Checked (9 page)

2:14 p.m. I discreetly (I think) use my own clump of tissues to open the main door to his office building, catching the door with my foot and hastily discarding the tissues in the outside trash can. I begin to move past the blue waiting room chairs to check in with Annie. Before either of us can say anything to the other, however, the brown door to her left opens. We both freeze as we hear a deep, quiet voice.

“Miss Royce.”

Annie looks shocked.
{Cue Michael Jackson singing out her name in
“Smooth Criminal.”
}
I’m sure my face looks much the same.

One. Two. Three. I allow my eyes to move from Annie’s face to his. Our eyes are all knotted together before I even have the chance to inhale.

Annie interrupts. “Oh, Dr. Blake. Is there something you need me to do? Miss Royce just arrived, and I was just about to lead her—”

She rambles on. It seems that Dr. Blake doesn’t make a habit out of escorting patients to his office. He looks at Annie briefly, saying, “I don’t need you for anything right now, Annie.” He pauses. Even quieter voice now. “I might need you to transfer some records later.

“Miss Royce, if you’ll follow me back…”

He has put his back against the door so I can walk right by. Annie is staring at me. Gotta move. I hug my purse close to the side of my body and instruct my black heels to start moving. I don’t look up as I pass him; I’m too busy mentally scrunching up all of my limbs and praying that I don’t accidentally brush against him.

Made it. I stop in the hallway, wait for him to shut the door and then lead the way down his ridiculously long hallway.
{Michael Jackson’s song begins to morph into a reprise from The Beatles with—}

NO! Concentrate, Callie.

Grey pants today. Dark purple dress shirt. He walks slowly but with large strides. I match his pace. Two small steps for every large masculine stride.

One. Two. Three. Turn. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. Twist. One. Two— We are here. He twists the silver bar handle and again leans back on the door to let me through.

One. Two. Three. Body scrunch. In. Standing in the same place as before—just far enough inside that the door won’t graze my body as it closes. If someone closes it.

He does. Then he walks around me to his gigantic desk.

Silence. Again. Didn’t we do this already? I can’t believe I’m standing here again. Looking down at my purse. Again.

“Thanks for coming.”

I nod. I don’t even know if he can see it. Recalling his history of time actually spent looking at me, I decide he probably can’t.

I don’t say anything. I wait.

Still waiting.

“I haven’t had a patient like you in a very long time, Calista.”

Okay. Not really sure where this is going. Silence. Again. Since I’ve gotten pretty good at determining the placement and direction of his voice, I risk a glance up.

He is sitting in his desk chair facing his bookcase. Perhaps I should look into getting a freaking degree in voice location.

I keep my head up. He seems to be staring at the picture of his son and wife or whatever she is.

He still isn’t talking. Am I supposed to have some sort of intelligent response for him? I don’t. So I keep standing. When he asked me for five minutes, I don’t think he remembered to add in all of his moments of silence. It feels like each one is at least five minutes.

He sighs a long sigh. I lower my head again, just in case he decides to turn around.
{A power ballad is brewing; Bonnie Tyler steps up to begin
“Total Eclipse of the Heart.”
}
Nothing. Quiet.
{Verse one. Verse two. Verse thr—}

He speaks.

“I have to keep you as my patient.”

Huh?
He has brought me here to tell me that Dr. Spencer won’t be returning for a while? Annie could have told me on the phone.

“Calista?”

He wants a response. I try quickly, too quickly, to give him one that will free us both from this awkwardness. I even look up as I talk.

“No. Oh. No. You don’t have to worry about that,” I stammer to the back of his dark head. “Annie didn’t say that Dr. Spencer would be gone so long, but really, it’s fine. And I am just going to call Dr. Lennox and be referred elsewhere and then everything—”

“Dr. Spencer will be back tomorrow.” He cuts off my super-sized sentence.

Oh.

“Let me rephrase this.” He continues our face-to-back conversation. “I need you to let me treat you. I need to help you.”

He feels guilty. I’m sort of glad he feels guilty, but letting him dwell on it won’t get me out of here any faster. And it won’t change what happened. I cut in before he can say any more words.

“Really, it’s fine. You don’t need to worry about the purse thing. I get it. You didn’t know I’d be there. You didn’t do it on purpose. You don’t owe me anything.” I look back down at my purse. If I could just make myself move, now would probably be a good time to go. Before he even turns around.
{Refrain.}

I’m too late. He starts to speak, and his voice is a fraction louder than it was before. I know he has turned around.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the purse, Calista.”

Sure. I keep my head down. Quiet. He is looking at me now. I feel him.

“I have come up with a unique twelve day program of immersion treatment for you. If you commit to this, we’ll take a major step in helping you. After twelve days, you won’t be suddenly cured, but I think you will experience some marked improvements.”

Ah. There it is. His motive. Some experimental research—grounds for a brand new fancy article.

“I know Dr. Lennox sent you to this office to seek medication,” he continues, “but if you begin taking medicine it won’t start to take effect for quite some time. Perhaps this treatment will give you earlier and more natural relief.”
Yeah, and perhaps it will get you a sizable paycheck. Or another presenter spot in one of my classes. No, thank you.

“Our research doesn’t have to be put into an article. Or a textbook.” Of course he knows what I am thinking even now.

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t tell anyone about this. You won’t have to sign any information release forms, and we’ll follow only your personal doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. Your terms.” His voice is intense but sincere. I know his eyes haven’t left the top of my head.

I realize I’ve started to pick at my nail polish. I consider stopping, but really, what is the point? He already knows about my crazy. And about every thought that flickers through my brain.

“Calista. Please trust me on this. No one has to know.” Quieter now. “I won’t embarrass you.”

Again. Shouldn’t he have said “again” at the end of that sentence?

“I spend most of my time here in this office. The other doctors and Annie won’t even ask about your treatment. They know all about confidentiality agreements.” He pauses. “And I live completely alone. My closest relative, Uncle Dan, lives over two hours away. So I’m not going to go home and spill your secrets to anyone.” Another pause.

“I know I embarrassed you before. I won’t do it again. Your information will go nowhere if that is what you want.”

“And where would it go otherwise?” My own voice stuns me. My curiosity must have unfrozen my lips. Luckily, it didn’t also raise my head…or ask the real questions I can’t stop thinking.
How do you know I just watch cooking shows for background noise? Why are you so sad? Why did you keep my purse? If you live alone, who are the people in that picture?

He replies rather quickly (for him), seemingly grateful for my first bit of participation in this discussion.

“I would only ever share our program, our findings, if you wanted me to do so. And then, I would only do it if I felt the information would lend help to other OCD patients like you or to other doctors willing to try experimental treatments.”

Oh. He has every possible base covered. Of course. That was probably easy for him though, what with his crazy super mind-reading powers.

“Calista.” So quiet. “Look at me.” Almost a whisper.

He knows. He knows I’ll say yes if I look at him. If I see whatever expression he’s chosen to manipulate me.

“I don’t want to look at you,” I mutter bluntly, verging on angrily.

“Why not? Because you want to say yes?”

DAMN IT.

I thrust up my head and meet his gaze with all of the frustration I can express without exploding my eyes.

“How do you keep doing that?”

“I don’t understand.” His blue eyes look surprised, confused.

“You don’t understand?” I push on without giving myself time to question or regret the words. “Right. That would be a first. You know everything. You see everything. It’s like you’ve read some all-inclusive tell-all journal that I’ve never even written.”

He stares at me, mouth slightly open.

I can’t stop.

“Or maybe you foresee that I’ll eventually take the time to write all of this down, and you just haven’t told me yet. Please, Dr. Blake, tell me what I’ll do next. Amaze me with—”

Oh my God.

His eyes are miserable, devastated. Just like the first time I was in this office. But it’s worse. Much worse. I did this.

“I-I’m sorry.” As I say the words, I feel a transformation in my eyes, my face. From harsh anger to sorrowful regret in an instant.

It doesn’t change the look on his face. I’m too late. He’s staring past me now. His seated posture is perfect, professional. His large hands sit on the desk in front of him. Still. Rigid. Shoulders tensed. I watch the movement in his throat as he swallows at an excruciatingly slow pace.

I have to fix this. Now. And then I have to get out of here.

“Look, I’ll do your study or experiment thing. You can do whatever you want with my information. Just email me or have Annie call me to set it up.”

He is still staring past me. Can he even hear what I am saying?
I can’t just leave him like this.
But what else can I say? He hasn’t moved a gazillionth of an inch. His troubled eyes are in some sort of trance. Wide open. Seeing nothing. Nothing here in this room anyway.

BEEEEEP. The phone on his desk breaks through our silence. His eyes blink quickly, and he turns his head to listen to his message.

“Dr. Blake, your three fifteen has arrived.” Annie.
Thank you, Annie.

He verbalizes my thoughts yet again as he pushes a button. “Thank you, Annie.”

I’ve got to go. While he’s lucid. I mumble, “I…um…I’ll just wait for your call or, um, email or…whenever you are ready to begin…” Good enough, I think. But he’s still looking at the phone.
Damn it. Look at me. Acknowledge that you hear me. Blink. Or cough. Or nod. Do something so I can leave and not feel worse than I do already.

He doesn’t look up but instead begins to spin around in his chair. Seriously? He turns back rather quickly. He has the tissues again. Oh. I’ve spent years trying not to use tissues on doorknobs in front of people. Now I’ll be doing it for the third time in one week.

As I step forward, he keeps his eyes lowered. Just like the last time we did this little dance. I gently pull out each tissue. One at a time. One. Two. Three.

“Thank you, Dr. Blake,” I mumble, standing right in front of him. And he doesn’t move. Or talk. So I turn and go out his door, down the bird-infested hall, out the brown door, past Annie and presumably his “three fifteen” patient, out the main entrance, by the trash can where I deposit my tissues (his tissues), and into my car.

And I breathe for a little.

Chapter 11

the aftermath

I DRIVE STRAIGHT TO THE writing center. If I drive home, I would have to prepare to leave again before driving to work and would probably be late so instead I use the extra time to catch up with Raskolnikov in
Crime and Punishment.

Quiet night at the writing center. Brittany’s not even here. I get through most of my book during my shift.

When I get home, I mix a salad and microwave some instant soup for dinner. Around four hundred calories total. I begin my night preparations, knowing that I won’t skip the “check email” step tonight.

10:30 p.m. When I finally sit down at my laptop, five new messages show up.

He wrote. One. Two. Three. Open.

Calista,

Please come to your appointment tomorrow. I’m sorry.

-Dr. Blake

Oh. He hasn’t written. That is from last night. Now it’s twenty-four hours later, and I’m the one who should be sending an apology message. But I don’t. I apologized. He ignored me. I delete his message. If only it was so easy to get his tortured look out of my mind.

I press on. Two pieces of junk mail. One about erectile dysfunction. The other about penis enlargement. Awesome job, once again, email filter.

The next email is from my dad.

Hey Cal,

You know your mother’s birthday is coming up. Do you have any time to   shop with me next week? See you at dinner on Sunday.

Love,

Dad

I smile to myself as I reply. These emails come from him like clockwork when a holiday or anniversary approaches. I write him back to check his plans for next Thursday and then get to my email from Dr. Gabriel.

Ugh.
Just a copy of the university’s grading policy. “In case you need it when you start teaching in November,” he says.

As though I don’t already know the university’s grading policy. As though I wasn’t just a student in his class last fall.
Please stop emailing me.
The email ends with his signature comment about having a date with a new girl tonight.
I get it, creepshow. You are spreading diseases all over campus. Stop reminding me, please.