Obsession

The problems began immediately after it happened. As the two of us were escorted out of the courtyard, I kept worrying I’d slip and fall. My legs were still weak, which made walking all the more treacherous.

I declined a ride to the hospital, but she went along with them. By the time I made it back to my car, I remembered that I’d left my laptop behind, but there was no way I was going back to retrieve it.

The soles of my gray New Balance shoes were dry, but I took them off and wrapped them in paper towels I had in my trunk. When I got home, the first thing I did was wash them, scrubbing them as clean as I could. The sights I’d witnessed, I couldn’t stop running them in my head, a movie I wished I could walk out on, but couldn’t. Like I was crazy-glued to the seat. Then I threw the shoes in the washing machine.

That was the first indication. Next, when I stood over my toilet, I had this creeping suspicion that it wasn’t clean enough. Down on my hands and knees, I abandoned a brush and scrubbed the bowl with a scouring pad.

When I finally fell into bed that night, I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Whether I closed my eyes or stared at the ceiling, the movie kept rolling, then rewinding, over and over again. The pictures were relentless. That smile he smiled as he walked toward me was always the climax.

At 3:00 a.m., I went upstairs to the garage and detailed my car. I was becoming a hyper-cleaner.

The ads came out almost immediately, on TV, in the newspaper, and on the radio. If anyone wanted it, there would be a meeting in a conference auditorium at Queen’s Hospital. Counselors would be available to make appointments for anyone who wanted to talk about what had happened and how to cope with the aftermath.

The place was packed with people. I spotted her in the back row and went to sit beside her.

After all the preliminaries were concluded, some people stood up and left. Most, however, lined up to sign on the list. Neither she nor I moved as we watched the line move along.

“Hi,” I said, to her, softly, so as not to frighten her. That looked like a possibility given the saw she stared at all the people who wanted help, almost as if not seeing them.

“I don’t know if you remember me, but I was the one they helped out of the courtyard along with you.”

Her head pivoted to look at me. Her eyes were glassy. There was no warmth in her facial expression.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Yes. I remember.”

“Are you going to sign up?” I asked.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “I have to.”

I nodded. “Yeah, me too. It’s not been good.”

At this, she gave a weak smile, the kind that indicates agreement without enthusiasm. The conversation ended there. Still we sat, waiting for the line to thin down.

Finally, I stood up. So did she. I let her walk first down the aisle.

After she added her name and email address, the man said, “Oh, and I need your phone number.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have a phone. I left it behind that day, and I haven’t gone to get a new one yet.”

“Oh, okay, that’s not a problem. We’ll contact you by email.”

She turned and trudged back up the aisle.

I wrote out my information as quickly as I could. Then I walked quickly to the conference room exit and scanned the hallway. She hadn’t made much progress, barely lifting her feet as she shuffled along.

Running up to her side, I said, “Hey, would you be interested in us talking about what happened.”

Again the glassy look, but this time there was a warmer smile, although still only a slight one.

She nodded. “Yes, sure, I’d like that.”

I pulled out my phone and opened my contact list. “Here,” I said, handing it to her.

She typed her name, Steph Chan, and her email address. “I don’t have a phone anymore.”

“Right, yes, I saw that in there. I’ll email you later today.”

We’d reached the parking lot. “I’m over there,” pointing in the general direction, not indicating a specific car.”

“Oh, okay, I’m up on the fourth floor.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll email you when I get home.”

“Okay.” And with that, she walked away.

I emailed her immediately. Not wanting to get into anything too heavy right away, I simply gave her my name and asked about how she was feeling.

Several days passed, and I’d not heard from her. Maybe, I thought, she only does email on her phone. Maybe she hasn’t picked up a new one yet.

I’m old school. Never comfortable doing anything on my phone, including talking on it, I prefer my desktop. You know time is shortening up when you hit retirement, and the last thing I wanted to do was waste any of it trying to master how to use cell phones efficiently.

Maybe, I wondered, she was just being polite. Maybe she didn’t want to talk about it with me. After a few more days, I gave up on the idea that she’d contact me.

I was showering three times a day now.

Just after I’d resolved that I’d never hear from her again, a message popped into my box.

“I’m sorry I took so long to respond. I finally went to buy a new phone, but I couldn’t. Today I bought a laptop.”

But that was it. There was nothing about how she was feeling. Except for not wanting to buy another phone. Thinking about it, that was probably a good indication that she was feeling awful about anything she associated with that day.

“That’s good,” I wrote back. “I’m not much of a phone person. I rely on my desktop.”

Rather than harp on the ‘How are you feeling’ line, I wrote, “What brand of laptop?”

Again, many days passed. During that time my hand washing became what would surely qualify as obsessive-compulsive. Every time I did, I thought about Lady Macbeth.

Also, during that period of silence, a counselor called me. After a long pause, and knowing that I did need it given how bad my cleanliness bent had become, I told him that I’d changed my mind. He gave me his phone number just in case I decided that I did want to talk to someone.

My mind. Churning. Sleepless nights. Still that horrible movie rolled. Part of my obsession had to be that I was trying to find some way to ritualize, to meditate my way out of the theater and into, well, nothingness, I hoped. How to make my mind blank, my memory washed, could I do it on my own?

Finally, a message came.

“I have a counselor now,” she said. “She’s actually a psychiatrist. I had my first meeting yesterday. She’s very nice. I think she’ll be able to help me.”

This was progress. I might never find out what brand of laptop she had, but at least she’d said more, and now there was that tone of optimism.

“I got a call, too,” I said. “I told them I’d changed my mind. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have done that. Things are happening to me. Not good ones. An obsession with cleaning things, mainly. And I can’t get any good sleep. Maybe I should call them back and sign up.”