Chapter 17
17
NOW
WE brOKE FOR LUNCH.
As the rest of my family filed into the cabin to grab the sandwiches Wendy and the Nurses had set out, I stood on the floating dock and toweled off the lake water, gazing at the horizon and longing for my laptop. I’d been on Cradle Island for almost twenty-four hours now, and I hadn’t opened my computer even once. We only had Wi-Fi in my parents’ cabin, which meant I’d need to sit in their living room if I wanted to check my email. I wasn’t particularly keen on all of the prying questions that Mom would ask if she cornered me down there.
Still, being away from my job was starting to take its toll.
I could feel it. I could feel it in the direction my thoughts had taken in the sauna, in the little flare-up of spit obsession I’d experienced the night before. At some point that day, I needed to make an escape to my computer. My boss had told me to take this week entirely off, that I deserved it, that I’d worked so hard on Blossom’s behalf for the last three years. There would be no immediate tasks for me to complete. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t get ahead on future work, right?
“You coming inside?”
I startled, turning around to find Manuel standing on the porch, staring down at me. His swim trunks were damp with water. His curls were messy, freshly rubbed with a towel. He wore a strange expression that I couldn’t quite decipher.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just a minute.”
He nodded, then turned and walked into the cabin.
Taking a few deep breaths—and pinching my arms for good measure—I crossed the floating dock and started up the rocks, following him.
Inside, bags and chips and sandwich makings awaited. I put together a quick ham and cheese, topped it with a handful of Ruffles, and walked out to the dinner table, where everyone else was already seated. The closest open seat—of course—was right next to Manuel. I could walk all the way around the table and take the chair next to Karma, but the move would be pretty obvious.
I gritted my teeth and walked over to the chair beside Manuel.
“So. Eliot,” said my mom before I even sat down, “I meant to tell you, just the other day, I was watching this 60 Minutes episode on Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.”
My fingers slipped, dropping the paper plate awkwardly onto the table. I said nothing, did not even react to my mother’s words. I lowered myself into my chair and carefully picked up the chips that had scattered over the checkered tablecloth.
“And I must say,” Wendy continued, “the victim in question…”
“Victim?” Clarence interrupted. “Does having OCD also make you the target of a serial killer?”
Karma snorted.
“No.” Mom spoke crisply, the word its own punctuation mark. “I meant…the person in question—the OCD patient—she wasn’t anything like you.”
“Hey, Mom.” Karma nodded at Helene and her parents. “Maybe don’t talk about mental health in front of the new folks, hmm? They might not want in on all the family secrets just yet.”
I glanced at Helene. She smiled kindly.
“I’m sorry,” said Mom. “I thought, since it’s all in the past now…”
I glanced sideways at Manuel. His face was resolutely neutral, betraying nothing. I took a deep breath.
“No, no,” I said. “Mom’s right. It’s in the past. It’s fine.”
Mom looked pleased. “Right. As I was saying. This woman—she was hyperneurotic.”
“Right,” I said. “And I’ve told you before: the type of OCD I had wasn’t about germs.”
“I know, I know. I just…it got me thinking.” She spun her cup with two hands. “You never really explained it to me. If it wasn’t about germs, then what was it about?”
I felt a pulse. A throb. Down there. Quick as a heartbeat but still clear. Distinct.
Shit.
I shifted to the side. Tucked one leg over the other. Hoped the extra pressure on my crotch would keep it from happening again. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Can you try?”
I could feel Manuel’s eyes on me. “Well”—I dug one fingernail absentmindedly into the cushion of my chair—“I didn’t seem neurotic on the outside because my disorder was happening all on the inside.”
“What does that mean?”
“My compulsions—for the most part, they were internal. Like checking, for example, or seeking reassurance, whether from someone else, like Dr.Droo—like Dr.Drier, or from myself, from what I found in my body.”
“What’s checking?”
“It’s a pretty common compulsion with people who have the type of OCD that I do. You check and recheck certain parts of your body, wanting to see if you’ll find a…response there.” God, why the hell was I talking about this?
“I still don’t understand. What kind of a ‘response’ were you looking for? What were you so afraid of?”
My stomach clenched. For the first time in years, I ran intentionally through the list of Worries that plagued me, on and off, for almost a decade: lying, confusion of sexuality, cheating, incest…and it . The worst one of all.
The one I could tell no one, not ever.
I decided to start with the easiest. The least terrifying. “Well.” My vagina throbbed again. More acutely, this time. I shifted. “For example, I went through a phase where I was really obsessed with the possibility that I might be a lesbian.”
“Hey!” Karma clapped. “I didn’t know that! That’s great news!” She patted the chair next to her. “Come on over to the Dark Side, Boosie. There’s plenty of room.”
I laughed. “No. Not like…I didn’t actually think I was gay. I was just worried that I might be.”
Karma blinked. “So…you were questioning your sexuality?”
“No, it’s not that, either. It’s different. It’s more to do with worry than reality.”
Everyone stared blankly.
I couldn’t believe I was saying this out loud. I felt especially aware of Helene’s poor parents, who were surely feeling in over their heads. “What I mean to say is”—I cleared my throat—“I didn’t hyperclean my room or count to twelve over and over or refuse to touch doorknobs or any of those other compulsions you see on TV. Those are germ-based compulsions. Mine was more of…well…the way my therapist described it was that OCD is a bad medical patient.”
“What does that mean?” asked Mom.
“Imagine this: Your head hurts. But instead of thinking, ‘Oh, my head hurts—I have a headache,’ you think, ‘Oh my God, my head hurts—I have brain cancer.’?”
“Ha!” said Clarence. “Sounds like my WebMD search history.”
“Right,” I said. “But this goes beyond that. You go to a neurologist. They scan your head. They say, ‘Nope, nothing there. Take two Advil and drink lots of water.’ But instead of listening, you think, ‘No, no, that can’t be right,’ and you seek a second opinion. Another doctor. And this one says, ‘You definitely don’t have brain cancer. Take two Advil and drink lots of water,’ and now you have two medical professionals telling you that you don’t have brain cancer. That’s an overwhelming amount of evidence, right?” I paused. “Wrong. To OCD, no amount of evidence is enough. OCD says, ‘Nope. I know more than either of these board-certified experts, and I’m telling you that there’s still a chance that you might have brain cancer.’?”
“But I thought you said you didn’t have illness OCD?” said Mom.
Frustrated, I shook my head. “I didn’t. That’s just a metaphor.” I couldn’t believe I was delivering a monologue about OCD to my family. When had I ever delivered a monologue about anything to my family? “The point is this: OCD doesn’t listen to reason. It didn’t matter how many boys I dated or how many Disney Channel celebrities I had a crush on or how many times my therapist just flat-out told me I was straight. My OCD always found some reason to doubt my heterosexuality.”
I stopped. Heaved in a deep breath. When I glanced at Karma, her mouth hung open, as if she was appalled by what she’d just heard.
Shit , I thought, averting my gaze.
For a moment, I was scared. Scared she would yell. Call me ignorant and selfish, a straight woman co-opting the trauma of the gay experience.
To my right, I felt something wrap around my hand. I glanced over. Manuel’s eyes were warm on mine. I inhaled sharply. It’s okay , he mouthed. He squeezed my hand again, sending little tremors dancing up my arm and across my chest. I glanced down at our folded hands. Back up at Manuel. He smiled encouragingly.
After a few moments, I was finally able to bring myself to look back up at Karma. When I did, I saw in her eyes—to my surprise—not anger…but pain.
“And you didn’t just worry about being a lesbian?” Karma asked.
I shook my head. “There was more. Plenty more.”
Karma’s face crumpled slightly. She opened her mouth—to say what, I’m not sure, because my mother chose that moment to cut in.
“Well, that’s just silly,” said Wendy. “Of course you aren’t a lesbian. You don’t even look like one.”
Karma’s eyes snapped away from mine. “Mom. Jesus. How many times do I have to tell you? That’s not how it works.”
“You know what I meant.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“I meant…you know.” Wendy waved her hands aimlessly. “She doesn’t look all…”
“Butch?” Karma pronounced the word as if it had two syllables: Bu- tch .
“I don’t know. I’m sorry, okay? So sue me for not knowing how to identify a lesbian.”
Karma rolled her eyes so far back I thought they might fall out of her head. “We aren’t woodland creatures, Wendy. You don’t identify us.”
I peeked over at Shelly, curious to see what her reaction to all of this would be.
She was barely holding back her laughter.