Checked Again

Checked
Again

Jennifer
Jamelli

This book is a
work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are either products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any likeness to actual people
(living or dead) or events is entirely coincidental.

Checked Again.
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Jamelli.

Edited by
Kaylene Osborn. Cover design by Ravven.

Printed by
CreateSpace.

All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any capacity without
written permission.

ISBN-13:
978-1499733822

ISBN-10:
1499733828

Dedication…again
(um, if I don’t repeat it three times, it won’t count…)

Without
these people, I never would have been able to

write
this book…

1.)
Max and Derek

2.)
My family

3.)
The creators of Zoloft

Chapter
1

two
days later

{IN
MY HEAD RADIO, DIO sings the refrain of
“Rainbow in the Dark.”
}

Rainbow
of Recovery

Red
carnations and
other flowers on my windowsill.

No
yellow
roses, but that makes sense because only one person has ever
bothered to ask me about my favorite flowers…and he isn’t talking to me because
I’m as insane as his mother was.

That
upsets me more than the fact that I have
pink
splotches all over my
still swollen face.

But
I’m trying not to think about him, so I’m wearing brand new
green
pajamas instead of one of the still folded, him-smelling pairs at home on my
hamper.

And
I’m currently covered up by the
purple
bedspread I slept under as a
child since my family has moved me from my house to my parents’ house to make
sure I don’t scrub myself away or something.

So
I’m sitting on my old bed, staring at the
orange
leaves on the tree I
used to think murderers hid in when I was little.

I
guess it might look like I’m watching for
blue
skies ahead, but that
would be futile.

Hmm…probably
gonna have to tweak that a bit for class. Might be a tad less inspirational
than Dr. Emery prefers.

New
paper.

Rainbow
of Recovery

Red
carnations on
my windowsill

Yellow
roses

Pink
swollen face

Green
pajamas

Purple
childhood
bedspread

Orange
leaves outside

Blue
skies ahead

Perfect.
Done. Ready for my stupid poetry portfolio. Should blend in with all of the
suckful poems the other students normally “share” in class.

Notebook
closed. Enough for now.

Almost
noon. I have to at least pretend to fall asleep before Mom comes in with
another six thousand calories of
sorry your crazy pills gave you an allergy
attack
comfort food.

TV
on. Gordon Ramsay and a
Hell’s Kitchen
marathon. Mmm…hot and angry white
noise for an entire afternoon. Doesn’t get much better. Well…unless you have a
live person holding you in his arms as he whispers recipes while you drift off
to sleep.

But
I don’t. And I won’t.

Sleep.

6:00
P.M. EYES OPEN.
WOW
. A six hour nap. Maybe my body really does need this
week of recovery. Or maybe I’m just exhausted from my routine schedule at my
parents’ house. Or…perhaps I just have no real reason to be awake. No purpose…

{Evanescence
fades in with
“Bring
Me to Life.”
}

No
purpose but to write stupid poems, read, and sit. Sit and stare. At the
television. At the tree outside. At all of the flowers sitting on my
windowsill. Well…almost all of them. I try not to look at the basket of lilies,
the arrangement from Dr. Gabriel…the one with the card that I’m pretty sure he
wrote himself…and if he wrote the card, that means he touched the card…which
means he has essentially sent me his germs.

I
keep hoping that his little basket of diseases will die so that Mom will then
throw it out…throw the basket out, the lilies out, the little open card just
sitting amongst the flowers out out OUT.

Dear
Calista,

So
sorry to hear about your hospital visit. Anything you need is just a phone call
away. Transportation, help with gathering school work, company—you name it. You
know how to reach me.

-Elijah
Gabriel

Elijah
Gabriel—quite a holy-sounding name for such a sleaze.

Unfortunately,
his flowers look just as alive as do the classic arrangement from Melanie and
the carnations posing as smiley faces from Mandy. Hmm…maybe I should try to
feed his flowers some of my leftover medicine.

Oh…but
I don’t have any leftover medicine. After I left the hospital, I noticed that
my remaining pills were no longer in my purse. I don’t know who took them, but
I suspect it was Mom…especially since I overheard her whispering frantically to
Melanie during one of my last days in the hospital…saying something about a
certain doctor’s disappearance…worrying about me doing something drastic and
crazy…

She
hasn’t said anything to me, but it’s pretty obvious that she’s put me on some
sort of unofficial suicide watch…a watch that comes with almost round the clock
pseudo-wardens in my room.

This
is totally unnecessary. When I was in elementary school, I remember hearing
someone say that those who commit suicide will probably go straight to hell. I
don’t know if this was just an assumption…or a story…or some sort of
superstition. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been sufficiently warned…sufficiently
terrorized by the thought of suicide. This suicide watch is pointless. 

I
can vaguely hear the doorbell ringing. Must be time for the changing of the
guards. Nothing fancy, I’m sure. Mom is probably telling one of my sisters that
I’m still alive but practically starving (since I slept through my
6,000-calorie lunch). I’m sure Mandy or Melanie (whoever is scheduled next to
watch me) is promising to try to feed me a good dinner. Mom is most likely
reviewing all of the contents of the fridge (condiments and salad dressings
included) as she gathers her purse and her clipboard for tonight’s neighborhood
watch meeting. Yes, my mother spends an hour every week trying to get one step
ahead of the murderers. Tonight, she is just dropping off some notes and coming
back home, though. I did tell her that she should stay for the whole
meeting…and that she should stop being so concerned about me…but she wouldn’t
hear of it. I’m really starting to worry about her…to worry about her worrying
about me. It can’t be good for her. It can’t—

I
hear the front door close. Guard change completed. Like I said, not too fancy.
Not quite as sophisticated as the shift changes in front of the Tomb of the
Unknown Soldier.

And
now in charge is…Mandy. I can hear her pointy heels clicking up the stairs. Has
to be her. Melanie hasn’t worn heels since…well…before Abby? Since shortly
after she became a partner at her firm? Since—

No
time to do the math now. Mandy has arrived. She walks straight in since my door
is open. It’s always open. I guess it’s virtually impossible to stab yourself
with a butter knife or to jump out of the bedroom window when the door is ajar.

“Hey,
Callie.”

Mandy
looks beautiful. Short red dress. High makeup—heavy eyeliner, thick lashes, and
glossy lips. Ready for Thirsty Thursday.

Wait.
She’s still going to Thirsty Thursday tonight? She’s driving back home tonight?
In the dark? By herself? I can’t stand all of these extra trips back and forth
to Pittsburgh just because—

“Chill,
Callie.” Mandy is now standing right beside my bed. Reading my mind. “I’m not
going home tonight. I’m going out with Josh later. Here. In Pittsburgh.”

“Oh.
Great. Whatever works.” I try to sound casual, not overly concerned.

The
look on Mandy’s face tells me that she’s not buying my supposed to be flippant
remark. She seems to be quite aware of the fact that “whatever” never really
works for me. She doesn’t verbally call me out on it, though. Instead, she
begins acting as Mom’s puppet.

“Hey—I’m
gonna go grab us some food. What are you in the mood for?”

Well
played, Mandy.

Casual…conversational…two
sisters just grabbing a bite. Not gonna work, though.

“I’m
really not hungry, Mandy.”

“Sorry,”
I add as I see her scrunchy, frustrated eyebrows. She’s not cut out for this
warden stuff.

She
pushes on, though. “Well, how about I just bring up a few things? Maybe you’ll,
um, get hungry soon.” She trips a little on her words before clumsily adding,
“I’m starving, and I know you haven’t eaten in—”

“Okay.
That’s fine. Just bring up some stuff.” She’s just going to keep trying if I
don’t agree. And she looks so discouraged already.

“Really?
Okay.” Relief washes over her perfectly made-up face as she stands up and heads
out of my bedroom.

She
leaves the door open. Of course.

I
do a little nail picking.
{And a little more listening to Evanescence.}
Less
than three minutes later, heels are clicking back up the wooden stairs.

Click.
Click. Click.

I’m
sure she’s leaving little tiny circle imprints on the stairs. Dad will be
PISSED. Or he would be pissed...normally. And normally, Mandy would’ve taken
the time to remove her shoes before stepping past the foyer, before stepping on
any portion of the hardwood floors—just like we had to do when we were in high
school. I guess normal rules aren’t applying right now with this whole suicide
watch and warden thing.

At
least Dad will know it wasn’t me. When he sees those tiny little indentations,
he should easily remember that I’ve only been wearing the black pair of
Isotoner slippers Mom gave me. And he should also recall that I’ve been under
strict orders to pretty much stay in bed all week—for what that’s worth.

{David
Bowie—in hot, tight pants—steps in with
“Rebel Rebel.”
}

Mandy’s
back. She’s now at my old desk, sorting through a tray full of rolls, salami,
turkey, white American cheese, yellow American cheese, tomatoes, oregano, etc.
Stuff to make hoagies. Hoagies like we used to make on snow days when we were
kids.

She’s
pulling out all the stops. Maybe she really is secretly cut out for this warden
crap. Her sneaky thoughtfulness is pretty effective.

“Okay.
Salami, three pieces of white American cheese, two tomatoes, and some
oregano…right?” She’s already starting to fix a sandwich for me.

“Yes,
that’s right.” Well, it was right. That is how I used to eat my hoagies. Back
before I realized that each piece of cheese adds almost one hundred calories to
my meal.

“Here,
Callie.” She hands me “my” hoagie and gets to work on her own. Making hoagies
in her tight red dress. Like she works in some sort of upscale deli.

She
works quickly. I’m guessing I have about forty-five seconds until she starts
nonchalantly checking to see if I’m eating. She’s now adding her cheese. One.
Two. Three. Four slices.
Dear God.
How does this girl manage to fit in
her teeny tiny clothes? She’s gotta be at least five pounds lighter than me,
and I haven’t put four pieces of cheese (or even three) on a sandwich for
almost a decade.

About
six more seconds…

She’s
done with her hoagie creation. It’s huge. I don’t think she’s going to be able
to open her mouth wide enough to eat it.

Three
seconds. Two. One. Here it comes.

“C’mon,
Callie. Take a bite. Eat.”

This
feels more than vaguely familiar…feels like nachos and—

STOP.

And
warm hands on mine and—

CALLIE!

Mandy
is staring at me. Confused. Concerned. Hopeful?

Oh—the
eating thing. If I don’t have anything, her report for Mom will look dreadful.
And then Mandy will be upset…and then she might be demoted from a shift
supervisor warden to—well, I don’t even know what.

Okay,
Mandy. One bite. For you.

Pick
up hoagie. Raise to mouth. One. Two. Three. Strategic bite—not too large that I
am taking in more than one hundred calories…not too small that I’ll risk Mandy
not getting credit for it.

She
looks relieved again…for now.

Okay…time
for a distraction. I swallow my bite so I can talk. “So…you’ve been visiting
Josh a lot recently. How are you managing to stay with him while still
maintaining your ‘Daddy’s little chaste girl’ image?” I tease her, casually (I
hope) putting down my hoagie.
{David Bowie continues to sing.}

“Well,”
Mandy starts as she slides onto the foot of my bed, holding her mammoth
sandwich. She crosses her feet and pulls her dress further down, further down
her thighs. Can’t be comfortable. She continues. “Josh’s school has a branch
of” (insert three Greek letters said very quickly—didn’t quite catch them),
“and they are really close with the girls in my sorority, so I just pretend
that I’m staying with them.”