intently, staring down the details of their existence.
In the living room their wedding pictures are in a cluster above the fireplace. None of family or sad hipster bridesmaids or chubby, poorly lit nieces and nephews. Just Sylvia in her vintage lace and rhinestones and Austin in an ironic top hat and their look of devotion, their movie-star kisses, the shape their bodies make when leaning against one another.
In the bathroom: more mirrors with expert lighting and a marble countertop with a department store worthy collection of makeup, organized by color, the rainbow moving from light to dark in a perfect parade. A collection of fake eyelashes, varying in size and shade. Like there’s a perfect eyelash length for every possible scenario. I’m a little shocked at the effort it takes to become Sylvia.
That’s not all.
Once I start looking I realize the apartment is full of monogrammed everything. I make my way back to the living room and notice Sylvia vanished to the kitchen at some point. She emerges with two steaming mugs of tea. The mugs are the same silver color of their self-titled second album, and I wonder if those, too, were once promotional material. The mugs seem decidedly self-satisfied.
I don’t see Kevin but I smell his cologne: cheap, heavy, young.
“This is a little something special I’ve been brewing up just forever,” she says, fascinated with herself. “You probably wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I know a lot about herbs and tea leaves and, well, this is my signature blend.”
It’s a sweet kind of Earl Grey that needs milk and then stays coated on your tongue for hours after.
And it hits me: It’s not just me obsessed with them. They are ferociously obsessed with themselves and that makes the whole thing immediately simpler and sadder.
“You like the place?” Sylvia says with a big gesture to all of their things. She looks at herself in the mirror above my head, missing my gaze entirely. And there’s more: a locket hanging down to her sternum I just know has a picture of her and Austin inside. Not just Austin alone. Never just Austin alone.
Sylvia is the kind of person who has to be in every picture. She’s the kind of person who has a photograph of herself tucked into a locket engraved with her initials. And there it is, in her eyes: not fear of me following her around, not a reprimanding sternness or a warning tone. Instead, all over her face, is the thrill at being watched. The desire to see herself through my admiring eyes. The complicit agreement that she and Austin are definitely worth watching. It’s on the tip of her tongue, and then it’s out of her mouth, excitement poorly hidden.
“Why us? I mean. Is it just the music? It’s a little freaky, honey, but a little awesome, too. I mean, it’s like full circle, you know? Like, we loved musicians in a really hardcore way and they mattered to us and changed us and . . . it’s cool, right? It’s cool, you being here. It’s cool you going to our therapist. I love that kind of thing. Fate.” The words are fine, but the thing underneath them, the tone or whatever, the energy, has the frenetic pace and fear factor of a tiny hummingbird’s heartbeat. “Little weird that you pretended to live here, right? I mean, we both know that’s a little strange. Cute-ish, though. I mean, don’t feel bad.”
She’s filling space with words. I pinch and pinch and pinch my thigh. There’s a block of knives on the kitchen counter. I go over the relative pros and cons of asking her to please put them away. I don’t really have a choice, though. Isn’t it basic safety? I know they’re rock stars and stuff, but it seems irresponsible. Maybe it’s not a big deal to ask her to put them in a cabinet. Maybe she meant to put them away and forgot. Maybe she’ll be gr
ateful I reminded her.
“So? How’s the tea?” she asks. I have not said a word.
“Oh! Great, thank you.”
“Seriously, don’t feel weird. I mean, after Austin talked to you he explained everything. Being a teenager sucks. We get it.” These conversations I’ve been having with Austin and Sylvia keep being completely and absurdly disappointing. Profoundly. Because against all odds, in spite of all my blustering belief about their awesomeness, they’re lame. The kind of adults who think it’s cool to be “down with” the teenagers, to acknowledge our feelings, to remember their days of acne and driver’s permits and awkward losses of virginity, and they think they’re doing us a service by being so accepting of our superobvious flaws.
Sylvia sips at her tea mug. It’s clearly a discarded party favor from her wedding. It has a date and cheesy silver font: AUSTIN AND SYLVIA: PUNKROCKLOVE. Punk rock seems like something that has no place on wedding favors. It seems like the more aware you are of your own punk-rock-ness, the less it actually exists. They’re making me so sad, so utterly let down I want to cry.
“So what brought you to Dr. Pat?” Sylvia says. It’s fake-casual, like we’re just girlfriends drinking Sylvia’s special tea from our branded mugs. I’ve been doing such an excellent job at lying through my teeth, I think for a minute I’m going to be able to manage it here, too. I’ll say something predictable about my horrible parents and my mean friends and the stress of trying to get into college with lame grades and a poor attitude.
But the truth has, of course, found its way from my brain into my mouth and I dig a fingernail into my thigh but with the thick jeans it’s not really doing much of anything. The words are burning. If I don’t say them something terrible will happen. I can’t believe I even considered lying, knowing how dire the consequences are, and now that I’ve lied a few times to Austin I basically need to make it better by saying even more truth. I don’t want to. I know how she’ll look at me after. But that’s nothing compared to the ceiling falling in on us or the words burning a literal hole in my throat or the thousands and thousands of calamities that could possibly occur if I keep all the truth trapped inside me for even one second longer.
“OCD,” I say. Not with up-speak. Not like a question or an apology, which is a good way to say it when you don’t want to freak someone out. “Anxiety at first. And then OCD. I’m in group therapy too. When I was younger, I saw a guy get stabbed with a broken bottle. Or, well, I mean I saw this guy I really liked stab a guy with a bottle. This guy Jeff? Anyway. I mean, that’s what I’ve learned. I’d forgotten. But I remembered a few days ago. So. Yeah. OCD.”
Sylvia swallows and plays with her locket and then musters up a smile so full of effort I’m worried her Botox will somehow crack and I’ll be faced with the actual lines of her real face. And neither of us is ready for that kind of honesty. Austin comes in just then. Sylvia must have called him, and I can’t really blame her for wanting backup.
He’s brought cupcakes, because that’s what all the kids are eating these days.
“What do you think of the place?” he says with that same swinging arm Sylvia gestured with just a few minutes earlier. The cupcakes have silver frosting. I think that’s their signature color. They are without a doubt the kind of couple that would have a signature color.
I’ve never wanted to eat something silver and I’m not about to start now.
I’m pretty sure I’m never coming back here. I don’t know what I’m really doing here in the first place. Whatever I thought I would get from being near them, being in their space, seems to not really exist.
“Really nice,” I say.
“So, Bea. Sylvia and I talked after the concert last night,” he says. They’re both straddling the same few emotions I think. They like how into them I am. They can’t help the thrill of fame and mattering and being an object of desire. I mean, look at Sylvia’s pushed-up breasts and painted mouth and popping-blue eyes that seem almost neon because of all the dark eyeliner surrounding them. They’ve been noticed, and I don’t think they can help liking that at least a little. “And I meant what I said, absolutely, about understanding being a fan and being a teenager and being in this totally awkward life moment.”
I wonder if they are practicing to have kids.
I wonder if I am convincing them not to have kids.
“You’ve been great,” I say. I’m not even really in this conversation. I mean, it’s about me and all, but mostly it’s Austin and Sylvia exchanging a really complicated set of glances and and trying hard to be cool and understanding. They’re talking to each other, not me.
Like their bedroom, the mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors.
I’m in that funhouse with all the mirrors and Austin and Sylvia.
“And of course I’m the one that invited you to the concert, but after what happened with your friend . . . well. I think we’re feeling a little less comfortable. I’ll be honest, we figured you might stop by today. It seems like you’re stopping by a lot. Too much. And we did ask Kevin to look out for you. He said he’d . . . seen you around?”
I nod. This is mortifying.
“And we also put a call in to Dr. Pat,” Austin concludes. “And we want this to be safe and calm for all of us. No police, no security. So. Dr. Pat’s on her way.”
I keep completely misinterpreting the situations I get into with Austin and Sylvia. Which is weird since I’m working so, so hard to take it all in accurately.
“Huh?” is all I muster up. I cling to one little phrase in all he just said, because it lodges in my head and doesn’t make sense. “What do you mean ‘what happened with my friend?’ ” It’s possible he means my fight with Beck, but that doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Did Lisha get wasted and throw herself at Austin or something? Did Austin hear what I told Sylvia about Jeff and the bottle and the guard? My mind’s working overtime to try to fit together pieces that aren’t quite right.
“I hope you understand. I think you’re such a great kid. But this is our home and we do need to take care of ourselves, too.” Now Austin is talking like a therapist. And it’s sort of like I’ve been framed, except I did it all to myself. And they’re right, of course they’re right, in their cozy Austin-and-Sylvia-themed home. They’re right to have called her, they’re right to be worried, they’re right to see that I am not, and never was, just like them.
It’s the worst kind of silent waiting that comes next.
Then Dr. Pat’s at the door and she thanks Austin and Sylvia for calling and leads me to the couch in the lobby. Austin’s and Sylvia’s smiles change from painful to peaceful as soon as I’ve stepped from their apartment to the threshold of their home. Dr. Pat keeps a hand on my shoulder the whole elevator ride down to the lobby.
“They could have just called my mom,” I say. “Or the police. They didn’t need to bring you over here.”
“You should have told me, Bea,” Dr. Pat says. For someone whose job it is to listen, she’s plowing right over me. “I can’t help you if you’re not honest. Do you get that? There are a lot of people who would love to be getting the help you’re getting. And I don’t mind slipups; I expect them. But it’s insulting for you to be spending all this time in group and in one-on-one therapy and to just be lying. How can I help you if you’re lying all the time?” The doorman pretends to ignore us while we have some kind of impromptu session right here in Sylvia and Austin’s lobby.
How many times can I be blacklisted as full-on insane at the same building?
“I just hadn’t gotten to it yet,” I say in the weakest voice imaginable. “I’m really fucked up. I had a lot to talk to you about.” I’m pissed at Dr. Pat and I know that’s not really fair, because I’m the one who keeps messing up. But she’s on my turf now. All the little pieces of my life, all the little things I’ve been keeping separate and manageable . . . she’s invading all of it: Beck, Austin and Sylvia, my car, my life, my past, the things I do just to keep myself sane.
&nbs
p; She’s a thief. That’s the best word for the kind of person she is.
“Bea. You have a history of stalking. You knew this would be a priority to me and our work together.” She has never used the word “stalking” before. It’s an ugly, ugly word.
“I didn’t think—”
“You’re a smart girl, Bea. We need to get more aggressive with your treatment. And I can’t do that when you aren’t actually telling me what you’re doing. Use Beck as an example. See how that worked for him? He was honest, and that allowed us to really work through his problems and he’s made leaps and bounds—”
“I don’t want to talk about Beck.” There’s this horrible edge in my voice that I don’t recognize as my own, but I can’t stamp it out. It’s making me sound like some cliché of a surly teenager. “I get it. Beck’s all better and I’m just getting worse. That doesn’t exactly help, you know?” I sigh. Not a little breathy sigh, a fully voiced sigh that includes crossed arms and a pout.
I hate myself.
There was a time when I could exercise some amount of control over the things I did and said. I mean, it was never my best skill, but it was there a little bit, once upon a time. Now the doorman, Kevin, is raising his eyebrows at me the way you do when a baby is throwing a tantrum on an airplane. An unspoken hmph on his face. I hate him too. I’m making a list now. Of people I hate. It’s extensive.
OCD Love Story Page 23