He clicked on the reviews. One said, “Best book on OCPD out there.”
What the hell was OCPD? A form of OCD? But shouldn’t he know if he had obtrusive, unwanted thoughts? Wasn’t that what defined OCD—you were a slave to thoughts you didn’t want and couldn’t control? He had no problem with order and control. It was everyone else who had the problem.
He read on: “OCPD is not OCD.”
Oh.
Felix huddled forward and angled his laptop round so his neighbor couldn’t see. He started a new search: obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. He swallowed hard. Personality disorder was the deepest, darkest level of insanity, a whole separate level from barmy, which was the polite British way of saying you belonged in a loony bin. Did he have a personality disorder? Did that make him a danger to society—someone who belonged in the Bates Motel?
Felix downed his drink.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” The flight attendant took away his empty glass.
Alcohol—the coward’s way out. Felix shook his head, shook off the fug of two whiskies. He wasn’t a big drinker, didn’t like to lose control. Control. His whole life, until Ella’s heart attack, had been about maintaining control.
When being in control gets out of control.
He started to read online articles. Everything he could find. He read until the plane began its descent into Logan International Airport. And then he closed his eyes and tried to process the information.
OCPD was nothing he’d ever heard of and everything that was familiar. He had memorized the list of characteristics from the International OCD Foundation’s website:
“Rigid adherence to rules and regulations.” Check.
“An overwhelming need for order.” Check.
“Unwillingness to yield or give responsibilities to others.” Check.
“A sense of righteousness about the way things ‘should be done.’” Check.
“Excessive devotion to work that impairs family activities.” Check.
A long explanation followed about why OCPD wasn’t obsessive-compulsive disorder. He imagined some exasperated person typing, For the umpteenth time, no. OCPD is not OCD. The bottom line appeared to be this: people with OCD knew they were crazy; people with OCPD didn’t. People with OCD wanted to change; people with OCPD didn’t.
He found information about hoarding and frugality, which he preferred to ignore, and a link to Tourette syndrome. All those years wasted looking for answers, for the root cause of Harry’s tics, and everything led back to Felix, to the Fitzwilliam DNA.
His midair research had also revealed that most OCPD went untreated. Sufferers were too convinced of their own rightness to believe they needed help. Apparently those who did seek treatment did so only because desperate family members had issued ultimatums: get help or we walk.
Had he driven his family to desperation—caused his wife’s heart to fail from the stress of living with him; pushed Harry into an action that had endangered his life? Was his desire for control out of control?
He was not losing his family; he was not losing Harry. Their relationship was just beginning—a new chapter, a new day in his life. He would not be Pater, who had died estranged from his sons. He would do whatever it took to be a good father—not a perfect father, but the best he could be. He would be there for his son today, tomorrow, and every day after that. And he’d read that psychotherapy held much promise for people motivated to change. Damn right, he was motivated to change. He was going to hire professional help—the best.
Felix barely noticed the landing, barely noticed the bracing roar of the airbrakes. His attention was fixed on the seat belt sign. The moment it dinged off, Felix was in the aisle with his laptop and his briefcase. He stood first in line to deplane and powered his phone back on. He was going to rescue his son, and nothing would stand in his way.
FORTY