Cletus stared at my twin for several long seconds, giving me a chance to study Shelly. She’d shifted a few steps to the side and was presently less than three feet to my right. Her eyes were still on the ground and it looked like her jaw was clenched. The rest of her body was rigid and unmoving, except her hands.
The woman was pressing her thumbnail into the tender skin of her wrist, leaving red, semi-circular indentations in a neat line, one right after another.
I squinted at the skin on the interior of her forearm because there was something else; little white scars, one-inch lines, tidy rows of them, starting halfway down from the bend of her elbow and continuing all the way up as far as I could see.
Cuts. Those are scars of healed cuts.
Abruptly, she yanked the sleeve of her shirt, covering her arm and drawing my attention back to her face. I’d been caught staring. She was glaring at me again. Just like always, my thoughts scattered as soon as our eyes met.
And just like always—well, almost always—the impenetrable barricade between her and the world was firmly in place. Shelly Sullivan’s emotions were once more safely hidden behind a frozen fa?ade.
8
“When we have suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good fortune.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
* * *
*Shelly*
“How many Hail Marys are you saying these days?”
“Fifty-three.” I squirmed, because the number was actually fifty-four.
“That’s great news.” Dr. West smiled, as though to congratulate me.
This was in reference to a long-standing compulsion of mine to say a Hail Mary every night before bed for every person I knew, or was related to, or could remember meeting. I had a composition notebook with people’s names. If I didn’t pray for them, my obsessive thoughts told me that the person would die.
Before starting therapy seven months ago, I’d start the Hail Marys at 5:00 PM and finish just after 10:00 PM. Now I was finishing in an hour.
Dr. West was right. I’d improved. I’d trimmed the list down to just fifty-four. Fifty-four people I couldn’t not pray for.
I knew, I knew these thoughts were ridiculous. I knew it. I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t. I didn’t believe my obsessive thoughts were actually true.
They’re irrational.
And yet . . . I couldn’t escape the persistent voice in my head that sometimes whispered, and sometimes screamed, and sometimes made me feel like I was covered in bee stings, What if it is true? What if someone dies because of you? What if? . . . Better be safe than sorry.
“That is good.” Her smile was gone, but her expression was gentle. I really liked her. She reminded me of my sister-in-law. Maybe not as charming, but just as honest, supportive, and straightforward.
Nevertheless, anxiety built a skyscraper in my chest until I couldn’t stand the pressure and I had to admit the truth. “It’s actually fifty-four. I was unkind to the local fire chief, so I added his name to the list.” I exhaled my relief at my confession.
“You were unkind?”
“He seemed really nice, but I just couldn’t shake his hand. It upset him.” I upset him. And I’d upset Beau as well. “I thought about sending him an anonymous fruit basket. Except I thought, what if he’s allergic to fruit? That’s like sending an anonymous death threat. Instead, I added him to the list.”
She gave me an encouraging smile. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Fifty-four is still really good.”
“You are right. But . . .”
“What?”
“I have a nephew who I can’t think about without worrying that I’m going to hurt him.”
“You’re not going to hurt him, Shelly.”
“But what if I do? What if my touching him causes something—”
“No.”
I pressed my thumbnail into the skin of my wrist, making an indentation.
If the marks are there, the baby will be okay.
“What are you thinking about?”
I shook my head, not wanting to answer, taking solace in the fresh half-moons on my skin.
“Are you marking yourself, Shelly?” Her voice was quieter than it had been a moment ago.
I had to answer. That was part of the deal we’d made when she agreed to take me as a patient. I’d promised to be honest.
“Yes.” I nodded, not looking at her. “With my nail.”
“Why?”
“The lines will keep the baby safe.” As soon as the words left my mouth I winced. I sounded completely crazy when I spoke these thoughts out loud.
“Do you believe that, honestly?” Dr. West was still speaking deliberately this week, presumably still counting most of her sentences to make sure they contained an odd-number of words.
“No. Yes. No.” Closing my eyes, I rubbed my forehead. I was exhausted. Tired of this. Tired of being this way. “I do not believe it. I know pressing my nails into my skin will not keep Desmond safe. I’m being stupid.”
“You’re not stupid. You know you’re not stupid. But you must be patient with yourself.” Three. Five. Seven.
Opening my eyes, I studied my therapist, my stomach a knot of remorse and frustration. “I’m sorry I need you to speak in odd-word numbered sentences.”
“It’s all right. I know you will not focus on me otherwise. Not yet, anyway.” She waved away my apology, her eyes sharpening. “Can we talk about your coworker again? The one you brought up last week. What’s his name?”
I swallowed, fighting the urge to remain silent.
I didn’t want to talk about him.
And yet, just like last time, I did want to talk about him. He made everything better. And worse. Chaotic. He made me feel . . . a lot.
I promised. I promised. I promised.
“Beau.”
“Tell me about Beau, please.” She scribbled something in her notes.
I shook my head.
“Please.”
I promised. I promised. I promised.
“He’s a mechanic.”
“You’re coworkers, Shelly?”
“Yes.”
I knew she’d added my name to the end of her question to ensure each of her sentences contained an odd number of words. I appreciated that. I appreciated her.
She wants to help. She wants to help. She wants to help.
“What does Beau look like?”
Instead of answering, I asked, “We’re working on how to stop obsessive thoughts?”
“Yes.”
“Then help me to stop.”
“Thinking about Beau?”
“Yes.”
She smiled weakly. “Shelly.”
“Your tone is very sympathetic.” I smirked at her, the curve of my mouth feeling rusty from disuse.
Her smile widened. “I hate to break it to you, but your thoughts about Beau don’t sound like a part of your OCD. That’s not how OCD works. Obsessive thoughts are completely irrational, they have no basis in reality and that’s why we never look for a root cause. They’re meant to be ignored, and eventually, you’ll be able to ignore most of them. Whereas, it seems like, based on how you described Beau a week ago, these thoughts and feelings you are having are completely rational. He sounds wonderful.”
I’d been so focused on her statements and readying my response to them, I forgot to count her words.
“They’re not rational. Beau has an identical twin. And I don’t have the same thoughts about him.”
Dr. West’s expression didn’t change. “What’s his name?”
“Duane.”
“And what is he like? Is he similar to Beau?”