Checked Again (4 page)

It
works. He says goodbye and leaves without touching me.
Alleluia. I’m talking
a major Alleluia…like on Easter morning at a high Mass. Bells and stained glass
windows. Or maybe it should be bigger than that. Like with everyone standing for
Handel’s
“
Messiah.
”
That would be Hallelujah, though…

Mom’s
back, standing at my door with a tray of food.

“Honey,
why don’t you eat some lunch? It’s been hours since you last had anything.”

She
doesn’t wait for an answer. She brings the tray over to my bed, over to me.

Hmm…this
is the first selection of food that she’s brought me that doesn’t add up to a
heavyweight champion’s allotted calories for a week. A bagel. Plain. A banana.
Some grapes. Juice. And yogurt—fat free yogurt.
Wow.

I
give her a grateful smile, thank her, and grab the bagel, the juice, and the
yogurt (no more than four hundred calories in total if I only eat half of the
bagel). Mom puts the tray back on my desk “for later” and then settles into the
rocking chair to keep me company as I eat. We talk for a few minutes about
tonight’s plans, and then the house phone rings. Mom only gets up to answer it
after I encourage her to do so. She smiles and heads out of my room.

And
I eat. My growling stomach seems to burn right through everything I
swallow…like it’s just been waiting for some food. After I finish, I put my
plate (not empty—the bottom half of my bagel is still on it) on my nightstand,
turn on the television (where a guy is making lemon chicken), and sleep.

BUZZ.

I
wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing. I have no idea how long I’ve been
sleeping…no idea what time it is. Before I even open my eyes, I notice…I feel…a
puddle of drool sticking to my cheek.
Awesome.

{Justin
Timberlake glides in with
“SexyBack
.
”
}

I
continue to laze in my slobbery mess until my phone reminds me that I have a
text message.

All
right. I’m coming.
I
glance out my open door and then take a couple seconds to just listen. I hear
distant shuffles of feet. Cabinets opening downstairs. Mom is clearly in the
kitchen.

I
hear the garage door. Dad’s home now too. Must be around 5:30 p.m. More
cabinets open. Pots and pans clang together. The kitchen door opens and closes.
Now…a murmur of voices. Mom and Dad discussing their days, I’m sure. I can just
make out the words “client” and “policies” coming from Dad’s low voice. And
from Mom, I keep hearing “food” and “eat” and my name.

This
could go on for a bit. I should be safe if I just get up for a second to
retrieve my phone.

One.
Two. Three. MOVE. I peel my head off of my pillow, push back my purple bedspread,
get up and out of bed, go over to my dresser for my phone, and jump back in
bed…all in a really fast count of three.
Excell—

“Callie,
honey?  Is everything okay?” Mom yells from downstairs.

DAMN.
DAMN. DAMN.

I
yell back. “Yeah, Mom. Everything is fine. I just, uh…” What? Dropped something
that sounded like feet sprinting across a room? Like a weird bouncy ball or a
yo-yo or—

“Are
you ready to get up? Your sisters will be here soon.” It sounds like she’s at
the foot of the stairs now.

“Sure,
Mom. Thanks.”

“I’ll
be up in a minute. I’ve got to get the macaroni in the oven.”

Okay—I
have a minute. And I have my phone.

One
text message.

From…from
Unknown Number.

Him.

Chapter
3

communication

MY
HANDS FEEL FROZEN. SO does the rest of me. But I have to know what it says.
What he says.

One.

Two.

Three.

I
pick up my thumb and make it push the button to open the text. His text.

I
have your license.

Oh
.

That’s
right. From when we were at the bar. I forgot.

He
has my license. A real, tangible item, just existing…being…when everything else
is gone. I remember not knowing what to do with the stuff Tony left behind
after our relationship. I still don’t know what to do with it—it’s been sitting
in a box in the back of my closet for years.

What
is a person supposed to do with those relationship leftovers? Throw them out?
Store them somewhere? Cling to them…just grateful to have something left?

I
don’t know.

But
in this case, the leftover item is a driver’s license. Kind of an important
item.

Hmm…so
I need to reply. Here goes.

One.
Two. Three.

I
know. Can you just mail it to me?

But
what if it gets lost? What if someone else ends up with my license? I’d just be
giving someone a head start in stealing my identity.

That’s
not going to work.

DELETE.

Hmm…I
could just—

“Ready,
Callie? I can take you to the bathroom before we head downstairs.” Mom’s here.
I didn’t even notice her shuffling up the stairs.

“Um,
sure. Great.” I slip my phone into the right pocket of my pajama pants and
allow Mom to slowly guide me up from my bed, out of my room, and into the
bathroom.

Mom
closes the door and gives me a few minutes of privacy. Before I reopen the
bathroom door, I look at my mess of a face in the mirror.
{Justin Timberlake
begins his song again.}
After wiping the lingering drool off of my face
and pulling my hair into a ponytail, I open the bathroom door...to an empty
hallway.

Only
empty for a second. Mom appears in the doorway of my bedroom. “Oh, honey.
Sorry. Just getting rid of your leftovers.” She exits the room with my lunch
tray and the banana and grapes I didn’t eat.

My
leftovers.

An
idea, a poem idea (and probably not even a good one, but at this point I’ll
take what I can get), pops into my head.
{It has to share the space with
JT.}
All of a sudden, we can’t get down the stairs quickly enough. We (Mom,
me, and my leftovers) are taking each step at a cautious, controlled pace.

Hurry.
Hurry. Hurry.

We
get to the last step, and I can’t wait anymore. “Mom—I think I can make it from
here.” I try to say it kindly. I honestly do appreciate her concern.

“Are
you sure?”

“I
am.”

She
lets go of me, and I walk to the couch in the family room all by myself. Well,
almost all by myself. Mom sort of spots me like I’m a gymnast or something the
whole time, but at least she moves at my faster pace.

Once
I’m seated, Mom goes to check on the food in the kitchen. I rip my cell phone
out of my pocket. I find the NOTES icon in my accessories.

And
then I spill out the contents of my head.

A
Banana and Some Grapes

The
fruit that remains

Waiting
behind after everyone has finished

Just
sitting, existing, being

Leftovers

Should
I throw them out?

Or
should I save them for now

And
be grateful to have something left?

And…DONE.
Poem number two. Done. And, really, it’s pretty awful, but—

“Hey,
Callie. Who are you so busy texting?”

Mandy’s
here.

“No
one.” Seriously, no one. Even though I’m supposed to be coming up with a
response to a message from—

 I’m
not thinking about that right now, though. New subject time. “How was Thirsty
Thursday?”

Mandy
plops down on the other side of the couch and begins to tell me a story about a
bar, Josh, and some “Monster Wench” who tried to hit on him last night.
Apparently, the “Monster Wench” was one of the girls from the sorority she
mentioned last night. I guess it’s good that she was only fake staying with
those girls.

Soon,
Melanie and Abby arrive with a suitcase. They’ll be staying until Sunday. Doug
must have some work thing this weekend.

“Are
you okay, Aunt Callie?” Abby slowly makes her way across the family room before
hesitantly sitting down in between Mandy and me. Like she’s worried that she
might shatter me or something. Or perhaps like she’s afraid I might be
contagious.

Little
does she know, she already seems to have what I’ve got…

I
pull her in for a hug and tell her that I’m fine. After she gives Mandy a quick
squeeze, she reaches into her little pink dancer-style bag and pulls out…

I
wait for it as she fumbles around. The suspense is unbearable.

She
pulls out…

Enchanted.

Of
course. But I don’t mind. I’m just glad she’s here. We talk for a little about
first grade…about letters and numbers and misbehaved little boys. At some point
after she switches gears and starts to discuss dance class, she stops talking
abruptly. Mid-sentence.

“What’s
going on, Abby?”

She’s
not looking at me. She’s looking at the mantel—right above the fireplace.

“Who
lit those candles?” The question, I think, is for me, but she’s still not
looking at me.

I
wrap my arm around her little waist and pull her closer. “No one had to light
them, honey. They aren’t real candles. They have batteries in them and Pop has
them on some sort of timer. They must turn on at six o’clock.”

She
still isn’t looking at me. I glance over at Melanie, who’s standing across the
room, and scrunch up my face in sympathy…for Abby…for the situation. Melanie
did tell me a few weeks ago that Abby had been asking a lot of questions about
fire. She even asked Melanie to tell her how much money they had in the bank
just so she could be sure that they could afford to rebuild their house if it
burned down. At the time, Melanie seemed to think that this fire thing was a
random concern that came up.

Now,
though, Melanie looks really concerned. Must be more than a passing issue.
Melanie and I will have to talk more later.

I
squeeze Abby’s waist and pull her even closer to me. Using my left hand, I
gently turn her chin, her face, her eyes so that she looks at me. And not at
the candles. Her eyes cloud over a little—she doesn’t quite focus on my face.

I
break out a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about the candles, Abby.
Battery-powered candles can’t do any harm. Think about other things that run on
batteries—like remote controls for televisions. Or like some of your
noise-making toys. These candles are no different.”

Abby
doesn’t look completely convinced, but she does settle back against me on the
couch. Now she’s probably thinking about remote controls bursting into flames…

I
don’t know—maybe battery-powered items can spontaneously catch on fire. Maybe—

“Time
for dinner.” Mom’s calling from the kitchen.

Melanie
grabs Abby’s hand and leads her toward the dining room. I stand to follow them.
Before I take any steps on my own, though, Mandy grabs my arm and escorts me. I
let her. It’s just easier not to fight it.

And
Girls’ Night goes well. Everyone (except me) eats as much dinner as Mom thinks
is necessary. After dinner, we start the movie. Mandy drinks less than normal
(for a Girls’ Night) since she has to drink alone. I’m not supposed to drink
anything during my recovery period, and Melanie has just started to try for
baby number two and is keeping her body in optimal baby-making condition or
something. Oh—and Mom and Dad don’t really drink that often. Abby, who also,
obviously, isn’t drinking, focuses on her movie the whole time and ignores the
candles on the mantel. I talk to my sisters and parents, watch some of the
movie…and, well, don’t think at all about my pocket and my cell phone and my
unanswered text message…

{And
here’s Fleetwood Mac with
“
Little Lies.
”
}

10:11
P.M. THE MOVIE IS JUST about over. Melanie and Mandy are both sleeping. I’m
pretty sure Melanie has been out for an hour already. Abby is all tangled up in
my arms, sleeping as well. I think she fell asleep about ten minutes ago—right
after Dad’s candles clicked off (I guess the timer only lasts for about four
hours).

As
soon as the credits begin to roll, Mom comes over to whisper to me. “Callie.
Honey—let’s get you up to bed.” She gently pulls Abby out of my arms and then
helps me stand up. Abby doesn’t wake up. She rests her little blonde curls back
on the couch pillow and continues to breathe heavily. Mom holds my arm as we
start to walk back to my nursing home—or bedroom. We stop by the bathroom (Mom
doesn’t want me to have any need to try to walk by myself later…), and then
head to my room.

Eventually,
Mom tucks me in, feels my forehead one more time, turns on the food channel,
and heads to bed herself.

As
I wait for enough time to pass for her to get ready for bed and then fall
asleep, I get my phone out of my pocket.

Here
goes.

I
find his text and hit reply again.

I know. If you leave
my license with Annie, I can just come and pick it up.

There.
Not bad.

One.
Two. Three. SE—

WAIT.

With
my catastrophic timing, I’ll somehow manage to arrive in the office when he is
there and talking to Annie or something at the front desk. And then what? I’ll
freeze and get all stuck in place in the waiting room in the middle of other
patients with varying degrees of crazy…and then one of them might try to talk
to me or comfort me and in the process might touch me or spit on—

This
isn’t going to work.

I’ll
just end up bolting from the office…leaving me upset, him somehow more upset
(I’m sure, because I always manage to worsen his mood), and me still with no
license.

Erase
text. Try again.

I know. Don’t worry
about it. I can just go to the DMV and get another one.

It
doesn’t even take a full count of three for me to realize how ridiculous this
sounds, so I once again erase my message. Gonna have to try again later.

Right
now, the house is quiet, so I put my phone in my pocket and get to work…trying
to put everything else out of my mind.

{And
the soundtrack for tonight’s routine is…Damien Rice with
“The Blower’s
Daughter
.
”
Over and over and over and over and over and over and…}