Obsessive Compulsion

by C. E. Kilgore

  I’m left standing on the porch alone, my heartbeat fast and my whole world spinning.

  A minute goes by, maybe three, before I can put my feet back in motion to step into the house. On the right is the living room where everyone is sitting but my dad. My mom glances up at me over Ian’s shoulder and I can’t figure out the expression on her face. It startles me and plants my feet against the hardwood floor of the entryway.

  “Come and sit with me for a while, pumpkin,” my dad’s voice calmly calls to me from the old fashioned lounge on the left.

  He hasn’t called me pumpkin since high school. I turn slowly, afraid to see what kina weird expression he’s wearing on his face. Just like Momma’s, I can’t make a lick a’ sense out of it. Edging slowly into the dark-cherry wood and Victorian wallpapered room, I swallow as he motions for me to shut the door and then sit next to him on the couch.

  Everything about this feels wrong. Instead of taking off my jean jacket, I hold onto it with the idea I may be running back out that front door at any minute. “Daddy?”

  The question comes out sounding just like it used to when I was little. It’s full of worry but also full of hope. My daddy has always been my hero. He could fix anything, but today it feels like he’s about to break something. I think that something is me.

  His giant, wrinkled hand pats my knee while his blue eyes, framed in red, stare into mine. “It’s good to see you, pumpkin. I wish we didn’t have to keep visitin’ on these terms, what with last time being Emma in the hospital, but that’s life I guess. You’ve gone and gotten so big on me, girl, but I can’t help still seein’ you with your hair in a braid while you’re causing trouble ‘round your momma’s ankles.”

  His hand squeezes my knee. “But, you aint so little anymore, and it’s probably well past due that we had this talk. Your momma – well, she thinks it’s best I do this, mostly ‘cause she blames herself but also ‘cause it still kills her to talk about it.”

  “Daddy, you’re scarin’ me.”

  “I know, pumpkin,” he kisses my forehead then leans back with a frown, “but I know how strong you are. I raised you like a boy ‘cause I don’t know no other way, then you went and became a beautiful, strong woman who does me proud every day.”

  “Daddy…”

  “Ah-ah, don’t interrupt your old man. And no arguin’ with him, neither.”

  I close my mouth shut and he continues. “You do make us proud, but I also know things keep happening to take you back a few steps, and every time it happens you blame yourself and run before anyone can argue any different.”

  I have to interrupt. “If this is about Neil,” my words end as he raises one eyebrow. Damn, that look still has all the power in the world over me.

  “It is, and it isn’t,” he sighs. “Mostly, it’s about that boy out there in my living room who’s refusing to let you run away this time. I knew he was a good man… good handshake… but now I know he’s good enough for my little girl, and you should know that he’ll chase after you forever if you make him.”

  He leans forward as his words roll around in my head. Ian’s managed to get my dad’s approval behind my back. Ian will chase after me. Ian’s a good man.

  My dad reaches out and catches the tear that falls. “Oh, pumpkin, I really am sorry. If we’d ‘a known how much this would stir up your whole life, over and over again, we would ‘a told you a long time ago.”

  I sniffle, completely confused. “I don’t understand. What are you talkin’ about?”

  “I’m talkin’ about the real reason you keep blamin’ yourself and runnin’ away, and I’m tellin’ you that it’s got nothin’ to do with Neil. I’m sure he added to it, but it goes way back further.” He stops, picks up an envelope off the coffee table and hands it to me. “It goes all the way back to Mary Lynn.”

  “Who?” I furrow my brow but open the envelope as a cold chill arcs through me, causing my fingers to shake against the tucked-in flap. Inside the envelope is a folded letter and a faded picture – one of those old Polaroid instant-film types. The color around the edges has started to degrade, eating into the picture of a little, redheaded girl no older than three, I’d guess, and a baby. They’re both in frilly white dresses, like baptism outfits.

  The label below the image is in my momma’s handwriting. It’s dated three years after I was born, and below the date are two names and a location. Charlotte Susanna and Mary Lynn McLeod. Baptism – St. Francis Church.

  “Mary…” As soon as the name passes my lips, my whole body revolts.

  The picture drops to the ground and I’m on my feet before I have a chance to take another breath. Daddy is right there with me, reaching for me, but I can’t get away fast enough. I can’t get away.

  Have to get away!

  He grabs my shoulders as my legs scream at me to bolt. “It wasn’t you’re fault. You hear me, Charlotte? It weren’t nobody’s fault. Not yours, not your mommas and not the woman drivin’ the car.”

  “C-c-car…” and I see it.

  Sunlight. Spring lilies. Baptism Sunday. Momma talkin’ to the pastor. Mary in the stroller. Strawberry-print fabric.

  Just gonna give her a push. Gonna be a big girl and walk the baby down the sidewalk like Momma. Just a little ways.

  A horn blares, tires screech and I’m runnin’ out the front door as fast as my feet can take me.

  Ian

  The sound of toppling furniture breaks the uneasy silence that’s settled over the living room. We’ve been waiting with held breaths and very few words passed between us. None of us are quite sure what to expect, but my emergency call to Michelle last night informed us only two things could happen. Either Charlotte won’t remember, or she will.

  The lounge room door slams open and John is calling out to Charlotte as a flash of red flies through the entryway and out the front door. I’m on my feet and in pursuit before John even makes it to the doorway of the lounge. Damn, she’s fast.

  Iced-over cut wheat crunches beneath our feet and huffing vapors of air create a trail behind us. God, the sounds coming from her are heart-breaking. I swear, I’m listening to sound of her soul splitting apart. A sob, a scream, a fight as my arms wrap around her from behind.

  I catch up to Charlotte in the field behind her parent’s house right as her legs give out on her. Easing her down, I hold her hair out of the way as she vomits. Dry heaves convulse into body-wracking violent sobbing and screams that seem endless. I have nothing to say that could comfort or ease this pain. All I can offer is something solid to cling to – something that is going to stay by her side no matter what.

  Blue eyes wide open, she stares at her shaking hands, but I don’t think she’s seeing anything but ghosts. John appears with a blanket and tears on his cheek – a father powerless to sooth one baby girl while she grieves in guilt at the loss of the other. Wrapping the blanket around her, I can’t stop my own tears from falling into the morning snow beneath us.

  “Mary,” she whispers then slumps into my arms.

  Picking her up, I carry her back inside, knowing the real pain is only beginning. This was her body’s initial reaction to the repressed memory coming back. When she wakes up, Charlotte will have to deal with the aftermath of what’s been remembered.

  I pause in the entryway while Brandon takes off her boots then mine so I don’t have to put her down. In the living room, Carol is distraught but Emma is there, hugging her for what I think is the very first time. I have a feeling Emma’s always known Carol and John were keeping a secret from Charlotte.

  John puts his big hand on my shoulder and nods, but words are out of reach for him right now. He leads me upstairs to Charlotte’s room then leaves, trusting me to take care of his daughter. Crawling into her double bed, I prop myself up on the headboard with pillows and tuck Charlotte against me. My cheek sets against her forehead as I hold on and wait for her to come back to us.

  Hours pass. Carol brings in a TV tray and sets it next to the bed before loading it down
with food and drinks. My stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten anything but half a bagel this morning, but I’m not ready to let even one hand move away from Charlotte’s body.

  In the dim light from the bedside lamp, I’ve counted the polka dots on Charlotte’s comforter three times and the books on her shelves twice. The counting attempts to ground me so that I can be calm for Charlotte. I’m hoping she’ll wake up soon, but I’m afraid that she’ll hate me when she does.

  We had to do it this way. When John and Carol told us the truth last night, and what their therapist had recommended they do years ago, I knew it had to happen today. Charlotte couldn’t be given another chance to run. They had to tear down everything to its very foundation so they could spend the rest of this week rebuilding their family.

  Charlotte jerks awake in my arms and leans up, her face full of confusion. I remain unmoving, waiting. The shift that slowly etches over her features hurts so much to watch, and I witness the very moment it all comes back to her.

  “Oh God,” she shudders then collapses back against my chest. “God. Mary… I killed her! Oh, God!”

  Her yells are muffled into my shoulder but it’s loud enough to bring John and Carol to the doorway. They stand in silent mourning, reliving the loss of one child barely born while their other child shivers in unimaginable guilt. Carol sits on the edge of the bed next to my legs with John standing next to her, and together we continue to wait out the storm.

  Charlotte’s body doesn’t stop shaking, but she slowly stops weeping. I brush the hair from her face and she opens her eyes, aware now of her parent’s presence. “Momma? Oh, Momma, I’m so sorry!”

  Carol pulls Charlotte into her arms and rocks her gently. “It wasn’t your fault, sweetie. I was distracted and not watching you like I should’a been.”

  “Wasn’t your fault, neither,” John finds his voice again. “You an’ I both know they said the wheel-locks on the stroller weren’t workin’ right, an’ I’m the damn fool who put the thing together.”

  Carol takes her husband’s hand and kisses it as John kneels down next to the bed. His arms wrap around his girls with a heavy sob. I feel as if I should leave the room and give them privacy, but I can’t make myself leave Charlotte’s side. John gives me a look, opens his arm a bit and suddenly I’m being pulled in.

  They know about my OCD, but that look from John was all my brain needed to check out for a few minutes to allow me to be there for this family. Charlotte’s family. Our family.

  Charlotte’s latched onto me again as John and Carol pull away after uncounted tears are shed. This wound is old, cut back open so it can heal properly. It’s not the only scar on Charlotte’s soul that she and I need to deal with if we’re ever going to have a chance at us.

  John and I share another understood look, and I wonder how different my life may have been if my father had been half the man John is. They leave their daughter’s care in my trust once more and my world starts to feel proper again. Kissing her forehead, I prepare myself for her reaction to my involvement.

  “I’m not going to apologize, as you keep telling me not to,” I start as my fingers trail through her hair. “After Emma told me you lost your teaching position yesterday, we called your parents. When John figured out I was serious about us, it all just sorta… came out. They told us about Neil, and then they told us about Mary.”

  She flinches when I say Neil and Mary, but remains silent. I think her brain is still trying to catch up with everything, so I take the opportunity to say what I need to say. If she hates me afterwards, then I’ve done all I can do.

  “They love you so much, Charlotte, but they thought it all had to finally be brought to the surface. They think it’s why, deep down, you always blame yourself for every little thing and why you’re always so quick to run. I agreed. You lost your job on Monday and thought I was better off without the trouble?”

  She sniffles and nods. “I got no job. No car. Come next month I won’t have no studio and no place to live. You got enough mess without me makin’ more of it all over the damn place.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I like your messes?” I try to lighten the heavy air. “And you do have a place to stay. You can live at The Stables or with me for as long as you want, though if you choose my place I may not let you move back out. A car is no big deal.”

  “I still lost my job,” she fights back, some of the fire returning to her voice. She’s trying to hold onto that blame. It’s become a shield she uses to guard her heart.

  “I think that’s my fault, not yours. You told Emma the University cited ‘actions unfitting a faculty member’, right?” She nods and I sigh. “Forester’s been following all of us. I found that out yesterday from Vincent. Forester has several reasons to focus his anger on me, and I think you were collateral damage.”

  She sits up slightly. “You think he told the University about what I was doing on Fridays?”

  I nod. “We’re investigating the possibility. I also have Rabbit contacting the University for possible wrongful termination. She can’t promise anything, but she’s a damn good attorney. She should at least be able to find out the exact reasons for your termination and get it expunged from your teaching record.”

  She stares at me while she tries to think of an argument to steal back the blame. I don’t give her the chance. “Neil…” I pause, trying to find a way to say this without letting my anger take over. I can’t. I hate the bastard. “Neil was a selfish prick who asked you to marry him then chose death over you. He made that choice. He leapt off that bridge. He left you alone to pick up what was left.”

  “It wasn’t his fault. He had severe depression, and I,”

  “He chose to go off his meds,” I interrupt her. “Your parents read the same doctor’s report you did, Charlotte. I have no doubt that his mental illness helped drive him to do what he did, and I will never compare our love to what you had with him. I refuse, however, to let you take the blame for something you had absolutely no control over. I also refuse to let you put me in Neil’s shoes.”

  She gasps and pushes away, but I hold on tight. “I’m not Neil. I will never run from us. I promise to stay right here next to you for as long as you’ll put up with me, and even then you may be required to get a restraining order should you ever decide you’ve had enough of the damn twitching.”

  Her eyes widen, she blinks then she’s biting her bottom lip to keep from smiling. Fuck, she’s so damn stubborn. I love it. “I love you, Charlotte.”

  I think I’ve gotten through, but then she drops the other shoe. “Even though I killed my baby sister?”

  Tugging her back into my arms, I try to fill the hole this truth has put in both our hearts. “You didn’t kill Mary. It was an accident. A horribly tragic accident. I can’t ever hope to understand your pain from learning this, but your parents do. This is something you’re going to need to repair with them, not because it was anyone’s fault, but because it was a loss all three of you suffered.”

  “I can’t believe I forgot,” she hiccups, burying her face more deeply into my shoulder.

  “It was your mind’s way of coping.” My hand circles her back. “And you were three. I don’t remember anything I did that young.”

  “I think I always knew there was something,” she finally lets herself admit. “Something that always says it’s my fault. I never thought… could never imagine…”

  As her words dissolve back into tears, I silently renew my vow to never let her go. I know there is still a long way to go for recovery, but I think the worst is over. I’m going to be here for her, for her family, for however long it takes to give Charlotte her wings back.

  “I love you, too,” she whispers, and I smile because that’s all I need to hear to know we’re going to be okay.

  Charlotte

  The unmistakable smell of my momma’s homemade potato soup permeates the darkness, and the gentle warmth of Ian’s arms provides safety as I will myself to wake up. I’m having
a nice dream – Ian and I are on a picnic. The scent of lilies is everywhere. He smiles at me and lets out a little snort while handing me a container of strawberries.

  I hate strawberries.

  Dear God. Now I know why I hate strawberries.

  I jerk awake in the dim lighting of my old bedroom, my heart erratic and the tears already reforming. Ian is in bed with me, holding me as tight as I’m letting him. His fingers catch the tears and he stares into my eyes, searching for a way to help me.

  He looks as helpless as I feel, but he smiles and kisses my forehead. “Carol brought in some soup just now. You should try and eat something.”

  I sniffle back hard and give a weak nod. Sitting up, I try to put everything into perspective, but my head hurts and the room spins. “What time is it?”

  “A little after six,” he groans through a stretch of his lean figure.

  I glance over my shoulders at the two bowls on the TV tray next to the bed. “You haven’t eaten yet?”

  “No,” he kisses my forehead again then plants both feet on the ground. “I do need to go to the bathroom, though. Be right back… Unless you’d rather have some time alone?”

  “No,” I glance from the soup to him and his soft smile comforts me even more than Momma’s ‘liquid hug’, as my daddy calls it.

  He dips his chin then disappears, his presence immediately missed. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I glance around my old childhood bedroom and am thankful Momma took down all those boy-band posters from the wall. Not that Jason or Corey could ever compete with Ian, but I’d like to at least be spared the embarrassment.

  The faded polka-dot bedspread is comfortingly familiar, as is the bedside lamp that’s shaped like a tulip. Everything feels like coming back home, but at the same time everything feels just this side of wrong. Like this room belonged to someone else. Some other girl. A girl who walked into the house this morning then shattered into a thousand pieces.