Checked by Jennifer Jamelli Page A

really is the last check we need to do. Then we can get started and put this behind us.” He takes a breath and then continues. “Would you like me to wash my hands again? Or find some gloves?”
    No. His hands are already clean. Gloves aren’t really necessary. They’d be nice if they would somehow prevent or dilute the response I fear my body will have. But I don’t think that really has anything to do with my OCD.
    He looks at me. All concerned and waiting for my response.
    Shaking my head, I say, “No. It’s fine, I think.”
    “All right,” he murmurs. Not very confident. He just stares at me nervously. I nod again to reassure him. To reassure me.
    “I am going to use these two fingers,” he says as he holds up his right middle and pointer fingers, “and I’m going to place them right on the underside of your wrist.” 
    I nod again, hoping that he’ll stop staring at me. He does but only for a moment to place his fingers on my wrist. As his fingers connect with my skin, the heat that has been slowly spreading through me floods my entire body. The pieces of songs streaming through my head are moving so quickly that I cannot place even one of them.
    I feel my body sway a little, and my head falls back on the chair. And then he breaks me out of the moment. He jerks his fingers from my wrist.
    “Calista, I’m sorry. It was too much.”
    He doesn’t get it. He thinks he’s hurting me. I can’t speak yet.
    In his desperation to make it better, he grabs my wrist and clutches it, calling my name again and again. Before the tsunami can reclaim much speed throughout me, he lets go, shocked. His eyes give away tremendous remorse. He thinks he has made two major mistakes. In quick succession. The premeditated pulse check and then the spontaneous wrist grab. Such transgressions. I imagine him telling a priest about them in confession, and I feel a smile creep onto my face.
    But I stop. I can’t smile now, not when he looks like this.
    Or maybe…maybe a smile will be just the thing he needs. Something new for us.
    Keeping my eyes on his, I allow a soft smile to break out on my face. He looks surprised but not better. I need to do more…to fumble for the right combination of words.
    Through my smile, some words do spill out. “We did it. Am I cleared now for treatment, Doctor?”
    My words snap him out of his guilt. He blinks and moves right back into business mode. “Um, yes. I was able to get your pulse, and everything seems fine. You are ready to begin the treatment plan. It is, ah, getting late, though, so perhaps we can meet to tackle the next step tomorrow afternoon.”
    He gets up from his chair while he awaits my answer. As he pushes his chair back to its spot behind his desk, I formulate a response.
    “Sure. Tomorrow’s fine. What is my next step?”
    I don’t really want to know, but I want to keep him talking. I guess I ask it as part of my silent apology for getting all weird during the pulse reading. Very similar to the fact that I’m doing this whole therapy thing primarily as a penance for upsetting him with my curiosity.
    “Yoga-type relaxation,” he answers, interrupting my own conscience examination. I must look confused because he continues. “We need to familiarize you with some meditative concepts of yoga so that you are prepared to encounter some scary situations.”
    “So I am going to what?” I blurt out. “Break into Downward Facing Dog when I think I touched something dirty? Wouldn’t I look a little less ridiculous just washing my hands for an hour?”
    He doesn’t answer immediately, but wait, is he smiling?
    Well, that is new. And rather adorable , some loud corner of my mind informs me. Shut it.
    The smile hasn’t completely left his face as he says, “No, you’ll learn some yoga relaxation techniques, not positions. You’ll see. Tomorrow.”
    I simply nod my head for the three-millionth time.
    “Let’s lock up your chair.”
    “Oh. Okay, great.”
    I stand up,