Page 33 of The Girl He Loves
She writes a few notes on her pad, for the first time today. She doesn’t typically do this, just an occasional note here and there, but today, she’s scribbling furiously.
I watch her and wait patiently, hands folded on my lap.
She raises her gaze to mine again. “Tell me about him… the girl’s father.”
My face lights up at the thought of him. “He’s like no one I’ve ever met,” I explain. “There’s a sweetness about him I can’t quite describe. I think it’s in his eyes — he has very kind eyes. Big chocolate brown eyes and a really nice smile. He’s blond like his wife. Their daughter is dark haired like Brian.”
She nods quietly.
I don’t mention the lean strong build, and how his fingers felt in my hair, despite the fact that it’s all I think about. “He likes the Chicago Bulls. He used to be a star basketball player in high school. And he loves his family and his cat,” I babble on, like a junior high school girl with a silly crush. “He has three older sisters, which explains why he has very feminine tendencies.”
She smiles. “Yes, men stylists are not too common.”
“He strikes me as a very sensitive type,” I go on. “He’s also into yoga, so we have that in common. His sister owns a studio…” my words trail off at the thought of his invitation. This is why I’m here today, in Dr. Russell’s office. I want to resist the urge to take him up on his invitation.
“Well…” is all she says. An uncomfortable silence fills the air between us until she finally speaks again. “It looks like there’s been a lot of turmoil in your life these past few weeks, a lot of challenges. And you’ve done absolutely the right thing, confiding in me today. We can get through this together, Mischa.”
My heart swells. Yes, I want to get through this. I want to be normal. Just a few weeks ago, life was going so well, and now, I’m a complete wreck.
“Are you planning to address the issue with Brian?” she asks kindly. “Ask him about the girl? You need to start that conversation.”
“I want to,” I tell her, “but I’m afraid of the answers. I’m afraid it will change everything.”
“It might,” she says, “but you can’t live in this limbo forever, Mischa. You need to know the truth. You need to address this.”
“I know, Dr. Russell,” I concede, but I don’t promise anything.
Unfortunately, there’s a big difference between what one knows is the right thing to do, and what one actually does — especially when fear and obsession are involved.
* * *
I’m surroundedby footwear and jackets, soccer cleats, and about fifty recyclable bags. I’m arms deep in them, organizing. When I’m done with this closet, it will be spotless, an impressive sight. I’m fully aware that in about a week, Brian and the boys will have messed it up again. Regardless, I forge on.
It’s been a week and I’ve been very good. I want to reach out to Joel. I want to creep his Facebook, and Renee’s and Ava’s. I want to go to Renee’s store again. The obsessive urges are persistent and intrusive and I try not to humor them. They are like Jehovah’s witnesses at the door or telemarketers on the telephone. I simply slam the door shut or hang up. It’s been a constant struggle but I’ve done very well. I focus on what Dr. Russell has taught me:Relabel, Reattribute, Refocus and Revalue.I know the only reason I desire what I do is because of my illness. These urges are just a result of my messed-up brain wiring. Dr. Russell has upped my medication, which leaves me a little numb and more tired than usual. But it’s only temporary. Hopefully, we can lower it again once I get past this. Dr. Russell calls it a ‘challenge’. I call it a fucked-up obsession.
Refocusing has led me to be more productive, to organize my condo feverishly, down to the smallest detail. Every fork, paper clip, coin is in its rightful place. I’ve even organized the boxes of mementos and family memories by year. Baskets, folders and boxes, and that alone has taken me hours. The boys and Brian know that I’m not quite right. I’m switching one obsessive behavior for another, but obsessively organizing my home doesn’t hurt anyone.
“Everything all right?” Brian asks me for the thousandth time.
I glance up at him. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Thanks for organizing my sock drawer by the way,” he says. “I especially appreciate how you color coordinated them. No more wasting time in the morning trying to find my orange socks with the bugs on them.”
I smile. Those socks were a birthday gift from Tristan years ago. I know Brian’s making fun of me, but it’s with good intentions — it’s how he deals with my quirky ways.
I’m not the only one who has developed coping mechanisms over the years.
* * *
We’re meetingat Claudia’s place on the second floor this week. Unlike Gretchen’s condo, Claudia’s is a little messy, and it makes me a little uneasy. The decor is eclectic — everything is mismatched, and this also annoys me to no end. There’s a tall pile of magazines next to the sofa — piled haphazardly. A few of them are scattered on the floor. I resist the urge to tidy them up. It’s not the most soothing environment for me, but what can I do? She’s my friend and it’s all part of my therapy, being able to relax in not-so-ideal settings, and letting things go. I smile as she hands me a cup of tea. My gaze darts across the space, and I study the colorful paintings on the walls.
To be completely honest, I’m not sure how Claudia and I get along so well — she’s my complete polar opposite. She’s a free-spirit. She lives a bohemian lifestyle, and wears loose hippie blouses, long flowy skirts, and costume jewelry I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. She’s the most creative person I know. When she’s not painting, she’s a stage manager at the Den Theatre. She oversees the plays, the stage, the actors, and brings it all together. She usually works evenings and weekends. It’s not the easiest job to have when you have a child, and I get the impression that that may have contributed to her separation. Her ex hated her job.
I hesitate as I’m about to set my cup of tea down because the coffee table is covered with magazine clippings.
“Oh, just put it anywhere on the mess,” Claudia says. “I don’t care.”
I set it on a photo of a blonde goddess in a long colorful sequin skirt and frilly white blouse, something I would never wear. “What are you working on?” I ask, curious.
