OCD Love Story (2 page)

I GET TO THERAPY VERY
, very early the next day. an entire hour early, in fact, because I like listening to the couple that has therapy before me. Some people have reality TV or books about vampires. I have Austin and Sylvia.

There's a spot in Dr. Pat's waiting room where I can hear the mumblings of what's going on in her office. Mostly it's just intonations and occasional spare words. But when Austin and Sylvia are in there I can hear much more. I take my place in the wobbly chair by her office door and hear that they are already in there, right on time as always. I'm instantly calmer, knowing I haven't missed anything.

Truth time: A month or two ago I caught a glance at Dr. Pat's appointment book. She'd accidentally left it on the couch instead of on her desk, and I let my eyes dart over the open page before handing it over to her. It was basically an accident that I even caught sight of their names in the four o'clock time slot.

Somewhat less accidental: Today while I'm cross-legged in
the waiting room chair I'm learning all about their sex life. It comes to me in half sentences and words shouted at uncomfortable decibels. Austin and Sylvia are screamingly attractive, but if the way they speak to each other is any indication, the attraction just isn't enough, 'cause they clearly hate each other. It is mostly Sylvia whose voice breaks through the walls: a Boston accent and a nasal, swallowed tone that is hard to listen to. Without even having to think about it I direct all my sympathy toward Austin and the gentler way he speaks. Also, he's hot.

I have been listening in on them for over a month now and today I brought a notebook. It's a lame patent-leather thing my father gave me for Christmas. There is a shooting star embossed in gold on the cover. A huge, ugly assault on an already ugly notebook. It's a pretty typical gift from my dad. He is equal parts kind and misinformed, so I hang on to his presents but almost never use them.

The notebook is pink, aside from the gold shooting star monstrosity, so there's no chance of anyone thinking to flip through its pages; it's not the kind of thing that looks like it could hold any secrets. It is too flimsy and silly and unbearably
pink
to contain anything of substance.

I start scribbling down what I can hear of their conversation. I don't have a real reason for doing it, but I almost can't help myself. Maybe I'll show it to Lisha tonight if we meet up at the diner for pancakes. I'm also a bit of a collector of information. It's something I've been doing for years, a part
of my personality. If I wasn't going to be a costume designer, I could totally be a journalist.

Except I guess I don't tell people much about my information collecting. They don't usually get it. Except Lisha, of course, who gets everything.

There's nothing like writing notes on a fresh sheet of paper in an empty journal. It's like meditation. Or what I would imagine meditation to be like.

Sylvia: . . . no way to treat your wife.

Austin: If you could just pause and breathe every once in a . . .

Dr. Pat: (something very quiet and probing that I can't hear)

Sylvia: . . . you haven't touched me in months. You must be getting it somewhere . . .

Austin: You can't act like a bitch and then just expect me to . . .

Sylvia: . . . do I disgust you? Is that it? I got the boob job but you don't seem to . . .

Austin: . . . I didn't even want you to . . .

Sylvia: . . . just go sleep with some little girl and get it over with . . .

Austin: . . . totally inappropriate . . . I used to think you were the kind of woman . . .

Dr. Pat: (quiet, reflective therapy-speak that I can't hear)

Sylvia: You don't like women. You like girls. Nineteen-year-old girls, right? I saw your computer . . .

Austin: . . . can't believe you'd say something like that after all I've told you about my past . . .

(A long pause in conversation.)

It's so utterly engaging writing down everything I hear that I forget I'm in public. The waiting room has started to fill up, signifying the hour change where all the 4:00 p.m. patients leave and the 5:00 p.m. patients come in. With a start I realize I'm strangling my pen and practically breaking through the notebook paper with all my urgency and focus. My hands are cramped and the notes look scribbled. But I'm the calmest I've been all week.

Austin and Sylvia exit Dr. Pat's office and float past me. I try to take mental photographs as they walk by. Sylvia's breasts lead the way and her honey-colored hair is long and thick down her back. She wears so much eyeliner she could be in a teenage indie rock band. Austin has floppy red hair and green, green eyes and tighter jeans than his wife. He has a flannel shirt and a leather bracelet and a Fuck You Curl to his lips.

He's not my type, but he's sexy as anything. So is she.

I've got to come early next week to hear their next session. I know it's a little weird, but they are a book I don't want to stop reading.

• • •

Dr. Pat always takes fifteen minutes in between sessions so that she can compose herself accordingly. I imagine she must get especially distracted after the drama of Austin and Sylvia. They are both tree tall and skinny, and between Austin's furry stubble and Sylvia's Rapunzel-like mane, they are a lot to take in even when they're not screaming at each other.

I want what they have.

And that's how I open my session this afternoon.

“The patients before me are pretty much perfect, right?” I say. It's like an experiment. I want to see the reaction in Dr. Pat's face. It's near impossible to get anything out of her. She keeps a clean, unreadable expression that only ever seems to fluctuate between contemplation, sympathy, and concern.

“Oh, yes?” Dr. Pat says.

“Don't you think so?”

“That's interesting that you are taking note of them.” She is a ninja with this stuff. A full-on conversational ninja. I shrug. This isn't going anywhere. “Your mother says you've seemed particularly observant lately. Is that fair to say?” I wrinkle my brow trying to assess how loaded this statement may or may not be. I have to be careful with Dr. Pat. One false move and she'll put me on more Zoloft or make me come in more often.

“They just seem so . . . cool,” I say. “Confident. Fabulous. I guess I wonder what it would be like, to be living their lives instead of mine.”

“So you take note of them because you'd like to be like them?” Dr. Pat likes to take what I'm saying and turn it a little to the left or to the right. Make it have meaning.

“I mean, I think it would be hard
not
to notice them, right? They stand out.”

Dr. Pat nods, but only slightly. I want her to agree so badly. I want her to nod with vigor and touch my arm and tell me that of course everyone feels the way I do. Instead she tilts her head.

“I'm interested in you, not in everyone else,” she says.

“What else did my mom say?” Dr. Pat, my mom, and I made a deal back when I started coming to therapy that there wouldn't be secrets kept between Dr. Pat and my mother. It made me anxious to think of them having long phone calls about me behind closed doors.

“You think she had more to tell me?”

“I'm just curious. I mean, I think I'm pretty boring. There can't be that much for her to talk to you about.”

“So you think you're boring and that my patients or other people you run into are more exciting?” Dr. Pat says. Therapists are tricky. They'll make connections out of anything. When I first started seeing Dr. Pat, I'd try to talk about casual stuff, but she never let me just have a normal conversation. One time I told her I like pickles in my sandwiches. She reminded me that I mentioned Kurt eating a lot of pickles and asked me what I thought that might mean. Like somehow that proved I was obsessed with him.

In therapy there's no such thing as just liking pickles in your sandwiches. I give a big, audible sigh and Dr. Pat pushes her glasses up her nose. They'd slipped a little; the oversize tortoiseshell frames look even larger when they're askew. “Bea? You seem distracted,” she says when she realizes I'm not going to answer her question.

“I guess I'm a little distracted, yeah.” The thing is, I like Dr. Pat. I'm doing fine, I don't
have
be seeing her or anything at this point, but it's not the worst thing checking in with her. Her office smells like a vanilla candle and I like the enormous paintings of flowers in close-up that cover the walls. They're calming.

“I was thinking,” she says very, very carefully, “that maybe you'd do well in a group setting. Group therapy. Other teenagers, talking about what's going on in their lives. What do you think?”

I'm sure shock registers on my face. I don't hide my feelings well, and she's taken me by surprise. Group therapy sounds like torture.

“Um, I'm not feeling supersocial these days,” I say.

“That was something else your mother mentioned.” My stomach turns.

“It's not some
thing
,” I say. “A lot of people get nervous in, like, social situations.”

Dr. Pat pushes the glasses up her nose again. I wonder if she needs them adjusted, if they've gotten stretched out
somehow. It could be dangerous, if her glasses fall off when she's driving or something.

“Tell me more,” Dr. Pat says.

“That's really it. Nothing more to tell. I just feel a little loner-y lately. I'm sure it will pass.”

“It's okay to be having a hard time, Bea,” Dr. Pat says. She takes some notes on her yellow legal pad. “It's actually easier if you just tell me what's going on, and then we can address it.”

“Nothing's going on though.” I look down at my boots. They used to be boring black suede wedges, but I added a ring of fake fur around the top. I'm thinking I'd like to do the same to my cardigan: add fake leather cuffs to the sleeves and change what's regular into something spectacular. “I mean, actually, I'm not even that antisocial right now. Saturday night I went to a dance with Lisha. Did my mom tell you that?”

“She didn't, but that's great to hear,” Dr. Pat says, and her smile tells me she means it. Sometimes she nods and smiles with just her mouth, and I think she's probably tired or bored. But other times her smile is a glow, and I remember how much I like telling her things, how easy she is to talk to. I scoot forward on the couch.

“It was really fun actually. And I met a guy.” I don't hide the smile. I meet guys pretty easily, but Beck's the only one since Kurt who's made me buzz like this. I'm smiling without thinking. It's a strange sensation because lately I haven't been
doing anything without thinking. “I'd like to see him again, maybe. But I don't know what he looks like or, like, his last name. I think he goes to Smith-Latin. . . . ” This is probably not helping my case in terms of sounding superstable, so I take a deep breath and remember to actually explain. “I met him during the power outage.”

“Aha,” Dr. Pat says. “Well, Bea, I think if you can go to a dance with Lisha and meet a boy in the dark, you can probably handle an hour of group therapy a week.” There it is again. A patented Dr. Pat ninja move.

The good feelings that were bubbling in my chest drop to my stomach and curdle. I close my eyes to conjure up an image of Austin, thinking it might calm me down. Shaggy hair. Leather jacket. Stubble. I wonder what he's doing now, what he and Sylvia do after their couples therapy.

“People with your way of thinking do very well in group therapy,” Dr. Pat concludes. “Some of your behaviors make me think—”

“Fine, okay, I'll go,” I say, not wanting her to finish that sentence. I pinch the top of my thigh, over my pants. The way people do when they want to wake up from a dream. It's just a tiny thing, and doesn't hurt, but Dr. Pat's eyes dart to my thumb and forefinger like it might matter.

It's not a dream, and I'm still here, but just barely.

I DO NOT SAY HELLO
to my mother when i walk into the house after therapy. She's reheating last night's dinner and I want her to know from the way I throw my backpack on the ground with a
thud
that I'm pissed.

“Everything okay, Bea?” my mom says because I'm being a three-year-old and stomping my way up to my room.
Bam!
goes every step on every stair.

“Just awesome, Mom,” I call back down. I'm ready for a screaming match. I half know it's misdirected anger (a Dr. Pat phrase—I have been in therapy way too long) but hearing the worry in her voice reignites my anger at having to go to group therapy.

“It's so
awesome
that you think I'm a weirdo. It's so
awesome
that you are reporting back to Dr. Pat on every single thing I do.”