Checked Again (20 page)

That
has to be enough.

One.
Two. Three. Send.

I
plug my phone back in and tuck myself into my bed. On television? A brother and
sister chef team making a variety of comfort foods. Cooking. And talking. And
refusing to morph into white noise.

{Matchbox
Twenty’s
“3
A.M.”
plays in my head as I don’t sleep. And don’t sleep. And don’t sleep.}

3:00
A.M. THE SISTER AND BROTHER chefs are working on like their sixth comfort food
dish. Their voices have still refused to produce any sort of comforting white
noise for me, however.

Since
I can’t sleep, I’ve considered just getting up and trying to work on my
Zen
and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
paper. I’ve also considered
repainting my nails (I took care of de-polishing them about an hour ago). And
I’ve thought about playing my Words with Friends turn with Melanie. I’ve even
pondered going to my laptop to look up more exhausting information about
exoplanets.

I
haven’t done any of these things, though. Any one of them could easily set off
my need to restart my night routine, and I really shouldn’t be redoing that
tonight. I really should be getting some sleep tonight.

Because
I’m not going to be able to sleep tomorrow. Not on the plane. Not in the hotel.
Not—

My
back, my legs, my neck…they all start to break out in a shivery sweat. My
throat, thankfully not trying to throw up, is dry. Overly dry. Cannot
swallow-dry.

I
try to push my thoughts away. The plane, the passengers, the hotel, the
germs—everything.

It
doesn’t work. The thoughts don’t go away.

If
someone doesn’t check the plane properly before we take off tomorrow, the plane
will crash. If there is some sort of storm, some sort of bad weather, the plane
will crash. If the pilot is distracted…or if there is a terrorist or—

My
cold sweat spreads over my stomach, my feet, and my face. My pajama shirt
damply clings to my back.

Stop,
Callie. Stop. Stop.

A
terrorist could—

No.
CALLIE. Stop.

I
cover my face, my eyes, with my hands, trying to stop the thoughts from—

Who
is staying in my hotel room right now? Who stayed in it last night? And the
night before that? And the night before that? And the—

CALLIE.

Please
don’t make me go to this conference, God. Please. Please don’t—

A
new round of prickly sweat starts to race around my body. I’m too out of
control to be praying. I want this too much…want not to go too much.

What
if my prayers go to the wrong place…what if I get so worked up, so out of control,
that I start sending them to the wrong place? What if I decide that I’ll do
anything to get out of this, even bargain with my soul…with Sata—

My
eyes, though closed, start to burn. My head starts to pound.

What
if I’ve already lost my soul? If I—

I
slam my head against my pillow, trying to knock my thoughts out of my mind.

It’s
too late, though. Images of eternity, of fire, begin—

I
open my eyes, shaking my head fiercely.

The
thoughts remain. The images continue and—

I
grab a clump of my hair from the top of my head, pulling and yanking and hoping
to cause enough pain to stop the thinking.

Pictures—evil,
horrible images—start to move in a faster rhythm, flashing through me in a
constant cycle.

My
shirt is now drenched. I start to shake. I throw the covers off of me and—

BUZZ.

My
phone is buzzing against my dresser. Without thinking, just doing, I fling
myself out of my bed and over to my phone.

One
text. Unknown Number.

Open
quickly.

Do
you want me to go with you?

Chapter
13

pre-flight

YES.
YES. Y—

Stop,
Callie.

Body
and fingers shaking. Hit reply quickly.

No.

Send
before I can change my response.

Before
I return my phone to my dresser, I check the time. 4:12 a.m.

My
alarm is set to ring at 4:15 a.m. Time for my morning routine.

Relieved
at the thought, I switch off my alarm clock and get to work, focusing intently
on each of my tasks.
{Oh, and on Damien, who sings. And sings. And sings.}

7:15
a.m. I don’t even take a second of a break before beginning my
leaving-the-house routine.
Just keep moving, Callie. Just keep not thinking,
Callie.

{I
guess you are going to just keep singing, Damien.}

7:48
a.m. My morning routine is finished. My leaving-the-house preparations are
finished. Nothing left to do. My travel bag, filled with whatever Mandy put in
it, is here, sitting by the door. I haven’t been able to make myself look
inside of it…not beyond the note that Mandy attached to the handle, the note
telling me that she packed everything—clothes, pajamas, shoes, hair styling
products, and makeup/toiletries (new makeup and toiletries that she must’ve
bought at some point after, well, some point after
he
told her to, I
guess). 

On
top of my travel bag is my purse. And my purse has my netbook in it. So I’ll be
able to type my conference articles. If I ever make it to the conference.

I
sit down on the steps and my eyes focus on my travel bag, on my purse, on the
door…the door that Dr. Gabriel will be knocking on any second now.

How
the hell am I going to do this? How am I going to even move my legs, lift my
body off of the stairs to answer the door…let alone get into Dr. Gabriel’s car,
enter a plane, stay in a—

Cold
sweat is again spreading over my body. My gray dress is clinging to my
shoulders and arms. My eyes start to sting.

Get
it together, Callie.

I
scrape my nail polish off—digging at three nails at a time. It doesn’t help.

My
cheeks and forehead begin to burn up. My dress is now stuck to my back, my
stomach, my thighs.

And…and
I can’t breathe in…I try a few times to make my body, my organs, work, but
nothing happens.

Oh
my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

My
head starts to spin. My—

“Callie?”
Mandy’s voice echoes throughout my head.
CALLIE CALLIE CALLIE.

“Callie?”

Her
face is right in front of mine, her hands on my cheeks.

“Callie.
You are soaking wet.”

I
don’t respond. Can’t respond yet.

She
puts more pressure on my cheeks. “We have to leave for the airport in just a
few minutes. You’re going to have to change.”

We
are leaving for the airport? We?

Mandy
must see my confusion through all of the other emotions that, I’m sure, are on
my face right now. “I’m taking you to the airport now. Dr. Gabriel knows—I
called him last night.” She drops her hands and straightens out her body. She
is now looking down at me.

But
—

“I
just told him that I already had plans to ride out that way this morning.
That’s all I told him, so don’t worry.”

But
—

“Callie—we’ve
got to get going, though. Do you want me to run upstairs and grab you another
outfit?”

I
make my head move up and down slowly. Mandy flashes me a mixed look—a concerned
glance and a little reassuring smile all at once. Then she rushes past me as
she goes up the stairs.

Thank
you, Mandy. Thank you, Mandy. Thank you. {Kelly Clarkson runs in with the
refrain of
“My
Life Would Suck Without You
.
”
}

Mandy
is back in no time. She again takes her place in front of me at the bottom of
the stairs. Then she reaches out, grabs my hands, and pulls my body to a
standing position. She takes my hands and positions them on her shoulders.

“Okay,
Callie. Left leg up.”

I
listen to her instructions, doing as she says. Hands securely on Mandy’s
shoulders. Left leg up. Mandy bends down and starts to slide a gray pencil
skirt onto my body. Then she asks me to raise my right leg. Left leg down.
Right leg up. Hands still on Mandy’s shoulders. Mandy pulls the skirt up, up
under the bottom half of my sweaty dress.

“Okay,
Callie. Put your foot back on the ground and lift up your arms slowly.” She
puts her hands firmly at my waist. “I’ve got you.”

Okay.
Right foot down. Hands off of Mandy’s shoulders. Arms moving slowly up in the
air. Mandy, still holding my waist, meets my eyes. Her face is all scrunched
up.

“How
are you going to do this, Callie? How—”

I
shake my head to cut her off, blinking my eyes as they begin to build up into a
soggy mess. Mandy shakes her own head sadly. Then she leans down to lift the
bottom of my dress up with her right hand. Somehow, she manages to pull the
entire dress up and over my head while still keeping some sort of grip on my
body with her other hand. She then throws the gray dress on the stairs behind
me and begins sliding a white sweater over my arms, over my head.

When
she finishes, she looks at me again, a forced smile now planted on her lips.
“Your shoes match this outfit too. Don’t worry.”

{Kelly
Clarkson gets louder, again repeating her refrain.}

I
give Mandy a tiny, but real smile. Then I manage to push out some sentences.
“Thank you.” I raise my eyebrows. “You know I hate you driving unnecessarily
all the way to Pittsburgh for me.”

Mandy’s
smile gets a little bigger, a little more comfortable. She takes my hand and
then leans over to grab my dress from the stairs. As she starts walking toward
the hall with me in tow, she talks. “It really isn’t unnecessary, Callie. I’m
going to visit Josh.” She opens the laundry closet and places my dress on the
washer. Then she looks back at me, still smiling. “I have the time since I
cleared my schedule for a certain someone who doesn’t want my company.”

“Hey—of
course I want your company,” I cut in before she says anything else. “I just
can’t—”

Mandy
cuts me off, closing the laundry closet and pulling me back toward the front
door. “I know—you can’t have a babysitter for your big conference, your graduation
requirement thing.” Now her smile gets huge. “You won’t even let your hot
not-boyfriend doctor go with you.”

I
drop her hand. “You know about that?”
He called you again?

“Of
course.” Mandy stops at the hall closet to grab my coat. “Who do you think told
me to call Dr. Gabriel?”

For
a moment, my stomach begins to relax…and my body begins to feel a little at
ease. Just a little.

This
has to be more than standard doctor treatment. And he’s not even really my
doctor right now. He doesn’t have to do this…he must want to do this…

{D.A.M.I.E.N}

Mandy
opens the front door, nods for me to pick up my purse (and I listen), shoves my
coat into my travel bag, and throws the bag over her shoulder. She then yanks
me through the door and closes it. She waits patiently while I triple twist the
handle.

Then
we go.

OUR
TRIP TO PITTSBURGH GOES really fast. Mandy talks nonstop about her sorority’s
pledge class, purses, food, and Josh. It almost feels like a Sunday drive to
Pittsburgh for a family dinner. Almost.

There
are differences, of course. For one, it’s not Sunday. Also, I don’t usually
have a travel bag in the car when we go to dinner. Furthermore, my body is not
normally sweating or shaking…and in general just not functioning correctly…

We
get to the airport around 9:15 a.m. Mandy doesn’t park right away, though. She
drives around the parking lot super slowly, passing empty spaces every few
minutes. She continues to talk, now about one of her art classes, as she
drives. I wait until 9:35 a.m. to interrupt her, to ask her what she’s doing.

She
looks over at me matter-of-factly. “I’m supposed to kill time.”

Oh
. I guess she’s
been given explicit instructions for this drop off. I’m guessing she even knows
what time my fli—

Nope.
Don’t want to think about it. I place my hands over my rumbling stomach, push
my head back against the headrest, and try to focus on Mandy’s story about an
upcoming art show at Pierce.

At
9:50 a.m., her story slows down. So does the car.

My
stomach does the opposite.

Mandy
pulls up to an empty parking spot and turns into it. She turns off the car, the
radio, and any sense of calm I had left. She glances over at me, a sad look in
her eyes.

“Okay,
Callie. If you really want to do this, we’ve gotta get going now.”

I
nod my head slightly. I have to do this. I force my hand to open my car door.
Then I push my feet, my gray pumps, out and onto the pavement beside the car.

Okay.
Keep going, Callie. Keep. Going.

Move.
Move. MOVE.

I
can’t. I can’t peel my body from the seat. I can’t move.

I
look down at my feet, urging them to somehow lift me up…to somehow push me out
of the car.

It
doesn’t work. It—

A
pair of pink heels appears in front of me. Mandy’s heels. Mandy’s feet. Her
body moves in toward mine, and before I know it, she’s taking my hands and
bringing me up to a standing position.

The
next few minutes (or maybe several minutes…or maybe a half hour…I don’t know)
are really fuzzy. In a light-headed, dry-throated, stomach-pounding fog, we
walk into the airport, check in at a counter, and head toward a security
checkpoint. Mandy stops me before we get to the checkpoint. She helps me
balance, holding onto my waist as she has me slip off my shoes, put incredibly
thick socks over my nylons, and shove my shoes back on.

I
do as she says. Then I float along beside her in a daze.

When
we get up to the security checkpoint, I stand right beside Mandy as she picks
up some dark-colored tubs. She pulls some Lysol wipes from her purse and cleans
the tubs thoroughly, inside and outside. After she tosses the wipes into a
nearby trash can, she cleans off her own hands with another wipe…some sort of
antibacterial wipe. Clearly, someone has told her just what to do here…because
she does everything almost exactly as
he
would have done it.

My
head is too fuzzy to dwell on this…to dwell on the fact that, as always, he has
every little detail covered.

I
watch as Mandy puts her purse, my purse, and my travel bag into the
newly-cleaned dark bins.  She then tells me to take off my shoes. And…and I’m
not really surprised. Somewhere buried in the back of my head…way back, I knew
that this was coming. I read about this shoe removal procedure in the news
years ago…and I’ve heard people who travel talking about it…oh, and I kind of
suspected that this was about to happen a few fuzzy minutes ago when Mandy made
me shove heavy duty socks onto my feet and then into my heels…

I
knew this was probably coming…but I still somehow hoped that it wasn’t going to
happen. Hoped it magically wasn’t a procedure anymore.

But
it is.

And
it’s happening. Now.

“Callie,
if you insist upon going to this conference, you have to do this part.” Mandy’s
whispered words reverberate in my head. Around and around and around in my
head.

{Merry-go-round
organ music begins blaring in there, too.}

Okay,
Callie. You have to do this. You have to do this. You have to do this.

One.
Two. Three.
You can throw the socks out right afterward.
One. Two.
Three.
It will only take a few seconds.
One. Two. Three.
Please let
it only take a few seconds.

Mandy
is staring at me, covered in sympathy…and concern…and helplessness…

Okay.
Okay. Okay.

Head
spinning.
{Merry-go-round music pounding. Horses flying in circles around
and around and around my brain.}

I
pull my left foot up and out of my shoe.

One.
Two. Three. I push my foot a little toward the floor. One. Two. Three. A little
more. One. Two. Three.
Please don’t let me step in anything gross. Or wet.
Like throw up.

Oh…and
please don’t let me throw up. Please. Please.