I winced, my heart and mind racing, and I lowered my gaze to her shirt. It was blue. But not aqua, not navy, not royal.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Your shirt, what color blue is that?”
“Shelly, please focus. I know discussing this situation—what happened to your family after your older brother died and the decisions you made—is very difficult for you. But the time is going to come when you’ll have to tell the truth and distracting yourself won’t be an option. You need to take responsibility for lying to Quinn. And your parents.” Three words. Twenty-five words. Twenty-one words. Nine words. Three words.
I nodded, forcing myself to focus and confront my anxiety. “I want to apologize, make things right.”
“Then you will.” She sounded so sure.
And I was having trouble breathing. “He’ll hate me.”
“He might, and yet you still have to take responsibility for your actions.” Thirteen words.
“I promise,” I gave her my eyes, “I haven’t lied to you.”
“I know, Shelly.” Her expression was patient.
“And I haven’t lied to anyone in over a year.”
“But you’ve been avoiding your brother Quinn for two years, and your sister-in-law for months.”
I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “I’m almost ready. I just need a little more time. I need to be better.”
Dr. West considered me, then continued speaking in her measured pace. “Your disorder, it has grown. We will diminish its hold on you. But this will take patience. Last year was the first time you have tried to overcome your OCD. The first time you have sought treatment in your entire life. There’s still a lot of work to be done. But I know you can do it.” Five words. Seven words. Five words. Thirteen words. Eleven words. Nine words. Seven words.
Her soft brown eyes moved over me, searching. “I don’t want to bring this up again if it’ll upset you, but the option still remains to check yourself into a facility. We could then address your touch aversion in a safe setting where you’ll be monitored.”
“No.” A stabbing fear shot through me, hitting my chest like a thunderbolt, and I struggled to keep my voice even.
“It would be intense, but I still believe it’s the safest and most efficient way—”
“Where I’ll be forced to touch strangers? Where they can touch me? No.” I shook my head vehemently.
“Your compulsions limit what can be done in the office setting. Without supervision, the ERP plan we’ve designed, when you’re ready, may not—”
“Then I’ll work harder on my own.” Determination firmed my voice.
My therapist pressed her lips together and nodded grimly, jotting something down in her notes. “Are you writing in your journal, Shelly?”
“Yes.” Thinking about my journal made my hands relax.
Dr. West had discouraged the keeping of a diary. Rather early on in our sessions, when I still lived in Illinois and we spoke over Skype, she’d asked me to keep a journal where I listed three things I was thankful for every day. She said it would help with my feelings of anxiety. She’d been right.
“Good. And you’re meditating?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. How is work? I mean, how are you feeling about the statues?”
“I’ve cast the copper structures. I am missing some of the silver. I have orders coming in next week.” I studied my therapist as I began to relax, and I wondered if she brought up my art because she actually wanted to know, or because she knew it would calm me.
“One of your worries about taking medication was that you would lose your ability to be creative. Are you experiencing any difficulty?”
I took a moment to reflect on her question. Had I lost my creative energy? “I don’t know. I did the sketches before I started on the fluoxetine. Now I’m following those plans. I’m more focused than I’ve been in the past, less distracted, so I’m ahead of schedule. But as to whether my creativity has been inhibited by the medication, I suppose I won’t know until I receive a new commission.”
“Okay, fair enough.” She wrote something down in her notes. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss today?”
I want to talk about Beau again.
I bit my tongue, struggling against the impulse.
I wanted her to help me stop thinking about him. I wanted to stop noticing how kind he was, how thoughtful, how generous. I hated how easily he’d been able to apologize to me last week, and how sincere he’d been. I believed him when he said he was sorry. I also wanted to discuss how he looked at me, like he actually saw me. Even when I frustrated him, I felt like he still saw me.
That’s not possible. He didn’t know me, not at all. If he knew you, he would run in the other direction.
But still, I wanted to pick apart every detail of every conversation we’d ever had.
Therefore, I tried for a smile, and said, “Nothing more today.”
I wasn’t in Tennessee to think about Beau Winston. I was in Tennessee to make myself better, so I could return to Chicago and be the person my brother, Janie, Desmond, and my parents deserved.
Hopefully, by my session next week, these obsessive thoughts about Beau Winston would be a distant memory.
5
“Quiet people have the loudest minds.”
― Stephen Hawking
* * *
*Beau*
Cletus being right about Shelly’s skills didn’t negate the fact that I was also right. She was bad for business.
“What are you going to do when I leave in November?” Duane had stopped me as we left church, a week and a half after Shelly Sullivan’s rude treatment of Mr. McClure. I’d been avoiding the woman since.
Saying nothing to her had been easy. She hardly ever spoke to me or anyone. When she did speak to me, it was always to ask where something was located. Yet, despite her silence, I never forgot she was there.
When I chewed the fat with customers, when my brothers stopped by, when I listened to music while I worked, I felt her watching me. Just to make sure I wasn’t crazy, every once in a while I’d glance up and catch her looking, that glare of hers sending me off kilter for two beats of my heart. The woman made no attempt to disguise her scrutiny.
Her presence rankled like a sand burr in my boxers.
“What can I do?” I shrugged, well beyond exasperated. “Cletus won’t listen to me, says I’m biased. Meanwhile, she’s glaring at babies.”
Ms. Julianne MacIntyre had brought her two grandkids along to pick up her car. Shelly had taken one look at the children—the baby in particular—and darted in the opposite direction. And the baby wasn’t cranky, smelly, or ugly either. He was darn cute.
“I tried talking to Cletus last week.” Duane scratched his beard.
“I know.”
Cletus had instructed Duane to put his concerns in the suggestion box. Of note, Cletus had labeled the shredder in the upstairs office suggestion box a year ago when Duane had suggested half days on Fridays.