She had warned him, but Will had no reason to ever believe that Emma was as crazy as she insisted. Everyone always amplifies their shortcomings, and he found her obsessive-compulsive behaviours endearing; even sweet. He didn't mind watching her rub her hands ten times a day or cleaning the drinking fountain for a full five minutes. It was just Emma – just her way, and he loved her all the more for it.
He didn't know that behind the sweet habits and the biting of her lip and the way she stutters when she gets nervous was a woman struggling with a very real, very scary thing. And it was something to get used to, the little cleaning habits . . . piece by piece, he realized exactly who she was, and what she needed from him to be normal.
Scour
She got home before him that day – they had recently tried this living together thing after six months of dating and he found that he liked the way his apartment sparkled and shone with cleanliness every time he walked in the door. Most days, they drove home together, but today, she left before him and he was looking forward to meeting her at the door, her bright smile lighting up his whole life. She still was getting used to the novelty of living with someone else – he loved that she seemed genuinely happy to see him, every day.
He didn't expect to find the door locked, but he figured Emma had decided to take a nap or something. He opened the door softly, hearing the slight strains of piano coming from the living room, something delicious cooking on the stove, and called out, "Em? Honey?"
There was no answer, but he heard noises from the kitchen, so he slipped off his shoes, made sure they were properly put away in the closet (he'd fast been trained by Emma) and padded into the kitchen.
Her face was as red as her hair; she was scrubbing at something, swearing under her breath, words that he had never heard her use in the year he'd known her. Tears were streaming down her face, and just as he entered the kitchen, the smoke alarm began to go off.
She startled badly, her wet hands flying up to cover her ears, a startled scream emitting from her mouth, and he dashed up to her, grabbing the pot off the stove, waving the towel at the smoke alarm, and finally, turning around to comfort his frightened girlfriend.
Her hands were raw and red, starting to bleed from the bleach she had in the water. Before he could see what she was scouring, though, she burst into tears and sat down on the kitchen floor, still holding the dripping cloth in her hand. It made a bleached-out pattern of drops on her apron and he gently took it from her, placing it back in the sink.
"Hi," he said, his voice quiet, calm, and sympathetic.
She looked at him then, her eyes focusing on his, her face relaxing. "Hi," she hiccupped.
"So, we having salad for dinner?" His voice still stayed calm, but she started to laugh, and he joined her, their laughter echoing around the kitchen, the steaming pot burning the countertop slightly above them.
He wiped a tear from her face, kissed her raw little hands, and asked, "What needed washing?"
And just as if she'd never had a breakdown at all, she got up, smoothed down her apron, and answered him calmly.
"Bit of grease. It's okay; it'll come out in the wash."
He helped her cut the vegetables for the salad in silence, and she kept her back to him while she made another pot of mashed potatoes.
When he slipped past her to wash his hands in the sink, he noticed that she was crying.
Dinner that night consisted of him holding her tightly on the couch, whispering into her ear, rubbing her back, listening to her breathing.
He never did find out what set her off, but that was just as well, really.
Sanitize
Will got used to bottles of hand sanitizer everywhere. He had one on the bedside table, two on his desk at work and one tucked into his briefcase pocket. Emma never forgot to remind him to use it, either, until the day when a new kind of Purell made him break out in an allergic reaction and he swore off the stuff for good.
He was teaching when it happened. One minute he was holding the pointer, talking about Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand; the next minute, his hands were itching so badly he thought the only thing that would stop it would be to cut them off.
He had no idea how he managed to get through the rest of class, but by the end, his hands were red and swollen, covered in a fine rash that made the rest of his skin crawl just to look at it. He made a beeline for the teacher's lounge, where most of the female teachers left their moisturizers by the sink, and was frantically scrubbing his hands when Emma came in from her latest guidance appointment.
"Hi, sweetheart," she smiled, coming over to kiss him on the cheek. They were the only ones in the lounge at the moment, so she was a lot more open than she normally would be at this time of day. And on any other day, he would be over the moon about that – but today, he was trying to get the incredible burning itch out of his hands, and he turned his head at the last moment, so that her kiss landed somewhere in the region of his ear.
She looked hurt. "Okay . . ."
"Em, I don't know what you made me use this morning, but my hands are on fire!" Panic and discomfort made his voice sharp, and she peered into the sink, gasping when she saw the state of his hands.
"Oh, Will, that looks awful." She looked shocked and he felt bad suddenly for her, knowing how much she hated things like this – the messy and painful things.
Instead of freaking out, though, like he expected her to do, she just shook her head. "You need some Benadryl. It's okay, I've got some in my office – seasonal allergies," she said, making a small ashamed moue with her mouth that at any other time, would make Will want to kiss her. "Let me get it for you; your hands will feel better soon."
Sure enough, after he'd popped two pills and she'd wrapped some ice from the teacher's fridge in a towel for him, he started to feel better and his hands stopped itching as much.
"Guess Purell can do more harm than good," he said ruefully, looking down at his healing hands and then up at Emma, who looked uncomfortable.
"Well, no . . . I think maybe that was just the wrong kind. It's pretty essential to keeping germs away."
"Nevertheless, I'm not using that stuff again," he announced recklessly, then saw Emma bite her lip and immediately regretted it. "Well, not that particular stuff, anyway."
"Gotta use it, Will," she said softly, refusing to meet his eyes. "Sorry."
"I'm gonna use soap and water for the rest of today," he said firmly, and she nodded.
"Okay."
The next day, however, she'd slipped a new bottle of Purell into his backpack with a note on it.
"Hypoallergenic – won't burn hands."
He laughed.
Wash
Laundry day at the apartment took place every three weeks before Emma came into Will's life. Now, he's forced to sort out his loads of dirty underwear and socks according to colour and fabric at least twice a week. He sort of likes the way she takes care of the laundry, but he's weirded out about how much time she actually spends on it.
She spent last Friday night dictating to him exactly what loads were going to be washed in the small apartment washer and dryer, a recent purchase after she refused to use the laundry room downstairs. He'd taken her on a tour of the building when she first moved in, but she'd frozen outside of the laundry room and refused to take another step. He'd ended up taking her back upstairs, wondering how he was going to end up doing his laundry with Emma in the house, when she'd slipped a cheque for two hundred dollars across the coffee table.
"I'll buy the washer if you buy the dryer," she'd said, her voice shy, and he'd looked up at her.
"Sweetie, I'm not going to take your money. We'll figure something out. Maybe we can use special bleach in the washers before doing any laundry downstairs."
She'd shaken her head decisively, biting her lip. "Please, Will?"
He'd hated to hear the pleading note in her voice, but he didn't know how he was going to afford a dryer, let alone the extra electricity that it took to run it on a teacher's salary. He'd bitten his own lip, about to say no, when she'd taken the cheque back.
"Okay," she'd said, and turned her back on him, stalking into the bedroom and shutting the door.
It was then that he realized – this was not going to be easy. He couldn't deal with her tantrums; he couldn't deal with her needs when they were going to take a hit on his wallet like this.
He slammed his keys on the table, knowing she heard it from inside the bedroom, and stalked out, making sure he slammed the door behind him on the way out. He realized it was childish; sure, it was absolutely not the adult way to respond to this, and to respond to her, but he was tired of it. Tired of indulging – of trying to understand.
He soaked his teacherly cardigan through, running up and down the block, around and around the cool paths in the park – he ran himself out for an hour before letting himself back into the apartment, fully expecting to find her gone, maybe a note on the table explaining that she can't handle his outbursts, either.
He hadn't realized, and she hadn't, either, that it was okay for couples to fight without having to split up. And so he found her on the couch, her legs crossed primly under her skirt, and tears on her cheeks, and he felt ashamed of himself.
He said nothing, and she didn't either, but when he turned on the shower and got in, he heard the door open and the shower curtain twitch as she joined him.
They soaped each other's bodies; they held each other tightly under the hot spray and she may have cried a little bit more, but afterwards, wrapped cosily in bathrobes and cuddling on the couch, he agreed to her original proposal.
"I'll buy the dryer. But you have to pay for the extra electricity."
"It's a deal," she'd said, and smiled her sunshine smile at him. If he didn't know her better, he could have sworn that sparkle in her eye was there because she'd gotten her way.
He's snapped back to the present by his red-haired girlfriend holding out a basket of clothes.
"Sweetie, can you fold these for me? Like I showed you," she asks, smiling cheekily at him, and he kisses the tip of her nose.
"Of course."
Cleanse
When it came to unmentionables, he couldn't even have a conversation about it with Emma before she immediately put a finger over his lips and shook her head. Conversations to do with the bathroom were strictly forbidden, and that was fine with him, really; he didn't really need to know that side of his girlfriend's life too closely.
Until, that is, he lived with her and realized how long Emma actually took to get ready in the morning.
"Em, please, can you hurry?" He stood outside the bathroom and tried not to do the "pee dance" that Terri had always made fun of him for, but honestly, he couldn't remember any woman taking this long in the morning to get ready.
"Will, I've just got to finish cleansing my face. I did ask you if you needed to use the bathroom before I went in this morning," she reminded him, but he groaned in response.
"It was six o'clock in the morning, Emma. I was barely coherent, let alone able to make a decision!"
"Well, I'm nearly finished, and then I'll let you in."
"Can't I just come in now?" He knocked at the door again. "You don't have to look. You can step out for a minute."
"Will, I've got cleanser all over my face, which will then drip all over my dress and the floor. Do you want to be late for work while I clean up?" Normally, her chiding voice, especially with her Appalachian accent, made him smile, but today he could have cheerfully strangled the redhead who was fast beginning to run his life in a sweeter, quirkier, yet just as compelling way as Terri had.
"Em, stop being a prude. I'm coming in." He rattled the doorknob, annoyed to find it locked. "You locked me out?"
"It's rude to just burst in on someone, Will." She unlocked the door and poked her head out, her face soft and smooth after her morning cleansing ritual. She gave him a bright smile. "Good morning."
"Morning," he muttered, pushing past her into the bathroom and immediately lifting the lid of the toilet. She gave him a sharp smack on the behind as she exited the bathroom and he gasped and made a grab for her as she ran out, shutting the door on him smartly.
He listened to her laughing as he washed his hands and then turning the tables, he locked the door on her.
She knocked. "You've got to be finished now. It doesn't take that long to use the bathroom."
"Well, maybe I've got to cleanse my face now, hmm?" His teasing voice from behind the door made her laugh again, the sound coming up from her belly, infectiously making him laugh, too.
"No, I would believe something about your hair ritual, but not a facial regime," she returned, and he heard a rattling in the doorknob. A few seconds later, the lock sprang open and she opened the door, a big smile on her face.
He grabbed her and tickled her under her arms, causing her to giggle and pinch him to get him to stop. They shared a kiss in front of the mirror, the smell of her facial cleanser sweet and astringent on her soft cheeks.
"I love you," he whispered.
"Even when I lock you out in the morning?" She traced the stubble on his face and grinned.
"Especially then," he returned and held her close to him.
Purify
They'd tossed around the idea of therapy several times during their relationship; he wanted her to feel better, she didn't think it was necessary. She didn't tell him that she'd been to therapy at least four times since the incident and they didn't help. Plus, didn't she live with her condition? She wasn't forcing him to deal with her, and he understood that, so it became a moot point, the not-discussed, and he lived with the quirks until she broke on him again.
It started with her insomnia, intermittent at different times of the year. He got used to rocking her back to sleep, to listening to her shift and whimper and sigh, trying to find a comfortable position at three in the morning, trying to get whatever it was off her mind so that she could rest. Emma, unbeknownst to any of the students she counsels, gets cranky when she doesn't have enough sleep. Soon, her sweet demeanour began to give way to short, snappy remarks in the mornings and long emotional losses of temper in the evenings. He soon realized she had a temper to match her hair; she soon realized that he'd already lived with a woman who nitpicked and yelled at him and didn't need another.
She began to spend time in the bedroom while he tinkered with his guitar. He stopped singing as loudly because she'd cry when he sang some of her favourite songs a little too loudly.
One night, he caught her in the bathroom with a pair of tweezers, and learning that she meant to tweeze every unwanted hair off her body because it was "unclean" drove him over the edge. It wasn't self-mutilation, but she already had several spots of blood on her eyebrows and he had enough. He made her promise to see the doctor in the morning. She promised him through wild eyes and tears and he made her follow up by driving her the next day.
The doctor prescribed Ativan for the panic attacks and anti-depressants for the OCD and for three blissful weeks, she turned back into the old Emma. She slept at night, curled in his arms. She ate at the right times, she didn't freak out over a splash of dishwater on her dress and she started to let him sleep after sex without having to strip the bed.
But it wasn't Emma, all the same.
He heard her crying one night, beside him in bed, and he turned, feeling her body shift away from him in bed, trying to hold it inside.
"Oh, sweetie," was all he said, and she turned back to him.
"I know you like it better this way, but I don't. And I can't."
"There's always a trial period with these things, Em. There's always a bit of adjustment. Can't you try?"
"Will, I've been trying for a month. I can't. I hate the way I feel on these things. I don't even want to sleep with you. I want to be left alone."
He got up then, and padded into the other bedroom, pulling out the futon and curling up on the cold fabric, watching the weak moon through the window and sighing. He did like her this way . . . but she had a point. It wasn't really her.
After awhile, she slipped in beside him, and draped herself over him, curling up to his warmth. He held her tightly for a few minutes, saying nothing, then, "You don't have to get my permission to do what you want with your own life, Em. I just want you to be happy, that's all. Are you happy?"
"With the crazy?"
"With anything. With me. With this life. Are you happy?" He kissed the tip of her deer-like ear and she sighed shakily against his neck, cuddling closer to him.
"I am so happy with you. But I can't feel it when I'm trying so hard not to freak out about the . . . messes. I can't feel it like this, either."
"You make the decision, sweetheart. I'm not going to tell you how to live your life."
She stayed on the meds for another week before he found the empty bottle in the trash beside the toilet. The Ativan, however, stayed in the medicine cabinet above the sink.
//~//
He didn't see a huge difference in the way she changed; it was little steps, one at a time. Like being able to store her toothbrush beside his. Like stroking his hair when he had the flu. Like not needing to wash the entire kitchen floor after dropping a piece of food on it. Her comfort level changed subtly, and he started to notice her relaxing more and more.
It isn't a perfect relationship. He knew it wasn't going to be perfect. They still have a long, long way to go.
But these pieces of her, all these facets that make her whole – that's perfect. And that's all he needs.