easier.
I sat in the folding chair on the screened porch and let my eyes travel over the weed-free yard. Cherry and Ellie had come over twice now, to help get the house and yard in order. My role had been minimal, which was a victory in my ongoing war against obsessive-compulsion. The whole thing was convenient. I was easing my own conscience for my role in the shoplifting fiasco. And my yard was semi-clean by someone elseâs hand.
A few days ago, when the girls finished working, we sat on the floor of the living room and I showed them how to weave bracelets. At times Ellie made mistakes and I was proud that I didnât feel the need to correct her. Afterwards we walked into town to the Dairy Cow for ice cream. I watched Cherry for signs of cutting or an eating disorder. I knew she was troubled, but I worried there might be other issues. It was absurd of me. I was the one who couldnât handle a little stress. But she was almost the same age I was when my OCD developed. She hadnât discussed her shoplifting attempt again, but when I paid her for her work in the yard, I deliberately reminded her to buy magazines with the money. That comment had earned me a major eye roll, which was fine with me. I wasnât trying to be her friend.
Fragments of information unraveled as we spent time together and I was forming a pretty good idea of what was going on inside Cherryâs head. She hated the town she lived in and couldnât wait to grow up and move out. I didnât need a psychology degree to understand that what she needed was a redirection of her anger, a pursuit that would channel her energy into something other than shoplifting.
I put down my paperback and walked into the house. The sun shot streaks of light beams through the newly cleaned front windows, promising a beautiful summer day. The fishing pole Nestor had given me was still propped in the corner near the front door. Elliot and I used to love fishing. When I bought worms from a funny older woman named Flo at the tackle store yesterday, I asked her to help me set up the rod. She gave me a few pointers and recommended I wait for the calmest part of the day, since I was using a rowboat that probably had no anchor.
Last night I had placed a worm in the palm of my hand and let it squirm and contort itself until it was ready to get back in the box. I resisted the urge to wash my hands for a full ten minutes. Today I was ready for the ultimate test: A fishing pole. Worms. And hopefully a slimy fish or two.
Twenty minutes later I stood on the shore of Loon Lake and surveyed the glassy surface. Loon Lake, aptly named for its most prominent residents, was actually more like a large pond. Unlike the large sporting lakes in the area, it was too small for powerboats and large vacation homes. Only a few small houses were scattered around its perimeter. Nestorâs was beyond on a bluff across the dirt road. A brown cabin near the far shore looked empty. On the other side of a reedy area, an attractive cedar A-frame with large windows and a deck overlooked the lake. The lovely home hadnât been there when I was younger. It must have been built recently.
I stepped onto an uneven dock and crouched next to Nestorâs little green rowboat that was attached to a rusty cleat. The rowboat had never looked seaworthy, even when I was a girl. But oars and a plug were already inside, so one of the kids in the area must have used it recently.
I placed all my gear at the bow and gingerly climbed in, testing it for my weight. I leaned out over the edge and cast a dubious glance at the murky water below me. There was no sandy beach on this spring-fed lake.
Elliot had once dared me to jump into the water from the reedy shore and I still remembered the horrifying way I had sunk into the bottomless muck. After that, I would only swim off the swim dock in the center where the water was deep. And then when my OCD got worse, I wouldnât swim in the lake at
I sat in the folding chair on the screened porch and let my eyes travel over the weed-free yard. Cherry and Ellie had come over twice now, to help get the house and yard in order. My role had been minimal, which was a victory in my ongoing war against obsessive-compulsion. The whole thing was convenient. I was easing my own conscience for my role in the shoplifting fiasco. And my yard was semi-clean by someone elseâs hand.
A few days ago, when the girls finished working, we sat on the floor of the living room and I showed them how to weave bracelets. At times Ellie made mistakes and I was proud that I didnât feel the need to correct her. Afterwards we walked into town to the Dairy Cow for ice cream. I watched Cherry for signs of cutting or an eating disorder. I knew she was troubled, but I worried there might be other issues. It was absurd of me. I was the one who couldnât handle a little stress. But she was almost the same age I was when my OCD developed. She hadnât discussed her shoplifting attempt again, but when I paid her for her work in the yard, I deliberately reminded her to buy magazines with the money. That comment had earned me a major eye roll, which was fine with me. I wasnât trying to be her friend.
Fragments of information unraveled as we spent time together and I was forming a pretty good idea of what was going on inside Cherryâs head. She hated the town she lived in and couldnât wait to grow up and move out. I didnât need a psychology degree to understand that what she needed was a redirection of her anger, a pursuit that would channel her energy into something other than shoplifting.
I put down my paperback and walked into the house. The sun shot streaks of light beams through the newly cleaned front windows, promising a beautiful summer day. The fishing pole Nestor had given me was still propped in the corner near the front door. Elliot and I used to love fishing. When I bought worms from a funny older woman named Flo at the tackle store yesterday, I asked her to help me set up the rod. She gave me a few pointers and recommended I wait for the calmest part of the day, since I was using a rowboat that probably had no anchor.
Last night I had placed a worm in the palm of my hand and let it squirm and contort itself until it was ready to get back in the box. I resisted the urge to wash my hands for a full ten minutes. Today I was ready for the ultimate test: A fishing pole. Worms. And hopefully a slimy fish or two.
Twenty minutes later I stood on the shore of Loon Lake and surveyed the glassy surface. Loon Lake, aptly named for its most prominent residents, was actually more like a large pond. Unlike the large sporting lakes in the area, it was too small for powerboats and large vacation homes. Only a few small houses were scattered around its perimeter. Nestorâs was beyond on a bluff across the dirt road. A brown cabin near the far shore looked empty. On the other side of a reedy area, an attractive cedar A-frame with large windows and a deck overlooked the lake. The lovely home hadnât been there when I was younger. It must have been built recently.
I stepped onto an uneven dock and crouched next to Nestorâs little green rowboat that was attached to a rusty cleat. The rowboat had never looked seaworthy, even when I was a girl. But oars and a plug were already inside, so one of the kids in the area must have used it recently.
I placed all my gear at the bow and gingerly climbed in, testing it for my weight. I leaned out over the edge and cast a dubious glance at the murky water below me. There was no sandy beach on this spring-fed lake.
Elliot had once dared me to jump into the water from the reedy shore and I still remembered the horrifying way I had sunk into the bottomless muck. After that, I would only swim off the swim dock in the center where the water was deep. And then when my OCD got worse, I wouldnât swim in the lake at
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