The OCD Games

by Kayla Krantz

  “O-okay,” I stutter.

  He turns away but then glances back at me as if wants to say more but goes to his register without a word. With my personal space back, I feel more like myself, and I breathe normally again, thinking of just how odd my day has become.

  8.

  WHEN I DRIVE home, I picture the way Blaine had looked at me through his bangs, a combination of beauty and sadness, and for all my trying, I can’t get the thought to leave my mind. When I get home, I think about looking Blaine up, but I don’t want to seem too desperate or clingy. How long would a normal person wait? I try to think of Kara, but that does little to help me. She’s the impulsive type—she would’ve done it right on the spot. I tilt my head to the side, thinking of the odd situation I’ve just walked into. He confided in me, didn’t he? He’s given me a skeleton directly from his closet.

  I’m not sure if I would call it friendship, per se, but it has to count for something, right?

  Pushing away all my reservations, I look him up anyway, wishing I can text Kara for advice, but we haven’t talked since our fight. Pushing my hair from my eyes, I stare at the computer screen. Blaine’s profile is easy enough to find—there’s a picture of him wearing a hat and holding a beer at what looks like some type of party—and before I think it all the way through, I send him a friend request before my nerves convince me that it’s a bad idea. I read through the information in his bio, and my eyes linger a bit on the relationship status—single—before I hit the message button and send the location and meeting dates of support group.

  Once the message sends, I stare at the little word beneath my message. Nothing to do now but wait.

  That seems creepy too, just sitting here, waiting for the second ‘sent’ turns to ‘read.’ Even if he doesn’t know it, I do, and I don’t want to be that girl. I never want to be that attached to anyone, not even Kara. I push away from the desk and look around my house, desperate for a distraction of any kind. Then I spot the red container next to my couch and realize I must have been out of it to have left it here. The box is full of Christmas decorations, and I’ve all but forgotten about it since I drug it out of the garage about a week ago.

  With Christmas less than two weeks away, now is as good of a time as any to finally get decorations out of the way. With a wistful sigh, I pull my coat and gloves on and glare at the container, wishing it would put itself where I need it to be. While I might adore Christmas, I’ve never cared for the decorating part that comes with it. I huff and puff as I drag the box of lights outside into the snow.

  With a groan, I put a hand on my lower back and stand up straight, surveying the blank face of my house. This is my first year doing this alone, and I’m not sure where or how to begin. How do you even decide? I stall for time by popping the top off and stare at the contents inside, hoping for inspiration from the source…or maybe an instruction guide. On the top of the bin are three different bunches of Christmas lights—one is rainbow, one is all blue, and the last is green and red.

  Immediately, I overlook the possibility of using the red and green ones. More of the red lights are broken than the green, and it’s a noticeable ratio. Even thinking of the uneven coloring leaves me wondering why I haven’t just thrown the entire bundle away. It’s not like I can ever bring myself to use them again.

  On instinct, I go for the blue lights, not because I like them so much, but for the fact that if one or two of the lights don’t work, it’ll be much harder for me to notice. I work on unwinding the roll, cursing a few times under my breath as my gloves get caught in the wires. At last, I have the bundle under control and a respective amount of lights lay lazily in my hands.

  I start by looping them on the railing of the porch, just over the top metal bar, and step back to see my work. Then, I frown. It’s sagging in the middle, and that sickening twinge pinches my stomach. I rush to undo it, and with resolved determination, I set to restringing it, trying to make it as straight as I can possibly manage.

  It sags in less places this time but it’s still noticeable—on my radar, at least— and I fix it once again. Crossing my fingers, I study my efforts of the third attempt and sigh in relief that it’s accomplished. My inner critic can be a real pain when she wants to be.

  Mentally crossing the first step off my list, I turn to the box to see what’s next and the more I stare, the worse I feel. There are two light-up deer in here. Not three and not one but two…the worst number in my opinion. If there was one, I could put it in the middle of the lawn and be done with it. Three would be even better since I could arrange them in a triangle formation, but two? What can I possibly do with that?

  I could leave one in the box, of course, and just put one in the middle of the lawn, but the knowledge that the other one is still tucked away would very much eat at me. As I stare at them, I just want to tear my hair out. In the end, I put the two deer on each corner of the lawn, the ones closest to the street and farthest from the house. It’s not the best, and I still consider going to the store to buy a third one even though I’ll be stressed for money until I get my first check. As I put the lid back on the red container, I survey the deer again and find that even though I’m not happy with it, I can live with it.

  That’s something.

  9.

  WHEN THE NEXT day comes, I wake up in a less than stellar mood again. After having dragged the red container back to my garage last night, my lower back is screaming in a fresh wave of pain that makes me sick. I pop up to take some aspirin, and as I dig through the drawer in the kitchen, my eyes land on a picture of my mother that I keep hanging in the middle of the wall like a shrine.

  I pause to stare at it before I pop the pill in my mouth and swallow it down without water, wincing at the bitter taste. I try not to think of my mother if I can help it. It’s been less than a year since she was killed in a car accident, and I still have a lot of emotions to work through. With shaking fingers, I reach out to touch the edge of the frame and then pull my fingers back as if I’m afraid the picture will burn me.

  I think of the day I have ahead. I have support group and that’s it. There’s time to visit her grave but I’m not sure I can manage it. We’ll see what it comes to, I tell myself as I push through my morning routine.

  You can go on the way to support group, the little voice in my head says.

  I consider it since I drive past the cemetery where my mother rests nearly every day.

  Only terrible daughters don’t visit their mothers, the voice insists, and my insides squeeze with a painful protest before I give up. It’s right. As I grab my phone off the table, I spare a glance at myself in the mirror hanging by the door. My orange hair is bundled into a messy bun on the top of my head but other than that, I look decently put together.

  Well, as put together as a woman going to visit her dead mother can look.

  In the back of my mind sounds the funeral dirge as I stomp to my car, wary of any potential new ice patches formed during the night, and get into my car. I pull down the visor to look at my reflection again, and wish I hadn’t. All the poor sleep is really starting to catch up to me. I slam the visor shut and start to drive. The cemetery has a stone path designed to drive on, but I park my car in the street anyway and walk across the snow encrusted field.

  The crunch of the white powder beneath my feet is the only sound I hear. I glance up, shielding my eyes from the sun as I try and gauge my surroundings. My mother’s grave lies at the back of the field, closest to the oak tree which is visible in the distance. The sight quickens my pace, and before I know it, I’m staring at her gravestone.

  I sink to my knees, not even thinking of the cold or the snow as I whisper, “Hi, Mama.”

  MY FACE IS red, blotchy, and frozen from crying in the cold when I climb back into my car. If I thought I had looked less than stellar before, I look like a nightmare now. It doesn’t matter. Support group has seen me through my mother’s death. There have been plenty of days in which I looked a lot worse. Besides,
I don’t really expect Blaine to show up. If he’s as embarrassed as it seemed at the store, there’s no way he’d come to talk to a bunch of strangers, right?

  He finds comfort in you, the voice insists.

  I sigh, wishing I could go a day without arguing against myself.

  I start the engine and relax into the comfort and familiarity of my normal support group routine. Driving down the road, I adjust my mirror slightly and merge into traffic on the highway. The drive usually gives me anxiety, but today, it passes me by. It’s not hard for me to guess why—my mind is in other places.

  This is ridiculous, I chastise myself, patting the knot of hair on my head.

  That doesn’t stop the stupid thoughts, though. I take my exit and find my way into the parking lot before turning off the engine. I breathe in and out a few times which also doesn’t help the thoughts and venture into the cold chill of December air once again. It hits me harder this time because the snow from the cemetery melted on my knees. I suddenly find myself glad for my choice to wear black pants.

  Temporarily, the cold chills me—how high had the heater been exactly? My breath puffs out little white clouds as I make my way across the parking lot, teeth chattering even when I wrap my arms around myself. I stop once I reach the doors and look back over the path I’ve just traveled, scanning the parking lot though what I’m looking for, I have no clue.

  Yes, you do, the voice says.

  Normal, I say to myself, trying to tune it out. Just act normal. But the word has lost all meaning. So, I pretend that I’m not having an internal conflict with myself—again—as I push my way inside and sit in the usual seat beside Serena. I move to put my bag on the floor when I realize something is different…there’s an extra chair in the room, and Blaine is perched on it.

  My mouth runs dry at the sight of him, and if I thought I was ditzy before, it has nothing on this moment. “You came,” I state stupidly.

  “I told you I’d check it out,” he says.

  I open my mouth but close it again. I doubt he wants to hear that I thought he was a liar.

  A small smile crosses Serena’s lips as she glances at him then me then him again. She gets up, clutching her small purse in her fist.

  “Oh, you don’t have to get up, Serena,” I say.

  “I know,” she replies, voice sweet as always.

  As she smiles at Blaine, I understand. She wants him to feel welcome here and is doing her part to ensure he doesn’t run away. Blaine isn’t as quick to react, so Serena pats the chair she had been seated on like he’s a cat. He doesn’t protest as he and Serena swap seats.

  Wrapping his arms around himself, he says, “It’s cold in here.”

  “You get used to it,” I say, but with the heat flushing through my face, it’s impossible to imagine ever feeling cold again.

  The other members of the group are engaged in their own conversation on the other side of the room, and Blaine watches them, rolling the edge of his sleeve in his fingers. “So, how does this work?”

  His nervousness is so raw that it hits me the way he doesn’t even try to hide it. He’s really putting a lot of faith into this meeting, and that both makes me feel good, and scares the Hell out of me. If something happens to scare him off, he’ll be against group therapy for a long time, possibly forever, and it’ll be my fault. I open my mouth, but before I can say a word in reply, Destiny enters, and a wave of silence flashes through the room as we smile at her and then the greetings begin. Destiny waves back but her eyes are glued on Blaine as she plops into her chair and I can nearly hear the warning bells going off in her mind, the ones that react to the slightest bit of change.

  “Hello there! It’s been so long since we’ve had a new member,” she says, clutching the papers in her hands a bit tighter.

  “I asked him to come,” I say, lifting my hand to break her concentrated stare on Blaine.

  Her eyes shift to me and soften slightly at the familiarity of my face. She nods once and looks back at him. “Well, alright then. You’ll be our opener today, young man. Tell us a bit about yourself.”

  I’m not happy for her calling out Blaine so soon, but I am impressed at how easily she’s able to reel herself in from her internal conflict. Blaine tries to stand up and stumbles when his foot gets caught on the rung, but he recovers easily and looks around the small group with such wide eyes that I have no doubt he’s regretting his decision to come. He seems so different here than at the store and it’s hard to imagine that this is the same person.

  “Well, my name is Blaine and uh…” He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, eyes moving from Serena to Destiny, and finally me. I try to offer him a small smile of encouragement. He holds the look as he says, “I have compulsions so crippling that on some days, I can’t even leave the house. I’ve never uh…talked about it to anyone, so this is really new to me.”

  He sits down so quickly that it’s as if some invisible force shoved him backward. Alice stares at Blaine with sympathy, the most able to relate. Her compulsions have been so bad in the past that a few times, we’ve visited her home on support group days because she couldn’t leave her house to come to us.

  I don’t know what urges me to do it, but I reach out and squeeze Blaine’s hand encouragingly. He doesn’t pull away, instead choosing to squeeze my hand back, but as soon as I catch myself still holding him, I let go quickly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Destiny says. “But it’s nice to see you here, Blaine. We’re a safe place. We’re all like you in some aspect, and I hope that you are able to find comfort in us on your worst days.”

  Blaine bobs his head, but his eyes are on his fingers.

  Destiny, sensing that Blaine is on the verge of shutdown, turns to me. “Erica, how has your week been? When we left off last, you were in the middle of seeking out a new job. Any promising leads?”

  I can’t help looking at Blaine. “Yeah, I uh…actually got a job as a cashier at a little mom and pop store.”

  Blaine raises his hand, sheepish smile on his face. “Witness.”

  Destiny’s eyes fill with amazement. “That’s great! And how do you feel about it?”

  “It seems…good. Different from my last job but dependable.”

  “Good, good, and how have you handled your stress?”

  Now, it’s not so easy to meet Blaine’s eyes. I think of the night I spent crying on the floor after the first time he laughed at me, and I don’t want to admit any of it out loud.

  “Erica?” she prompts after a full minute of silence goes by.

  Now you know how Blaine felt.

  “It’s been…tough but my art classes have really helped. We started painting this week. Acrylics, not watercolor.”

  “Excellent therapy,” she encourages with a nod of approval that matches the smile on her face. “I gave it a try for a while.” Her eyes scan the rest of the group as she taps her pen against her papers. “It’s something I recommend you all give a try, even if you haven’t gotten an artistic bone in your body.”

  WHEN GROUP ENDS, I try to hurry and sling my bag over my shoulder to rush out the door before Blaine can stop me, but he must’ve guessed I’d try something like that because he’s waiting for me just outside.

  “So, you’re an artist?” he asks, eyes wide and twinkly like a curious kid.

  I want to be dignified in my moment of shame, but one look at him dissolves that hope away. “Yeah, sometimes, I guess.”

  “That’s cool,” he says, patient grin on his face. “I’ve never been much of an artsy person. I can draw a mean stick figure, though.”

  I crack a smile at that. “I’m more into abstract work.”

  He bobs his head. “I might be able to get into that. Maybe I can come with you to your art class sometime.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You’ll be tired of me if you see me everywhere,” I say before I can stop myself.

  He smiles. “How could I ever be bored of such an interesting girl?”

  10.


  IN THE BASEMENT of the church, my clothes had dried somewhat but not nearly enough to be comfortable. I’m so cold by the time I get back home that it’s easy to forget about Blaine and support group. A hot bath is all that’s on my mind. I set my gloves on the table and put on a pot of coffee, eager for something warm. I set a tentative finger to the side of the teapot, and the warmth surges into my frozen skin. A ding sounds from my computer and I startle at the sound, nearly tripping over my feet to see what the notification shows—Blaine has accepted my friend request. My mouth runs dry when I read his name. I had almost forgotten I had sent him one. Forgetting about the coffee, I sit down in my computer chair, ready to send him a message when I stop myself, fresh debate in my mind. Do I really want to talk with him again when I just saw him less than an hour ago?

  You dragged that boy through Hell today. The least you can do is say hi, I tell myself.

  I bring my hand to my mouth, gnawing lightly on the skin hanging off my thumb’s cuticle in indecision. If I do message him, there’s still a lot for us to discuss, like the stress website I had promised the link to, but I still can’t remember the name of the website, even for all my trying. Never sending it to him would imply I don’t care, wouldn’t it? Unless he’s already forgotten all about it. Either way, that’s not the impression I want to give off. Sighing, I pull up my search history to scroll through my month’s worth of websites and find the link and send it to him.

  Done.

  Blaine writes me back instantly.

  Blaine: Hey ^.^

  I stare at it, heart fluttering in my chest as I notice that in my message, I hadn’t even bothered to add a greeting.

  Erica: Hi

  Blaine: What’s up?