Page 7 of My Heart to Find

CHAPTER FOUR

Cara

ISTARE AT MY FACEin the bathroom mirror. The dark circles under my eyes are no bigger than usual, even after last night, and my eyes themselves are dim. My skin is a sallow, off-white color. My hair is lank, dull, still damp from my shower when I got back in last night. Or rather the early hours of this morning.

Mum hadn’t been pleased about how late it was. Bless her, she’d stayed up until I was back—only to tell me how I’d no doubt have made myself worse.

But I’ve proved I’m not boring.

I have a headache, the kind that feels like it’s weighing down one side of my face. It can’t be from the drink, because I only stuck to soft drinks. Can’t have alcohol when I’m on these antibiotics. The guy at the bar at the back of the club had given me a bit of an odd look when I asked which soft drinks they had—like,what are you doing at the club if you can’t drink?—but, oh well.

I shake off that feeling of being different—but of course it’s not that which is making me uneasy. It’s the OCD, as usual. My monster.

I’m okay,I tell myself. I’m clean—even if my OCD is a simmering pot, just waiting to suddenly boil over at the slightest thing. I’m fine.

I look around my room. It’s getting messy in here again—my caricature sketches of River the Repulsive are spilling off my desk, along with pencils and pens. Some of the drawings of River are more than a little mean, but she doesn’t know about them—only Raymond and Jana know about my cartoon. I struggle tidying my room though—everything feels too dirty to touch, and the pencils on the floor, I’m ashamed to admit they’ve been there a long while. I can’t just put them back on the desk though. It’s too dangerous.

And no one really gets it. Well, no one apart from Raymond. Except from Jana, he’s the friend I talk to most. We met through an online support group for those with OCD caused by Lyme disease, and we quickly became friends. It was a relief to be able to talk to someone else who understands it all, because as much as Jana and Mum and my younger sister Esme all try to understand, they can’t. That’s the thing—you never really get it until you literallyget it. It’s part of the problem about the stigma around any chronic illness and mental health too. It’s inaccessible for those who don’t have it, and it leads to a lot of harm when people don’t understand.

I want to write a book about it one day. I mean, Jana says I should. She writes a lot, and though I love reading—especially crime fiction—I’m more into drawing my cartoon. Maybe I’ll do a cartoon about it.

*

“AH, THERE YOU ARE,”Mum says as I emerge from the bathroom, making sure to open the door with my foot—I never shut the door fully anymore, and I definitely never lock it, because then I’d have to use the handle. Just nudge it to with my foot. Mum, Dad, and Esme know to shout first before going into the bathroom now. “Can you take Riley for his appointment?”

Riley. I freeze. Our dog. The dog I can’t touch.

“I know it’s difficult,” Mum says, “but I need to take Esme to the doctors. She’s got bad earache again. And I’m sorry because I know you’ll be tired after last night, but there’s no way round it.”

“Esme has earache again?” There’s more than one reason my sister is Esme the Earache in my cartoon.

Mum nods. “And I don’t want to cancel Riley’s appointment. Hard enough to get them as it is. And your dad’s got delayed.”

“What? How long for?” I ask.

“He doesn’t know. But he didn’t get back at six this morning. Said it could be this afternoon but most likely later.”

My eyes fall on the family photo wall. The snapshots of us when we were a happy family. So many memories. Me, grinning in my cross-country kit as I’m awarded a medal. Esme in her dance costume. The four of us dressed up all glam for a wedding. Mum and Dad laughing, their faces pressed close together. All four of us at the beach with Riley.

So many photos. So much happiness—but that’s thebefore.

Dad works as a long-distance lorry driver now. We only see him a few days a week, if that.

“Don’t worry,” Mum adds, giving me a smile that’s supposed to be bright and cheery but just has my stomach turning. “Riley will be a good boy, and he does like you. He’ll be pleased to spend time with you again.”

I know she doesn’t mean to make me feel bad, but of course I do. Riley used to be my dog, years ago, before I got the OCD that told me he’s contaminated, that made me afraid of him. Then he became Mum and Dad’s dog, and I’d cry at night as I felt awful for abandoning him. Riley doesn’t understand my OCD—hell, my parents can’t even truly understand it—and it’s not like I can explain to him why I suddenly stopped being available for pets.

Nausea is squeezing me now, and I can’t tell whether it’s fueled by my OCD or the antibiotics. Doxycycline always makes me nauseous. I swallow hard. My mind’s already racing.

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