Checked Again (10 page)

Wow.
 What
an ass.

Buzz
again.

I’d really like to
see you. It’s been so long, and it ended so bad…

UGH.
I don’t know if
I’m more irritated by his message itself or the fact that he wrote “bad”
instead of “badly.” I’m also starting to get irritated at another person. At
Father Patrick, whose last sermon was all about forgiving even when you don’t
want to…all about how giving forgiveness is soul cleansing or whatever.

And
I do like things to be clean…

Count.
Reply.

Fine.
I’ll be there.

Send.

Buzz.
Open.

Thanks,
Angel.

{Denis
Leary begins to sing
“Asshole”
loudly—he focuses on the part where he spells the title of the song over and
over.}

Okay.
No time to think about this right now. Almost time for Girls’ Night.

Chapter
9

weekend

TONIGHT
SEEMS TO BE ALL about bottles and diapers and showers. Melanie has babies on
her mind…but she’s not pregnant yet. 

This
baby infatuation is actually proving to be quite beneficial for me—academically
speaking. Tonight, we are watching various episodes of
Teen Mom
(it’s
Melanie’s night to pick what we watch). We have already watched two episodes
and, so far, there has really been no talk of blood or diseases. It’s
wonderful. I’m totally using the episodes as research for my teen pregnancy
paper. I’m going to watch them again on a non-Girls’ Night when I can focus
totally on the show (tonight, we have talked through a lot of the potentially
important dialogue). I’ll probably even buy some of the earlier seasons of the
show and watch them too.  Hopefully Dr. Harper will see all of this as
authentic research for my paper. I don’t see why he wouldn’t…

Right
now, Melanie is taking a shower, and Mandy is talking to Josh. And I…I am
sitting on the couch and regretting my decision to see Tony, panicking over my
upcoming trip with Dr. Gabriel, and staring at my latest text from Unknown
Number, the one that came about an hour ago.

Are
you really going to go?

I
haven’t responded. I’d like to write back with “I’m working on getting out of
it.”

And
I am working on getting out of going to the conference…and also other upcoming
events…I just don’t know how I’m going to accomplish it (any of it) yet.

If
I could just come up with a solid series of lies—to get out of seeing Tony…to
get out of going to the conference…to get out of any upcoming appointments with
doctors—that would be awesome.  Hmm…perhaps what I need is one big mother of a
lie to get out of all of this at once. That would be pretty amazing.

Still
staring at my phone, at his text, I spend about ten minutes trying to come up
with one big lie that will fix all of my problems. Then, having no luck, I
spend ten more minutes attempting to create three separate lies. After that
(and still with no progress), I spend around ten minutes feeling guilty and
reminding myself just how lengthy my confession list will be tomorrow. Then,
after all of these minutes, all of these mental activities, Melanie comes back
into the living room in a cloud of shower gel and Herbal Essences. She sits
beside me and grabs my phone before I can even think to stop her. She reads my
text,
his
text, aloud.

“
Are
you really going to go?
From…Unknown Number. Who’s that?”

“Oh,
just a girl from class.” Honestly, I didn’t always lie as much as I seem to
now.

Melanie
hands me back my phone. “And
where
are you going?”

I
decide not to lie again (for now, anyway). “Um…this conference thing in Florida
next week.”

Melanie
looks over at me, her eyes all kinds of scrunched together. She seems to be
speechless for a moment. Then she gets out a few words. “And how is that going
to work exactly?”

I
just shake my head. “I don’t know, Mel. Still trying to figure that out.”

Melanie
is still looking at me with scrunchy eyes as Mandy comes back into the room and
joins us on the couch. Melanie fills her in and now they both want to talk
about the conference.

I
don’t want to. But I kind of have to—they won’t let the subject drop otherwise.

I
quickly spit out some details about how this all came about, how I have to go
to write some articles, and how I’m going to have to live through both a plane
ride AND a hotel stay…

Both
of them offer to come with me. But they can’t—that would look ridiculous…me
taking babysitters to a graduate conference…

And
what if there is a plane crash? Then one of them might die just because of me
and—

Nope.
It’s not going to work. Not going to work.

Before
I tell them both that I don’t want to talk about the conference anymore,
Melanie brings up alcohol—she suggests that I have a few drinks on the plane
and hopefully pass out.

Not
a bad idea.

Ew—unless
I fall asleep in my plane seat and somehow end up with my head on Dr. Gabriel’s
shoulder.
Gross.

Somehow,
I eventually manage to end the conversation about the conference. I know
they’ll bring it up tomorrow…and then they’ll tell Mom, who will also bring it
up with me…but I’m going to just enjoy my little reprieve for now.

I
even put my phone away, back in my pajama pocket, deciding to just not respond
to his text. Because I don’t want to talk about the conference…or type about
the conference…or think about it…at all right now.

So
I focus instead on
Teen Mom
for another hour or so
.
After another
couple of episodes, Melanie and Mandy go to bed and I get to work.

I
crawl into bed three hours later, wearing now quite old pajamas. A guy who
doesn’t look like he’s possibly old enough to be a chef lulls me to sleep as he
makes some sort of layer cake.

SATURDAY
MORNING. MY PHONE BUZZES thirty seconds before my alarm is set to go off. I
shut off my alarm before it makes any noise, and I go to grab my phone, already
suspecting who might be texting me right now…who might know that I am just
getting up.

And
I’m right.

Unknown
Number.

Sigh.
Count. Open.

Check
your email. Please.

Ugh.
No point in
trying to fight it. If I don’t go check it now, I’ll just keep wondering what
he has written. And I won’t get anything else done. I get up and head over to
my laptop, waiting for my inbox to open, for my message from DA Blake to
appear.

And
here it is.

One.
Two. Three. Click.

No
“Hello” or “Dear Callie” or anything. Just three questions.

1.) How are you
getting to the conference?

2.) Who is making
you go?

3.) Do you want me
to come?

{Quietly,
Damien R—}

No,
Callie. He left.

He
left.

He
left.

I
count, click reply, and ask my stomach to stop jumping all over the place.

{Damien
is still singing softly. I try to pretend that he isn’t.}

I
type quickly.

1.)
Plane

2.)
Dr. Gabriel and my advisor

3.)
No

Count,
oh so fast. Send.

For
a few minutes, I sit and stare at my computer screen, at the little box that
says that my message has been sent.

Well,
I think it says that. I can’t really see the screen anymore. I can only see a
pair of dark…miserable…blue eyes. I imagine him opening my curt, blunt email. I
imagine his face falling and—

Before
I start to feel too guilty about my response, I remind myself that he probably
won’t care that I said no—he was probably only asking to be doctor-like.

Quickly
blinking my eyes away from the computer, I begin my morning program of events.

THE
REST OF MY DAY is pretty full. Confession. Lots and lots and lots of working
with
Anna Karenina
. Printing my paper. Checking my email. Worrying about
having to see Tony. Worrying about going to the conference. Worrying about not
having any new emails…

When
I eventually start my night routine, I don’t get very much done. I am
interrupted three different times as different family members call to talk
about the conference. As I try to convince each one of them (Mom, Melanie, and
Jared) that I’m not worried about going, I briefly wonder if they have a new
form for these conference phone calls—a special
Callie is being forced to
travel and stay in public accommodations
-type form…

Somehow,
I end each of these phone calls…somehow I manage to finish my night routine,
even though I keep pausing to answer the phone and to check my empty inbox…and
somehow I end up in bed once again dressed in old pajamas.

SUNDAY
MORNING. I WAIT UNTIL after I get home from church to do the task I’ve been
trying to avoid. I dig into the way back corner of my closet, past a bunch of
dresses organized by color and neat rows of shoes, to find the brown
rectangular box that hasn’t come out for air in years…that wasn’t ever supposed
to see the light of another day.

{Maroon
5 jumps in with the refrain of
“Daylight”
but not without a fight
from Damien Rice, who has been singing to me all morning.}

I
take the box over to my bed, where I sit down and shake my head. I can’t
believe I’m doing this.

I
lift the cover of the box. And then it’s all here, right in front of me—the
remnants of my relationship with Tony.

{Maroon
5…and Damien Rice…continue to sing.}

And,
really, as I look at it all now, it seems sort of silly that I kept all of this
stuff. Seriously, what was I thinking?

As
I start to lift the items out of the box one by one, I remember what I was
thinking. I remember packing this box years and years ago. And I remember a
blurry mix of tears and mascara…barely even seeing my hands as they placed each
item in the box—letters, pressed flowers, a mix CD of Tony’s favorite music, my
copy of our prom picture, birthday cards, a little stuffed bear, a comb and
contact lens case that he accidentally left in my dorm room when he rushed out
after breaking up with me, and…there it is…his spare set of car keys. Keys that
he only gave me because he accidentally locked his keys in his car during his
first visit to Pierce and then had to wait forever for a local company to
unlock the car…and then got really pissed…and then vowed that such a thing
wouldn’t happen again.

I
pick up the keys and remember how he made me promise not to lose them before he
handed them to me. Like I was an irresponsible child.

Dickhead
of the century…that was him.

Yeah,
but you’ve agreed to see that dickhead in a few hours, Callie.

I
make a quick decision. An important decision. I pick up my old box of Tony
stuff, run it downstairs, and throw it in the trash. I don’t need any of that
stuff anymore.

Feeling
pretty proud of myself, I go back upstairs. I get my phone from my purse to see
if Mandy texted me while I was at church. She was supposed to text me this
morning to give me a leaving time for today. I turn my phone on and find three
messages waiting for me. A Words with Friends message from Tony. A text message
from Mandy. And a text message from Unknown Number.

Even
though my now jumpy stomach would probably prefer I start elsewhere, I open
Mandy’s text first.

We’ll
leave around 2:45 p.m.

We’ll
leave around 2:45 p.m. So I can go see Tony. Mandy doesn’t know that, though.
Last night, I told her that I wanted to meet a high school friend in Oakland
before dinner. I figured she wouldn’t mind since we’d already be heading to
Oakland to pick up Josh for dinner. And she didn’t…doesn’t mind. And she didn’t
question my story. My lying worked. Again. And next week, next Saturday, I’m
going to have to confess lying. Again.

I
quickly text Mandy back, thanking her and reminding her to be careful driving
back from her morning sorority study session.

Then
I move on to another message—my Words with Friends message from Tony.

Hey,
Angel. 4:00 still okay?

Yes,
asshole. Stop calling me Angel.

I
respond with a yes, leaving out my term of endearment.

And
then…then it’s time.

I
count a slow one, two, three. Open.

Check your email
again, please. I’m worried about you.

{Damien.
Just Damien.}

My
eyes stare at his second sentence—for I don’t know how long…long enough for all
of my nail polish to disappear…and then a few minutes after that.

Eventually,
I move my body…all of my heavy limbs…over to my laptop. In the middle of about
five spam emails that my filter should have caught is a message from DA Blake.
Slowly, I move my mouse up to his name, his email.

Count.
Click.

Another
list of three questions sits in front of me.