14. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Jackson
L etting myself into my parents’ house, I head for Belle’s room and lay her in bed before going in search of my mom, who I find in the backyard.
“Mi querido.” My mom lights up, her Puerto Rican accent thick. A small furrow grows in her brows when she notices my face. “What’s wrong? Y la bebe?”
“Sleeping upstairs.” I muster up a smile. “She had a nightmare last night and barely slept. She’s beat.”
My mom nods in understanding but keeps her concerned gaze on me. “Is she the only one that’s beat?”
I let out a defeated breath before following her to the patio to sit. “I had a meeting with her school today.” I roll my eyes at the reminder. “I feel like I made everything worse. They clearly can’t stand me and going in today was probably their last straw.”
My mom lets out a huff. “Don’t pull her out of school because of them. They push and you push harder.” Her stubbornness shines through her words.
“I’m not transferring her out, but I’m tired of the back and forth, Mom. When she first started they were worried that she was too quiet when she was simply shy, now she’s coming out her shell and she’s disruptive. She isn’t reaching milestones, she speaks out of turn to answer their questions. Nothing is enough for these people.” I cover my face in my hands as my bigger issue comes to mind. “I think she has my OCD.”
My mom sets her watering pot down and turning to me. “Why do you think that?”
“Because she was tapping my back, like this.” I tap her arm the way Belle was before she fell asleep.
“I’m confused, querido.” She looks down at my hand. “Why is this tapping concerning you?”
“She did it in sets of four, Mom.” I lean back to look at her better. “ I do things in fours.”
Her eyes narrow. “Maybe she’s just copying you? She’s a kid, bebe. Kids copy their parents.”
I shake my head and I get up to pace, thinking better that way. “She’s been doing this for a while and I didn’t think much of it until today,” I mumble a curse for not noticing sooner.
“You didn’t notice until today… when you were extremely stressed with this meeting?” My mom rises from her seat before closing the distance between us to take my hand. “ Your OCD is just obsessing over this because you’re stressed. She’s too young to have—”
“Early onset begins showing at six. She’s turning six soon.” I take out my phone for a Google search.
“No, she isn’t. She just turned five, and—”
“Do you think I gave it to her?” I search her eyes before continuing in Spanish for her. “I can’t always conceal the compulsions. I try not to do it in front of her, but I just can’t help it sometimes. What if she started doing it to copy me but it manifested into OCD and I did give it to her?”
Her brows furrow further and I let out a frustrated breath as I run a hand through my hair. She doesn’t understand and I need her to stop looking at me like I’m crazy because I’m not.
It took my mom a long time to come to terms with my OCD. I could have gotten diagnosed a lot quicker, but she brushed it off, claiming my disorder wasn’t real. My grandma said the same and I think it was a cultural thing, especially when they tried to fix me with remedies, but my dad put his foot down and got me the help I needed. She’s still coping with how to deal with it and I wish she understood .
“Jackson, baby, you know your OCD is not contagious,” she treads lightly.
“She’s afraid of contagious things, too,” I voice at the reminder.
“She’s a child . Children are afraid of deadly contagious diseases. OCD is not one of them.” She sounds like she’s reminding me but I already know that.
“You don’t get it.” I sink into a chair, burying my face in my hands. “I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing sometimes, Mom. Like I’m the worst fucking dad. I’m ruining her.”
“What?” She takes hold of my hand, but I pull away.
“Do not say that,” she starts again. “You’re an amazing father to that little girl. Those teachers are just giving you a hard time but once they realize you’re not going anywhere, they’ll leave you alone.”
“I’m sure they’ll blame me for her possible OCD. Me or her being motherless,” I mumble.
My mom takes my hand, understanding covering her face. “You only get like this when one thing happens,” she starts quietly although Isabelle isn’t around. “Did she ask about her mom?”
I nod in response, a weight growing in my chest. “I don’t hate her. I hate myself for not hating her, but I do hate that she makes my daughter question herself because of her absence.”
My mom nods in understanding as she squeezes my hand. “You just need to keep doing your part to make sure she doesn’t feel like there’s anyone missing.”
“I know that. Playing the role of two parents isn’t hard. When she looks around at her friends and notices she doesn’t have a mom; or when we go to the doctor and they ask for her mom’s medical history in front of her, that part is hard.”
A sympathetic look crosses her face before she forces a smile. “Have you thought about when you’re going to tell her more about her mom? You don’t have to tell her why she left, but talking about her will help so she doesn’t feel clueless.”
I shake my head as I think of how that’ll go. “It’ll be too hard.”
“Para ti o ella?” my mom asks gently, but I don’t answer and instead pull out my phone and for the next two hours, I research whether or not Belle has OCD.
I’m in the middle of reading another article when my dad walks over and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Jackson, why don’t you get on a call with your therapist?”
I let out a defeated breath as I shut my phone off. “I meet with her once a month,” I remind him. “I’ll talk to her next week.”
He watches me carefully before putting his hands up in surrender. Rising to my feet, I go find Isabelle. She’s still sleeping but I decide to lay with her.