Finding Perfect

by Elly Swartz

  “Hey,” Hannah says. She takes in the broken glass, lays down her jacket, sits down next to me, and holds my hand. I want to pull my hand away. 20, 24, 28, 32. But I don’t. My anger at Hannah, and everyone, left with my confession. Bridgett sits on my other side.

  An uncomfortable silence settles in.

  “I like your mashed potatoes.” Hannah tries to make me laugh. She and Bridgett giggle nervously.

  Hannah tries again. “It’s going to be okay.” She brushes my ratty hair away from my face and holds out her pinky. Bridgett’s still like stone.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. 36, 40. “This time we can’t fix things with our pinky shake.”

  “No one cares about the stupid slam contest,” Bridgett offers.

  44, 48.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not about that. I just can’t be fixed.” 52, 56, 60, 64.

  “Mol, don’t say that,” Hannah says. “You were amazing in Round Two. You just had a bad day; you’re not broken.”

  “Like in today’s obits, Mr. Cavanaugh died when an old guy accidentally stepped on the gas instead of the brake and ran poor Mr. Cavanaugh over while he was buying cough medicine at the convenience store. They both had really bad days.”

  Hannah gives her a you’re-not-helping look. “E. B. Rule Number 19: Failure is just opportunity’s way of telling you to be more creative.” Hannah gives my hand a little squeeze.

  “No. It’s not. Failure is just failure. You don’t know because you’re perfect.” 68, 72.

  “Uh, don’t think so. My hair isn’t brushed most days. My clothes consist of many different shades of brown. I’m terrible in science and…”

  “Hannah, your name has six letters. An even number. Not divisible by four, but still very good. And it’s the same backward and forward. Bridgett, your name has eight letters. Also even and divisible by four. My name has five letters. Odd. Awful.” 76, 80.

  “Mol, I don’t get it. You’re the perfect one. Really. You have the best hair. Mac, Ryan, and I’m pretty sure Greg all have crushes on you. You get good grades and—”

  “None of that matters.” 84, 88, 92, 96.

  “Why not?” Hannah chews her top lip the way she does when she’s confused.

  “Because I’m, I’m…”

  Just say it.

  “You’re what? Please tell me—us. We want to help,” Hannah pleads.

  “I’m crazy.” 100, 104.

  There.

  “Molly, you’re not crazy, you’re just stressed. You’ve had a lot to deal with. I mean, with your mom moving to Canada and your dad working so much, it happens,” Hannah says. “We all do weird stuff when we’re stressed.”

  Bridgett chimes in. “Look, I told you that thing about my dad.” She looks at Hannah, not wanting to say too much. “Now, I read the obits every day. Stress makes us do things we wouldn’t normally do. It’s okay.”

  I stand up, place my hands on my friends’ shoulders and look into their faces for the first time in months. “No, I really am crazy.” There’s no stopping me now. “The slam was just part of it. I’ve been counting by four under my breath since you walked into the room. I can only have someone walk on my right side, the left is bad—always. I brush my hair and my teeth in sections four times each and if I’m not sure I did it right, I need to start all over again. I wash my hands so much they’re cracking. My glass animals need to be aligned with my ruler. My homework’s done sometimes four times until it’s finished with no mistakes, smudges, or eraser marks. Each morning, I sharpen and organize my pencils. I could go on, but by the look on your faces, I think you get the picture.” 108, 112.

  “Mol, when?” Hannah twirls some strands of her blue tips around her pointer finger and looks from me to Bridgett, then back to me.

  “For a while.”

  “Why?”

  “To keep bad things from happening.” 116, 120.

  “To who?” Bridgett says.

  “Ian. When I stop counting, washing, or whatever stupid thing I need to do to feel right, the worry explodes in my head and won’t leave me alone. Ian’s sick. Ian’s hurt. Ian’s dead. The worry never leaves.” 124, 128, 132, 136.

  “Oh, Molly.” Hannah hugs me. Bridgett hugs me.

  They love me anyway.

  42

  just like grammy jean

  DAD WALKS IN. HE stops for a moment, as his eyes sweep across my carpet now covered with broken pieces of colored glass. Then he makes that big inhale noise he makes when he has bad news to share. The last time he did it was when Mom left for Toronto. “Girls, Molly and I need to talk. This may be a good time to head home. You can certainly come back and visit later.”

  “No, Dad, they can stay. I want them to stay.” 140, 144.

  He finds a place on the edge of my bed, takes a big gulp of his water, and sits down. “I just got off the phone with your mother.”

  My eyes brim and tiny tears streak my cheeks. I miss her. 148, 152.

  “I told her what happened today.”

  Here comes the bad news. “She’s never coming back, is she?”

  “What?” My dad looks startled. “Mol, of course she’s coming home.”

  “But I thought when I didn’t see her at the finals, she forgot about us and decided to stay in Toronto. Forever.”

  Dad wipes my tears and brushes the hair from my eyes. “Your mom and I both love you. She went to a job in Toronto, not away from you, Kate, and Ian. There’s a difference.”

  “It doesn’t feel different.”

  “I know,” Dad says. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. She’s leaving Toronto.”

  “For good?” I pluck a glass piece of the eagle’s broken wing from the carpet.

  “Not sure. One day at a time. But when we spoke, she shared something that I never knew.”

  “I didn’t think you guys had secrets.”

  “We don’t. This wasn’t a secret. Just something that happened before I knew your mom. It has to do with your Grammy Jean, who died before Mom and I even dated. When I explained to Mom what had been going on, she told me that she and Aunt Lucy thought Grammy had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.”

  The numbers pick up pace. 156, 160. My gaze drops to the glass-flecked carpet. Now I know the bad news. Hannah puts her arm around me.

  “Back then, there was no official diagnosis, but from what Mom described, it sounds a lot like OCD.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” Hannah asks, but I already know the answer. Maybe I knew all along.

  “OCD is when you have unwanted thoughts you can’t get rid of.” Dad scratches his goatee and takes a sip of his water. “And to try and make the unwelcome ideas go away, you sometimes do unrelated stuff over and over again.”

  “Like what?” Bridgett asks.

  Again, I say nothing. But I know what the unrelated stuff is. Counting. Organizing. Brushing. Cleaning. The list is too long and too stupid to say out loud. 164, 168.

  “Molly’s mom said Grammy washed her hands until they bled because she was afraid if she didn’t she’d spread germs that would contaminate and kill all the people she loved.”

  “She knew, I mean really knew, she wasn’t going to kill off her family because she didn’t wash her hands before dinner. Right?” Bridgett asks.

  “Yes and no. I guess she knew her fear was irrational, but it didn’t matter.”

  I stare into the mirror across the room. Everyone says I have Grammy’s gold-flecked eyes. Am I like her? I look at my own hands. 172, 176.

  “What happened to her?” I hear myself ask.

  “I guess at first she didn’t tell anyone. She was just a kid; she thought she was going crazy.” I look at my dad and wonder if he wishes he had a different kid. “One day she refused to leave the house. She insisted that her hands were dirty. She’d wash them, touch something, anything—a chair, a doorknob, a wall—and then feel like they were contaminated again.”

  I sit on my hands.

  “She’d run back to the bathroom and
scrub them. After hours of this, your great-grandmother finally called the doctor. When she brought Grammy in to talk with him, her hands were bleeding. She had washed the skin right off.”

  The room is quiet.

  “Back then, there were no doctors that specialized in OCD for kids,” Dad says.

  “Other kids have it, too?” Bridgett asks.

  “Millions of kids.”

  Hannah chews on the side of her nail. “What does this have to do with Molly?” Hannah asks.

  “It’s hereditary.”

  43

  can i catch it?

  WHEN DAD LEAVES MY room, Bridgett, Hannah, and I let the silence sink in. The numbers skip. 192, 196. My brain is tired.

  Then Bridgett says, “I worry about lots of stuff. Maybe I have it, too.”

  Hannah says, “Maybe. But we don’t even know if Molly has it. And everyone worries and does stuff to feel better. Like I keep my closet light on all night and wear my lucky pink tee every time I take a test.” She pauses. “That’s why pop quizzes can be tricky.”

  “Can I catch it? You know, am I going to wake up tomorrow and start organizing my obits alphabetically by last name?” Bridgett asks.

  Hannah kicks Bridgett.

  “No offense,” Bridgett says.

  200, 204.

  Bridgett opens her laptop and plugs Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder into SearchMaster. I already know the site that will pop up. She clicks on the website for the OCD Foundation.

  “I can’t believe there are so many people who have this thing that there’s an entire organization for it,” Bridgett says.

  208, 212.

  “Okay, it says here that OCD is not contagious,” Hannah explains. “So can you stop freaking out and close that thing?” Hannah points to B’s computer.

  “No. Listen to this.” Bridgett reads from the site. “Max, age thirteen, says his worry is like a broken faucet that won’t shut off. His parents have to reassure him over and over again he hasn’t hurt anyone’s feelings and nothing bad is about to happen. His anxiety got so overwhelming he wouldn’t go to school for fear that something awful would happen.”

  “Bridgett, stop,” Hannah grunts.

  B ignores her and reads on. “Miranda, age eleven, is a checker. She checks everything she does ten times just to make sure she’s really done it. George, age twelve, is like Grammy Jean, the classic germ-o-phobe—washing his hands until they bleed. It says each kid has a worry they can’t turn off. Just like a broken faucet.”

  216, 220.

  Hannah gives her one last kick in the shin.

  Lots of broken faucets.

  44

  panic rising

  MY RELIEF-ANXIETY BLEND WASHES away like warm bathwater. Everyone knows my secret. 456, 460. No more hiding.

  Dad comes back into my room after Hannah and Bridgett leave. Gingerly, he finds a seat next to me on my bed.

  “I promise you that we’ll figure out what’s happening. Maybe it’s OCD, maybe it’s something else. Either way, you’re not alone.” He lifts my trembling chin and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry. I feel like this is my fault. I’ve been working so much. I haven’t been there for you. I get it. You need me and I’m going to be here for you. You don’t have to do this stuff anymore.”

  “Dad, it’s not your fault. You didn’t do this.” I stare out my bedroom window into our once-manicured, now-overgrown backyard. The weeds are like the weird things I do—overpowering and relentless. “You don’t understand. This has nothing to do with you. I can’t stop. My mind won’t let me. This is the only way to protect Ian.” 464, 468. I think back to Maria F. on Facebook and remember that she washes her hands to protect her little brother. I hope she avoids odd numbers.

  “Protect him from what?” Dad stands up, his hands cutting the air as he speaks.

  “Bad things.” 472, 476.

  “Mol, what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just know how it feels. It feels like I’m gone. The Molly I used to be has been replaced by a crazy person.”

  “You’re not gone. You’re still my Molly. We’ll figure this out.”

  Breathe.

  “I’m going to call Dr. Andrews,” Dad says as he leaves my room.

  Kate pokes her head in. “So, rough day at the slam?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” 480, 484, 488, 492.

  Kate’s truly perfect. Four letters in her name, five feet four inches tall. She gets straight A’s, is a star soccer player for her high school, and has great hair.

  “I get it.” She walks in and sits down next to me, putting her arm around me. “You’re going to be all right.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re my sister.”

  I lean my head against her shoulder. 496, 500.

  45

  the wrong spot

  “IT’S TIME,” DAD YELLS from the bottom of the steps.

  “Now?” Panic rises from behind my belly button.

  “Yes, now. Our appointment with Dr. Andrews is in fifteen minutes. I need to grab my keys. Meet me downstairs.”

  My sister gives me a hug and leaves me to my own fears.

  I look around my room at the remnants of yesterday’s crash-and-burn session. Broken pieces of colored figurines, scraps of turquoise sea glass, and lots of scattered Band-Aids. My stomach tightens. I kneel down to pull the larger pieces of Huey and Harry from my shag carpet. I reach for a piece of the panda’s back foot.

  “Molly!” Dad’s footsteps are getting closer. My throat tightens and the sweat trickles slowly around my ear, down the side of my neck. He steps into my room. “We need to leave.”

  “I can’t. I have to…”

  “You have to come with me. That’s what you have to do.”

  “I can’t. I have to fix my room before I leave or it won’t be right. Nothing will be right.” I’m crying. It’s too much—the worry, the perfection, the counting.

  In a soft but firm voice, Dad says, “Mol, you need to get up now and come with me.” He helps me stand. He looks me in the eye. “I love you, but I can’t do this alone. We need to do this together.” Pause. “Please. We have to go.”

  I hold his hand and follow him out of my room. He closes the door. My unkempt room screams at me. I trudge down the stairs and lose count. Have to start over. 4, 8, 12, 16. Room’s a mess. 20, 24, 28, 32. I’m dizzy. My fingers tingle. It’s hard to breathe.

  When we finally get to the pediatrician’s office, the panda’s broken foot is still in my hand. I push up my glasses. The rhythm of the clock’s tick keeps the beat of my counting. 104 tick 108 tick 112 tick 116 tick. I close my eyes. Exhaustion floods my body. I lean my head against Dad’s shoulder. He leans in and kisses my forehead.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he whispers.

  120 tick 124 tick 128 tick 132 tick. I wish I believed him. I open my eyes. I notice the boy across the room staring at me. Can he tell what’s wrong with me?

  136 tick 140 tick.

  The blond curls on the little girl next to me bounce as she twirls. Thirteen times. Then she shoves her left pointer finger up her button nose, pulls out a booger, and pops it into her mouth.

  A burning rises in my throat. 144 tick 148 tick 152 tick 156 tick.

  “Molly Nathans,” calls the gangly woman holding my manila folder.

  Dad and I follow the nurse to Dr. Andrews’s office, where he’s waiting for us.

  “Hello, Mr. Nathans.” He shakes my dad’s hand. “Molly.” He nods and then lowers his large bottom into his black, fake-leather chair. I sit in the chair on the right.

  “So, Molly, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” His voice is gentle.

  160, 164, 168, 172.

  “Dr. Andrews, I’m very worried about Molly.” Dad turns to look at me, almost apologetically. “Um. She says she’s counting all the time, going on about keeping things neat and bad things happening to her little brother. It’s important to know that my wife and I re
cently separated and then she relocated to Toronto for the year. And, well, I told Molly we’d spend more time together, but—”

  “Mr. Nathans, I appreciate your concern, but I need to hear from Molly. In fact, it might be a good idea for me to speak with Molly privately and then you can join us at the end.”

  My dad looks over. He doesn’t want to abandon me.

  I nod.

  He rises and slowly heads to the door. “Mol, I’ll be in the waiting room if you need me.” He exits.

  Relief.

  “Now, Molly, can you share with me why you’re here?” Dr. Andrews leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. I wonder if he likes the number four.

  For a moment, I stare at the floor, trying to remember what number I am on. The worry is exposed. I need to find that number. 176 (That’s it!), 180, 184, 188. Then I tell the doctor about every crazy thought I’ve ever had and weird thing I’ve ever done.

  “The first time I remember feeling anything strange was the day Papa Lou died. When he gave me Huey, Nana Rose’s special glass raccoon figurine, and told me to put him in the perfect spot in my room. Then he died. I think I put Huey in the wrong spot.” I look up at the doctor. He’s listening with his hands interlocked behind his gray, thinning hair. 192, 196.

  I take a deep breath and wipe away my tears.

  “Molly, what’s perfect? What does it look like? Feel like?” he asks.

  “Aligned. Equal. Even. So I measure the figurines. Once, twice, three times, four times. Until they feel right. That’s what perfection is, really. When everything just feels right.” 200, 204.

  “How does it feel now?” He writes something on the lined paper in front of him.

  “Awful. Wrong. I can’t find perfect anymore. It takes too long. There’s too much stuff my brain says I have to do to feel just right. At first it was just keeping things neat, then the number four came into it—don’t ask me why—then brushing my hair, picking out my clothes, getting dressed, undressed, doing my schoolwork, walking.” 208, 212.

  “It must be hard for you.” He looks into my eyes over his glasses. They’re round and black like mine.

  “It was hard, but not impossible until the worry came. When it came, things got ugly and weird. Weirder.” 216, 220.