Kissing Doorknobs

by Terry Spencer Hesser

  “Tara,” my sister whispered.

  “Thirty-two … thirty-three …” I ignored her even though I could feel her at my right side and see her foot near mine.

  “Your fortune cookie. I just opened it.”

  I ignored her. “Forty.”

  “’Good things are coming to you soon!’ ” She said it enthusiastically and without sarcasm. I managed to smile without losing count or having to start over. Of course, I doubted that good things were coming soon no matter who the cookie was meant for.

  “Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three …” My mother had stopped laughing. They were all watching me. “Fifty, fifty-one.”

  Life had become hell for all of us, and I wasn’t even fifteen yet.

  The next doctor’s gaze was invasive. It made me feel as if I was getting an X ray. I think she must have treated a lot of girls my age with eating disorders, because she wanted to talk about food all the time.

  “Tell me about the rice.”

  “I like to line it up before I eat it. Make it neat.”

  “That must take a lot of time.”

  “Chinese food is a problem.”

  “Do you and your family eat out much?”

  “Too much.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, for one thing, the idea of some strange person I’ve never seen touching my food in another room is enough to make me dizzy. And I hate using public bathrooms because of the sign that says ALL EMPLOYEES MUST WASH THEIR HANDS. I mean, why is that sign necessary? Who doesn’t automatically wash their hands after going to the bathroom? Especially if they’re going to touch food? Especially—especially if they’re going to touch my food!”

  I was really worked up. The shrink, however, was as cool as if I had just recited the alphabet. I suspected that she wasn’t listening. I wondered whether she had an attention deficit disorder.

  “That’s a good point, Tara. Go on.”

  “And then, I also don’t eat out much because I have to rearrange my food before I eat it and that takes a lot of time.” As I was talking, I was tapping my fingers against the underside of my chair. Three times to the right … then three times to the left … then again three times to the left … and three times to the right. I didn’t know if she noticed. I did it pretty stealthily. So stealthily that it took me a while to notice what I was doing. When I did notice, I talked a lot more enthusiastically to distract her, because I’d much rather talk about messy food than my fear of tipping over from being unbalanced.

  I went on. “Chinese food is pure hell. Stir-fries look like the aftermath of a hurricane. Strings of vegetables blown off their course and tangled around something that looks like—but might not be—meat.”

  “You’re suspicious about the meat, then.”

  “I’m worried. About everything. But even if I wasn’t, messes like that are not meals, if you ask me. And chop suey! Fried rice! It takes forever to sort those things out properly. Do you agree with me or do you think I’m nuts?”

  “I don’t think you’re nuts.”

  But she didn’t agree with me either.

  Diagnosis: Borderline anorexia … anger issues.

  17

  Facing Facts

  It was a warm spring night and my dad was watching his usual after-dinner television programs. I was trying to get out the door to meet Donna so that we could hang out at the park next to the pool and flirt with high-school boys.

  Of course, in order to get out the front door I had to touch the doorknob and my lips. Usually, I had to do it thirty-three times. That was the standard number I had to perform before I could stop. Thirty-three perfect times, and at least a half hour later than I’d planned on leaving, I could finally slip out. Usually.

  As I did my ritual, I tried not to look at my father. He had been trying not to look at me since that dinner over Christmas vacation, but he really couldn’t ignore this. “… eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen …”

  I felt him staring at me for a long, sad time before he spoke. “Was it something your mother or I did? Something you’re holding against us and taking out on yourself, Tara? If you’re mad because I’ve spent so much time at the Legion, we can talk about it.”

  “Twenty-one, twenty-two …”

  “Maybe you’re still scared after my heart attack?”

  Poor Daddy. I couldn’t stop to talk to him. He probably already knew that.

  “I love you, Tara. We all do. Please stop. Please.”

  “… Twenty—where was I?” I asked. Oh, no. Oh, no. I lost count. I lost count and I spoke. Again! “One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen …”

  “Tara … please …” The doorbell rang. My father and I were both startled. I didn’t stop my ritual, although I did try to speed it up. Eighteen. Nineteen.

  “Answer the door!” my father yelled. He nervously pulled back a tiny piece of the curtain to reveal who was standing on our porch. I just kept counting evenly. Trying to ignore everything.

  “It’s Allan Jacobson!” he groaned. Pain and fear leaked out of my father’s voice and enveloped me like a blanket. Mr. Jacobson was my father’s old friend from college who was also the local high-school science teacher. A cold river of perspiration broke out on my neck. Without looking at my father’s face, I could hear the horror in his voice.

  “Stop it. Just stop it!” He sounded embarrassed. I continued my counting without looking at him.

  “Stop it!”

  “Twenty-two …” The bell rang again. The sweat was now running down my back.

  “Answer the door!” he repeated.

  I ignored him. Twenty-three.

  “Answer the damn door, and I mean it. Can’t you just stop it for once?”

  I couldn’t stop it and I couldn’t answer him. I was so nervous I lost count just as he picked me up, moved me to the side and opened the door. As I looked at my dad’s frightened face and his friend’s calm one, I was so humiliated that I burst into tears. Giant tears. Sobs, really. And as if I was a little baby my daddy took me in his arms and rocked me. Then he did something I’d never seen before. He began to cry too. His tears scared me more than my ritual. His pain was almost more than I could bear. We both cried for what seemed like hours as Mr. Jacobson sat on the couch and looked at his hands.

  After my dad and I calmed down, Mr. Jacobson started asking me questions that nobody had ever asked me before.

  “What does it feel like when you do that thing with the doorknob, honey?” He called me honey. I had to fight back more tears just because of that. He sounded so kind.

  “I don’t know,” I said, and more tears poured out of my eyes. “I just know I have to do it.”

  “Do you do it a certain number of times?” he asked.

  I was surprised. I’d never told anyone that I had to do it a certain number of times. “Thirty-three. I have to do it thirty-three times before it feels finished and I can stop. How do you know that?”

  “I have a boy in my class, a little older than you, who I think has a similar problem.”

  I wasn’t alone? I wasn’t the only one in the world with this secret mental problem? I doubted it. But my father and I were both very interested. My mother and my sister, who had just walked in from shopping and missed most of the drama, could hardly believe their ears.

  “What problem? What is the problem?” my mother asked somewhat hysterically.

  “She kisses doorknobs,” said my sister in a tone of voice that said, “She likes lemonade.”

  “I’m crazy,” I admitted for the first time. “That’s what the problem is. And Mr. Jacobson has a boy in his class who’s crazy too.”

  “Do you enjoy the doorknob thing, Tara?” asked Mr. Jacobson.

  “Of course not!” I screamed. And for the first time, I turned on my mother. “Did you hear that, Mommy! I said of course not! You thought you could make me remember that this stuff isn’t pleasant by slapping me! Do I look like I’m suffering from an excess of
pleasure, Mom? Do I look like a poster child for joy?”

  My mother burst into tears. I immediately ran into her arms and cried softly too.

  Eventually Mr. Jacobson spoke again. “I think that Tara is suffering from an obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

  My dad said it out loud. “Obsessive-compulsive disorder.” His voice sounded flat, as though he was reading it, or not sure of the pronunciation.

  “Another diagnosis,” my mother mumbled with unconcealed hostility, and kissed my forehead. “Bullshit.”

  “Well, it sounds better than immaturity or self-esteem problems,” my dad said softly. “Or attention deficit-immaturity-anorexia-anger. As we can all see, Tara pays attention like an adult, is a normal weight and could use a little more anger about her situation!”

  “I’m sorry, Marty,” my mom said. “But she’s been to so many psychiatrists.”

  “A lot of professionals are unfamiliar with this,” Mr. Jacobson said. “In fact—and I’m not an expert—from what I understand, it’s not a psychological disorder; it’s a chemical one.”

  “A chemical one?” said my parents in stereo.

  “Does that mean I’m not crazy?” I asked.

  My parents didn’t trust themselves to venture a guess. Mr. Jacobson knelt down by my side and stroked my hair. “You’re definitely not crazy, Tara,” he said gently.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Crazy would be if you enjoyed kissing the doorknobs or counting or whatever. But you definitely don’t look like you’re having any fun.”

  “That fortune cookie was right!” Greta screamed. “Remember? ’You will receive important news from an unusual messenger.’ Remember? Mr. Jacobson is an unusual messenger, isn’t he? And Tara’s cookie said good things would come to her soon!”

  18

  The Open Brain Door

  Mr. Jacobson must have left my house and called his student on a car phone, because ten minutes after I watched his taillights turn the corner, I was talking on the phone to a boy named Sam who told me he had what I had and promised to come over the next day after school.

  I couldn’t sleep all night. He has what I have! I couldn’t pay attention to anything at school the next day. What do I have? I worried that he’d be crazy. The doorknob thing? I worried that he’d look crazy. Counting cracks? Then I worried that I’d look crazy. Praying? But when I opened my front door to meet him, all I could see was a really cute boy who didn’t look crazy at all. How could he have what I have? He didn’t even have dark circles under his eyes.

  Unfortunately, I knew that I looked tired and stressed despite Kristin’s makeup tips, which she had gleaned from Today’s Teen magazine.

  “Do you … kiss doorknobs?” I asked with too much hope in my voice by half.

  “That’s cute. Most people just say hello, but I’ll remember that one.” As he smiled and extended his hand, my face heated up to a tropical burn. I instantly checked my arm for eczema. It was almost gone.

  “I’m s-sorry!” I stammered without shaking his hand. “Hello.” I backed up, tripped over nothing and banged the back of my head on the door. “Come in. I’m … a little … embarrassed here, okay?”

  Sam walked in ahead of me. “Thank you. Nice doorknobs.” He smiled mischievously. “You’ve got very good taste in hardware.”

  It took me a long time to laugh. I was shocked that he could make fun of something so serious.

  In about a second, my mother came in and introduced herself to Sam. While they were exchanging greetings, I imagined Sam kissing doorknobs alone, then kissing them with me, maybe on opposite sides of the same door. I pictured our wedding, our honeymoon in a doorknob factory, our doorknob-kissing children and vacations spent in hardware stores.

  The next thing I knew, my mother and Sam were seated on the couch and Sam was saying, “I don’t kiss doorknobs. Or do anything unusual with them at all.” My mother and I were both devastated. Mr. Jacobson had raised our hopes of finding a diagnosis, a cure and maybe even a community. He has what I have! We both shrank an inch or two from disappointment.

  “But we thought …,” was all she managed to say. I was as mute as our doorknob.

  “I was afraid of germs,” Sam went on. “I used to wash my hands until they bled from all that soap and hot water. Over and over and over and over. Over and over and over again. I didn’t know why. I just had to do it. And I couldn’t be interrupted.”

  “I see,” my mother mumbled to herself sadly as I brightened.

  “Are you cured now?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. I’m on medication now. It helps even though, for me, the medication has its own set of problems.”

  My mother and I were both silent.

  Sam continued. “I sweat a lot now. For instance. But I don’t wash it off or anything.”

  “It can’t be the same, honey,” my mom said to me. “His washing his hands is hardly as weird as your … things.”

  “Hard to say what’s weirder, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Sam. “We were both compelled to carry out a ridiculous action because of—”

  “Tyrants,” I whispered. “We’ve got tyrants in our heads.”

  “That’s good.” Sam was smiling. “I never thought of it that way, but that’s just what it’s like.”

  “I’m missing something,” said my mother skeptically.

  Sam was up to the challenge. “Obsessive-compulsive disorders have a lot of varieties. There are people with contamination fears like me. Worriers. Doubters. Counters like Tara. Those with needs for symmetry …”

  “What’s symmetry?” I asked. I’d thought I had a good vocabulary, but this guy knew some words.

  “Balance. You know, if you tap with the left foot, you have to tap with the right foot to make it even.”

  Before my poor mother could spit out, “She doesn’t have that …,” I bounced out of my chair and started screaming. “Oh my God! You know what I have!

  You do have what I have! Like when you have to touch all ten fingers with the exact same pressure!”

  “You’ve got that too!” shrieked my mother. None of this was good news to her. But to me it was the best thing that happened to me since eating apricot dumplings in Michigan when I was four years old. I was visible! Someone saw me! Knew me! Knew what I had!

  Sam went on. “There’s also checkers, cleaners, confesses, defilers and hoarders. They’re all symptoms of an obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

  I lost him for a few minutes as I went through my own checklist. Symmetry. Yes. Fears. Yes. Worrying. Yes. Confessing was an easy one.

  “How did we catch this?” I asked.

  “We didn’t catch it. We were probably born with it. And we probably inherited it from someone in our family.”

  “No one in my family kisses doorknobs,” said my mother dully.

  “Maybe they just secretly hoard things or break things or count in their heads. You probably wouldn’t know. Especially if it wasn’t someone who lived with you.”

  “I don’t get it. I just don’t get it,” said my poor mother.

  Sam pointed to his forehead. “This part of the brain, right above the eyes, is where worry is registered. Brain scans show that people with OCD have a lot of activity in this part of the brain.”

  “She’s a worrywart. That I understand,” she said gently, and put her arm through mine.

  Sam continued. “Somewhere on the top of the brain is the basal ganglia. It functions as a gate for thoughts. With most people it opens and closes after each thought is completed. A person has a thought. They do the action. The thought is gone. With people like us, the gate doesn’t function right. It kinda stays open a little. And that’s why we do things over and over. It’s like our brain isn’t quite sure that the thought or action was done or was done right or done enough. So it just keeps thinking the same thought over and over and we keep doing the same action over and over.”

  “The brain hiccups?” I said.

  “Exactly! That’s what they
call it. A hiccup of the mind.”

  My mother and I were both stunned silent for a while.

  “I’m not alone, Mom,” I said in such a weird voice I wasn’t sure if it was mine.

  “Alone!” Sam smiled. “There’s millions of us.”

  “Oh, my God!” My head was reeling. “Did you ever meet anyone else? I mean besides me?”

  “Sure. Through my therapist I’ve met a lot of other formerly normal people who woke up one day and wondered whether broccoli had feelings and, therefore, experienced pain when eaten … and then kept wondering that same thought for years.”

  “Dear God,” squeaked my mother.

  “I’ve met people who live in fear that they might accidentally hurt someone else. People driven insane by the idea that maybe they already did. I’ve also met people who believe they’re responsible for every plane, train or auto crash they hear about on the news. People who know they aren’t responsible, but they doubt what they know, so they wonder if they are responsible.”

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” said my mom, with tears in her eyes. “For … everything.” I was speechless once again.

  “I also met a girl who believes that eating utensils have feelings, so she is careful never to touch them with her teeth so that she doesn’t hurt them, and a boy who lines up his french fries with the biggest ones at the bottom before eating them. Every time.” Sam was smiling. I was laughing. My mom looked as if she was ready to cry.

  “How did you get cured?” my mother asked evenly.

  “It’s called exposure and response prevention therapy. It wasn’t easy.”

  “Tara would do anything to get rid of this, wouldn’t you, honey?”

  My mind was racing. “Sure … yes. Yes.”

  “Even risk being exposed to what you’re freaked out about … your doorknob for instance … and then have someone stop you from doing your ritual?”

  “Huh?”

  “Because I’m afraid of germs, I had to touch garbage … all kinds of it … three times a week with a behavior therapist.”