Kissing Doorknobs

by Terry Spencer Hesser

  I raised my hand in class for the first time in months.

  “Tara,” my teacher said with concealed surprise in her voice.

  “I was just wondering. Do you think the slaves ever got scared after they were freed?”

  “What?”

  A few kids laughed.

  “I mean … do you think that they ever said, ’Hey, never mind. Let’s just go back to the way it was because … because I’m used to the way it was and I’m scared now?’ ”

  “Well, that’s an interesting question, Tara. I suppose so. I mean, their lives were completely uprooted and they often had nowhere to go. So I’d venture to guess that many of them longed for the security of their old ways … no matter how horrible … in exchange for the frightening freedom they were being faced with.”

  “But they did it,” said Keesha, as if she’d read my mind. “They coped.” The classroom exploded with laughter. I never could slip anything past Keesha. I loved that about her. I was embarrassed but vowed to myself to work harder.

  When the bell rang and my class hit our lockers I grabbed her arm. “Keesha?”

  Keesha froze dramatically.

  “Wanna walk home together?”

  Keesha was speechless. It was kind of funny. Because she always had a wisecrack answer for everything, her nonresponse made me know that she was willing to be my friend again. I was so happy that I hugged her. And when Anna saw me hugging Keesha she approached us.

  “What’s going on?” she asked carefully.

  “I—I think I can walk with you guys again. I think. I’m not sure. B-But I want to try,” I stammered. “Will you let me try?”

  Keesha and Anna both smiled so big that I could practically see myself in their braces.

  I stepped on every crack I could find. I felt nervous, dizzy, sick, but I did it while Anna and Keesha cheered for me.

  “Damn!” Keesha said, testing me.

  “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost …” I prayed. They frowned. When I was finished I shrugged and jumped on a crack. “So!” I shrieked happily. “Maybe I’m doin’ cracks first!”

  My friends jumped on cracks too. When we passed the hardware store I got an idea and ran inside. “Come on,” I yelled.

  Standing in front of a wall of doorknobs, I looked at my distorted reflection, then at Keesha’s and Anna’s. They didn’t know about my doorknob ritual. It had been as carefully guarded as any of my secrets. Now I didn’t care if they knew. I felt giddy. As a test, I ran my hand across a few of the doorknobs. Even though I only had to do the ritual on my front-door doorknob, I would have never tried a stunt like this before. Especially in front of my friends, just in case it triggered a new ritual. But here I was. I felt nothing, and jumped for joy.

  “Something tells me this is one ritual I don’t want to know about,” said Anna.

  “I second that,” said Keesha, looking at her teeth in doorknob extreme close-up.

  We ran back outside and skipped down the street arm in arm.

  “Hey,” said Keesha. “What about the dolls? The ugly short fat naked dolls?”

  “My trolls!” I laughed. “They’ve been put away for months. Get with the program!”

  By the time we got to the block where Anna turned off, we were all holding hands and jumping for joy. We were friends. We had history together. We’d survived a test.

  “Thank you, you guys. Thank you for being here for me.” I thought of Kristin and stopped jumping.

  “How’s Kristin?”

  “In New York,” said Anna. “She’s a Glamour Do. The cover, too, I think.”

  We jumped for her. Then Keesha stopped jumping and turned to Anna.

  “Is Kristin eating?” asked Keesha.

  “I don’t think so. Her manager told her he likes it that she’s thin,” said Anna.

  Keesha looked grave. “In that case, she really ought to eat her manager.”

  I felt scared for Kristin. Actually, the fear barely had time to register before I was counting cracks again.

  “Damn!” said Keesha.

  For the rest of the way home, I did my best to pray for Keesha and count cracks at the same time. It was hard.

  22

  Sam

  Sometime around my sixth week of behavior therapy, Sam rang my doorbell instead of my phone. Before I could speak he said, “So … do you still … kiss doorknobs?”

  “Ah, most people just say hello,” I gushed, playing along, “but I’ll remember that one.”

  “I’m s-sorry!” he stammered. “Hello.” He backed up, tripped over nothing and banged the back of his head on nothing in perfect imitation of me at our first meeting.

  I doubled over with laughter. “Come in. I’m … a little … embarrassed, okay?”

  “Thank you. Nice doorknobs.” He smiled mischievously, walking by me. “You’ve got …” and then I joined him and we both said, “very good taste in hardware.”

  He was taller than I remembered but every bit as cute. “You look good, Tara,” he said, once again standing a little too close for my comfort. I backed up. I could feel my face flushing, but Sam either didn’t notice or ignored my embarrassment. “Let’s see, I don’t see any lip gloss on your doorknob, so … your therapy must be going well.”

  “Ha!” was all I could manage. An expulsion of air. More like a cough than a laugh.

  “I brought you something,” he said, pulling a box from his pocket and handing it to me.

  “You did?” I asked stupidly. “Why?”

  “You’ll see. If you open it, that is.”

  Nervously I took the lid off the box, pulled back the purple tissue paper and burst out laughing. It was a crystal doorknob! And all around it were chocolate kisses wrapped in silver paper.

  “Do you like it?” Sam asked with mock seriousness. “I know you’re very particular about your hardware, so I was a little nervous selecting one.”

  “I … I love it. It’s the funniest present I ever got.”

  “It’s a celebration. Of your challenge. Of your strength. And of your options.” Sam snatched a candy kiss from the box. “If you don’t mind.”

  Stunned, I watched him unwrap the kiss and offer it to me.

  “Take a bite,” he said. “But just a bite. Not all of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Contamination therapy. Refresher course.”

  “Okay.” I took a tiny bite and Sam popped the rest of it into his mouth.

  “Just to keep me on my toes.”

  Before I could respond to his joy, he took the doorknob out of the box and offered it to me. “You don’t need to kiss this, do you?” he asked, and I shook my head, trying not to smile. Then he held it up to the light and turned it. It picked up color from everywhere.

  It changed before my eyes. And it kept changing. I couldn’t miss the symbolism.

  “This is so nice of you!” I was in shock.

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” he said again, and he handed me the doorknob and flopped into a chair. “So … how’ve you been?” he asked with a big smile.

  “I … I’m … good. I’m good,” I stammered.

  “You’re good?” He smiled. “That’s good that you’re good. Because today is the one-year anniversary of the first time I could stand being hugged,” he said simply. “So I wanted to celebrate with someone who knows what it means.”

  He stood up and held out his arms. I was so embarrassed I thought I’d die. Donna was having unsafe sex and I couldn’t even hug a boy celebrating his victory over contamination fears without going completely spastic.

  I took the long step into his arms, gave him a little hug and then tripped over nothing backing out of it again. He smiled sweetly and then sat on my couch.

  “So … how’s life with Susan Leonardi?”

  “I hate it and I hate her.”

  “Good. Let’s get some ice-cream sodas and toast to hating Susan
Leonardi … the woman who reintroduced us to free will.”

  On the way to the ice-cream parlor Sam told me funny stories about his group therapy. We laughed again about the girl who thought eating utensils had feelings.

  “Still?” I asked.

  “Well, she says she still thinks that they have feelings but now she thinks they’re less sensitive than she originally thought.”

  “Huh?”

  “So sometimes she bites her spoons and forks just for fun. To play with them.” Sam punctuated his story by taking my hand and biting my finger. I felt squishy with pleasure.

  “Sam!” We turned around and saw the pharmacist standing in front of his shop. He was looking at me as though I was a stripper or a prostitute or something.

  “Hi, Uncle Joe,” said Sam casually. I thought I’d die. Uncle Joe.

  “Oh, sorry. Uncle Joe, this is my friend Tara. Tara, this is my Uncle Joe.”

  “We met,” he said, and his eyes were steel.

  “Oh, sure,” said Sam. “You know everyone.”

  “No. I don’t think I know your parents, do I, Tara?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I said. Uncle Joe and I held each other’s eyes defiantly in a silent war for what we both believed was right. Uncle Joe looked away first. I was dizzy with my own joy.

  “Nice seeing you, Sam. Say hello to your parents.” Uncle Joe went back into his store. Sam looked confused.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. And one I didn’t want to tell, since it was really about Donna’s private life.

  Over ice-cream sodas I told Sam all about my therapy and realized that he was the first person who knew how hard it was, who understood exactly what I was going through.

  On the way home we stopped in the park, lay down in the grass and looked up at the sky.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked him.

  “I’m not telling you,” he said in a teasing voice.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you won’t believe me anyway.”

  He was right. I probably wouldn’t have. But all of a sudden it didn’t matter so much that I would never be able to know his thoughts.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked me.

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, and turned on his side to look at me. I could smell the slightly sweet smell of ice cream on his breath.

  “It is?” I teased.

  “Yeah. Because I can live with that uncertainty.”

  And then he kissed me. An intense, warm, firm connection that traveled through my system on every nerve ending I had.

  “Was that part of your contamination therapy?” I asked, forcing a lightness into my voice that I didn’t feel.

  “I guess it is. Thanks. You’ve helped me a lot.”

  “Are you going to have to do this again and again and again?” I asked with an almost straight face.

  “I think so,” he said with an even straighter face.

  23

  Living with It

  I think I figured out my dream.

  It’s a warm, sunny summer day. My friends and I are happily playing outside my house. We’re chasing each other and laughing. We all feel safe and happy. Then, out of nowhere, a giant monster pops up from behind a white house a block away. It is huge and fearsome and blocks out most of the blue sky. It is so big that in one step it will not only be at my house, it will be on my house, possibly crushing us to death. We all scream and run. I can’t run.

  As I look at it now, it’s kind of obvious. That monster was my OCD. It came out of nowhere, blocked out my world and threatened to crush me. As much as I cried, I couldn’t run. I was paralyzed.

  As it turns out, living with doubt is a lot less painful than trying desperately to live without it. Somebody said that a coward dies a thousand deaths but a brave man dies just once.

  Because of my OCD, I had been trying so hard not to be afraid, I was hardly living at all. When I finally faced my fears and doubts, unbelievably, they became boring and then they went away.

  Sometimes I’m mad that I had to have OCD, but then I remember that I didn’t get to pick it. It’s like my blond hair, green eyes and eczema—it picked me.

  And I am happy that I was finally able to choose not to let it control me. I’m very proud of that.

  My old friend Kristin is on the covers of Glamour, Seventeen and Teen. I’m proud of that too, despite the sacrifices she’s making that I don’t agree with.

  Anna, Keesha and I have resumed our relationship and walk to and from high school together every day. I love high school and I’m very, very proud that I can walk to and from it with my friends.

  My relationship with my parents is a lot better. Actually, now that they don’t have to fight over me anymore, their relationship is a little worse. As it turned out, focusing on their own problems was not much easier for them than focusing on mine. But I don’t worry about it as much as I used to. And I try to stay out of my mother’s thoughts, no matter what they are.

  My sister has been freed from having to beat people up for me, since I don’t act quite as nuts anymore. She seems a little bored now, though. I think she misses her old role as my heroine. Keesha says Greta should put her talent to use teaching a self-defense class to people who have been mugged. Anna thinks Paulo should come back to town just to take Greta’s class. We still laugh about Paulo a lot.

  Donna got pregnant and went to live in a special school for “expectant” high-school girls on the other side of the city. I take the train to visit her there every Saturday. I miss her a lot, but I especially miss her on the train because I remember how much fun we used to have taking it downtown together. Donna misses me too and is always excited when I walk into that ugly green “family room” where she spends most of her time.

  The school is an old convent, and even though nuns don’t live there anymore, the building looks as if it has taken a vow of poverty if not chastity. The hallways are drafty, the banisters are loose and the paint is chipping. I always feel like holding my breath there, and I think that’s a normal response.

  “Tara!” Donna screamed as she waddled toward me the first Saturday I visited. “Oh, my God, you look so pretty.”

  “Nah.” I smiled shyly and touched Donna’s belly, which was the size of a Volkswagen. “I just look thin to you.”

  “Well?” she asked, hands on hips and pretending dismay. “Did you bring me candy?”

  “Gummy worms … just like you asked for.” Donna’s face lit up with joy. Simultaneously she dove into the bag of colorful gelatinous worms and pulled me down on a plastic couch. She was smiling from ear to ear. Colorful gummy worms hung out of the sides of her mouth. I’d never seen her look so young or so happy. I sat down next to her and examined her face.

  “So … you look good,” I said.

  “I’m fat!”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “You know, maybe it’s the hormones, but I’m very happy. And I kinda like this place.”

  I looked around at the plastic furniture, dusty mini-blinds and Sony Trinitron television tuned to a talk show and wondered what it was she liked.

  “I know it doesn’t look like much,” she said in response to my expression, “but the people are real nice here.”

  “That’s good,” I said lamely. Donna stopped inhaling gummy worms and lit a cigarette. I grabbed it out of her mouth and put it out. “How selfish can you be?” I asked her. “Unless you’ve swallowed an oxygen tank for that baby, you better not be trying to poison it.”

  “I think those tyrants are still inside you,” she said, smiling.

  “Maybe. But they’re weaker. For instance, I don’t blame myself for your pregnancy anymore.”

  “Who do you blame?” she teased. We both yelled, “Uncle Joe!” and laughed.

  “So have you decided what to do?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but every time I think I can give it up I fee
l sick, and every time I think about taking it home with me, to live in my parents’ house and maybe become a little me—I feel sick. I’m so glad I’ve got you,” she said tearfully.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “How’s your OCD?”

  “Okayokayokayokayokay”.

  We both laughed. I hugged her, kissed her cheek and told her I loved her. I thought about meeting her in the rain on that July day a year and a half earlier. I thought about the wishes she made when we sat on her roof. I hoped she’d get some of her wishes. We both knew her life was about to get very hard no matter what she chose to do with the baby.

  As for my own life, I’m still battling my civil war against the tyrants. The good news is that, at least for now, I’ve stopped the doorknob ritual, the praying, the terrible thoughts, the counting and the lining up of my food. I haven’t spoken on a stage yet, but that’s the least of my worries. I do behavior therapy whenever I feel the thoughts and urges returning and occasionally see Susan Leonardi for support.

  Life seems so odd to me now. The people who love us can’t always help us. And the people who do help us sometimes need more in return than we’re capable of giving. I’m speaking of Sam.

  Apparently, his parakeet died a few days after we kissed. Suddenly he became very worried about the germs responsible for the bird’s death. He didn’t call me and didn’t take my calls. I had no idea that his fears were escalating in a terrible cycle. When Susan finally told me what was happening to him I went to his house and rang the bell … again and again.

  Finally Sam opened the inside door about six inches. He was wearing a mask and gloves. He looked at me with the saddest gaze I’d ever seen and didn’t say a word. Trying to remain calm, I stammered, “So … you … kiss parakeets, huh?” In silence, Sam lowered his eyes. I blundered on. “I know most people just say hello, but …”

  “I’m s-sorry!” he stammered so quietly that I could barely hear him.

  The screen door separated us. I tried to open it. It was locked. “Nice doorknobs,” I said evenly. “You’ve got good taste in—”