“Wow,” Jack said, eyeing the food hungrily.
Mary laid the tray down on the writing desk. She didn’t move any magazines or CDs, preferring to allow the tray to rest dangerously on the edge of the desk. Nothing was to be touched. Jack was surprised she had allowed him to sleep in the bed at all.
“Thanks, Mary, everything looks great.”
“You’re very welcome. I used to love treating Bobby occasionally to breakfast in bed.” She looked around the room, wringing her hands together. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thanks,” he replied politely.
“Liar,” Mary said, moving toward the door. “I haven’t slept through one single night ever since Bobby disappeared. I bet you’re the same.”
Jack just smiled, grateful to hear he wasn’t the only one.
“I have to go open the shop now, but take your time. I’ve left a towel in the bathroom for you.” She smiled, took one more haunted look around the room, and was gone.
Jack was glad he’d made a note of all of Sandy’s future appointments before handing her diary over to Dr. Burton. For today she had written “YMCA Aungier Street. 12 Noon-Room 4.” There was no mention at all of what the occasion was, but he noted that she had attended it, or at least made a note of it, once every month. He decided it was best not to call ahead but to go straight there.
He entered the building ten minutes after twelve, thanks to Dublin’s dire traffic he had yet to account for in his travel time. There was no one behind the counter at reception, so he leaned over the desk looking left and right and called out, but to no avail. He was faced with many doors and notice boards advertising fitness classes, child care, computer classes, counseling services, and youth work programs. What was behind door number four? he wondered. He seriously doubted it was another counseling service but whatever it was he hoped it wasn’t a fitness class. Computers, he hoped for; he could do with learning about computers. He rapped lightly on the door, looking for signs of what was inside and hoping, hoping it was Sandy.
The door opened and a lady with a kind face answered.
“Hello,” she said with a smile, her voice almost a whisper.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack whispered. Whatever was going on behind the door, it was certainly being done quietly. Yoga-he hoped it wasn’t yoga.
“Don’t worry, people are welcome regardless of the time. Do you want to join us?”
“Em, yes…I was actually looking for Sandy Shortt.”
“Oh, I see, did she recommend this to you?”
“Yes,” he replied, nodding emphatically.
She opened the door wider and a circle of people turned to stare. No mats, he thought with relief, no yoga. His heart beat wildly as he looked for Sandy, wondering if she could see him before he’d spotted her. And if she was looking at him now, would she recognize him? Would she be angry he had found her, hiding in her burrow, or would she be thankful, relieved someone had noticed her absence?
“Welcome. Come and take a seat.” The woman held her arm out toward the circle while somebody unstacked a chair from the side of the small room and brought it to the circle. Jack walked toward them searching from face to face for a sign of Sandy. The circle grew larger as he neared, the movement like an umbrella being opened slowly. He sat down with trepidation. Sandy wasn’t there.
“As you can see, Sandy unfortunately isn’t with us today.”
“Yes, I see that.” He ground his back teeth together and the familiar pain began to throb at the back of his mouth.
“I’m Tracey,” the woman said.
“Hello.” Jack cleared his throat nervously as heads turned to stare at him, assess him, study him, analyze his every awkward move. “I’m Jack.”
“Hello, Jack,” they all responded in unison and he paused, his eyes widening in surprise at the hypnotic tone of their voices. There was a long silence as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not at all sure what it was he was supposed to be here for.
“Jack, would you prefer it if the others spoke first this week and maybe next week you can tell us your story?”
His story? He looked at everybody else; some had notepads and pens in their laps. To one side of the room was a white board with the words WRITTEN ASSIGNMENT circled at the top. From that circle stemmed the words FEELINGS, THOUGHTS, CONCERNS, IDEAS, LANGUAGE, EXPRESSION, TONES, among so many others he couldn’t take them all in, and finally he came to the conclusion that it was more than likely he was in a creative-writing class.
“Sure,” he replied with relief, “I’d like to listen to everyone else first.”
“OK, Richard can you start off for us by letting us know how you got on this month.”
“Here, I find that this helps,” a woman beside Jack whispered and handed him a pamphlet.
“Thank you.” He left it on his lap and decided to wait until Richard had finished his story before reading through it. Richard’s story was a rather absurd tale about an instantly unlikable man and his constant fear of acting on violent impulses. He droned on, painfully and miserably reciting the tale of how an equally painfully miserable man constantly felt overly responsible for the safety of others, to the point that he was afraid to drive out of fear he would run over someone with his car. At times, Jack shook his head and laughed out loud thinking it an obvious, however slightly dark, comedy, but he quickly stopped after receiving numerous odd looks from the group.
Minutes-which felt like hours-later, the room was still echoing the incessant droning of Richard’s story, each word sounding twice in Jack’s ears, which were already bored from hearing them the first time. As the story moved toward being just plain depressing, with the main character’s behavior the cause of the loss of his wife and child, Jack finally tuned out and began to read the pamphlet scrunched beneath his clammy hands.
His relaxed body stiffened as he finally concentrated on the cover of the thin glossy booklet. Hot waves of color spread from his neck all the way to the top of his strawberry-blond head within seconds as he read WELCOME TO OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE ANONYMOUS.
Jack sat quietly through the remainder of the meeting, feeling embarrassed to be there and generally ashamed by his earlier behavior during Richard’s story. Keeping his head down when the hour was up, he filed out of the room, hiding among the rest of the members.
“Jack!” Tracey called out and he froze. He stopped walking and allowed everyone to file past him, watching their faces as they prepared to leave their safety net and battle the world and all its demons, alone. He also saw Dr. Burton, who was waiting outside the room, arms folded and a face like thunder. Jack took a few steps back into the room toward Tracey.
Tracey caught up to him and held out her hand to shake his. “Thank you for coming today,” she said with a smile. “You know your coming here was the first step in helping to heal yourself. It’s a rocky journey; it will be difficult, but please know that we are all here to help you through it.” Jack heard Dr. Burton laugh mirthlessly. “The twelve steps that we mentioned earlier, as originated by Alcoholics Anonymous, and adapted for OCA, can bring relief. I’ve seen that they can reduce and even eliminate our obsessions and compulsions, so do come again next month.” Tracey patted his arm encouragingly.
“Thanks.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling like an impostor.
“Do you know Sandy well?” she asked.
He winced, disliking being asked the question in Dr. Burton’s company. “Kind of,” he said uncomfortably, clearing his voice.
“If you see her, tell her to come back to us. It’s unusual for her to miss a meeting.”
Jack nodded again and felt glad now that Dr. Burton was within earshot. “I’ll do my best.”
“Hear that?” he said to Dr. Burton as soon as Tracey was out of earshot. “She says it’s unusual for Sandy not to be here. I wonder where she is.”
38
I went to the OCA meetings every month. I went because every month that I was there I knew it was another month of deserving
to be with Gregory.
“Sandy!” I could hear Gregory calling my name. I was downstairs in his house, half-naked at ten past two in the morning, rooting through my overnight bag that I’d placed, as usual, by the front door when I’d walked in.
“Sandy!” he called again.
There was a thump and the floorboards above me creaked as he climbed out of bed and crossed the bedroom. My heartbeat quickened and my search became more frenzied. Feeling a pressure now that Gregory was making his way toward me, I turned my bag upside down and spilled the contents to the floor. I picked items up, tossed them aside, shook out all my clothes, went through the pockets, laid them flat on the floor, and ironed each point firmly with the palm of my hand, trying to feel for the hidden lump.
“What are you doing?” His voice was suddenly behind me and I jumped. My heart thudded and adrenaline raced through me as I felt like I’d been caught in the act, as though I’d been doing something criminal like stealing or immoral like cheating on him. I hated that he made me feel what I was doing was wrong. It was that same look in his face that I had run from in others, the look that strangely hadn’t chased me away from him yet. Not completely, anyway, although I had run a few times.
The aftershave I bought for him each of the six Christmases we had been together filled the room. I didn’t respond to him, I just laid my navy blue garda uniform out on the carpet, feeling each point for unusual bumps.
“Hello?” he sang out. “I was calling you.”
“I didn’t hear you,” I replied.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” I replied calmly, running my hand down the length of the navy blue nylon trouser leg.
“It looks like your clothes are being given a deep massage.” I felt him move further into the room and he sat down before me on the couch, wrapped in the robe I’d bought for him this Christmas, wearing tartan slippers I’d bought for him the previous. “I’m rather jealous,” he murmured, watching me smoothing down the pockets.
“I’m looking for my toothbrush,” I explained, emptying the contents of my wash bag onto the floor.
“I see.” He watched me. He just sat there quietly and watched me, yet this made me feel uncomfortable. His disapproving eyes on me made me feel as if I was sitting on the floor doing drugs instead of merely looking for something. A few minutes passed, searching without results.
“You know that you have a toothbrush upstairs in the bathroom already?”
“I bought a new one today.”
“The old one won’t do?”
“The bristles are too soft.”
“I thought you liked soft bristles.” He ran his hand through his tight beard.
I smiled for his sake.
He watched me for a little while longer.
“I’m going to make a cup of tea, do you want one?” He had the same method as my parents; they too used to keep an easy tone in their voices to pretend to me that everything was all right, to stop me from picking up negative vibes and panicking because something was lost. When I was younger that’s what I thought. Now that I was older, I had learned from Gregory that it wasn’t me he was trying to lighten the atmosphere for; it was himself. I stopped searching and watched him move around the adjoining kitchen as though he made cups of tea at two o’clock every morning. I watched him playing house and pretending that his on/off girlfriend was perfectly normal and correct to be sitting on the carpet half-naked while emptying her bag for a toothbrush she already had sitting in a cup holder upstairs. I watched him pretending to himself, smiling as I fell in love with another flaw I never knew existed within him.
“Maybe it fell out in the car,” I said, more to myself.
“It’s raining, Sandy. You don’t want to go out now, do you?”
He needn’t have asked, he knew the answer but he was still playing along with his own game. Pretending now, that his full-time, eternally faithful girlfriend was going to risk running out into the wet night to look for something. How unusual, how frightfully odd, how attractively kooky. Such fun.
I looked around the living room for a jacket or blanket to throw on. There was none. In this state, although I appear calm on the outside, inside I’m running around, screaming, shouting, looking in all directions, anxious to go, go, go. To run upstairs and throw some clothes on would take too long, would take precious minutes away from finding. I looked at Gregory, who was pouring the boiling water into a witty mug I’d got him for the previous Christmas. He obviously saw the desperate search in my eyes, the silent longing for help. He played it cool, as usual.
“OK, OK.” He held his hands up in surrender. “You can have the robe.”
I actually hadn’t thought of his robe.
“Thanks.” I got to my feet and walked to the kitchen.
He undid the belt and coolly shrugged it off his shoulders, and handed it to me, standing dressed now only in his tartan slippers and the silver chain I had given him for his fortieth birthday the previous year. I laughed and took the robe from him, but he held on to it, the robe firmly in his grasp. He turned serious.
“Please don’t go outside, Sandy.”
“Gregory, don’t,” I mumbled, tugging on the robe, not wanting this discussion again, not wanting to go through the same thing all over again, fighting about it, talking in circles, resolving nothing and apologizing for nothing but the insults fired between the main issues.
His face crumpled. “Please, Sandy, please can we just go back to bed. I’m up in four hours.”
I stopped tugging on the robe and looked at him, standing before me naked but revealing more in the look on his face alone. Whatever it was about that face, about the way he looked at me, the way he yearned for me not to leave him, the way it seemed so important that I be with him rather than away, something inside me stopped fighting.
My grip relaxed on the robe. “OK.” I gave in. I gave in. “OK,” I repeated more to myself this time. “I’ll go to bed.”
Gregory looked surprised, relieved, and confused all in one glance, but he didn’t push it, he didn’t question it, he didn’t want to ruin the moment, spoil the dream and chase me away again. Instead he held my hand and we went back upstairs to bed, leaving the clutter of my scattered clothes and wash bag on the floor by the door. It was the first time I’d turned my back on the situation and headed in the other direction. It was apt that it was Gregory leading me.
In bed I laid my head on his warm heaving chest, felt his heartbeat beneath my cheek and his breath on the top of my head. I felt loved and secure and thought everything in my life couldn’t possibly be any more perfect and wonderful. Before he fell asleep, he whispered to me to remember that feeling. At the time, I thought he was referring to us being together, but as the night slowly moved on for me and the niggling returned, I knew he had meant for me to remember the feeling of walking away and the reason that led to that decision. I needed to hold on to that, store it in my memory and call upon it whenever the moment raised its ugly head.
I was restless that night. I only meant to go back downstairs and tidy my belongings away. And then when I had done that, I only meant to go out into the wet night to search my car. But then when it wasn’t there, I forgot the feeling that I’d tried to hold on to while in Gregory’s arms and Gregory’s bed.
He woke up alone that morning and it pains me to imagine his thoughts when he felt around the bed and his hand rested on the cold sheets. Meanwhile, as he was asleep in his bed pretending in his dreams that I was alongside him, I had returned to a cold bedsit to find my toothbrush still in its packet, lying on the table. For once I got no solace from finding. I was emptier after finding the toothbrush than I had been before. It seemed the more things I found when I was with Gregory, the more I lost inside. I was alone in bed at five in the morning after leaving the warm bed of a man I loved, and who loved me. Of a man who would, as a result, no longer take my calls. A man who after thirteen years of wanting to learn all there was to learn about me
had finally given up and wanted to know me no longer.
For a while, I gave up on him too until I became too lonely, too tired, and my heart became too sore from pretending I cared more about a whole series of nothings with nobodies rather than a single episode of something with somebody. I told myself that morning to hold on to that feeling, to remember the foolishness of leaving warmth to walk alone in the cold, the ridiculous loneliness of leaving something for nothing.
He took me back on one condition. That I recognize my problems and attend a monthly meeting of a group called the OCA. The first thing you learn while in OCA is that you can’t be in OCA for anybody else but yourself. It was a lie from the very beginning. Every extra month I attended the meeting was another month spent with Gregory, a happier Gregory, who was content knowing I was taking steps, twelve to be precise, to recover. He pretended to himself again because it was obvious to everyone that there had been no change in my behavior. I knew in my heart that I wasn’t the same as the others in the class. I felt it absurd that he would think I was among the likes of those who scrubbed and cleaned themselves for hours at night before going to bed until they almost bled, and hours in the morning before going to work. Or the woman who made tiny slits with a blade on her own arms, or the man who touched, counted, arranged, and hoarded every little thing that came into his path. I wasn’t like them. My dedication was confused with obsession. There was a difference. I was different.
Years and years of going to the meetings and I was still the same as the twenty-one-year-old who sat on the concrete steps opposite Dr. Burton’s office building every week, with my elbows on my knees, chin rested on my hands, watching the world pass by as I waited to cross the road.
Every single time, Gregory crossed over for me and met me on my side. I realize now, I don’t think I ever met him in the middle. And I don’t think I ever once said thank you for that.
But I’m saying sorry now, I shout it a thousand times a day from this place that he can’t hear me from. I say thank you and sorry and I scream it through the trees, over the mountains, pour my love into the lakes, and I blow kisses in the wind, hoping that they will reach him.
There’s No Place Like Here Page 22