“It’s because he thinks I’m crazy. And he doesn’t want to go out with a crazy idiot.”
She laughed through her aww-noise. “What are you talking about? You’re not crazy! Yes, you watch weird films I’ve never heard of, and sometimes you talk like my grandma, but you’re fine. Perfectly normal otherwise. Why would you say that?”
I started to cry and she hugged me, looking confused. Not knowing anything.
“Evie, hey, it’s okay. What’s wrong? You can tell me.”
It would’ve been the perfect time to tell her. To tell anyone. To say, “I’m drowning and I need someone, anyone, to be my life raft.” To say, “I thought it had gone, and it hasn’t and I’m so scared by what that means.” To say, “I just want to be normal, why won’t my head let me be normal?”
But I couldn’t. It would be confirmation I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t better. I’d failed at boring everyday existing that everyone else finds so easy.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said into her bustle of hair, wondering when I could wash it off my face. “I just really liked him.”
My hands were filthy by the time I got in. Filthy from a mile of street light touching, and freezing from cold.
BAD THOUGHT
You must wash them. Whatever goes down with your family, you must wash them.
BAD THOUGHT
URGENT THOUGHT
And you really need to finish the shower too.
URGENT THOUGHT
Are you sure you touched every single street light? Maybe you should go back and do it again, just in case?
I hesitated on the doorstep, unsure of what to do first. My hands were so dirty…but I wouldn’t get a chance to go back to the street lights again. Maybe if I touched twelve times, rather than six, that would make Guy message? Or at least make me better? But my heart beat so fast about my hands…
…The front door opened, making my decision for me. Mum’s face appeared through the threshold – her face grim.
“Evelyn, get inside.”
“But…”
“No arguments. Get inside. Now.”
She yanked me into the house, getting her germs all over my arm.
“Oww, Mum! There’s no need for that.”
“We’re having a family meeting in the kitchen.”
URGENT THOUGHT
YOU HAVE TO WASH YOUR HANDS NOW, EVIE.
“Okay, great,” I said, as breezily as I could. “I just need to go to the bathroom…”
“No. I’m not letting you lock yourself in there and make your hands bleed again.”
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO, I screamed inside.
“I need a wee! You’re not going to let me wee?” My voice broke.
“No. Because you don’t need to. You’re just trying to ritualize.”
“Fine then. I’ll piss myself. Let your own child piss herself.”
“That’s okay. The kitchen has lino.”
“This is child abuse.”
“No, Evie. This is called ‘caring about you’.”
I was sobbing before I even got to the kitchen. When I saw Rose sitting at the table, finally but tragically let in on my pathetic non-secret, I wailed. Dad’s tie was loosened, his hair standing on end from running his hands through it. Only my dad would wear a tie on a Sunday.
“Evelyn, sit down,” he said, talking like he must do at work before he sacks people. That’s what his job is. A professional sacker – or “performance expert”, as he calls it. Companies hire him to decide who they can dispose of to save money, then let Dad do all the dirty work for them. That’s why he charges so much. And probably why he has a sick daughter. Karma.
I bet he wished he could sack me…
“I just need to wash my hands,” I pleaded, in a small voice. “They’re…cold?”
He leaned back in his chair and took some drying socks off the kitchen radiator. “You can warm them here.”
I made a run for it, it was the only way. I bolted for the kitchen sink and Dad kicked his chair backwards, chasing me. I got as far as turning the tap on before he grabbed me around the stomach, pulling me back.
“Noooo,” I yelled, crying so hard. “Please let me, please let me. Please. Please!”
He smoothed down my hair, trying to calm me. “Evie, this is for your own good. Remember that? You don’t need to do this. You’re not dirty. You’re not going to get ill.”
“I am, I am. I AM! Please let me, please. I’ll scream…” What an amazing idea. I screamed as loud as I could – it rang off the walls, pierced all our eardrums. Dad dropped me instinctively and I took my chance, running for the kitchen sink. In a second my hands were underwater. Oh the relief, the sweet relief. I could feel the germs dripping off me, splashing down the plughole, leaving me alone. I tipped a generous gloop of fairy liquid into my hands and rubbed it into the bad places.
…Wash wash wash…up in between every finger…spend lots of time around the bottom of the thumbs…palm to palm…back to back…
I’d stopped crying. I felt okay.
Then I realized no one was stopping me.
I turned around to my family, the water still running.
They all stared at me, watching me attack my skin frantically, looking like a meth addict. Mum had slumped to the floor – her hands over her ears, trying to block out her daughter. Dad was shaking his head slowly – disappointment bleeding all over his face.
And Rose…Rose…
Her eyes were wide with shock, shiny with worried tears. One lay suspended on her cheek.
“Evie?” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
I turned the tap off. Shame echoed and bounced off the inside of my bones. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I just needed to…”
“Rose,” Mum whispered. “Go to the living room. I was wrong, you are too young for this.”
“But I want to stay.” Rose got off her chair and hugged me hard. I felt the warmth in her body, her arms around my back. Huge waves of grief crashed through me.
“Rose, Mum’s right. I’m fine, honest.”
“But, you’re not fine, are you?”
“I am,” I insisted, hugging her back hard.
Dad stood up. “You’re not fine, Evelyn. We think you’ve had a relapse. We’ve rung Sarah; we’re all going to see her together after college tomorrow.”
Relapse…
“No,” I whispered. “No no no no no.”
What they tell you about relapse
It’s all part of recovery, they say.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of, they say.
It doesn’t mean you’ve failed, they say.
It doesn’t mean you’ll never get better, they say.
Watch out for those triggers, they say.
It can happen very quickly, they say.
“No,” I said, louder this time. “I’ve not relapsed. You’re wrong.”
Mum covered her ears further. “Evie, look at you. Look at your hands.”
I did. They were bleeding.
“So what? So I keep clean so I don’t get sick – doesn’t everyone else wash every day? Don’t people buy bottles of that antibacterial hand gel and tip it over themselves whenever they get a train? The world is filthy, Mum. What’s wrong with keeping myself clean?”
She shook her head in an I-can’t-believe-we’re-here-again way.
“We’ve been through this before, Evelyn,” Dad said, taking over. “It’s the amount of times you do it, the fact it’s controlling your life again.”
“It’s you who is controlling my life,” I yelled, so loud Rose unwrapped herself and sat down on a kitchen chair. “The only interference is YOU. I’m going to college, I’m doing okay in my coursework, I’ve got friends, boys like me. I’m only going crazy because YOU’RE STOPPING ME.”
“FOR YOUR OWN GOOD,” Dad yelled back.
“Oh shut up, and go fire some more people. Is that for their own good too, eh? Is that what you tell yourself?”
“We’re seeing Sarah tomorrow and we’re going to increase your dosage again. Just until this blip is over.”