Checked (16 page)

He has me cornered again. How does he keep making me feel so guilty? Like I’m overreacting? Like I’m wounding him if I don’t do as he asks.

Well, however he manages, he’s done it again. I count and reply quickly.

I went around 4:45 p.m.

One. Two. Three. Send.

The phone buzzes again almost immediately. No, phone, I don’t want to add him as a contact. I’m still irritated. I do somehow feel less guilt though.
{Kelly Clarkson begins
“Beautiful Disaster”
once again.}
Just as I’m connecting my phone to the charger for the night, it buzzes again. What now?

Him. Of course.

I’m impressed you were able to wait that long. Nice work! Good night, Callie.

I don’t write back to say good night or to tell him that I was impressed too. I was though. I waited an entire, painful forty minutes before going to confess. Pretty amazing for my first try, I think.

After applying my lotion, I turn on the TV and get into bed. A rather young chef is making a cod salad. It seems pretty simple. Not that I would (or could) make it.

I give no more thought to the chef, or the salad, or my lack of cooking skills.

Sleep.

SUNDAY. MORNING ROUTINE. CHURCH. PAPER all afternoon. Final copy printed at 4:00 p.m.

Leaving-the-house routine. Mandy and I leave for dinner at 5:00 p.m.

Mandy drives, and we stop at a local bakery so I can “bake” a couple of pies before we get to my parents’ house. 6:15 p.m. We arrive at the house. Melanie’s car and Jared’s truck are both in the driveway.

We enter the living room. It’s noisy. Crowded. The perfect setting for a family Sunday dinner.

The night goes rather well with only a few small glitches. Before dinner, Dad pulls me aside to talk about potential gifts for Mom, and Mom herself walks in during our conversation. Not really a big deal. We didn’t come up with anything good, and it’s not like she doesn’t know that I help Dad with his shopping.

During dinner, Abby gets excited while telling a story about a classmate and she accidentally bumps over her milk cup. She cries. The pure irony of her literally sobbing over spilled milk seems to be lost on everyone but me. Mom hurriedly tries to comfort Abby while Melanie and Doug rush around to clean up the milk. Jared has brought a new girlfriend to dinner and doesn’t focus on this or much else all night. This has worked out well for me. Jared hasn’t tried to do anything to disgust me all evening. No jokes about using my bathroom. No trying to stick his finger in my face after itching his belly button. Pretty nice.

After dinner, I serve “my” pies, and Mom once again asks me if I’ve found a local cooking class yet. She saw me put on a food show one time while I was napping at her house.

Maybe I’ll try to nap to a porn channel next time she’s around. Just for fun.

Mom and Dad dance around the therapy subject, asking how I’m feeling and how things are going. I don’t give in, not once mentioning my therapy. What would I even say? I don’t know what I’ll be doing for this treatment thing. Or when to report to his office tomorrow. He did say he’d let me know over the weekend…

I check my phone for a text as Mandy and I head home around 8:30 p.m. Nothing.

9:30 p.m. Home.

11:00 p.m. His text arrives as I am in the middle of night preparations.

Count. Open.

I’ll pick you up at the writing center at 7:00 tomorrow evening. Good night, Callie.

Not a lot of information. But he doesn’t want me to worry too much. Or to chicken out, I guess.

When my phone asks me AGAIN if I’d like to add him as a contact, I give in.

First name: Unknown. Last Name: Number. This way my phone doesn’t completely win. Neither does he.

I decide to finish some of my night preparations before replying. Don’t want him to think I was waiting by the phone.

11:30 p.m. When I open my laptop, I find the same message from him in an email. He must really want to make sure I get the information. 11:45 p.m. I email my response.

Thanks. See you at 7:00 p.m.

Night,

I pause. Hmm…why fight it?

Callie

Chapter 15

day one

I TURN IN MY
CRIME and Punishment
paper at the beginning of class. Dr. Sumpter gives the class a new assignment about five minutes later.

The Scarlet Letter
. After giving us a little background on Nathaniel Hawthorne as well as some period history, Dr. Sumpter asks us to free write for a while. She wants us to consider the thoughts and feelings we’d experience if we were forced to wear a symbol of an embarrassing indiscretion, a notable weakness, etcetera.

As I write, I cannot help but think of my own defining scarlet letters…

O – C – D

How would I feel if everyone knew?
Don’t they already?

After a while, Dr. Sumpter asks for volunteers to “share.” I hate the way she uses that word. Teachers shouldn’t use it in classes that are higher than the first grade level.

As I begin to wonder if it’s even annoying for first graders like Abby, classmates begin the “sharing.” A teeny little brunette in the first row confesses that she’d be mortified if her weight was posted on her shirt…especially after the holidays when she gains a few pounds. Like when she weighs twenty-three pounds instead of twenty, I guess.
Shut up.

{Fade in Katy Perry and
“California Gurls.”
}
A blond guy is now talking about an embarrassing moment involving a dare and some fraternity brothers. Sounds like he is just bragging, not “sharing.” {Even louder now.} Now a quiet girl is talking about causing a serious car crash. I feel really bad for her—she is pretty worked up.

This “sharing” goes on for another half hour or so. I pick at my nails, trying to be invisible. I don’t raise my hand, and Dr. Sumpter doesn’t call on me. Thank the Lord.

Class eventually ends. When I get home, I repaint my nails right away. For tonight.

As they dry, I try to decide what to wear for my top secret therapy session. I have no idea. Perhaps I should text him to find out his opinion. He would love that, I’m sure.

As I consider how he’d react, the house phone rings.

It’s Annie. Apparently, Dr. Spencer still plans to have an appointment with me, to make sure I am aware of my medication options.

That makes me think of Dr. Blake sounding like a total toolbag when he used the phrase “medicinal bandage.”

Still, I am going to try his therapy first so I begin to tell Annie that I don’t need Dr. Spencer’s appointment. Before I can do that, she tells me that Dr. Lennox called the office recently, concerned that I haven’t yet discussed medication with Dr. Spencer. To shut Annie up, I allow her to schedule an appointment for next Monday, after I have already finished a week of my treatment program.

After Annie says goodbye, I hang up the phone and settle on my bed with
The Scarlet Letter
. The rest of the afternoon passes swiftly as I read and take notes.

3:00 p.m. I put my work down, do my leaving-the-house routine, and head to the writing center wearing a brown and white dress, boots, and a brown pea coat—the same outfit I wore to class this morning. If I need to change, he’ll just have to give me time to run home.

MY SHIFT AT THE WRITING center drags on and on and on. The three undergraduate students who are actually here work quietly. No one needs my help.

I try to focus on
The Scarlet Letter
, but I get nowhere. My eyes move from my Kindle to the clock on the wall approximately every three minutes. {Damien Rice. “The Blower’s Daughter.” Over and over.}

When the small hand on the clock finally hits the seven, I feel as though it must already be Friday. Or May.

After gathering my stuff, I head out, wondering where he will be. I get all the way to the parking lot before I see him leaning casually against his car. Dark grey pants. White, slightly unbuttoned dress shirt. He turns toward me as I approach and gives me a, well, almost a smile. A reassuring turning up of his lips and nervous concern in his eyes. Don’t they cancel each other out?

He opens the back door of his Lexus and gestures for me to put my bag in the back seat. After I do, he closes the back door and opens the passenger door for me.

Here goes. Getting into his car. No idea what I’m doing or where I’m going…

The car is again silent as he drives away from campus. I wait for him to speak, to tell me the plan for tonight. But he doesn’t say anything. He stares straight ahead. So do I.

Five noiseless minutes later, he turns into the mall parking lot. Shopping? With him? Nope. He drives the entire way around the mall, finally parking by the adjacent movie theatre.

Oh.

Shit.

He wasn’t messing around when he said we’d be jumping right in to this immersion thing. At this rate, he’ll have me sharing recreational drugs tomorrow and shaking hands with patients in the infectious diseases ward of the hospital by Wednesday.

I cannot do this.

I open my mouth to tell him so and realize that he’s staring at me. For how long, I wonder.

“Relax, Calista.”

I’m guessing that he has been staring for quite awhile.

“Begin your exercises right away, starting in your most tense area. Your stomach, perhaps?”

Okay. Right. My stomach is pretty tense. I try to focus on that tension, really I do, but he’s still watching me. And he wants to take me into a movie theatre.

“Gradually release the tension now. Concentrate on the release.”

Yes, the release. The release. Him staring at me. The release. The movie theatre. The seats with the needles in them. The diseases. The hospital. The crying. The coffin. The—

“Calista.” He quietly breaks into my thoughts. I look at him, unsure of what to say.

“What happened there? How did I lose you?”

What? How did he lose me?
I hope I’m not blushing.

He rephrases. “How did you get lost during the exercise? What were you thinking about?”

Deep breath. “Um, just the movie theatre.”

“What about the movie theatre?”

I can’t say it aloud—I know some of my fears sound ludicrous after they pass my lips. I settle for a quick answer, a non-answer. “Silly stuff.”

His eyes go from genuine concern to intense anger and sadness all at once.
Way to go, Callie.

“Your fears aren’t silly or insignificant, Calista. They drive our therapy sessions, create the course for these immersion treatments. If we ignore them, what are we even doing here? What is the point?”

Jeez. Well, there’s an explanation for some of the anger in his voice. But why the sadness right now?

I keep my eyes on his, still not quite ready with an answer. The specifics of my fears, I know, will sound ridiculous. They’re so personal, too personal to just blurt out.

As he watches me process his words, his anger, his eyes begin to soften to just sadness. He gradually looks away from me and stares out the front window.

“I understand, Calista.” So quiet. Even when only rivaled by the silence of the car.

“Movie theatres present you with many of your fears. Germs, close encounters with other people, sticky floors, public bathrooms…” He looks over at me. “I’m sure you are also concerned with sitting in the theatre seats themselves.”

What? He knows that too?

He must once again see something in my eyes that confirms his suspicions.

“I figured that you’d heard that story about needles in the seats. Almost all OCD patients who list movie theatres as dirty have somehow come across that story.”

I don’t know what to say. Still. I know I shouldn’t be surprised with his magical, all-knowing powers, but I am.

He keeps his miserable eyes on me and seems to realize that I cannot yet talk. That I’m too confused. Too surprised at the extent of his knowledge. His eyes leave mine again, but they don’t go far. He looks past me, straight out the passenger side window. And he opens his mouth to talk again.

“My mother heard that story. It haunted her. She wouldn’t go to the movies with us as kids.” He pauses and forces his mouth to swallow whatever lump has grown in his throat. “She still wouldn’t when she underwent treatment in the few years before she died.”

Died?

Oh my God.

The despair, the tragic expressions, the sad eyes. Not treating patients like me. Of course. It all makes sense.

I remind him of his mom. And she’s gone.

“I’m so sorry.” I say the first words I can grasp. He continues to stare past me, out the window.

One. Two. Three.

“I had no idea.”

Pause. Nothing.

One. Two. Three.

“I—”

He turns to me and stops me from going on, shaking his head softly. Thank God—I don’t even know how I was going to finish that sentence.

Still, he slowly shakes his head. Is he telling me to stop talking? That there really are no words for this situation? Or is it something else entirely?

He tries to form a tiny, perhaps reassuring, smile before he breaks his gaze and goes back to staring out the window.

I don’t know how to fix this. Or even how to make it a tiny bit better.
Great, Callie.
You’ve forced it out of him—now you know why he’s so sad all of the time. Probably especially around you. And I just keep pushing him and questioning him and making it worse and worse.