Checked (15 page)

I remember picking at the skin around my fingernails during religion class. Going to bed every night only after Mom put lotion and then socks on my dry, cracked, already over-washed hands. Not sleeping much. Thinking about the sins my teacher warned about in class. Contemplating hell and eternity. Crawling into bed with Mom. Eventually creating a makeshift bed on the living room floor right beside the television.

No cooking shows back then. Old sitcoms worked almost as well, providing my six-year-old body with about a quarter of the sleep it actually needed.

Abby snuggles closer to me on the couch, and I run my hand over her soft blonde curls. I know that we laugh at her OCD moments, but I really hope they remain just that. Little moments every once in awhile.

Not taking over her entire existence.    

She nudges me as Amy Adams wanders through New York in a puffy wedding dress. 

“Isn’t her dress beautiful, Aunt Callie?” I smile and nod. It is beautiful. Well, it was before she started to walk through the filthy New York streets.

Abby isn’t finished adoring the dress. She turns a bit on the couch so she can see Mandy. “Do you want to wear a dress like that when you marry Josh, Aunt Amanda?”

Melanie catches my eye, and neither of us attempts to hold back our laughter.

Mandy’s stunned expression doesn’t help matters. As she spits out partial sentences about being young, about the long distance, about not knowing if Josh is “the one,” all items of little importance to Abby, Melanie starts the song.

Mandy’s song. Barry Manilow’s “Mandy.” We’ve been singing it to her for years any time she does something clumsy or asks a ridiculous question or is left speechless—like tonight.

Abby and I join in for the refrain, and Mandy throws a pillow at us, hitting Melanie on the head. Abby and I raise our hands in the air melodramatically, and Melanie jumps off the couch to prepare for the big finish.

We are interrupted by Mandy’s cell phone. I’m sure it’s Josh. Unbelievable timing.

Mandy answers her phone and stands to go to her room, rolling her eyes and flashing us a smile before leaving. Melanie decides it’s probably a good time to give Abby a bath so I head up to my room to send my email.

It doesn’t take me long to type out my schedule. I attach it to the email and type “schedule” as the subject. Then I sign the email. Calista. Not Callie.

One. Two. Three. Send.

As I reply to another email from Dad about next week’s shopping trip, a new message appears in my inbox.

DA Blake.

One. Two. Three. Open.

Thanks, Callie.

Callie. Guess all further attempts at formality will be futile.

I wonder once again what he is doing tonight. No little boy running around his house because he is that little boy. Was that little boy. With his OCD mom.

No wife. No girlfriend. Presumably.

Unfortunately, there is no more time for me to think about him right now. I can hear Amy Adams singing again in the living room.

I go back out, have my one margarita, and talk a little with my sisters (not too much though—Abby gets annoyed when we talk through the “good” parts). Mandy talks about her plans for next weekend. She’ll be driving into Pittsburgh to stay with Josh at his dorm room in Oakland. Since she’ll only be about twenty minutes away from Mom and Dad’s house, she and Josh will meet us there for Mom’s birthday dinner next Sunday.

We talk about Mom’s birthday and also about this Sunday’s family dinner. Two Sundays in a row—doesn’t happen often. I’m glad I’ll get to see so much of my parents, but the thought of all of us making that hour drive two weekends in a row makes me a little nervous. Like we are just tempting fate to put one of us in a car accident.

After Mandy reviews the plans she and Josh have made, Melanie looks at me warily as she begins to speak.

“I didn’t tell you guys yet,” she begins slowly. “Doug has a work assignment in Ohio at the end of next week. The meeting place is only about half an hour away from his parents’ house.” She pauses. “We decided last night that we’ll go up together on Thursday afternoon and make a long weekend out of it. His parents will love the time with Abby, and I’m sure I can get some work done in the car.”

She’s looking at me, quite obviously gauging my reaction.

Mandy will be gone. Now she’ll be gone too. I won’t be able to make the twenty minute drive to her house if I can’t take it here by myself or if I have to run from the murderers.

I hurriedly tell Melanie not to worry. I was already planning on staying here by myself. She still looks concerned, but we are all distracted by Abby, who begins babbling about all the things she wants to bring to see “Gram” and “Pap.”

Melanie looks at me, clearly wanting to say more. I already know what she is worried about. Sunday. The trip. Mom’s birthday dinner. She knows I hate driving long distances by myself. I’ve only driven from here to my parents’ house once by myself. And I hated it.

But it only makes sense for her to leave from Ohio and drive straight to the birthday dinner, and Melanie doesn’t need to spend her time worrying. I will figure something out.

After piecing together a small, reassuring (I hope) smile for Melanie, I tell Abby how lucky she is that she gets to see both sets of her grandparents in one weekend. Abby continues talking about even more stuff that she wants to bring. I am glad she is here tonight. An adorable little tornado of distractions dancing around the living room, practicing ballet moves to show Gram and Grandma, discussing what she’ll eat, what she’ll wear…

{Kelly Clarkson begins
“Beautiful Disaster.”
}
Now she’s asking Melanie what she’ll do about missing school on Friday. Mel’s trying to convince her that missing one day of first grade won’t mess up her educational future.
{And now her slow, soulful refrain.}

Sorrowful, grief-stricken eyes on a mesmerizing, rugged face spring into my mind.
This song is about him. {Repeat ref—}

Melanie attempts to change the subject, but she doesn’t take the heat off of me. “So, how was your late night therapy date, Callie?”

Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, I remind her, “Not a date, Mel.”

“Sure. Doctors always keep those hours open for therapy sessions.”

Mandy chimes in, “Wait? What? When was this?”

Melanie explains what she knows—she called late in the evening, and I was still with him.

Mandy teases, “Oh, I see, you turn me down for Thirsty Thursday every week, but he asks you out once and you jump right in his car.”

I roll my eyes at her. No point in actually explaining. Besides, what would I even say?

Fortunately, sweet little Abby saves me once again, shushing their giggles so she can hear “the best part.” That quiets them, but it doesn’t stop them from shooting each other suggestive looks.

The movie ends soon after that, thankfully, and everyone looks pretty tired. Mandy wishes everyone a good night and then heads to her room so Abby can have the loveseat. I give Abby a hug, say my own good nights, and head up to my room.

11:15 p.m. Night preparations.

2:25 a.m. TV on. Foie Gras tonight. I don’t even know what that is. Doesn’t matter—I’m exhausted. Bed.

I DREAM ABOUT HIM AGAIN. Same dream. For most of the night, we are jousting. Jousting and falling. Jousting and falling. Jousting and falling. Together. Over and over.

I’m kind of surprised my limbs aren’t sore when I wake up—how could all of that physical dream activity not take any toll on my body?

I wonder if I should ask for forgiveness for all of that fighting when I go to confession. And then I remember that I’m not going to confession today. Well, I’m not supposed to go today. We’ll see…

I finish my morning routine around 11:00 a.m. and then spend most of the afternoon working on my
Crime and Punishment
paper. As I write, I remember mean thoughts I’ve had throughout the week, things I would normally confess. I do as I’m told and write each thought, each sin, neatly on my confession list.

I remember the girl behind me in writing lab. I thought-called her a bitch several times in class. My thoughts were also less than positive about students in the writing center who came too close to my desk.

As the afternoon goes on and my confession list grows, I start to worry more and more about 4:00 p.m. How can I save this entire list for next week? Some of these thoughts happen on a weekly basis. Like irritation with Dr. Gabriel. And with people at the grocery store and freshmen at the writing center. If I wait until next week to confess, will I be forgiven for both weeks of the same sin? Will I need to tell Father Patrick that some of these sins happened two weeks in a row?

I try to write my paper. I try to concentrate on Raskolnikov’s struggles throughout the book, but I really can’t stop thinking about my own struggles with missing confession.

3:00 p.m. I begin my leaving-the-house routine, just as I do every Saturday. Just in case I have to go.

3:45 p.m. I finish. I sit in the kitchen with my notebook and try to focus on my paper.

4:00 p.m. I’m still sitting at the table with my notebook, but I’ve written nothing during the last fifteen minutes. Tension begins to build in my stomach. Just like he said it would. Like he knew it would.

4:03 p.m. I decide to try my relaxation exercises. In the heat of the moment, I can’t seem to remember anything. When to inhale. How long to keep the area tense. How to even begin to release some of the tension.

I give up and pick off all of my nail polish in under two minutes.

Now what?
I have to do something. I pull my confession list out of my pocket and read it aloud. Hoping that maybe it will count somehow. Maybe I’ll be forgiven.

I read it aloud again. And again. The tension is still there. So I read it three more times. And say the Hail Mary twelve times.

Still tense. Maybe even worse than before.

This doesn’t count. I know it. If I go a week without forgiveness, what will happen? What if I don’t make it until next week? What if I die before then? A car crash? A freak earthquake? Dead with an overflowing conscience.

My mind starts to conjure up the same images of hell that kept me awake at night as a six-year-old. Still just as powerful eighteen years later.

No more. I grab my purse and I’m outside in record time. Door shut and locked.  Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist. Locked.

On my way.

I PULL INTO THE PARKING lot at St. Anne’s at 4:46 p.m. Fourteen minutes to go.

Two people are ahead of me in line when I get in the church. 4:52 p.m. Father Patrick welcomes me into the confessional. He looks surprised by my tardiness but says nothing. He’s probably not supposed to keep tabs on who goes to confession and when.

I confess everything without glancing at my list. Father Patrick gives me a penance of three recitations of The Lord’s Prayer.

After repeating the prayer twelve times in a church pew, I leave.

Just as I open my car door, I hear a buzz in my purse. My phone silently vibrating, telling me I have a new text message. I get into the car and grab the phone.

Unknown Number.

Ugh.

One. Two. Three. Open.

What time did you go to confession?

DAMN DAMN DAMN.

Throwing the phone back into my purse, I start to drive home. My phone buzzes again as I drive, but I try to ignore it.

Bastard.
He knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. He set me up to fail.

I don’t check my phone again until I am back in my room at home, all set up to continue writing my paper. I know I’ll never get any work done until I check the message so I grab my phone out of my purse.

One. Two. Three. Look.

It’s not even a message from him. Or from anyone really. It’s that same message from the phone itself.

Would you like to add this number to your contact list?

Ugh.
Now, when he’s just sent me that message? I don’t think so. I click “no” before putting down my phone and working on my paper.

7:00 p.m. Mandy comes in to see if I’m up for a party tonight. She already knows I’m not, of course, but she lets me know where she’ll be and how to get there.

“You can even call me, and I’ll come back to get you if you change your mind.”

“Thanks, Mandy. I really do have a lot of work to do with this paper so I probably won’t end up going.” As if the paper really has anything to do with my decision. Mandy knows that too but lets me get away with it anyway.

“All right, Callie. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Thanks, Mandy. Have a good time and be careful.”

“I will. Night.”

She goes and leaves me to my paper. I work. I write and type until it is time for my night preparations.

11:30 p.m. Just as I’m getting out of the shower, my phone buzzes yet again. As I walk to my dresser, still wrapped in a pink towel, I hope that Mandy is not in some sort of trouble.

She’s not.

It’s him. My Unknown Number.

Count. Open.

It’s okay if you went to confession. Really, it is. In fact, I’d be shocked if you didn’t go—if you have that kind of control already, you don’t even need me!

Before I can even consider responding, another text comes through.

Him again. Count. Click.

I would like to log the time that you went so I have the results for our little assignment. It’s important to have that information for our treatment program. Please don’t be mad, Callie.