Checked Again (3 page)

Unfortunately,
I can’t restock them this week since I’m not really allowed to go anywhere.
Therefore, I have to conserve them as much as is humanly (well—my level of
humanly) possible this week.

{Here’s
a little of Michael Jackson’s
“Heal the World”
to recognize my
conservation efforts—I must be all but green now.}

Three
days and nights in a row…no grocery store trips…bed ridden—ish. Not easy. I
think I’m doing admirably, though. I started this week with three complete
packages of wipes, and I still have only opened one package. AND…that package
still has a wipe left in it. Not bad.

{Michael
Jackson builds to a key change. He’s clearly proud of me.}

My
goal is to not use the third package of wipes for scheduled routines—better to
save one package for an emergency.

{Michael
Jackson’s face morphs like it does in his
“Black and White”
video…well,
almost like it does in that video. Here, his face changes into Kermit the
Frog’s face as
“Bein’ Green”
starts to—}

Enough,
Callie.
I’ve got to get back on schedule.

One.
Two. Three. Blast off (with extreme caution and silence. More of a tiptoe off).

I
move downstairs by the light of a flashlight. Just like when he—

Stop,
Callie!
Focus.

Okay.
Thermostat: 67 degrees (Dad will kill me if I change it. I’m gonna have to
deal).  Stove: off. Front and back doors: locked (garage door is also down).
Blinds (and curtains): closed. Pictures (SO many pictures—baby pictures, school
pictures, graduation pictures, wedding pictures, Abby pictures…): straightened
(whew). Entire downstairs: dusted (six wipes used). Kitchen: scrubbed (nine
wipes).

Downstairs
looks good (well, from what I can see with the flashlight). Back upstairs.

Hall
bathroom: not scrubbed or sanitized. I’ve never had the courage to clean the
germs from a bathroom that’s not my own. Isn’t it impressive enough that I use
this one when I’m staying with my parents? Seriously—who knows which of Mom’s
friends, Dad’s co-workers, or our neighbors have come up to use this bathroom?
And Jared uses it. He can be pretty gross. Fortunately, I’m really the only one
using this bathroom this week. And Mom cleaned it before I came. So, really, no
serious germs should be here. If there ever were any, they shouldn’t be
lingering anymore anyway. Many serious germs can’t live very long outside of
the body. So I’ve been told…

Okay.
Onward. To the bathroom. Teeth: brushed. Back to bedroom. Door shut so, so
carefully. Nails: painted and dried. Green pajamas: off. “Shower”: taken (nine
baby wipes and six squirts of the dry shampoo I packed for this week…Mom and
Dad would probably hear the water running if I tried to take a real shower).
Lotion: applied. Another pair of brand new pajamas: on (blue pajamas this
time—another one of the five “appropriate” sets Mom bought for me to wear in
the hospital so I’d be comfortable and “decent” during my stay there…well, I
would’ve been if I’d been awake and conscious enough to ever change out of my
standard hospital nightgown worn by how many people and—)

Don’t
think about it, Callie.

Tags
on pajamas: ripped off (there are no scissors in my room right now…naturally).
Prayers: said. Phone alarm: set. TV: on. Pumpkin bread recipes tonight.

2:20
a.m. Supplies arranged back in travel case. Case back in drawer. Sleep.

Chapter
2

friday

4:15
A.M. CELL PHONE ALARM ALREADY going off.

Didn’t
I just shut my eyes?

{The
Beatles sing
“I’m
So Tired.”
SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO exhausted.}

Alarm
off. Back to work. Travel case: back on bed. Opened. Wipes and flashlight out.
I head downstairs. Thermostat: still 67 degrees (still freaking cold). Stove:
still off. Doors: still locked. Blinds and curtains: still closed (can’t open
them or Mom will know I was down here. Also, it’s still sort of the middle of
the night—opening them now would give too much of an advantage to the
murderers). Pictures: still straight. Living room and dining room: cleaned (a
few wipes used here and there). Carpet: little pieces of fuzz picked up by
hand. Refrigerator contents: straightened. Kitchen floor: scrubbed (nine wipes
used…I wanted to use more, but I still have another night here. It wouldn’t
have been responsible). Doorknobs: wiped (six wipes).

Back
upstairs. Teeth: brushed. Body: cleaned (nine wipes), shaved (as much as
possible considering my less than desirable circumstances), and lotioned…not
weighed since Mom doesn’t keep a scale in the hall bathroom. Hair: dry
shampooed. Prayers: said (extra prayer added about maintaining proper weight
during absence of scale). More new pajamas (black): on (already detagged and
washed by Mom since I wore them on Tuesday).

7:30
a.m. Morning routine completed. Travel case reassembled and stored away. Back
in bed (TV still on…fancy omelette making right now). SLEEP.

8:00
a.m. “Good morning, honey. I’ll be up with breakfast soon.”

“Thanks,
Mom.”

A
few gulps of sleep.

8:25
a.m. “Hey, Cal. How did you sleep?”

“Pretty
well, Dad. Nice tie.”

“Thanks.
I’ll see you after work.”

“Great.
Careful driving. Have a good day.”

Gulp.
Gulp. Gulp.

8:33
a.m. The smell of bacon. The sound of Mom’s shuffles up the stairs. A plate of
food is in front of me seconds later.

“Okay,
Callie. Eat up. Your face is looking thin.” Mom gives me a fork and then sits
on the rocking chair with her own plate of food. We talk as we eat breakfast.
She reminds me about my “appointment” with Dr. Lennox. Then we talk a little
about her first grade class. Soon, we are done eating. (She’s done eating as in
her food is gone. I'm done eating as in I ate as much as I thought I needed to
eat in order to appease her—then she gave me a concerned look…and I ate a
little more.)

Mom
cleans up our plates, and then it’s shower time. Mom helps me into the bathroom
and lets me take a shower in private. She stays upstairs and close by the
entire time so she can help if I fall or need her for something.

After
my shower, I dry my hair and dress in the bathroom (another new set of
pajamas…I’m sure Mom is pretty curious about the ridiculous amount of
pajama-washing she’s been doing this week. She hasn’t said anything, though.
Well, not to me).

Mom
escorts me back to my room, back to bed. We decide to watch a movie.
The
Prince of Tides
. One of our favorites to watch together.

Only
moments after Barbra Streisand appears on the screen for the first time, Mom
pauses the DVD.

“Honey,
you look so tired. Let’s watch this later. You rest more.”

“I’m
sorry, Mom.”
I am so sorry, Mom.
Sorry I’m too messed up to seem
properly grateful. I promise I’ll try harder after I get a little sleep.

“It’s
no problem at all, Callie. I’m going to go rest a little too. I’ll wake you
before Dr. Lennox gets here.”

Ugh.
Maybe he’ll
forget to come.

Mom
stops the movie, puts the food channel on, and turns out the light.

“Thanks,
Mom.”
Thank you, Mom. Th—

SLEEP.

FIVE
SECONDS LATER…I THINK.

“Honey? 
Callie? Time to wake up for a little. Dr. Lennox will be here in just a few
minutes.”

Fantastic
.
{Cue
“Walking
on Sunshine”
by Katrina and the Waves.}

Mom
helps me sit up in bed, and then she pulls my covers up over my legs.

And
now the doorbell is ringing.

Damn
it.

Mom
turns off the television, silencing the redhead preparing some sort of duck
dish, and then she heads down to the front door. Since the television is now
off, and my door is (of course) wide open, I can easily hear the little
conversation Mom has with Dr. Lennox.

“How
is she doing?” Dr. Lennox’s soothing doctor voice (very different from the
voice he uses when he’s over here for the neighborhood Christmas party and
drinking and telling jokes).

“Well,
she’s been resting a lot. Really, a lot. She sleeps all night and then is still
exhausted during the day. Should she really be this tired?”

Sorry,
Mom. I really hate worrying you. You’d probably be even more worried if you
knew my real schedule, though.

“Ah,
yes. I believe that can happen after a serious allergic reaction.”

Really?
People really sleep for, like, twenty hours a day for a week after an allergy
attack? I sort of doubt that.
I believe, Dr. Lennox, that you are
just feeding my mother crap. And she’s eating it eagerly.

Speaking
of eating…

“Another
concern I have is her appetite. She barely eats anything…just little bits here
and there. When should she be ready to eat again, really eat? You know—three
meals a day, well-balanced meals?”

Hmm…Mom,
I’ll be ready for that when food magically stops coming with calories.

“Oh,
I think her appetite will normalize soon. She’ll probably be eating regularly
by the beginning of next week.”

Can
you define
“
regularly
”
for me, Doctor? And while you’re at it, will you show me where you found this
spot-on information?

I
can hear footsteps now on the stairs. Slippered shuffles and boot thumps.

Three.
Two. One.

They’re
here.

{
“Walking on
Sunshine.”
Refrain. Over and over.}

Dr.
Lennox comes into the room. He starts toward me, hand already extended for a
handshake.
{The sunshine just keeps on coming.}
My stomach starts to
rumble as I realize that I have to hurry up and think of an excuse not to touch
him.

Quick
decision.

Onetwothree.

I
pretend to sneeze, putting both of my hands over my nose and mumbling something
that sounds like “excuse me.” Dr. Lennox (
Thank God)
puts his hand down
as Mom rushes over with a box of tissues. I grab a few and then take my time as
I wipe my nose…not putting the tissues down until Dr. Lennox walks over to the
rocking chair to sit.

And…I’m
not proud of myself, but what choice did he give me?

After
a moment, Mom excuses herself and—get this—SHUTS the door as she leaves. So
it’s not okay for me to be behind a closed door when I’m alone with weapons
like pillows and pens at my disposal, but I am perfectly safe being shut in
here with an older man who has just tried to inappropriately touch me (well, I
feel it was inappropriate—what trained therapist initiates physical contact
with an OCD patient, neighbor or not?)

Dr.
Lennox is looking at me, ready to begin, I guess. “Hello, Calista. You are
looking well.”

Am
I? Is it my new pajamas? Or my only dried, not straightened, frizzy and
gigantic hair?
I force a tiny, closed-mouth kind of smile.

“And
how are you feeling? Emotionally?”

This
is SO DUMB. Go home. Please.
I keep my lips closed. I don’t want to
accidentally say anything mean…so I just don’t talk.

“Now,
Calista, I know you don’t want to talk about your condition. I know you don’t
intend to share your thoughts with anyone. At least you seemed to feel that way
when I was here last time. Do you still feel that way?”

SHARE.
SHARE. SHARE. DUMB WORD. DUMB WORD. DUMB WORD.

I
nod in answer to his question. It feels vaguely familiar.

{Damien
Ri—}

No,
Callie.

Dr.
Lennox clears his throat. “Well, then, let’s focus on your experiences, not
your thoughts. Your mother told me that you had an allergic reaction to your
antidepressant medication.”

Nod
again.

“This
is unfortunate. I hope a better medicine can be found for you. A pill with a
different make up, perhaps.” He clears his throat and continues. “Did you have
any other, ah, situations before that allergy attack? Anything like what
happened before I saw you over the summer?”

No,
Dr. Lennox.
No
hair stylists have recently bled in my hair…probably since I haven’t had a hair
appointment since that day—nor will I in the foreseeable future. (I used to
think I could risk a hair appointment once a year…I figured that nothing too
terrible could happen…nothing that washing my hair couldn’t fix. I was clearly
wrong.)

I’m
pretty sure that what happened to me isn’t a common occurrence, though. How
often do hairstylists cut themselves and then continue an appointment without a
Band-Aid? Can’t be that often. It’d be on the news or something, wouldn’t it?

I
shake my head to answer Dr. Lennox’s stupid question.

He’s
not done. Throat cleared. “After that incident, your mother was very concerned
about how she found you. Has that, um, happened again recently?”

Seriously?
Did he really study for a degree to come up with this crackassery?

Shake
head. Again.

He
clears his throat again. “Good, good.” He makes some marks in his notebook.
Must’ve checked off “no” in the box after, “Has the patient recently been found
locked in her car, sobbing and covered in snippets of her own hair?”

He
continues. “So, then, you have nothing else you’d like to discuss today?”

I
shake my head. Again.

“Well,
would you like to schedule another appointment with me, or would you rather
that I again refer you to someone closer to Pierce? I know that you were seeing
two different doctors at Pierce Mental—”

“I’d
like to see someone from a new practice,” I cut in as quickly as possible.
“Someone closer to Pierce, though.” I don’t tell him that I don’t want a new doctor…that
I’m just going to cancel the appointment he makes for me…

Dr.
Lennox looks surprised. Surprised that I have an opinion about where I go for
an appointment? Surprised that I cut him off? Surprised that I have the ability
to speak in whole sentences? I don’t know.

Or
care.

He
blinks away his surprised look and stands up. “All right. I’m going to step out
and make a call. I’ll try to get something set up. Are Wednesday afternoons
still best?”

I
nod once more.

He
steps into the hallway, and I settle back on my pillow. I can’t wait to take
another glorious nap. I can’t wait until he leaves. If he ever leaves…

Moments
later, he appears back in my doorway. He’s holding another little appointment
card, just like the one he gave me last summer. Almost just like it. This one
won’t have the words “Pierce Mental Health” on it.

“Okay,
Calista. I set up an appointment for not this coming Wednesday, but the one
after. I know your mother said that you have a follow-up with your hospital
doctor, Dr. Grove, this coming Wednesday. I don’t want you to be running around
from appointment to appointment.”

Oh
yeah…that’s right. I forgot to mention the fact that I’m supposed to report to
a doctor’s office this Wednesday…a medical doctor’s office where there will be
coughing patients and runny-nosed kids. A million times scarier than the
psychiatrist-type doctor’s office where most of the sickness in the waiting
room isn’t quite contagious.

Sorry
I forgot to mention that appointment, Dr. Lennox. Perhaps it’s because I don’t
actually intend to keep it. Nor do I plan to keep this new one that you just
set up…

Dr.
Lennox is again taking notes. About my new doctor? About the fact that I didn’t
mention my appointment this Wednesday? About it being time for him to go home?

He
places my appointment card on the nightstand beside my bed, telling me that
I’ll be seeing a Dr. Kiser two Wednesdays from now.

I
push out a “thank you” before faking another sneeze and thus ensuring that he
won’t try to shake my hand again.