The Unfinished Garden. Barbara White Claypole
all the leverage he needed.
“You can find anything,” he said, “if you’re determined.” That wasn’t a lie, even though the voice told him it was.
“I’m trying to be patient. Really. But I’m dangerously close to telling you to jump off a pier. Only with a few choice expletives thrown in.” She paused. “How’re the silent hiccups?”
“You really want to know?” His voice was almost a whisper.
“Sadly, yes. I do.”
“Worse.” The treadmill creaked an indignant rhythm as he upped the speed a second time. He’d never taken it this high.
“So you’re going to keep calling me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Time for a deal, Mr. Nealy. You get an answer in one week—if, and only if, you agree to abide by my decision. And no calling in the interim.”
Was that a yes? Or a no? Or a nothing? He hated nothings. But it could turn into a yes, right? “Agreed.”
“And—”
“Addendums?” He panted. “Already?”
“I’d like the adult explanation of your hiccups.”
“Will it…affect your…decision?” He was running hard now. Racing against the voice, which was stuck doing a circuit of: If you tell her, she’ll think you’re a fucking weirdo. James tried to drown out the thought with the lyrics of “Psycho Killer,” but he couldn’t get past the line that basically said, leave me the hell alone because I’m a live wire.
“Labels are merely a way of lumping people together like plants on a stall,” Tilly said. “I don’t much care what yours is.” She was smiling. He could hear it in the pitch of her voice. “Okay, gloves-off honesty. I’m curious.”
“What’s…your…label?” His sneakers pounded the treadmill belt.
“I thought we were talking about you.”
“I’m not…all that…interesting.” Once you edit out the crazy bits.
“Okay, fine. I’m game for a little transatlantic show-and-tell.” She gave a huge sigh. “I’m a guilt-ridden widow. No, that’s too strong. I’m not drowning in guilt. It’s just there, in the background.”
James blew out a couple of breaths and slowed down to a fast walk. “You have to be careful with guilt.” So, Tilly understood the horror of a damaged mind, which couldn’t be good either for her, or for Isaac. “Guilt can become an intrusive thought. And that’s my world. Thoughts that drag you back and under. Thoughts that never let go. Obsessive thoughts that lead to compulsive actions. Look up OCD on Wikipedia and read about cognitive-behavioral therapy. It’s a way of redirecting unwanted thoughts. You might find it helpful.” He shut the treadmill. At 5:16 a.m. the day was already too long. “I’ll call one week from today. Same time.”
James hung up and crumpled across the front of the treadmill. He had told her! Told her he was crippled by an anxiety disorder that popular culture equated with people to ridicule or fear: a television detective incapable of navigating life without a wipes-carrying assistant; a monster driven to murder by odd numbers; a billionaire recluse who couldn’t touch doorknobs and died in squalor. James banged the heels of his hands into his temples. Bang, bang. Bang, bang. Bang, bang.
He never told anyone he had OCD—not family, not lovers, not close friends. His buddy Sam guessed years ago, but it was understood, not discussed, which was what James wanted. It was no one’s business but his own, because to say those words out loud was to brand himself. Tilly was right—OCD was a label, and with labels came stigma, and weakness, and pity. Everything that James detested, everything that reminded him how it felt to be ten years old, standing by his mother’s grave, scared of the future, terrified of the thoughts unraveling in his brain, and desperate not to be the object of people’s stares. Desperate to blend in and disappear, to be the person you never quite remembered, when he was more likely to be the person you wished you could forget.
She hates you, she’s scared of you, she thinks you’re a kook.
No, no. James pressed down with his palms. He was done with doubt. It would not pull him under again. He would not revert to the person he had been before he had decided to sell the business, the apartment, the farm. Before he had decided to save himself.
Besides, Tilly? Scared of anyone? He didn’t think so. And yes, he was weird. He was weird! So what? He should be able to shout to the world that he was obsessive-compulsive, to do so without dreading other people’s reactions. Maybe opening up to Tilly was the first step, and no different from his dad attending an A.A. meeting just so he could announce, “I’m a drunk.”
That was a good theory and one James desperately wanted to believe. Acknowledging weakness gave you strength, but he’d slipped up, released personal information without having intended to, and that was out of character. Other people said things they shouldn’t; he didn’t.
But when he’d hinted at the truth that day at the farm, hadn’t a small part of him dared to trust, dared to believe that he had met someone, finally, who might understand? How would Tilly treat him now that she knew? Would she look at him and see the OCD, not James? Was it even possible to separate the two?
His psychologist always said, “It’s the OCD, not you,” but the lines weren’t distinct for James. OCD may have twisted up his mind, but it had crafted him, made him James, pushed him to succeed and bequeathed the only gift that mattered: the ability to perceive pain in others. He didn’t always act on that knowledge, didn’t always want to, but he was drawn to people in dark corners, could empathize with them. So now he was being altruistic. Truthfully, you enjoy living alongside people who are more fucked-up than you. That wasn’t true of most of his friends, but it had been his M.O. in love.
His thoughts circled him back to Tilly. She would take him on. She would. But once they started working together, once they had regular contact, he would have to be more careful. Because if she saw behind the label, if he revealed the biggest truth of all, she would never understand. The end. The end.
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