Checked Again (19 page)

Yep.
More mind magic. Ah…and now Melanie’s phone call makes much more sense. He
obviously got to her (again) too.

Mandy
is looking at me, studying me…perhaps wondering if she should run to get a
bucket or something.   

“Hey.”
I smile over at her. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for helping me.”

Mandy
smiles a little now too, but her eyes look sad.    

Time
to change the subject. “Hey, do you want to go in with me on a
Yay, you’re
pregnant
gift for Mel?”

Mandy
nods.

I
go on. “Okay…well, I was thinking about ordering some—”

My
phone buzzes in my purse.

Mandy’s
eyes get all glittery again. “Hello, hot Dr. Blake.”

I
roll my eyes and reach into my purse to grab my phone and check my text.

And
yes, it’s from him.

“Was
I right? Is it him?”

I
nod.

Mandy
jumps up off the bed. “Talk to him, Callie.” She smiles back at me. “We’ll pick
out a gift for Mel later.” With that, she leaves the room, leaves me alone with
my phone, my text, him.

One.
Two. Three. Open text.

Did you get my text
about your flight time?

Ugh.
He’s just going
to keep asking if I don’t answer…or else he’ll try to get the information
through Melanie or Mandy…and he has them way too involved in all of this
anyway…

So
I guess I’d better try to figure out my flight time.

One.
Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.

I
slowly get up, off of my bed. I head over to my computer and find the email Dr.
Gabriel sent to me. I open it and stare at the link to his attachment. The link
that I just have to click on…and then I will see my trip itinerary.

Surprisingly,
my stomach doesn’t start to contract…I don’t feel the need to run to the
bathroom to throw up.

Instead,
my eyes start to burn. And my throat fights to swallow.

I
move the little white arrow on my screen so it hovers right above the link for
Dr. Gabriel’s attachment.

One
two three. One two three. One two three.

One.      Two.      Three.     
One.      Two.      Three.        One.       Two.       Three.

One.

Two.

Three.

I.

Can’t.

Do.

This.

Eyes
blurry, throat pretty much closed now.

I
can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I—

I
have an idea.

I
move my hand and the little white arrow on the screen toward the word “Forward”
at the top of the page.

One.
Two. Three. Click.

I
type DA Blake’s address in the recipient line.

One.
Two. Three. Send.

Done.

My
flight time has to be in that email attachment somewhere. He’ll find it.

{Peter,
Paul, and Mary break in with
“Leaving on a Jet—”
}

Stop
it, Callie.

I
click out of my email program and get up. I head back over to my bed, trying
not to look over at the packed travel bag sitting on top of it, sitting there
as a reminder that—

Stop.
Stop. Stop.

I
grab my phone, count, and click to reply to my last message.

I
just sent some info in an email.

Count.
Send.

8:47
p.m. Time for a few monotonous, perhaps distracting…hopefully mind-erasing…hours
of my night preparations.

GO.

9:24
p.m. My phone buzzes just as I am pulling a gray sweater dress, tomorrow’s
outfit, out of my closet. With my dress draped over my arm, I walk over to my
dresser to check the message. I pick up the phone. My new message is from him. His
message.

Count.
Open.

I got your email.
Thanks for all of the information. You haven’t read any of it yet, though, have
you?

Stop.
Knowing. Everything.

Count.
Reply.

No.

Count.
Send. No use in lying. He’d know. He probably also knows that I considered
lying before sending my response.

I
put my phone back in its spot and head back to my closet to pick out shoes for
tomorrow.

Do
not think about tomorrow. Do not think about tomorrow. Do not think about
tomorrow.

I
keep working, keep making my way through my routine, until I hear another buzz
from my phone as I’m putting my laundry away.

Like
a stupid, helpless puppet, I head back to my dresser.

One
new Unknown Number message.

Count.
Open.

I’m worried, Callie.
About this trip. About you probably not eating anything today. About you
probably not sleeping tonight. About you.

I
stare at his words. My legs, my stomach, my arms—everything becomes heavy,
making it almost impossible to remain standing. I drag my body over to sit on
the edge of my bed, still looking at the text, still seeing his words.

{Damien
crawls in, starting at the beginning of
“The Blower’s Daughter
.
”
}

Why
is he doing this to me?

He
shouldn’t be saying, typing, these things to me. He shouldn’t be so involved in
everything. He shouldn’t—

My
phone buzzes again, vibrating against my hand.

There’s
more?

One.
Two. Three. I slide my finger across my little phone screen and open his text.

Promise me that you
won’t do anything you shouldn’t—no taking cough syrup or sleeping pills or
anything like that.

The
words “medicinal Band-Aid” echo through my mind, bouncing from one side of my
head to the other.

I
know. I know about you and medication. About your mother and medication.

But
you don’t know that I know. You don’t know—

I
see his face, his devastated eyes…how he looked that first day, during our
first appointment…then how he looked when he told me about his mother for the
first time…then how he must’ve looked when I accidentally recreated the scene
of her suicide…

How
he might look right now.

Quick
count. Reply.

I
won’t.

Hmm…I
need more…to reassure him…

Don’t
worry.

Please
don’t be sad. Please don’t think that I would ever do something stupid with
medication…on purpose.

One.
Two. Three.

Send
(text sent to him and a few prayers sent up to the patron saint of…medication?
OCD? Sad eyes? All of them.)

I
push my body off the edge of my bed. I have to get back to my night
preparations if…if I ever want to get to bed and probably not sleep all night.

Back
to work.

10:02
p.m. I’m just getting out of the shower when my phone rings. I wrap a towel
around myself and head toward my dresser.

He
doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m going to take a whole bottle of—

It
isn’t him. It’s Mom.

I
click to accept the call and put the phone beside my still a little wet ear and
really wet hair, quietly wondering if the water from my hair can destroy my ph—

“Hi,
honey.”

“Hel—”

“Hey,
Cal.”

Oh—it’s
Mom AND Dad.

Mom
starts talking again before I can get any full words in. “We were just, uh, you
know, thinking about you, honey. So we thought we’d give you a call.”

Dad
jumps right in. “Yes, that’s right. So how are you doing tonight?”

So
Dr. Blake has somehow gotten to them too. I can’t really imagine that he
would’ve called my parents, though. He probably had Melanie tell them. Or maybe
he put an ad in all major newspapers…

Do
NOT say the C-word in the presence of one Calista Royce.

P.S.
Using the P-word or the H-word around her is also a bad idea. And—

“Cal?”

Oh
.

“Oh,
sorry. I’m here.”

“So
what’s going on?” Mom tries a new method…a new way of asking if I am or am not
freaking out about tomorrow.

I
can’t think about tomorrow. Or talk about it.

“Well,”
I start, “I just took a shower, and I’ve been running around and getting stuff
done for the last couple hours.” All true. “What are you guys up to?” Pushing
up my almost dry shoulder, I sandwich my phone against my pretty dry ear so I
can start applying my lotion before my body is completely dry.

Mom
and Dad don’t talk about much…they make generic comments about work and the
weather. They also spend a little time discussing Jared’s girlfriend. They
really seem to like her. That’s a first. They also say something about Jared
taking her to a local concert this evening.

That
is their way of telling me why Jared will probably not be calling to check on
me tonight. Jared probably also isn’t calling because he’d be afraid that he’d
accidentally forget the hush hush mandate and use the C-word.

I
can’t help smiling at the thought of him trying to only say what he’s been
told…reading from a Melanie script…or maybe a Dr. Blake script? I don’t know.

I
finish with my lotion, and Mom and Dad seem to run out of things to talk about.
Now they seem to just be waiting for me to say something.

Callie!
Talk to your parents. They are worried about you. They deserve some—

Callie!
Talk!

“Thank
you guys for calling. I’m really glad you did.”

And
I am. I really am.

“Of
course, honey.” Mom sounds worried. Really worried.

I’m
sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I can’t talk about…well, anything really right now.

I
don’t say that. I say this. “Have a good night. I’ll talk to you guys soon.”

We
say our goodbyes and I finish my preparations, finish getting ready for bed.
For the first night in a long time, I put on (and know I’ll keep on) clean
pajamas from my drawer.

Not.
By. Choice.

I
wonder why he hasn’t written me back. Does he—

I
am knocked out of my thoughts as my stomach grumbles a bit. Okay, a lot. But I
can’t eat. I can’t be up all night throwing up. I can’t be throwing up tom—

I
can’t think about that.

I
go over to my bathroom and risk a drink of water…water from my bathroom sink.
If I go down to the kitchen for a glass of water, well, then I’ll have to start
my whole routine again. And it’s already so late. And if I do my whole routine
again, I’ll probably just be even more hungry later. And then I’ll allow myself
another drink of water. And then…

Enough,
Callie.

Time
for bed.

Just
as I’m pulling back my comforter, my phone buzzes on my dresser.

I
lean over and grab it, unplugging it from its charger.

And
it’s him. Finally.

Count.
Open.

I hope you are able
to get some sleep tonight. Call me if you need to talk. Even if it’s at 3:00 in
the morning.

My
mouth turns up in a little smile…even though it shouldn’t. Even though his
message means nothing…nothing except that he is acting as a concerned doctor…a
doctor who doesn’t really want to be my doctor anymore.

Despite
that, despite this knowledge, I count and click to reply…because it’s the
polite thing to do…because I’m sure that he knows I’m still awake and that I’ve
seen his message…because otherwise, I’ll just think all night about my decision
to not reply.

Okay.
A response.

Thank
you. Good night.

Enough?
I’ve thanked him for his offer, and by saying good night, I’ve essentially let
him know that I won’t be needing his offer or using his offer. I’ve let him
know that I’m going to sleep. That I’m not about to make a phone call.