The Girl He Loves

by Carmen, Roya

  Yet, I was still safe because our gazes hadn’t met yet. All it takes is a second. I already knew he was gorgeous — I’d seen enough photos, but I had no clue just how beautiful he was in the flesh. A picture doesn’t let you see someone’s soul, a grin is frozen, captured in a fraction of a second. But when someone smiles directly at you, you see everything. I saw it all. And I loved everything I saw.

  * * *

  Addiction, simply explained, is a complete loss of control, of free will. Obsession, compulsion, fixation are all synonyms of addiction.

  I know exactly what I should do. I should block him on all social media. I should never go to his salon again, never set foot in his sister’s studio.

  Unfortunately, logic is no match for addiction. And the sad truth is that I’m already fixated on Joel. I’ve just had a quick taste, and I want more. Like crack-cocaine, he’s highly addictive.

  I have a mental disorder. I can’t help it. Perhaps I need a stronger dose of my medications, perhaps I need to confide in Dr. Russell. Thankfully, my next appointment is tomorrow afternoon. The question is… can I make it until then.

  As soon as I complete the day’s work, I slap my laptop shut, and hide it under a pile of old client files, along with my phone. I pace around my office as I make a plan. I scurry to my desk and pull out a notepad, and feverishly scribble. It’s time to organize, to distract myself. I make an organization list. I’ll start with Tristan’s room — the biggest challenge. Then I’ll move on to Trevor’s room, the master, the kitchen, and so forth.

  When the boys get home, I’m arms deep in Tristan’s closet, organizing all his old Lego kits. He hasn’t played with them in ages, but I don’t have the heart to throw them away. That would be like throwing away his childhood, admitting that he’s not a kid anymore.

  Tristan calls out my name, and a minute later, he’s standing next to me. “Organizing again?” He shoots me a smile, but it’s forced and kind of sad. He knows me well enough to know something’s wrong, but he doesn’t ask. “How was your day, Mom?” he asks instead, hoping I’ll give him a clue.

  “I… I felt like organizing. The place is a mess.”

  At that, he laughs and turns his attention to his phone. We both know that our home is never a mess.

  About an hour later, just as I’m about done with Tristan’s room, Brian pops his head in the doorway. “Everything all right, sweetie?”

  I don’t turn to him, I don’t meet his eyes. “Yeah, I was just bored.”

  “Okay, well, I’m grading papers if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my eyes and hands focused at the task at hand. “I’m making beef stroganoff tonight. I know it’s your favorite.”

  “Fantastic,” he says, and then he’s gone.

  I’ve been thinking about another man all day, and now I’m feverishly tidying our youngest son’s room in a desperate attempt not to reach out to him. The least I could do is make a nice meal for my husband.

  * * *

  Dr. Russell is all smiles, as she typically is when she greets me. A small woman in her sixties, she wears her dark hair in a bob like I do. She usually wears leggings and cozy sweaters in the winter and linen pants and long tunics in the summer days. I always look forward to seeing which earrings she’ll be wearing because it changes every time. Today she’s sporting beaded hoops and a flower-print tunic.

  “Come in,” she urges, and I follow her into her office and make myself comfortable on the large black leather sofa. She sits across from me in a sixties-style egg shaped chair. A rustic wooden coffee table separates us. A box of tissue sits at its center, and I wonder how many of her clients cry. I’m not a crier myself. I prefer to hold in my emotions until I go crazy and finally explode.

  She brings her cup of tea to her lips. “So how have you been, Mischa?” she asks, like she always does at the start of our sessions.

  “I’m okay,” I reply, like I always do. She expects this answer — a non answer of sorts. She knows she will dig and discover the true answer in the next hour.

  We start off the session with small talk, mostly about my daily life, my kids and my husband. We chat about my friends too.

  I know I must open up to her. I learned a long time ago that therapy is useless without complete transparency. You need to confide everything, no matter how incriminating or embarrassing.

  “I think Brian has a secret daughter,” I blurt out without any preamble of any kind.

  Dr. Russell chokes on her tea. Wide-eyed, she’s completely speechless.

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure,” I go on, “but I discovered a hidden photo of a young woman in our condo, and she is the spitting image of Brian. I also spied on his search history, and he regularly stalks her on Facebook.”

  “Did you and Brian talk about this?”

  I shake my head. “No… we haven’t. I haven’t broached the subject.”

  “When did you discover this photo?” she asks, her eyes curious.

  “About two weeks ago or so. At first, I thought he was having a torrid affair with her, but just a few days ago, I realized that she must be his daughter because they look so much alike.”

  “I see…” she says. She’s still completely without words, which is atypical for her. She’s always full of wisdom — this is why I pay her the big bucks.

  “I don’t know how to handle it,” I admit. “I don’t know how to proceed.”

  She shifts in her egg chair. “What have you done so far?”

  “Nothing much…” I don’t want to admit the truth, but then I remind myself, Total Transparency. I really do want to get better, and that won’t happen if I hide this from her. She can only help me if she knows everything. “I actually… I’ve been cyber stalking them obsessively.”

  She swallows hard and sits up straighter. “How much time have you spent on their social media… and what do you mean… them?”

  “Ava,” I tell her. “That’s his daughter. And her mom, Renee, and dad, Joel.”

  She nods. “I see. Well, we’ll have to go back to our earlier work, and keep you away from digital devices. We know that’s been a problem for you in the past.” Yes, she knows all about my obsession with Anthony.

  “How old is this daughter… uh… supposed daughter?”

  “She’s eighteen. Her birthday is April 7th,” I tell her. I don’t list everything else I know about her, which is much more than any stranger should ever be privy to. “And before you break your brain trying to do the math, yes, Brian and I were together when she was conceived. I was in my senior year in high school, and he was in college. We’d been together for over a year.”

  She blows out a long breath, as if she can’t quite add all this up. She’s been my therapist for years and I can’t even remember the last time she looked so overwhelmed.

  “Have you done anything more drastic than the cyber stalking?” she asks. “How is your relationship with Brian these days?”

  I wince a little when I confess. “Yes, I’ve actually gone to see her at the college where she attends classes, but I didn’t approach her.”

  “I see,” Dr. Russell says. “You just wanted to see her in the flesh, to see that she was real. That’s not surprising.”

  “This was back when I thought she might be his lover,” I clarify.

  “I see.”

  “Then I went to see her mother… she owns a consignment clothing shop. And I even bought a few items.”

  She nods politely, but I know inside, she’s probably thinking, Psycho!! Well, perhaps, she’s not. She is a professional therapist after all. She must see this kind of behavior all the time.

  “And then I went to see her father — he’s a hairstylist, and I actually got a nice haircut.”

  Her eyes are wide, her mouth a straight line — I’ve rendered her speechless again. Following a very long beat, she finally manages to speak. “Well, I hope you’re not planning to continue this behavior, Mischa. This is very destructive. We’ve spoken about this a
t length, and you know better than anyone that obsession and addiction feeds on itself, like a greedy hungry animal.”

  Yes, addiction is indeed a wild animal — she doesn’t need to tell me.

  “Well, this is why I really wanted to see you, Dr. Russell,” I confess. “I really, really want to stop.”

  “I understand,” she says softly, her voice a typical therapist’s soothing song.

  “It’s weird because it’s not so much about Ava anymore, about the girl. I want to know more about her mother, I want to know how she came to birth Brian’s child. I’m obsessed with her and her husband.”

  It’s so easy to say these words out loud to Dr. Russell. That’s the beauty of therapy: there’s this person who knows exactly how crazy you are, and she understands. There’s no shame in it because she’s seen worse and she’s there to help you.

  “I fully understand why you’d be fixated on the mother. Of course you want to know what drew him to her, why he betrayed you. You want to know if she is to blame, or if he is. But what about her father? Where stems your fixation on him?”

  My next words are not easy to utter. “Because… because it’s happened again, Dr. Russell. It’s like Anthony all over again. Obsession at first sight.”

  Dr. Russell is at a loss for words. She’s certainly earning her money today.

  17

  “As soon as our gazes met, I was a goner,” I confess. “I’d been creeping him on Facebook, and I’d fallen for him a little, but when he became real, I fell even harder.”

  “Yes, hard and fast,” Dr. Russell says. “I see.”

  She writes a few notes on her pad, for the first time today. She doesn’t typically do this, just an occasional note here and there, but today, she’s scribbling furiously.

  I watch her and wait patiently, hands folded on my lap.

  She raises her gaze to mine again. “Tell me about him… the girl’s father.”

  My face lights up at the thought of him. “He’s like no one I’ve ever met,” I explain. “There’s a sweetness about him I can’t quite describe. I think it’s in his eyes — he has very kind eyes. Big chocolate brown eyes and a really nice smile. He’s blond like his wife. Their daughter is dark haired like Brian.”

  She nods quietly.

  I don’t mention the lean strong build, and how his fingers felt in my hair, despite the fact that it’s all I think about. “He likes the Chicago Bulls. He used to be a star basketball player in high school. And he loves his family and his cat,” I babble on, like a junior high school girl with a silly crush. “He has three older sisters, which explains why he has very feminine tendencies.”

  She smiles. “Yes, men stylists are not too common.”

  “He strikes me as a very sensitive type,” I go on. “He’s also into yoga, so we have that in common. His sister owns a studio…” my words trail off at the thought of his invitation. This is why I’m here today, in Dr. Russell’s office. I want to resist the urge to take him up on his invitation.

  “Well…” is all she says. An uncomfortable silence fills the air between us until she finally speaks again. “It looks like there’s been a lot of turmoil in your life these past few weeks, a lot of challenges. And you’ve done absolutely the right thing, confiding in me today. We can get through this together, Mischa.”

  My heart swells. Yes, I want to get through this. I want to be normal. Just a few weeks ago, life was going so well, and now, I’m a complete wreck.

  “Are you planning to address the issue with Brian?” she asks kindly. “Ask him about the girl? You need to start that conversation.”

  “I want to,” I tell her, “but I’m afraid of the answers. I’m afraid it will change everything.”

  “It might,” she says, “but you can’t live in this limbo forever, Mischa. You need to know the truth. You need to address this.”

  “I know, Dr. Russell,” I concede, but I don’t promise anything.

  Unfortunately, there’s a big difference between what one knows is the right thing to do, and what one actually does — especially when fear and obsession are involved.

  * * *

  I’m surrounded by footwear and jackets, soccer cleats, and about fifty recyclable bags. I’m arms deep in them, organizing. When I’m done with this closet, it will be spotless, an impressive sight. I’m fully aware that in about a week, Brian and the boys will have messed it up again. Regardless, I forge on.

  It’s been a week and I’ve been very good. I want to reach out to Joel. I want to creep his Facebook, and Renee’s and Ava’s. I want to go to Renee’s store again. The obsessive urges are persistent and intrusive and I try not to humor them. They are like Jehovah’s witnesses at the door or telemarketers on the telephone. I simply slam the door shut or hang up. It’s been a constant struggle but I’ve done very well. I focus on what Dr. Russell has taught me: Relabel, Reattribute, Refocus and Revalue. I know the only reason I desire what I do is because of my illness. These urges are just a result of my messed-up brain wiring. Dr. Russell has upped my medication, which leaves me a little numb and more tired than usual. But it’s only temporary. Hopefully, we can lower it again once I get past this. Dr. Russell calls it a ‘challenge’. I call it a fucked-up obsession.

  Refocusing has led me to be more productive, to organize my condo feverishly, down to the smallest detail. Every fork, paper clip, coin is in its rightful place. I’ve even organized the boxes of mementos and family memories by year. Baskets, folders and boxes, and that alone has taken me hours. The boys and Brian know that I’m not quite right. I’m switching one obsessive behavior for another, but obsessively organizing my home doesn’t hurt anyone.

  “Everything all right?” Brian asks me for the thousandth time.

  I glance up at him. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “Thanks for organizing my sock drawer by the way,” he says. “I especially appreciate how you color coordinated them. No more wasting time in the morning trying to find my orange socks with the bugs on them.”

  I smile. Those socks were a birthday gift from Tristan years ago. I know Brian’s making fun of me, but it’s with good intentions — it’s how he deals with my quirky ways.

  I’m not the only one who has developed coping mechanisms over the years.

  * * *

  We’re meeting at Claudia’s place on the second floor this week. Unlike Gretchen’s condo, Claudia’s is a little messy, and it makes me a little uneasy. The decor is eclectic — everything is mismatched, and this also annoys me to no end. There’s a tall pile of magazines next to the sofa — piled haphazardly. A few of them are scattered on the floor. I resist the urge to tidy them up. It’s not the most soothing environment for me, but what can I do? She’s my friend and it’s all part of my therapy, being able to relax in not-so-ideal settings, and letting things go. I smile as she hands me a cup of tea. My gaze darts across the space, and I study the colorful paintings on the walls.

  To be completely honest, I’m not sure how Claudia and I get along so well — she’s my complete polar opposite. She’s a free-spirit. She lives a bohemian lifestyle, and wears loose hippie blouses, long flowy skirts, and costume jewelry I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. She’s the most creative person I know. When she’s not painting, she’s a stage manager at the Den Theatre. She oversees the plays, the stage, the actors, and brings it all together. She usually works evenings and weekends. It’s not the easiest job to have when you have a child, and I get the impression that that may have contributed to her separation. Her ex hated her job.

  I hesitate as I’m about to set my cup of tea down because the coffee table is covered with magazine clippings.

  “Oh, just put it anywhere on the mess,” Claudia says. “I don’t care.”

  I set it on a photo of a blonde goddess in a long colorful sequin skirt and frilly white blouse, something I would never wear. “What are you working on?” I ask, curious.

  She settles in the antique velvet arm chair across from me. “Oh, I’m workin
g on a fashion binder,” she explains. “I’ve got all my old fashion magazines out. It’s all clothing I like. It’s inspiration,” she explains. “When I troll the thrift stores and consignment shops, I try to find similar stuff.”

  I wince inwardly. The idea of shopping at thrift stores makes me a little sick. I can barely handle consignment shops. “Cool. Speaking of which, I found a great consignment shop you might like.”

  “Really? What’s it called?” she asks, excited.

  I flip through the torn magazine pages, and study the photos of perfect girls dressed in designer clothing most women could never afford. “Restyle for You.”

  “Oh, yes,” she says. “I know that place. Great place. The owners are a gem.”

  My heart stops for a second. What a small world. I’m thrilled to find out that Claudia knows Renee too.”

  “Yes, I met the woman,” I tell her. “I was there a week or two ago.”

  Claudia raises a brow. “I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who buys second-hand.”

  “I usually don’t,” I admit, “but I heard about this place… trying to save money, you know.”

  A long breath escapes her. “Tell me about it.”

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” I say.

  “Uh…” Her brows knit together in confusion for a second, “Oh, the owner, Renee… yes, she’s gorgeous.”

  “What did you think of her?” I ask.

  Claudia studies me for a long second before replying. “Uh… she’s great. Friendly… God, I’d love to have her body.”

  My stomach sinks. “What are you complaining about?” I tease. “You have that enviable hourglass figure most women would kill for, the kind of body men’s heads flip around for.”

  She laughs. “Well, men may like it, but as far as fashion goes, it’s not ideal.”