OBSESSIVE (The Issues Series)

by Isobel Irons

  He reaches toward me across the desk, then stops in mid-movement. I watch as it dawns on him that I probably don’t want to shake his hand. But then, I have this sudden urge to prove him wrong. So I reach across the desk and shake his hand, firmly.

  “Thank you, Sir. I really appreciate the offer. And I’ll definitely consider it, once I get a few things figured out. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work. Have a good day.”

  I leave his office, and the urge to wash my hands is overpowering. Not so much because I just rode the elevator, or touched the mayor’s hand, but because I know it would make me feel better. Correction—it would make my OCD feel better.

  Well, not today, bitch.

  “Oh! Hi, Grant.”

  And speaking of bitches….

  I turn to see Melody standing behind me. She must’ve just come out of the bathroom. Either that, or she was eavesdropping on our conversation through the office door.

  “Hello, Melody.”

  Today, she’s wearing a white dress, with a polka dot collar. Her hands are folded demurely in front of her, and her posture is stiff. There’s not even a hint of flirtation in her voice. She won’t even look me in the eye.

  “So, I guess your dad told you that I’m mentally unstable,” I say. My tone comes out ruder than I meant it to, but then again, it still isn’t as bad as half the things she’s said to me.

  But instead of snapping back, she laughs nervously. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Right.” I turn to leave.

  “Hey um, you left your backpack here.”

  “What?”

  She skirts past me—making sure not to brush against me, like maybe she thinks I’m contagious, too—and goes to her desk. I follow slowly, watching her move. Unlike before, when she would sashay everywhere swinging her hips and flipping her hair, now her movements are muted. She seems…guilty.

  But is she guilty for sexually harassing me all this time, or something else?

  When she hands over my backpack, I notice the zipper is on the left side. Which means someone opened it. Because my OCD likes it when I zip things left to right.

  I do a quick mental inventory, trying to think if there was anything valuable in my backpack that someone would’ve wanted to steal. My calculator was at home. My phone was strapped to the dashboard of my car when it got totaled, so that’s gone. The only thing that’s really in there, besides a water bottle and a few granola bars…is my therapy journal.

  The one with all the intrusive thoughts about pushing my family members down the stairs, or running over Trent Gibson with my car. Or stabbing Melody in the neck with a letter opener.

  Well, damn. No wonder she’s not flirting with me anymore.

  As we stand there in awkward silence, I consider asking her if she told her dad about what she found. But then I realize she probably didn’t, because now she feels sorry for me. She’s disgusted by me, but unlike before, I’m not worth tormenting.

  I’m beneath her now.

  Shaking my head, I turn to leave. Because really, there’s nothing else I could ever want to say to her. Except….

  “Hey Melody,” I turn in the doorway. “Why did you tell my mom I was fighting with Tash, the day I got into an accident?”

  I watch carefully, as her pale skin blushes at least three shades darker. She shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess I assumed. I mean, you were acting really weird that day, like you were mad about something. And I knew it couldn’t be at me.”

  She’s lying, that much I know for sure. But I don’t visualize harming her, because at this point even my OCD realizes she’s not worth my time. The one person who is worth my time hates me, and I have a feeling Melody knows why. I thought it was me, because everything else seems like my fault. But now I’m not so sure.

  “Did you say something to Tash, too?”

  Her eyes dart up to mine for a second, before she looks away again. “I don’t really remember. That was a crazy day—I mean, it was really busy. And you weren’t really helping, so….if she called, I probably just told her you were busy working.” She sniffs, and for a brief second I get a glimpse of the old Melody—too self-absorbed to believe she could ever really be guilty of anything. “But like I said, I can’t really remember. A lot of things have changed since then.”

  I laugh. “You’re right. A lot of things have changed. You haven’t, though. You’re still a spoiled, immature brat with daddy issues.”

  I’m not sure if I meant to say that much, but it’s all true. On some level, I think I’ve wanted to say it since the first time we met. Today has been a day for pushing the envelope, anyway. So instead of apologizing, or even letting myself feel bad over the appalled look on her face, I just heft my backpack over one shoulder and head for the door.

  “Have a nice summer.”

  As I turn away for the last time, the first daughter makes a sound like an upset cat. “You know what, Grant? Screw you!”

  “I would literally rather lick a toilet seat,” I tell her, over my shoulder.

  I’m not sure if she realizes the gravity of what I just said, but it makes me smile. My anxiety is through the roof, but at the same time I’m elated. I’ve never been dirtier, or ruder, or more reckless.

  And it’s kind of awesome, in a really terrifying way.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Feeling equal parts terrified and recklessly optimistic, I drive to Baskin Robbins on 3rd. But Tash’s car isn’t there. I park anyway, and go inside, because it’s almost time for the afternoon shift to start. Maybe I’ll order a milkshake and then just casually sit there for days, until she notices me. But no, that would be passive. I need to be active, I need to push myself to do the thing I’m most scared of doing. So I go up to the round-faced girl at the counter—Holly, her nametag says—and smile politely.

  “Hi, I was just wondering…is Tash working today?”

  Holly doesn’t smile back. “Does it look like she’s working?”

  “Uh….” I look around, like maybe she’s joking. “I meant later today. Do you guys have a schedule or something?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then.” I try not to let myself feel disappointed. Instead, I go over to the freezer and pull out a half gallon of something called Chocolate Overdose. I figure the least I can do is bring it home for Gen, since I didn’t bring her with me.

  On the way home, I swing by Tash’s neighborhood. But her car isn’t in the driveway, and the lights are off in her trailer. I knock anyway, just in case, but no one answers. I decide to head home and try again later, because Gen’s ice cream is probably melting. But on a hunch, I turn around and go to Margot’s house. Tash’s car isn’t there, either, but I can see the TV flickering through the front window.

  When I get to the top of the ramp, I realize the door is open. It’s a hot day, and the smell coming from inside the house makes me stop in my tracks. For most people, it’d probably be only mildly unpleasant. It’s not like rotten garbage or anything, more like that soupy, flowery old lady smell. It wasn’t this bad last time. I wonder how long it’s been since anyone properly cleaned the house. Probably since before Margot left. That was almost two months ago.

  If I was a better person, a stronger person, I’d try to find a tactful way to come back with a bottle of bleach and some rubber gloves and clean the place up for the little old ladies. And maybe I will. Maybe I’ll try it out, as a kind of intense exposure therapy. Maybe as a bonus, Tash will forgive me for whatever I did. Or whatever she thinks I did. Either. Both.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  I realize I’ve been standing outside the doorway far too long to be polite, so I take a deep breath of fresh air and step inside. When my eyes adjust, I see Dottie—the older one—asleep in her arm chair, her mouth open, head lolling to one side. The other one—Nana—is eyeing me suspiciously, while leaning against a walker in the kitchen.

  “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, Miss….” My mind is drawing a blank. I can’t remember Margo
t’s last name. Or whether it’s even the same as her grandma’s. “Nana. I uh, I was looking for Tash.”

  “Oh, she won’t be back for a few days.”

  A few days? “Where did she go?”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know?” Nana scoots past me, into the living room, shaking her head. “Probably not doing much talking though, are you? Not that I blame her. Look at that bone structure. Oh, to be young again. What I wouldn’t give.”

  She lowers herself into her armchair, laughing evilly. It takes my mind a few seconds to catch up to her meaning, and then I’m blushing. “Uh…Thanks. So…where is Tash?”

  “She went to go visit our Margot, up at that camp. They’re having a family weekend where visiting is allowed, but it’s hours away, so Tash said she’d go in our place. Wasn’t that nice?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, feeling relieved. At least she didn’t leave town to get away from me. Or if she did, at least she had another reason. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll catch her when she gets back.”

  I turn to leave, but that’s when I notice Dottie is awake. She’s not talking, just kind of vibrating slightly and staring in my direction. No, not staring, glaring. I don’t know why, but it gives me the creeps. More than usual. I get the intense feeling that if she wasn’t elderly and crippled, she might break something of mine.

  “Is there anything I can get for you ladies? Before I go, I mean?”

  “No, we’re all right.” Nana has turned back to the TV, and I feel dismissed. “Go on and have some fun, live your life, young stud.”

  “Okay,” I laugh. “I’ll do that.”

  As I turn to go, Dottie slowly, silently raises a hand to her throat. When Nana isn’t looking, she makes the universal ‘I’m going to kill you’ motion.

  Okay, that was a little uncalled for. I back away slowly, and get in my car faster than usual.

  By the time I get home, I’ve decided that Dottie is just a little crazy. Plus, I’ve got bigger things to worry about, like figuring out what to do about Tash. When I walk in, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table, paying bills.

  “Hi sweetheart, did you remember to put gas in my car?”

  I freeze, halfway to the sink, like a deer in headlights. “I’m so sorry, I totally forgot. I’ll go do that now.”

  “No don’t worry, it’s okay. I’m going to the store in a few minutes. I’ll do it then. Did you eat anything for lunch?”

  I didn’t, but I don’t want her to worry. “Yeah, I did.”

  I really want to wash my hands, but instead I take the container of BR ice cream out of its bag and put it in the freezer. Then, I figure a normal person has to wash their hands sometime, and it’s not really ritualizing if I don’t do it right after having a contamination thought. So I go over to the sink and start scrubbing away.

  “Hey mom, I was wondering. Can I ask your advice about something?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Uh, it’s kind of awkward.” I turn off the faucet with my elbow, and reach for a paper towel. “I mean, it’s not awkward. It’s just kind of…uncomfortable.”

  Which is exactly why I need to talk about it, I remind myself. The further I can push myself outside of my comfort zone, the better. That’s how I get better.

  So instead of summarizing the situation in the fewest possible words, as I usually would, I sit down at the table and tell her all about everything that happened, starting with the Fourth of July. I leave out the part where we had sex—because no matter how much I’m trying to change I can’t say that kind of thing to my mom—but I do tell her about how I told Tash I loved her, and it made her cry. Then I tell her how everything went wrong, or at least everything I can remember, including how Melody snuck into my room.

  “…And then today, I asked Melody why she told you Tash and I were fighting. Because I’m pretty sure we weren’t, at least not then. She said she just assumed it, because of the way I was acting. Because obviously, she didn’t know about the Klonopin, or all the other stuff. She said Tash might have called that day, too, and I don’t know why, but I have this feeling. I just feel like maybe Melody said something to her, or lied about where I was. I don’t know, it just feels like I’m missing something important.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” Talking about it out loud isn’t really helping me to understand it, not like I thought it would. “It’s just…she’s been different lately. And I can’t figure out why. Ever since she found out about her mom and the whole college thing…maybe that’s what it’s about. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just obsessing. Maybe it has nothing to do with me at all.”

  I sigh, frustrated. Without really thinking about what I’m doing, I run my fingers through my hair, tugging slightly. The second I identify it as a ritual, though, I stop.

  My mom seems surprised. She looks at me quietly, for a long minute.

  “You know, when you were a kid, you always saw things no one else saw.”

  I frown. “Like my hallucinations? I know, that kind of comes with the territory.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” She shakes her head. “When you were a baby, it was the strangest thing. You were so cuddly, anyone could hold you. But there was this one time, in church, when Gary Stewart tried to pick you up, and out of nowhere you started screaming bloody murder. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with you. You didn’t stop crying for hours. I wanted to take you to the hospital, but your dad said it was fine. Just a tantrum. But after that day, I always wondered.”

  “Okay….” I’m not really sure where she’s going with this.

  “About a year after that, Gary Stewart went to jail for killing his ex-wife,” she says. “Nobody could believe it. He was the nicest old man. Apparently, he’d changed his name and moved across the country.”

  “Wow. That’s…kind of a messed up story, mom.”

  She smiles. “I know, it sounds made up, like one of those chain emails your grandpa likes to send everyone. But I swear, it’s the truth. Ever since then, I always paid really close attention to anyone you didn’t like. Just in case. But that wasn’t hard, because you liked almost everyone.” Her eyes narrow. “I should have paid more attention to that red-headed little skank, I guess, before letting her come into my house.”

  “Mom!”

  “What?” She holds up her hands, then starts gathering her papers. “I don’t care what year it is, or what sexual revolution we’re currently in. If a girl tries to trap my son into dating her by lying and using her father’s connections, I’m allowed to call her a skank.”

  “Okay, that’s fair.” I stand up and help her move the centerpiece, so she can wipe off the table. “But I don’t understand what that story has to do with all the other stuff I just told you. What am I supposed to do about Tash?”

  “Oh, you’re on your own with that one.” She moves around the counter, gathering things up and putting them in her purse. “Do you want me to buy you some more blueberry yogurt, when I’m at the store?”

  “Seriously? You still don’t like her? You haven’t even gotten the chance to know her.”

  “I didn’t say that at all, son. In fact, the fact that you like her is all the character reference she needs, in my book. Your instincts about people are usually dead-on, that’s all I’m trying to say. So maybe you should trust your instincts, and give her some space to figure out what she wants, first. It worked for your father, when I broke up with him the second time.”

  She kisses me on top of the head, and heads toward the front door. I follow her, trying to process what she just said.

  “Wait. You and dad broke up? Twice? Why don’t I know this?”

  She shrugs. “Because it’s not important. It all worked out in the end. Now, make sure your sister does her homework. I’ll be back in about an hour. Love you!”

  After my mom leaves, I plunk back down at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. I don’t even care if I just touched the doorknob. My brain feels l
ike it’s about to explode.

  All this time, I guess I just assumed my parents were together forever. That they never had any real problems, they just met and fell in love and eventually got married. I’ve never even heard them argue. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I wasn’t looking closely enough.

  I’m still sitting there, just puzzling through all the mysteries of love and life, when Gen comes clomping down the stairs.

  “Hey, Grunt!” She makes a beeline for the freezer, like she knows exactly what’s in it.

  I make a sound in response, but I’m not sure whether it’s an actual word. I’m suddenly exhausted, just thinking about the possibility of spending the rest of my life not only trying to figure out how to live with this OCD, but on top of that worrying about another person, and what they’re thinking and feeling. Whether they’re happy. What I’ve done to make them happy, or not so much. I want to be with Tash, but what if it doesn’t work out? What if she decides it’s not worth the trouble? I’m right back where I started again, feeling like complications are futile.

  “She’s wrong, you know.” Gen’s voice is distorted, and I look up to see her standing in front of the fridge, spooning ice cream into her mouth straight from the container.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your instincts suck. Tash doesn’t want you to leave her alone. She wants you to fight for her.”

  “What do you….” I look over my shoulder, toward the stairs. “Were you listening in that whole time?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Grunt.” She waves her spoon at me. “Tash is sick of wondering what’s going on with you all the time. Now you know how she feels. It’s annoying, isn’t it?”

  “I…” I can’t think of anything to say to that, especially since she’s right. “Wait. Did Tash tell you that? On Fourth of July? Or…have you seen her since then?”

  My sister shakes her head. “No, but it’s not hard to guess. It’s what all girls want. No matter how tough they are. They want you to tell them how you feel.”