and in the event that they were accused of some monstrosity, they could count on their enraged dissonance, the knowledge that they had been wronged, to fuel their defence.
But people with primary obsessional OCD were different. People like Sanjay spent all of their time worrying that they were getting away with something terrible, unspeakable. They were convinced that they were ghouls, the most vicious beasts on the planet, and that no one was holding them to account. That they represented an unchecked danger to those around them. Robert Frost once said that a liberal was a man too broad-minded to take his own side in a quarrel; Dr. Boudreau’s patients were men and women too convinced of their evil to take their own side in a trial. Annick’s hands sank to the floor as she considered the possibility that Sanjay might be too far gone in his mania for self-prosecution to fight for his own freedom. Maybe he wouldn’t tell the lawyer anything.
Or, maybe he had killed his roommate.
The idea felt like tripping on something, and Annick struggled to catch her breath.
She opened the door to her office, her legs wobbling underneath her as she walked down the corridor to Cedric’s. She leaned herself against the frame of his open door, half to keep from falling.
“Cedric?”
“Ah, the new face of mental health. What can I do for you?”
“Cedric,” she started again, unsure of exactly what she planned to ask. Sensing that his flip greeting hadn’t been properly tuned to his colleague’s mood, Dr. Manley snapped into solemnity, picking his glasses up from the desk and replacing them on his face.
“Annick? Are you okay?”
“No, yeah. Fine. I just—I wanted to ask…”
“Sit down.”
“No, no thank you, Cedric. I have a patient coming in. I—I just…”
Cedric’s face fell into a groove of pure paternal comfort and shepherding concern.
“It’s nothing, I just wanted to know—in your practice, or in your research, have you ever come across…” Annick searched for the words that would best keep Sanjay’s confidentiality intact. “Do you know what the numbers are on primary obsessional OCD and violent crime?”
“Pardon?” Cedric’s face wrinkled as though she’d asked the rabbi for a lobster recipe. The question was not only crazy; it was a violation of an understanding that they shared explicitly. “I don’t understand what you’re asking, Annick. You know that it’s zero—”
“No, I don’t mean acting on the content of their thoughts, I mean in unrelated violent crime. Not, like, the things from the intrusive thoughts—other violence.”
Cedric shook his head incredulously. “I can’t—I don’t know that that research exists. Whence would the data be extracted?”
Cedric’s use of whence in a spoken sentence worked on Annick in the manner of a gentle pinch, and brought her back to reality. She was doing it—this was reassurance-seeking behaviour.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Never mind.”
“Dr. Boudreau?” it was Paul, standing tentatively behind her.
Annick took a deep breath and turned, trying to centre herself. Sanjay hadn’t killed anyone, and they would certainly figure that out soon enough. There was nothing she could do for Sanjay this afternoon, and certainly nothing that she could do during Paul’s session. Paul had a right to her undivided attention, and she had a responsibility to her other patients. Annick returned Paul’s smile, then turned back towards her colleague.
“Sorry, Cedric. Just ignore what I said.”
She pivoted to Paul again, still smiling, and walked back with him to her office. Annick closed the door, sat down across from her patient, then leaned back and turned off the computer monitor.
“So?” she asked, eyebrows folding up into her most empathetic listening expression. “What’s going on? How have you been doing?”
“Yeah,” said Paul, moving his head in a motion that was just as much shaking as nodding. “I don’t know. It’s been a pretty anxious time.”
“Yeah? Tell me about it.”
5
“You know that I was joking, right? I had no expectation whatsoever that you would actually come?”
“I couldn’t sleep anyway. And I have some stuff to wrap my head around—is that why you people do this? To clear your heads?”
“‘You people’?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Annick, chill. I was joking. You’re not capable of offending me in my capacity as part of the running community.”
“Sorry,” she smiled meekly, embarrassed. “I’m just so sick of Jogging-Canadians on the whole, you know? Taking our jobs, marrying our men.”
“Hey, our taxes pay for your elevators, even though we take the stairs.”
“Okay, now I’m starting to get the feeling that you’ve actually thought about all this.”
Philip smiled, pulling his foot up behind the small of his back, readying himself for a run along the seawall which was filling, even this early in the morning, with foot and bicycle traffic, and the beginnings of the day’s heat. From wireless earbuds to gel insoles, his lithe, medium-height body was branded with all the markings of Vancouver’s professional-managerial fitness cult. In his sleeveless shirt, the inky remnants of a few misspent teenage years on the wrong side of the law were the only thing off-brand from the West Coast yuppy aesthetic, but those tattoos were also the only part of the ensemble sexy enough that Annick had repeatedly, over the years, been willing to engage in a sweaty post-jog tackle.
The other women sprinting past them in front of the jade green waters and bright blue mountains of Coal Harbour were wearing yoga pants that operated upon the human ass with the same flaw-obliterating effects as Photoshop, and sports bras as supportive as a loving spouse. Annick understood that there was a vague cultural obligation for her to be envious, to be jealous of her beautiful boyfriend sharing his morning exertions with these beautiful women, but as she watched them bounce past all she could think about was how nice it would have been to sleep for another forty-five minutes.
Philip dropped his warm-up for a second and took Annick’s shoulder in his hand. “Listen, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yes. Why do you ask? I’m fine.”
“Wow, what a perfectly human syntax—I can’t believe I thought anything was wrong.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
“I feel like yesterday, at lunch, something started bugging you. You hardly said anything last night at dinner or sitting in front of the TV, and suddenly this morning you want to go for a run for the first time since grade nine PE. What’s going on?”
Annick wrapped her arms around the trunk of Philip’s torso, squeezed him tight, then let go. She tilted up to face him, and shook her head.
“I need you to trust me that anything that’s bothering me that I’m allowed to talk to you about, I will. And then, when I can’t, I need you to let me sort through things on my own.”
“That’s like a Buddhist koan or something.”
“No, love—it’s like a professional ethical commitment or something.”
Philip nodded his head, and leaned down to kiss her on the mouth, eyes and forehead.
“I get it.”
“I know you do.”
“You’re a good doctor.”
“No, I’m not. I’m really, really an excellent doctor.”