Checked (11 page)

Now he’s looking at me again. Waiting.

“Thank you,” I murmur, hoping that is what he is waiting for.

It’s not.

“Aren’t you going to have a seat?”

Oh. The first time he’s ever said those words to me.

“Sure.” I sit down in the dark, soft chair. My chair. I really have nowhere to put my purse so I hold it in my lap.
Okay? Time to begin now?

No. Not yet, it seems. He leans on the left corner of his desk so we really aren’t all that far apart. A couple of feet maybe.

“Before we start our therapy, Calista,” he begins, “I have to know that you are in the necessary physical condition for this to be safe.”

What physical exertion is part of psychological therapy? Rock climbing? Bungee jumping? My face must reveal my confusion.

He goes on. “I need to know that you can physically handle the emotional strains we will be putting on your body.”

I still must look confused. He continues. “If you have high blood pressure, an irregular heart rate, or a similar condition, this won’t work.”

Makes sense. Guess he doesn’t want me to have a heart attack in his office. Probably a good plan. No doctor has ever told me that my blood pressure is abnormal or that I am at risk for any kind of heart issues. Is that what he wants to know?

“How long has it been since you’ve actually entered a doctor’s office? Are we talking months…or years?”

I can tell from his tone of voice that he knows it’s been years. Of course he knows. I twist my mouth slightly and bite my lower lip.

“I’ll take that as years,” he says quietly.

I nod my head slowly. I think he even sees my head nod for once. He has looked in my general direction more tonight than he ever has before. He stands up from the corner of the desk before pacing a little in front of me and running his right hand through his dark head of hair.

“This leaves you with a choice then, Calista. You can schedule an appointment with a local doctor or…”

Or what? I can refuse the treatment? I can’t believe he is going to give up so easily.

He stops pacing and his blazing eyes meet mine head on. “Or you can let me perform a quick preliminary examination. Just so we can get started.” He pauses. Waits. But he doesn’t look away. I don’t know how much longer I can endure the intensity of his stare. Squeezing my purse, I silently wish I still had some nail polish on my nails.

I open my mouth and try to make my lips form a response, but I can’t produce any words. My effort causes a small gasp to escape instead.

“It’s too much. I know it is.” He looks away. “Like diving right into one of your major fears before we even really get started.” He’s pacing again. “If there was a way for me to verify your physical health without medical instruments or um…touching, believe me, I’d jump at the option.”

I still don’t talk.
Touching?
I swallow the colossal boulder in my throat.

He presses on, pacing now in the direction of his closet. “I know the traditional OCD fears in this area: the ‘dirty’ doctor’s office, the sick patients, the germs, the used and reused instruments, the invasion of personal space, etcetera. I’ve tried to find a way to eliminate most of these issues.”

He pauses as he leans into his closet again and reappears with a brown shipping box in his hand. As he walks to his desk with the mystery box, he begins talking again.

“Right now, there are no other patients. You are already here, in my office, safe in a chair that no one else has ever touched.” He pauses and opens the brown box. He pulls out a heavy-duty plastic bag and another smaller box. In silence, he begins to break open the securely sealed plastic bag. He unrolls some protective bubble wrap and reveals a stethoscope.

A brand new shiny stethoscope.

Before I can say a word, he moves on to the next step in his little magic show. To open the smaller box, he rips off several layers of packing tape. When the box is open, he pulls out more protective bubble wrap. He removes some more plastic and uncovers a blood pressure cuff. Immaculate. Straight from the medical supplier, no doubt.

All. Bases. Covered.

Almost. There’s still the part about the touching. I’ve spent years of my life perfecting the art of avoiding human contact. Steering clear of popular places. Sitting on the edge of classrooms. Paying with a credit card at a grocery store (so I can just swipe the strip of the card by myself) and then having the cashier put the receipt in the bag even though I’m scared to death of losing a receipt, not recording it, and having an inaccurate checking balance. Pretending to sneeze or cough or be otherwise indisposed when we get to the handshaking part at church. Oh, and pretty much entirely neglecting my medical, dental, and visual health.

I have finally gotten to the point that I can hug my mother. And Mel and Mandy. Abby too. They can actually get away with a lot of physical contact with me as long as they haven’t been messing with heavy-duty cleaning supplies or using a public bathroom or something.

I’m also doing pretty well, I think, with Jared and Dad. It would be easier if they weren’t always sweating and working in the garage or outside. Or scratching themselves. Or itching their belly buttons. Sometimes I think Jared only does some of those things to help me see a lighter side of my situation. He’s always teasing me about my bathroom. My personal bathroom connected to my room. For me…just me. Forever clean. Everything always just as I leave it. A safe place to wash off my day. Jared knows all of that, but he’s always texting me or calling to tell me that he stopped by my house while I was at class to use my bathroom. “I hope you don’t mind, Callie.” It makes me smile every time. I know he would never actually do it, and I also know he is simply trying to make me laugh.

I remind myself to hug him the next time he is around and not dirty.

That thought jolts me back to the problem at hand.
The touching.

I look up at him. He is still waiting for my response. His eyes have everything in them. Concern. Sadness. Confusion. Hope.

Hope. He really wants to do this treatment. And I’ve already gotten this far. I’m here, I’ve given him pages of personal information, and he already somehow knows intimate information I’ve held back. I know I’m not going to be able to get myself to another doctor. Not a physician for this little medical check, not another therapist. If I’m going to try anything, this is the time.

“Okay.” It slips out of my mouth in a whisper.

His eyes widen as his eyebrows lift in surprise.
Wow.
He did all of this, planned it all perfectly, but he never actually believed I would say yes.

“Okay,” he finally murmurs back.

I watch him push his desk chair toward me. He wheels it to a spot next to my chair. Close. Not touching. Going back behind his desk, he starts to pick up the stethoscope to put it around his neck. He pauses, though, and places it back on the desk. He glances at me briefly and then walks away.

What?

He starts toward the right side of the room. Great. Is he going to take an hour or two to stare out the window? We don’t have time for that. I’ll definitely lose my nerve.

He doesn’t walk to the window though. Instead, he goes to a door in the center of his right office wall—another door I hadn’t noticed before. He opens the door and pushes it out as far as it will go before he turns on the inside light to unveil a bathroom.

He rolls up his shirtsleeves, goes in to the sink, and begins washing his hands. Scrubbing them with soap and water. Making sure I can watch. And I do watch. Intently.

After he finishes rinsing off all of the soap, he lifts his hands and pauses, deep in thought. He throws a quick contemplative look my way before grabbing a few paper towels from the dispenser and drying his hands. When they are dry, he awkwardly balls up the paper towels and places them over the left faucet knob. Twist. Water off.

Just like I would have done it.

I know my mouth is hanging open a little bit, but I don’t get the chance to clamp it shut because he’s not done yet. He tosses the paper towel into a trash can by the sink and then turns off the light with his covered elbow. Just. Like. Me.
Seriously?
I crash my lips together so I don’t accidentally blurt out the question I know I’ll regret asking…asking again.

It must be carved in my face though. He stops just outside the bathroom door and stares at me. He closes his eyes and squeezes them. For five seconds? Ten seconds? Feels like three years.

When he opens them again, every bit of the misery from before is back. After a beat, he looks away, down. And then he answers my unspoken question. He exhales, and the words breathe out of him.

“It’s because of my mom.”

I don’t speak. I wait for more.

He must sense that I don’t understand from his one simple sentence. Another deep breath and he continues. “She was diagnosed with this condition, your condition, when I was really young. Probably shortly after that picture was taken of us.” He nods toward the picture on his bookshelf.

Even though I can imagine the photograph clearly in my mind, I follow his nod. His mom. Of course. Her dark hair matching his. And…him. Tiny him. A little man checking on his mother just as the photographer snapped the picture.

I don’t have the time to process this because he has started to speak again.

“I watched her day in and day out when I was little. The hand washing. The checking. The routines. All of it. It was my childhood.” He stops and lifts his anguished eyes to mine before continuing. “So yes. I know. I understand.” Another deep breath. “And that is why I can help you.”

Just like that, he has moved back to me. He is done talking about his mother, I know that. But I have so many questions…

“So…,” he lingers on the word, waiting for me to allow him to press on with our arrangement. With his little medical examination. I close my eyes and let my head nod slowly. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

“Okay, Calista, I’m going to start with your blood pressure.” Back at his desk, he puts the stethoscope around his neck and grabs the blood pressure cuff. “Why don’t you lean back in your chair. Rest your head.”

I do as he says, though I can’t really say my body is “resting.”

“All right. Hold out your right arm, palm up, and rest it on the arm of your chair.”

Okay. Done.

“Good.” He’s right beside me now. He sits down on the edge of his chair. “Now, I’m going to place this cuff around the top of your arm. I think your shirt is thin enough that I won’t need you to roll up your sleeve.”

I give myself an imaginary high five for my wardrobe selection tonight.
Good work not wearing a sweatshirt in sweatshirt weather, Callie.

Okay, enough accolades for now. I have to get through a lot more tonight before buying myself a trophy.

I look over at him. The stethoscope buds are in his ears. The blood pressure cuff is unrolled, waiting for my arm.

One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three.

I lift my arm and slide it over to rest in the open cuff. Meticulously, he wraps the cuff around my arm. His quick fingers touch only the cuff. I hear the connection of Velcro as he secures it in place.

I hold my right arm up stiffly, trying to take all of the weight out of his hands. Struggling to keep my body balanced, I hug my purse with my left arm.

He notices. “Calista, do you want me to stop?” Gentle. Soothing.

No. I shake my head.

“Okay. You can place your arm back on the arm rest.”

As I lower my arm, I notice that it is shaking a little. It knows what is coming next just as well as I do.

He takes the little bell of his stethoscope and slides it under the cuff, in the middle of my upturned arm. It’s cold. It’s smooth. It’s…the only thing that is touching me. Somehow he has arranged his fingers so that they firmly grasp the bell but don’t touch me at all. Did he practice this?

He looks up, right to my eyes, as he begins squeezing the bulb that in turn starts the squeezing of my arm. His eyes are questioning, concerned, and reassuring all at the same time.
{Chantal Kreviazuk’s voice begins a slow, sweet rendition of
“Feels Like Home.”
}
Still squeezing the bulb. Still holding onto my eyes with his.

The look in his eyes takes me back to nights in my parents’ house. Every time I had a nightmare, I would get out of bed and head directly for my parents’ bedroom where I would stand right beside Mom, crying as she slept peacefully. She’d open her eyes, see me, and give me that same look. Now his look. Dad gave me the same look the day he first took the training wheels off of my bike, the day he first let me try to keep myself up. That look. Endless patience. Unconditional concern.

“One-twenty over eighty. Perfectly normal.” He sounds relieved.

He gingerly removes the bell of the stethoscope and then the blood pressure cuff from my arm. As carefully as he put them on. After moving to his desk to put down the blood pressure monitor, he pushes his chair to face mine. Our knees are facing each other. Close, very close, but not touching.

“Okay, Calista. Now I’d like to listen to your heart.”

It’s been years since I’ve been to a doctor, but I remember well what this entails. I count and slowly nod my head.

Warily, he lifts his right arm and places the bell of his stethoscope on the left side of my chest. Again, his middle and index fingers hold the top of the bell securely while the other fingers are strategically placed away from my body.

Once he has the bell positioned, he slides his eyes up to mine. He exerts a tiny bit of pressure on the little bell and listens, not once removing his eyes from mine.
{And now, finally, the refrain of
“Feels Like Home.”
}

It feels like more than that.
But I’m not ready to think about that just yet.

I try to ignore the scorching heat tiptoeing throughout my body. I feel a power ballad starting up in my head. I try to ignore that too. His penetrating eyes aren’t really helping.

I really hope he isn’t using his special mind-reading powers right now. I also hope that my heart isn’t really beating as fast as I think it is.