by Lauryn Dyan
“I also have fears about forgetting to do basic tasks. Did I turn off all the lights? The TV? Did I set the thermostat to the right temperature? Is the car still running? It may not sound like a big deal. People double check things all the time, but for me it’s different.”
“I knew someone with OCD who washed his hands twice every time he used the bathroom,” a petite, older woman with gray hair, pipes in. You never picture your grandma in an institution but there are all types of people here. Crazy does not discriminate.
He gives a rueful smile and wipes his teeth.
“Many people think they know someone with OCD, or even that they have it. I’m not saying your friend wasn’t afflicted but, perhaps, it was just a habit. There’s this feeling that comes along with OCD that truly makes it obsessive. I worry and stress to the point of panic I haven’t done something and that there will be this catastrophe because of it.”
“Can you explain that further?” Hayley interjects.
“The lights. That’s such a simple thing. Just flip a switch. I can see they’re off visually but, as I leave the room, I worry they’re still on. This morphs into a fear they’ll get left on too long and the bulbs will overheat and catch the house on fire. It’s this gripping paranoia. So I stand there, flipping off and on, off and on until I’ve done it enough times that I’m confident they’re off.” I picture this nice, older man standing in a room tethered to a light switch. The room plunging from dark to light over and over. There’s a prickle at the base of my scalp as I imagine it, like there’s something familiar about the action. A flicker of one of my memories? I want to tell everyone to shut up as I try to focus and yank it out from behind the wall I’ve built in my head, but Hayley is already talking again and the sensation disappears.
“I see how that could interfere with your day-to-day life. What was the trigger that brought you here?”
He shifts his body and his mouth.
“It got out of control. Early on, I did everything three times. It was annoying but manageable. I could plan a little extra time to get places or do things to accommodate. I tried to avoid letting it get in the way of being a normal person.
“Then, one day, it changed. Three times became five, then six. I no longer trusted my memory. I questioned if I had really done things. Did I turn those damn lights off? I found myself going back and checking again. Turning them off another six times.
“I was late to everything. Eventually, I stopped leaving the house. It was easier to be alone where I could manage my anxiety.
“When I stopped being able to sleep, that’s when I knew I needed help. The last time I tried to escape the OCD prison my house had become, I lost it. I was in my car, in the driveway, for two hours in the middle of the night, opening and closing the garage door. Every time I tried to pull away, I worried my mind was playing tricks on me. I didn’t shut that door. I sat with my finger on the opener and called my sister and told her I was losing my mind. That’s how I came here.”
I feel genuine sympathy for Pete and a little like a sham. My brain may drop whole chunks of my life into the abyss but I can still function, blacked out or lucid. I know that’s silly, we both suffer from real problems, but I can’t imagine not being able to do the most menial tasks.
There’s a moment of silence before a young guy, almost a kid really, speaks up.
“We all know what it’s like not to trust our minds. At first, you think there’s a reason for what’s happening to you but then, you realize maybe it’s just you. But you recognized your illness and asked for help. That’s amazing. I didn’t even know I needed help until I was here.”
I find myself nodding along in agreement before I realize I’ve started moving.
***
Rickly. He’s waiting for me backstage, and I throw myself into his arms. I feel whole again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A real bed. It may not be the fanciest hotel but it’s certainly not the cheapest. I flop down on the cream comforter and snuggle one of the many orange throw pillows.
“Oh, thank God,” I moan. This moment is heaven, made all the more so by the blonde angel standing at the foot of the bed smiling down on me.
Rickly tosses his black duffle bag on the adjacent queen bed before bouncing down next to me. He leans against the mountain of pillows and crosses his long legs, raising an arm for me to lay my head in his lap before he drapes it over my back. I close my eyes, wanting to enjoy the peace before talking about the hell of last night.
“Tired?” he murmurs, as he runs his hand through the ends of my hair. The purple has faded to a dull lavender, but the weave he makes with his fingers is still pretty.
“Kind of,” I admit. I’m drained, both physically and mentally. The stress of the last few nights and the lack of downtime are wearing on me. This ‘vacation’ couldn’t come at a better time.
“We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to. I can come up with plenty of ways to occupy our time tonight.” His face is out of sight behind me but the tone of his voice betrays his coy smile.
“I don’t know yet. Everyone seemed psyched to go out but, now that we’re here, I could be persuaded to stay in.”
“Mmm hmm,” he agrees, as he trails his hand from my hair down to my waist, a ripple of chills left in its wake. I want to get lost in his touch but I’ll only be able to enjoy myself if I get my nagging questions out of the way.
I groan and sit up abruptly, Rickly’s raised eyebrows registering his surprise.
“Sorry,” I say. “I want to talk a little before you get me all hot and bothered.”
“Ok,” he laughs. “I’ll hold off on seducing you. What do you want to discuss?”
“Last night,” is all I offer. I figure that’s enough to get him going, but he only watches me waiting for me to go on.
“What about it?” he asks, casually. I don’t detect any hints of hurt or anger.
“Well, I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear, but I don’t remember anything after our toes hit the Atlantic.”
His forehead furrows quizzically.
“How is that possible? You drank two beers at dinner and you said you only had water at the show. Did you take something and not tell me?” His hands pull in reflexively toward his stomach and the hurt I was afraid of appears along with a twinge of irritation in the set of his jaw.
“No! No, I didn’t. That’s why I’m so confused.”
He nods, but his blue eyes darken like they’ve been covered by storm clouds, making me think he doesn’t completely believe me.
“Hey,” I say, forcefully, pulling his drawn hand into mine. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
His face softens a little, but not all the clouds float away.
“All right. That’s pretty fucking weird then,” he says.
“Yeah, I don’t get it. How was I acting after we left the beach?”
His gaze flicks to the window before meeting mine.
“Like you. You were happy. We’d walked along the shore and then up to the boardwalk. You were skipping around, swinging my hand, talking about how we’re the luckiest bastards alive.”
I smile. “Sounds nice.”
He leans forward and gives me a gentle kiss. “It was. Even when you got pissed the hot dog stand was closed.” He gives a short chuckle.
I snort in amusement to keep from kissing him again to stay focused.
“So what happened next? Sonny said I was mad when we met back up and, obviously, the night didn’t end well for me.” From the snippets of conversation I did manage to catch during our busy day, it was clear everyone knew about my run-in with beach security.
He looks away again, and I turn to check what’s caught his eye out the blinds, but the only thing there in the dark is a hooked moon.
“No clue.” I face him again as he continues. “We met up with Davey first. I ducked into a tattoo parlor to use the bathroom since it was the only thing open and, when I came out, you were sitting on a short
wall with your arms crossed.”
“Really? Did something happen with Davey?”
“He said he didn’t know what was up. He assumed we were fighting.”
“Were we?” Now it’s my turn to stare quizzically at him.
“Hell no, we were good.” His coy smile returns. “I’d just wooed you with a moonlit stroll on the beach.”
Shit, something doesn’t add up. I still don’t get how I could have blacked out and, now, I don’t understand why I got so pissed off. Someone’s leaving something out of their story. Damn, my crappy memory.
Rickly scoots away from his mound of pillows to close the gap between us, wrapping his free hand around our already clasped palms. I trace the ends of his cherry blossom tattoo as he tries to reassure me.
“It doesn’t matter. You and me, we’re fine. You and Sonny seem fine. I saw Davey before the show and he seemed fine. It must not have been a big deal. Maybe you were still stewing over those hot dogs.”
I laugh and try to let it erase some of my apprehension.
“Maybe. I do sometimes blow things out of proportion when I drink.”
“Sometimes,” he adds, playfully, loosening his hands to massage my arms. I close my eyes and enjoy the warmth spreading across my skin from his touch.
“What do you say we go take a shower?” He breathes. “We’ll get dirty and then we’ll get clean. Then we can decide if we want to go out.”
I stand and let the sound of my t-shirt softly hitting the floor as I walk to the bathroom door be my response.
***
I run my toe along the metal frame of my bed. I’m sprawled out on my stomach back in my sterile room, trying to conjure up the memory that was threatening to materialize while Pete was telling his story. After he was done, the group had discussed how they could relate and how they’d coped in their own situations. It was surprisingly helpful. Not because of their advice, but because they understood. It’s like I’ve discovered this community of loony birds like me who can empathize without judgment. It’s comforting.
I wish my new found brethren could help me pry this pesky memory out. It’s there, itching like a scratch under a cast. And the harder I try to remember, the itchier it becomes. I suppress the urge to claw at my head and, instead, pin my hands beneath my chin and watch the sun shift through my window.
I’m not sure how to make the past resurface. Craig’s tactic of describing the setting of a memory to make it bubble up isn’t an option because I don’t know what goes along with the flickering lights. I’ve tried describing the lights, but it sounds like a cheesy song. ‘The lights go on, the lights shut off. The brightness comes as darkness fades. Shadows and light, shadows and light.’ No dice. I even opened and closed my eyes several times to simulate light and dark with no luck.
So, now, I wait for the sun to set. I’m hoping if I flip the light switch in my room a few times when evening comes, it’ll be enough to trigger the memory. A soft orange glow creeps down my walls as my anticipation grows.
***
It’s so steamy it’s hard to breathe. Rickly’s hands move smoothly across my slick skin making me squirm with longing. I knot my hands in his wet hair, not wanting to let go. Like, if I do, he’ll slip right through my fingers and down the drain. His hand travels down my side to my thigh as he helps me wrap one leg around his waist as our contact intensifies. “Yes,” I moan. I let this moment consume me. I let the heat and water drown out the anxious voice in my head that warns me something in my life is no longer right.
***
“Good enough,” I mumble, hopping up from the warm divot I’ve created in my bed. My asylum window is now a navy canvas, my room dark enough to create a contrast between having the small bulb in my wall light on and off. The lights in the hallway do shine through the window in my door but I turn my back to it.
This is what I was waiting for, yet, as I stand with my hand on the switch, I hesitate. What if this doesn’t work? I wish I had a painkiller or sleeping pill I could pop the second this goes wrong to quell the disappointment. Perhaps I’ll need one even if this does work and the memory waiting for me on the other side is just as dark and depressing as not remembering at all.
Whatever, I have to try and there’s nothing I can do about the emotions it might drum up. I need to stop immediately wishing for drugs to deal with my problems. That’s a bad habit that’ll get me in trouble if I ever leave.
I take a deep breath and give the switch a flick up. Then down. The shifting light is familiar but the cadence is wrong. I do it again, but more quickly. The itch burns like it’s on fire. There’s something there. I flip the switch again and again, not caring what the nurses must think. I can almost see it. Something outside. I fixate on the nearly black sky through my window leaving the light in my peripheral vision and the image begins to rise from the ashes.
***
Sleep tugs at my overactive mind. My phone lies on the hotel nightstand with nearly a dozen text messages wondering where I am, waiting for a reply. Rickly and I never made it out of our room. We lay tangled in the bed sheets, my damp hair seeping into the pillow. I stare at his beautiful, peaceful face. Is the definition of true love loving a man so much you’re petrified of losing him? Do you have to be equally terrified of him hurting you? If so, I’m done for. I’ve never felt those two emotions more strongly than when I’m with Rickly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The cloudy image of a flickering streetlight in a dim parking lot emerges. I’m peering up at it from an angle close to the ground. On and off, the yellow light dances as my eyes struggle to focus on its frantic shifting. This is the memory I’ve been trying to scratch out. I stand in the present with my hand still glued to the switch in my room as pictures of the past flood my mind.
Rickly appears. He’s mouthing something while he grips my arms. I brush my hands on the hard asphalt I’ve affixed myself to as he tries to haul me up. I swat at him, missing. One hand lands on my stomach instead, staining my shirt. I remember trying to clean that shirt the next day. It eventually landed in the trash.
His voice breaks through.
“Fuck!”
I’m annoyed. He’s annoyed. The groupies, that’s what this is about. It’s the night we got flirty with our fans to piss each other off. I started it to get back at him for sleeping in Trecia’s bunk.
“Kennedy!” he’s shrieking. My hand feels heavy on the light switch as I shift my weight down in my vision to make it harder for him to lift me. “Please, get up. This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous are all your hoes,” I spit.
“I don’t have hoes. I have you. I just want you.”
My heart swells and I remember wavering at his words, but something back then made me shut him down again.
“Fuck you. I’ll never be enough for you,” I say, with pestilence.
He murmurs some exasperated curses then sighs.
“If I only had you, if I had the option of this crazy whirlwind life or lying with you in my arms, I’d choose you.”
That does it. I stop struggling in his grasp ready to relent.
A babble of voices approaches. I try to stay focused on Rickly’s face as gruff hands encircle my arms and his grip on me. A strange voice interrupts. “Let her go, asshole.”
What were those guys’ names from that night? Dallas and Timmy? No, Jimmy. I can recall their names but can’t picture their faces. They stand ready for a fight with blurry features I cannot see.
“Stay out of it, man,” Rickly retorts. He’s still helping me up, jerking his hands, and my arms along with them, to shake off the interloper. “I got her.”
“Like fuck you do,” Dallas or Jimmy says. He manages to pry one of Rickly’s hands off me. I dangle for a moment before Rickly loses his hold, then I’m watching him from the ground again. The first guy has Rickly under the arms restrained. Suddenly, the other dude steps up and punches him in the face. I gasp in surprise, both in the past and present.
&n
bsp; The sound of a grating, metal door swinging open signals the rest of my friends rushing out of the bar. As they dash over, Jimmy and Dallas drop Rickly like a bag of rocks and run the other way. Ace squats by me to check that I’m okay, but I don’t respond. I can’t tear my gaze from Rickly kneeling on the pavement, furious and holding his beautiful blue eye. Sonny crouches next to him to examine his bruise.
Then that’s it. The memory fades as I continue to hold the light switch that anchors me to the present.
***
A contented breath escapes my lips as I roll onto my back in the comfy, hotel bed. Last night was wonderful. The perfect, relaxing release I needed. I stretch my arms over my head, flopping them lazily down on the pillow, eyes closed. I’m procrastinating on checking my phone. It was buzzing off the hook yesterday from friends pleading for us to come out. After one popped up from Ace texting porn music followed by some questionable emojis, I stopped responding and put it on vibrate. I figured they had the idea.
Rickly and I definitely took advantage of the room though the bed was the last place we ended up. The shower and the desk saw some action first. We finished our night with room service and a crappy thriller on TV. He drifted off first, and in my sex coma, I barely remembered to set my alarm and turn off the TV before I nodded off, too.
I trail my hand down to the rumpled sheets but my outstretched arm hits nothing but bed, an empty indent where Rickly should be. I know Sheltered has promo stuff today. An in-store acoustic set or something but it isn’t until mid-day. My morning interview is way earlier, which makes it weird I woke up before my alarm when I have to be up at seven. I flip onto my side and grab my phone off the nightstand. It’s 9 a.m.! I have twenty text messages and at least a dozen missed calls and voicemails.
“Oh, shit!” I fling myself up, panic immediately making my fingers shake. Why didn’t my alarm go off? I scroll through the texts quickly. Aside from last nights, there’s a string of messages that tell how the band’s been reacting this morning:
