What We Hold Sacred
Anthony’s not looking at me. He’s looking everywhere but me. Imagine an athlete who ducked to get through your door, sitting on your couch, afraid to look at you.
So I tell him about my other clients. Like the man who quit his job over the way a janitor looked at him. Or the woman who dropped a million-dollar book contract because she believed the publisher might be publishing her book just to make fun of it. “This is what happens your life is ruled by irrational fear,” I tell Anthony. I pick up my clipboard and flip to a new page. A page where I jot Anthony’s name at the top. “But they all got better,” I say, circling Anthony’s name. “Better after talking to me.”
Now Anthony is scratching his legs. Raking up and down like they’re covered in bugs. So I dive right into contamination fears. I tell him about a woman so terrified of catching a disease that she barely left her bed. Whenever she did venture out – to the bathroom or to the porch to meet her sister who brought her food – she took a bottle of wipes to wipe down every door handle before she touched them.
“And now this woman lives in New York, rides the subway, and hasn’t bought a box of Clorox wipes in over five years,” I say.
Anthony stops scratching but looks down. He’s still not speaking either. He’s basically just a cardboard cutout on my couch. A cardboard cutout that blew a hundred bucks for one hour of my time.
“Look, dude, the sooner you talk, the more I can help,” I say.
No response, so I bring up a lady who wouldn’t talk. A lady who believed the very act of mentioning her fear would kill her. “She wouldn’t even write it down,” I say. “Her mom brought her here begging me to help, but there was nothing I could do. She wouldn’t talk, so she ended up in the hospital.”
I put down my clipboard, pick up a bottled water. “But that doesn’t have to be you,” I say, offering Anthony the bottled water.
Anthony takes the water, leans back, and takes a sip. Then he stashes it by his side and says he’s not worried at all. He’s not afraid of telling me anything. In fact, he’s ready to tell me shit he’s never told anyone.
*
Turns out, Anthony’s a big talker. Talking facts, that is. Like the fact that he’s got three cars, a big house, and a career in the minor leagues. Not to mention, he’s got his own YouTube channel.
Then he stares at a plant in the corner. Just stares at it like his eyes are magnetized to it. And he’s taking deep breaths. Here’s the headline: Man who bragged he wasn’t afraid to tell me anything, goes mute again.
I look at the clock.
I clear my throat, loudly.
“This isn’t being recorded, is it?” Anthony asks, still looking at the plant.
“No, Anthony, this isn’t being recorded.”
“I want to be a good father,” he says, turning his face to me. “That’s it. I want to be a good father. I want to be a good father who plays with his kids.” Then Anthony looks at the floor, shaking his head. “Because the only thing I do now is avoid them.”
“Anthony, you’re busy,” I say, tapping my foot. “You play baseball. You have a YouTube Channel. But that doesn’t mean you’re not a good father. Or that you don’t love your kids.”
“I love my kids IS what I’m saying,” Anthony says. “But a nanny does everything, and I’m hardly around my kids – and maybe that seems normal for someone like me– but it’s not. Because it’s not baseball that keeps me away when I’m home,” he says. “It’s the thoughts I have that keep me away. The thoughts I keep having about my OWN children.”
“Anthony, get over it,” I say. “You’re too busy. That’s all this is.” I stand up and yank open the blinds. “No charge. Have a good day.”
*
My wife wants to know what I’m thinking. She’s in the kitchen feeding our daughter, putting a spoon into our daughter’s mouth.
“So tell me?” she asks again.
I snatch a bottled water from the fridge. I take a sip. Then another. I look around the room, not saying anything.
“My husband at a loss for words,” my wife says, “Now that’s a new one.” Then she wipes Lilly’s mouth.
I try to speak, but my heartbeat’s going crazy. My head’s burning up. I look at the plant in the window while taking deep breaths. Focus, I tell myself. You love your wife and kids.
Finally, I open my mouth. I tell my wife about a client. About a man so afraid of being judged by his family and friends that he won’t tell anyone about the thoughts he has about his own children. After saying it, I look down.
Next thing I know, my wife’s behind me, wrapping her arms around me.
“Honey, that man’s issue doesn’t seem like an issue at all,” my wife says. “From time to time, we all have those kind of crazy thoughts.” Then she kisses me on the neck.
Jake Kinzie is a website designer who considers writing the ultimate form of self-expression. His dream is to write as authenticity as he can about his OCD and to never be afraid of anything. He has previously been published in Literally Stories, Five on the Fifth, and The Peregrine Journal.
