Checked Again (17 page)

Mandy
smiles when she sees me. “Hey, Callie.”

I
know I should say “Hello” back and then let her finish talking on the phone. I
know it would be best if I just wait to talk to her…wait until she isn’t on the
phone with Josh…or with Melanie…or maybe…maybe with
him.
Maybe she’s
talking to Dr. Blake right now, trying to come up with a new plan or—

“Did
Dr. Blake ask you to clear your schedule for the rest of the week?” The words
just fly out of me.

I
watch as Mandy’s eyebrows lift a little in surprise. She speaks, not covering
up the mouthpiece on the phone. “How did you know about that?”

“He
told me.” I pause. “But how did he…did you…when did—”

Articulate
as ever, Callie.

Mandy
smiles, enjoying my stupid flustered speech, I guess. “He called me. He was all
deep voice and worried tone. All hot.” Her smile gets even bigger. “How could I
say no?”

My
mouth starts to open…to produce more questions, but Mandy interrupts me before
I can even get started. “You couldn’t say no either, could you, Mel?”

Mel.
 
She’s talking to Melanie. Not him. I guess I kind of figured that after
the “all hot” comment, though.

Mandy
starts laughing. “I know, right? Me too. Did he sound all relieved and happy
when you agreed? Cause, well, he told me—”

Now
it’s my turn to interrupt. “Wait—Melanie cleared her schedule for me too?”

Mandy
smiles teasingly. “Well, yes, for you. Of course. But for him, too…”

I
shake my head. And I roll my eyes. And…and I find myself somehow smiling back
at Mandy as my thoughts turn into something like a part of a dumb ass poem that
Dr. Emery would love. Because, really, I’m so lucky to have people that care
that much…Mandy…and Melanie…and…well, he has to care at least a little still if
he’s been calling Mandy and Melanie and trying to make my trip somewhat
better…right? This can’t be standard doctor protocol, right? It—

Mandy
reads my mind. Sort of. “Does he do this kind of stuff for all of his patients?
Because maybe I should make an appoint—”

I
shake my head and roll my eyes again to stop her.

Mandy
does stop her sentence, and she smiles at me…really smiles…without the teasing
glint in her eyes now. “There’s something there, Callie.” She pauses for a
second and then nods her head against her phone. “Melanie agrees.”

My
head starts to shake a little, but I stop it. There’s no point in arguing with
them. Mandy won’t understand. Melanie won’t understand. And it’s no fault of
theirs. They don’t know how it all ended…why it all ended.
{Colbie Caillat
moves in with
“I Never Told You
.
”
}

And
I’m not getting into all of that with them. They would just worry more. So I
just shrug and put a little smile on my mouth.

“Good
night, Mandy.” Then, a little louder. “Night, Mel.”

Mandy
smiles at me again…still no teasing look in her eyes…but a different look there
now. One that has questions in it. Questions that she probably won’t ask.
Questions that I probably won’t answer. Wouldn’t even know how to answer.

“Night,
Callie.” She points to the phone. “From me and Mel. Oh. And from that
fingernail-sized baby inside of Mel.”

Mandy
squeals a little. I follow suit. So does Melanie (I can hear her through the
phone).

Then
I go to my room to get to work. Night preparation work. Work. It is work.
Imagine if I’d get paid for the hours I put in…

No
time to think about that now. Too much else to think about. Cleared schedules.
Secret phone calls. Scary upcoming confer—

Nope.
Not going to think about that right now.

Night
routine. GO.

12:42
a.m. Before I get into bed (in really, REALLY old pajamas), I check Words with
Friends. No new notifications, though. Melanie probably doesn’t have time to
play…I’m sure she’s especially busy now that she’s taken off the end of the
week at work…

And
Tony, well, Tony’s probably done playing. Unless he thinks of something else he
wants from me.

{Apocalyptica
and Adam Gontier, all impassioned and intense, scream and sing
“I Don’t Care
.
”
But I don’t quite believe them. They clearly are not in the surprisingly
healthy, not caring state that I am in when thinking about Tony. I feel bad for
them…}

Without
really giving it much thought (or any counts of three), I forfeit my game with
Tony. Then I look at my other game. My “sad” game.

A
hushed voice echoes through my head.
His
voice. “
We will talk soon.
We will talk soon. We will talk soon.
”

He
wants to talk about the conference…the conference that is now only two days
away.

Two
days away and I still have no concrete plan to get out of it…

Dirty
airplane seats and engine malfunctions and hotel sheets and hotel bathrooms and
crowded conference areas begin to clog up my head.

These
thoughts don’t go away. I keep trying to push them out of my head, though. I
turn on the television and get into bed, trying to transform the voices, the
oven timers, the cooking sounds into a white buzzing sound. It just doesn’t
work, though.

My
head pounds. Nervous twitches race around my stomach.

I
try to remember the relaxation techniques that Dr. Blake taught me…the ones I’m
supposed to be using at times like this. I try to relax my stomach.

It
doesn’t work.

My
mind keeps replaying a report I saw once about all of the germs on hotel beds.

And
all of the people at the conference will be sleeping in those beds, sleeping on
those germs, walking around just covered in diseases, and—

And
I get up.

1:43
a.m. I take a shower.

2:03
a.m. I begin my routine again.

Around
5:00 in the morning, I put myself back into bed.

I
close my eyes and four words replay over and over again in my mind. They lull
me to sleep.

“
We
will talk soon. We will talk soon. We will talk soon. We will talk soon. We
will talk soon. We will talk—
”

Chapter
12

questions

“
WE
WILL TALK SOON. WE will talk soon. We will talk soon.
”
                  

My
alarm wakes me up at 7:30 a.m., and the same four words echo in my head. I open
my eyes, and another word plunges through my brain.

Conference.

As
the ceiling above me becomes dizzyingly blurry and my ears begin to buzz, I
slam my eyes shut again.

It
doesn’t help.

I
start to taste a mixture of yesterday’s calories coming back up in my—

I’ve
got to run.

I
throw back my comforter and swing my feet to the floor. I sprint to the
bathroom in one rushed count of three, and—

And
I don’t make it.

Right
here, one foot in the bathroom…one step in, everything comes out of me. Fruit.
Soup. Yogurt.

All
over the bathroom tile. On my pajamas. His pajamas.

DAMN
IT DAMN IT DAMN IT.

I
freeze. Hands in the air. Feet awkwardly parted. I try to blink away the little
droplets of water that have materialized in the corners of my eyes, but I only
make things worse. More watery drops come out…more and more…they slide down my
face and add to the mess on the floor.

Okay,
Callie. You can’t just stand here. Things aren’t going to just get magically
better. Or cleaner.

Focus,
Callie. Focus. Focus.

One.
Two. Three.

Taking
one very slow step at a time, I work my feet around the mess on the floor,
moving all the way over to my bathroom trash can. As I move, I catch a glimpse
of myself in the mirror. Short shorts. Oversized t-shirt. Both covered in throw
up. Ruined.

One.
Two. Three.

I
squeeze my arms and hands in through the sleeves of my shirt. After I get both
hands under, I push the fabric up over my head.

One.
Two. Three.

Shirt
in the trash can.

Next,
I slide off my shorts…and my underwear. Into the trash.

Standing
naked in my bathroom, I think carefully. And after a few seconds, I somehow
come up with a plan. Then I get to work.

I
take a shower. Lots of soap. Lots of scrubbing.

I
brush my teeth. Lots of toothpaste. Bleeding gums.

I
run out of the bathroom in a towel (carefully avoiding the mess on the floor).
I go to the kitchen where I grab three large trash bags, window cleaner, a
large roll of paper towels, and gloves. Before heading back up to my room, I
grab the Lysol spray from the hall closet.

Back
to the bathroom. Towel off.

I
do some naked cleaning and scrubbing. Then I deposit all of the used paper
towels, my pair of gloves, and my entire bathroom trash can into a large white
trash bag. And I double bag it all. And triple bag it.

After
propping the bag up against the wall, I take another shower. I scrub and scrub
and scrub. Eventually, I get out. I put on a clean pair of pajamas (for once).
Then I take the triple-bagged garbage bag downstairs (holding it far, far away
from my body as I walk) and put it right outside the back door. Out of the way.
Out of my sight.

I
head back into the kitchen, wash my hands, and start upstairs to begin my
morning preparations. Just as I turn the corner into my room, I hear my phone
buzz against the top of my dresser.

Resigned
to the fact that I am going to be way behind schedule today, I go over to my
dresser and pick up my phone.

I
have a text message. From Unknown Number.

One.
Two. Three. Open text.

Please
check your email this morning.

Although
I know that going to check my email right now will mean that I will be even
more behind schedule this morning, I head straight to my computer.

Open
inbox.

One
new message. DA Blake. Subject: Questions.

More
questions.

One.
Two. Three. Click.

I know you don’t
want to think about the conference. I know you are trying to avoid any mention
of it. However, I also know that tomorrow is going to be here in no time…and
also that we’ll both regret it if we don’t make some sort of game plan for you
while we still have time.

We’ll
both? Him and me? I’ll regret it and he’ll regret it?

Callie.
Focus.

One.
Two. Three. Eyes back to my email.

With that all being
said, I have some questions for you.

1.) Why did you
refuse Mandy’s offer to go with you?

2.) Is there any way
that you can get out of going?

3.) Are you
attending some of the pre-session activities?

                                 -AB

AB.
Not the formal Dr. Blake. Not the familiar Aiden. Something in between.

Well,
AB, here goes.

Count.
Click reply.

1.) Mandy shouldn’t
be missing classes for me. Even if her professors have okayed this, she still
might miss something important. A concept. Some notes. A brilliant question
from a classmate. Something. Then it’ll come back to hurt her someday. She’ll
miss a question on a test. She’ll mess up something in some sort of art
portfolio. She’ll have a client ask her a question ten years from now and she
won’t have the answer. All because of me.

And she’s not
getting on a plane for me. And—

And
I’m writing too much. WAY too much.

Delete.
Delete. Delete. Start again.

1.) Mandy shouldn’t
be missing classes for me. And I can’t have a babysitter with me on this
trip—that would look ridiculous.

Hmm…that’ll
do.

2.) I can’t get out
of it. I’ve been asked to write some articles about the conference.

Articles
that, I’m sure, won’t be taken very seriously if I have to have someone holding
my hand throughout the event.

3.)
Yes.

Okay…looks
good. Good enough.

One.
Two. Three. Send.

9:02
a.m. Morning routine—you’re up.

Thermostat:
70 degrees. Stove: off (still…basically since Mandy and I first moved in here).
Door: locked.

9:11
a.m. I wonder if he’s written back yet. I wonder if I should just quickly
check…

{My
mind makes up its own song…I don’t think it has a title, but the refrain starts
with the line
“
Like
you have a freaking choice, Callie.
”
}

Back
up to my computer.

Open
email.

One
new message from DA Blake. Subject: Questions #2.

How
many questions does he have?

One.
Two. Three. Open.

Here are more
questions:

1.) What are your
responsibilities at this conference?

2.) Have you ever
been on a plane before?

3.) Who is taking
you to the airport?

Airport.
Plane. Airport. Plane. Airport. Plane. The two words look larger than all of
the other words in his email. Ten times larger. They may as well be highlighted
in neon and have stars around them. The word “crash” should probably also—

My
stomach starts to churn. The back of my throat begins—

I’ve
gotta move.

My
feet start running before I can even get to a standing position. I bolt to the
bathroom. And I make it to the toilet. Just in time. Another mixture of
yesterday’s calories leaves my system.

Eventually,
nothing more comes out of me.

Feeling
slightly better…but also a little weak physically (no comment on mentally), I
brush my teeth, get undressed (my clothes don’t have any throw up on them—so
they go to the hamper, not the trash can), and take a shower.

9:36
a.m. Out of the bathroom. In yet another clean pair of pajamas. Ready to brave
my computer again. I think.

One.
Two. Three.

I
sit down slowly and focus my eyes on the end of the email I was reading…the
part I haven’t gotten to yet.

Callie—I’m sure today
is going to be rough…or has already been rough. Please still try to eat.

Wow.
His all-knowing powers are a bit off. I don’t think eating would be the best
plan for me right now.

Especially
now that I have to answer his airplane-themed questions. And think about
flying. Tomorr—

CALLIE.
Stop. Focus. Answer his questions. Quickly.

Okay.
Count. Reply.

1.) Attending
multiple presentations. Writing and submitting articles about them. Not passing
out.

Okay.
First question done. Well, almost. I delete the last part about not passing
out.

On
to the second question. Fast. No thinking.

2.)
No.

Never.
And I never intended to get on one. But now—

My
stomach starts to gurgle again and—

CALLIE!
Stop. You are almost there. Get this done.

{Kendrick
Lamar, all in white, saunters in with
“Bitch, Don’t Kill my Vibe
.
”
}

3.)
Dr. Gabriel.

Okay.
Done. Onetwothreesend.

9:42
a.m. Stand up. Back to work. I open the blinds. I make sure my alarm is still
off. I brush my teeth. Again. I straighten pictures, clean the living room, and
sweep the floor.

10:21
a.m. Fully aware of the fact that I have no self control whatsoever, I head
back to my computer.

And
he wrote again. Twice.

Please
don’t make me throw up again. Please don’t make me throw up again. Please don’t
make me throw up again.

One.
Two. Three. Open first email. Subject: Correction.

Obviously ignore my
eating advice if you’ve gotten yourself so worked up that you are making
yourself sick.

Back
in my head again, I see, Dr. Blake. Ugh.

Delete
email.

Next
email. Subject: Questions #3.

Count.
Open.

1.) Are you staying
in a room by yourself?

2.) Is that Gabriel
guy going to be everywhere?

3.) What happened
with Tony?

WHAT?

If
he wants to know that, then he must care a—

No,
Callie.

But—

Stop.
Stop. Stop.

Hurry
up and reply. Countclick.

1.)
God, I hope so.

2.)
Probably.

3.)
Nothing.

Countsend.
No thinking about why he asked that…what he meant…if he—

AHHH…stop,
Callie.

10:25
a.m. Out of my chair. Down to the kitchen for refrigerator sorting, dish
washing, and floor scrubbing. Then on to doorknob wiping and laundry washing.

11:36
a.m. After I say a few rounds of prayers (The Act of Contrition, the Hail Mary,
and The Lord’s Prayer—three times each), I allow myself to head back to my
computer.

And
he wrote again.

Did
he forget about going to work today?

Count.
Open email. Subject: Questions #4.

1.)
What time is your flight?

2.)
What is your flight number?

3.) Are you going to
stay at the hotel where the conference is being held?

Ugh.
I lean back in
my chair and begin to pick my nails, hoping to distract my nervous stomach.