Checked Again (8 page)

He
does.

“Callie,
no. Put your head up on my shoulder.”

I
can’t.

When
I remain frozen in place, frozen rigidly in his arms, he speaks again in a slow
whisper. “Callie, please. Just let me take care of you.”

I
can’t. You left. You left. You left.

My
eyes begin to fill again. I don’t move. We remain there, motionless, while the
rain picks up even more.

{Damien
sings all by himself now. Slowly. Sadly.}

After
at least a dozen counts of three, he releases a sigh and then again begins
walking toward the parking lot, carrying me toward the parking lot. We move in
silence. But my head is anything but silent. A new worry pops into my mind
every few seconds. Every few steps he takes.

What
diseases are on my foot?
Step. Step. Step.
How am I going to drive home?
Step. Step. Step.
What if I’m getting heavy?
Step. Step. Step.
What
was in that puddle?
Step. Step. Step.
What if someone trips over my left
behind flip-flop? What if it’s a child…or a pregnant woman…and something
horrible happens and it will be my fault and—

Please
don’t let someone trip and get hurt. Please don’t let someone trip and get
hurt. Please don’t—

He
has stopped…stopped in front of his car…well, actually on the passenger side of
it.

I
open my mouth to protest, but he is already leaning down, maneuvering his arm
under my legs to open the door.

In
a rather quick motion, he pulls the door wide open and gently places me in the
leathery passenger seat.

I
start praying again.
Please don’t let me throw up in here. Please don’t let
me throw up all over his immaculate car. Please, no throwing up.
I continue
to repeat my prayers over and over, focusing on praying so as not to focus on
my naked foot, my naked…dirty…diseased—

Stop,
Callie. Keep praying.

{Céline
Dion and Andrea Bocelli join me as they begin
“The Prayer
.
”
Their prayers are a little more universal, a little more big picture-oriented
than mine. Oh, and some of theirs are in Italian.}

As
I continue to pray, I notice that obnoxious silence fills the car. As usual.
Of
course.

We
don’t talk to each other, we don’t touch each other, we don’t look at each
other. Not at all.

When
he pulls into my driveway, he turns off the car, gets out, and comes around to
open my door. Still without a word, he leans in and scoops me back up into his
arms. His arms…his skin…my neck…together. My head gravitates toward his
shoulder, toward his warmth, but I stop it just in time, bending forward and
awkwardly digging in my purse for my house keys.

Turns
out I don’t need them. The front door to my house opens before we even make it
to the little porch entrance area. Mandy’s home. Probably just for an after
work “check-in” for Mom. I hope she doesn’t report this…

Mandy
starts to say something about me being late, but she cuts herself off pretty
quickly. No one speaks after that. Mandy steps back against the door to let him
through. He carries me into the house.

I
catch Mandy’s eyes as I pass her. They are wider than I’ve ever seen them. I’m
sure they somehow are getting wider now, though. But I can’t see them. Because
he is carrying me up the stairs.

And
I’m grateful and irritated and resigned all at once. Grateful that he is helping
me. Irritated that he’s somehow managing to again sweep in and save me from
myself. Resigned to the fact that I have to go along with this. I have to let
him do this. Otherwise, I’ll have to walk through the house with my disgusting,
diseased foot…and then I’ll have to buy thousands of dollars of new carpet
tomorrow. So it’s probably best to just let this one go…to just let him help
this time.

He
carries me directly to my bathroom. He bends down to place me on the bath mat
just outside of my shower.

And
then we are face-to-face once more.

Sad
eyes on sad eyes. Pain burning into pain.

For
a second, a second only, my foot problem seems silly, and my mind focuses
instead on the problem standing right in front of me. For a second, I’m every
other girl. For just a second, my biggest issue seems to be him…us…fixing all
of this sadness.

Then,
my foot…the puddle…the diseases—everything just breaks back in, filling my
mind.
{Alanis Morissette begins the haunting
“Uninvited
.
”
}

As
he looks into my eyes, he must see this change in me. From every other girl
to…me.

“I’m
going to go,” he mumbles, ripping his eyes away from me. “Leave your clothes
down there when you take your shower.” He nods down to the mat below my feet.
“I’ll send Mandy up to throw them out when she comes up to get rid of that bath
mat.”

He
doesn’t look back up at me as he turns to leave.

My
mouth is dry, but I manage to scrape out one word. “Thanks.”

He
nods, but his back is to me. And then he goes.

He’s
gone. Again.

Fortunately
(in a strange kind of sadistic way), I can’t think about that right now. I have
to take a shower.

After
leaning in and turning the shower on, I do as I’m told. I take off all of my
clothes and leave them and my one remaining flip-flop on the mat beneath me. I
then empty the contents of my purse on the bathroom counter and drop the purse
on the mat, too.

I’m
probably going to need to go purse shopping soon. Perhaps when I go bathroom
mat shopping.

I
won’t be shopping for new flip-flops, though. Ever. Screw me once…

For
now, the water is nice and burning, so it’s time for my shower. Before I even
step in, I hold out my foot and just let the water pound over it. Maybe the
burning water can still remove some of the diseases before they somehow enter
my body. I’m not sure. But it’s worth a try.

After
thirty counts of three, I step fully into the shower. Using my purple bath
pouf, I scrub for about ten minutes, rinse, and repeat. And repeat again.
Before my final rinse, I hear Mandy come in. She doesn’t speak as she gathers
the items on the floor, depositing them all into a trash bag. I open the shower
door a little and ask her to also get rid of my purple pouf (I’ll obviously
need to grab a new one from my closet after tonight). Mandy holds out the trash
bag, and I drop it in. She looks at me with sad, concerned eyes, but she
doesn’t say anything.

I
try to make the corners of my mouth turn up in a smile as I thank her, but I
don’t do very well. And Mandy’s expression doesn’t change. She just sort of
nods and exits the bathroom with my bag of hazardous waste.

I
hope she’s not too upset.

And
I hope she doesn’t tell Mom.

As
I climb out of the shower and get ready to start my night preparations, I try
to come up with a way to explain this situation to Mandy…a way that will make
her feel better. I don’t really get much of a chance to come up with a good
explanation, though, because Mandy walks into my room right after I get
dressed. She holds up my spare car key.

And…I’m
not surprised. Of course he took Mandy back to the parking lot and had her
bring my car home. Of course he took care of that. Of course he took every
proper comforting step he could think of. He always does.

Except
when he left me. When he—

“He
still cares about you, Callie.” Mandy speaks quietly. “It’s so obvious.”

I
catch her eyes for a second. She’s watching me carefully, waiting for a
reaction. Waiting for me to say something. I don’t want to talk about
it…him…though. I shrug and look away, thanking her for once again going to get
my car.

“He
insisted,” she responds. “And he wanted me to tell you right away. He didn’t
want you to have to worry about your car all night or to freak out about
needing it to get groceries tomorrow or something.”

Groceries.
Right. He remembers my entire schedule. Of course.

Mandy
keeps talking, still standing just inside the doorway to my room. “He also
wanted me to tell you that he was going back for your flip-flop. He was certain
that you’d be upset about it being left behind and in the way or something.”

Damn.
Damn. Damn. It. It. It.

Get.
Out. Of. My. Head.

{Alanis
starts
“Uninvited”
again.}

“Would
you really be upset about something like that?” Mandy asks as though she
doesn’t believe anyone would ever be worried about something like this.

I
look away and offer a simple “maybe” as an answer to her question.

Fortunately,
she doesn’t say anything else about it. She gives me a hug, says good night,
and mumbles something about being around if I want to talk.

I
guess she thinks that I might want to verbally run through my whole broken ass
flip-flop-leaving Cinderella story…that I might want to talk about throwing up
all over myself as well as on the guy who dumped me when I was in a partial
coma in the hospital…that I might want to discuss the diseases that I
undoubtedly acquired tonight.
No thanks. I’ve gone through all of this
mentally at least forty-five times already.
Oh, or maybe she thinks I want
to talk about something else…maybe she thinks something else is on my mind…like
a certain conference that I heard about tonight…a conference that I’ve already
decided to somehow lie my way out of…

Don’t
want to talk about that either.

Mandy
hesitantly starts to leave. I force a smile on my face and use my best camp
counselor with a bunch of kids in the middle of a lightning storm-voice to tell
her that everything will be fine. She leaves after that (although she doesn’t
really look convinced by my performance). I then spend an endless amount of
time trying to convince myself that everything will be fine. Really, I should
be fine. I should. I don’t feel like I have a new disease yet. I don’t seem to
be experiencing any bizarre symptoms or—

But,
maybe there aren’t any symptoms yet. Maybe the disease is just starting to—

CALLIE.
STOP. You have to—

My
phone is buzzing, vibrating on the bathroom counter. I go to get it.

And
I have a new text. From him.

One.
Two. Three. Open.

The odds that you
contracted a disease tonight are very slim. There was nothing but rain water in
that puddle—I checked when I went back for your flip-flop. You are fine. You
are fine. You are fine. Try to sleep.

I
read his message over and over and over. And…it helps. He helps. Again.

I
put down the phone and get to work. Night preparation work.

After
a lot of cleaning, a lot of checking,
{a lot of listening to Damien}
,
and another burning shower with a brand new pouf, I crawl into bed wearing
many-days-old pajamas. I think of his message over and over. And eventually…I
fall asleep.

Chapter
8

lies

THE
RINGING OF MY PHONE wakes me up minutes before my alarm clock goes off.
Immediately, flip-flops, rain, sad blue eyes—they all fill my head.

{Well,
they almost fill it. There’s space for Damien in there too.}

Trying
to push my thoughts aside, I get out of bed and grab my ringing phone from my
dresser.

And
it’s not him. It’s Melanie.

Silently
praying that Mandy didn’t tell on me for last night’s disaster, I answer the
phone.

And
Mandy didn’t tell. Well, yet, anyway. I don’t think Melanie is even calling to
secretly check up on me. She only has a couple minutes to talk, and she speeds
through her words. All of the words are about Jared and his new girlfriend.

It
sounds like Melanie started to Facebook stalk this girl late last night. Now
she wants me to do the same. Pretty standard protocol for a new Jared girlfriend
situation.
{Here come The Police again.
“Every Breath You Take.”
}
I
assure Melanie that I’ll log on to Facebook to look this girl up. And then
Melanie has to go get ready for work, so we hang up.

I’m
guessing that Melanie isn’t pregnant yet. If she was, she would’ve said
something. It will probably happen soon, though. Melanie’s life follows a
pretty strict schedule—I’m sure her uterus does too.

I
switch off my alarm so it doesn’t start to go off in like thirty seconds. Then
I turn on my computer to do a little pre-routine work. A few months ago, the
idea of doing any activity like this before my morning routine would’ve made me
very uncomfortable. Throw-uppy uncomfortable. But when I logged on to my
computer in the morning a few times last month to check my email…to check for
his
emails…it kind of took the scariness away, I guess. Just add it to the list of
things he’s helped me with…

Last
night storms into my mind once again as I enter my Facebook username and
password. Last night. His arms. Him taking care of me. Holding me. All of it
comes back.

And
really, I need to thank him. I can’t even imagine what I would’ve done if he
hadn’t shown up.
{Barry Manilow sings a new version of
“I Made It
Through the Rain
.
”
In this version, he doesn’t make it.}

But
have I made it? I look down at my foot. Is it really okay? Am I really okay?
What if the diseases—

Callie!
STOP STOP STOP.
He said that you are okay. He said that you are fine. He said it—he wouldn’t
lie.

Okay.
Back to work. Facebook page up. A pretty empty Facebook page. I only have six
“friends” and most of them don’t post much (and all but one of them also fit
into the “family” category).

Before
I can search for Jared’s new girlfriend, I notice the number seven on the
little silhouette shadow people friend button at the top of my page. Too
curious to wait, I click on the little seven to see the names of the people
who, I guess, want to be friends with me.

First
three: Dad (I didn’t even know that he joined Facebook), a girl in one of my
grad classes, and Dr. Gabriel.
Ugh.
I accept the first two requests and
click “Not Now” for the third. Second three: Two of Mandy’s sorority sisters
who were at our table when I went out on that Thursday night like two million
years ago and—get this—Jared’s breakfast date ex-girlfriend. I click “Confirm”
for the first two—even though I don’t really see the point…I’m not really
friends with those girls. However, I don’t want to be rude and for my rudeness
to somehow reflect on Mandy and for her to, I don’t know, lose friends and her
spot in the sorority all because of me. Better to just be friends with these
girls on Facebook. As for the third request, however, I hit “Not Now” without
feeling bad at all. This girl is already done and gone. Jared has a new
girlfriend…that’s kind of why I’m even on Facebook right now to begin with.

Now…there’s
only one more request…and technically, I shouldn’t even have to deal with it
right now, or until two more requests come.

But
my eyes can’t stop looking at the name. Anthony Marsol.

Tony.

I
just stare at his name, his picture (him in the middle of a bunch of other
guys—all holding beers), and the “Confirm” and “Not Now” buttons. I stare and
stare and stare.
{Blondie rocks in with
“One Way or Another”
and
she—}

My
cell phone starts to buzz. I take a break from my staring to pick it up.

A
text. From Unknown Number.

Now
my eyes are back to staring again—this time at the little screen on my phone.

One.
Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three. On—

Callie!

Open
text.

Are
you okay, Callie?

My
eyes don’t move from the screen, from his words, but everything gets a little
fuzzy.

He’s
still him. Not doctory, clinical him, but
him
. The real him.

Count.
Reply.

I am. Thanks for
helping me last night—with everything.

One.
Two. Three. Send.

I
continue to stare at my phone screen. Waiting for a response. Hoping for a
response.
{Damien sings to me as I wait. His refrain—}

BUZZ.

Count.
Open.

Not
a problem.

Buzz
again.

Count
again. Open again.

I have taken last
night’s situation into consideration, and I’ll give you another day to make the
call to schedule your appointment with Dr. Grove. I’ll call his office tomorrow
morning to make sure you’ve taken care of this.

And
we’re back to Dr. Douchebag, I see.

Firmly
placing my phone face down beside my computer, I look back up—right back at
Tony’s picture, Tony’s face.

{
“One Way or Another”
replaces Damien and—}

And…
what
the hell?
I hit “Confirm” to accept him as a friend. Why not? He’s just
another guy who ditched me because of my mental state—really no worse than
anyone else right now.

Less
than a second after I make this decision, my phone begins to ring.
Great.
Reluctantly, I flip it over. And I pick it up, because it’s Melanie again. She
is now about to leave for work, and she wants to know what I think of Jared’s
new girlfriend. I admit that I haven’t gotten to the girl’s page yet, but I
don’t tell her about all of my distractions. Before we hang up, I promise again
to do my stalking, and then I wish her a careful drive to work.

Then
I look up the new girl. Melanie seems more serious than usual about me
investigating this one. I can’t wait to see why. I’m imagining odd piercings
and spiky green hair…and Mom’s face when she sees all of that coming to a
Sunday night dinner.

With
these images swimming through my head, I am quite surprised when this girl’s
Facebook page comes up, when Holly’s page comes up.

Holly
is beautiful, but not just beautiful. She looks friendly, happy, real. I skim
through her information. Elementary school teacher. Likes classical music, old
sitcoms, butterflies, chocolate, and Italian food.

Everything
sounds good. I can’t find anything wrong with her. I will have to text Melanie
later (later—after she is off the road and safely at work) so she can tell me
what I’m not seeing.

For
now, I’ve got to get to work if I want to make it to the grocery store on time.

Morning
routine—BEGIN.

AFTER
GETTING GROCERIES, BEFORE CLASS, and right in the middle of a session of
worrying about getting out of going to the conference with Dr. Gabriel, my
phone makes two noises almost at the same time.

The
first noise is a text from Melanie. A reply to my text about Jared’s new girlfriend.

No, Callie. You
aren’t missing anything. She seems perfect!

Well,
I’m glad I didn’t fail at my Facebook stalking. I send a smiley face back to
Melanie, and then I check on the cause of the other noise from my phone.

A
new Words with Friends alert. I already know it’s my turn in both of my games.
And I don’t intend to play either of them right now.

I
click on the little game icon, wondering why I’m getting a new notification
right now.

And,
well, I have a new game request. From Tony.

What
the hell?

Hmm…no…at
this point…what the hell—why not? I’ve already accepted him as a friend on
Facebook. And playing a game…even with Tony…is probably better for me than
thinking about Dr. Gabriel and the conference. Or about…other things…people…I
shouldn’t be thinking about.

Accept
game. Take my turn (I’m already losing). Play Melanie’s game too (I’ve never
not been losing during my game with her).

Ignore
other game.

Leaving-the-house
checks.

I
grab my purse (the new one I took out of the closet this morning—black and
white checkered). Out the door. Three handle twists.

Off
to Professional Writing Lab class where I research, research, research. I spend
a couple hours in class jumping around teen pregnancy websites while scraping
off my nail polish.  I try to take some notes on my research. I don’t get a
whole lot of information, though—STD statistics keep popping up in my reading,
and my finger keeps clicking the X on my browser. I’m going to have to find
another way to get information for this paper. Clearly.

When
I stop looking for new websites and instead just pretend to be using my
netbook, I quickly fall back into thinking about Dr. Gabriel and the
conference. I start to type a list of reasons why I can’t go with him.

1.) Missed too many classes when I
was in the hospital—afraid to miss more.

2.) Too much homework to do.

3.) Already scheduled a conference
for my graduation requirement—no need to go to two.

I
know already that none of these excuses will work. Dr. Gabriel has already
gotten me out of class (there goes Excuse #1)…he could probably get me out of
my homework too (there goes Excuse #2). As for Excuse #3, it’s pretty obvious
that I haven’t already scheduled a conference. My advisor would’ve told him
that.

Damn
it.
Next
three…

1.) Have to go to some family event
of importance. A wedding. A confirmation or communion party (not normally held
in the fall, but I don’t think Dr. Gabriel is Catholic—he won’t know that).

2.) Have already planned a vacation
during the conference dates.

3.) Have scheduled a follow-up doctor
appointment that I absolutely can’t miss.
 

(Yeah—I
don’t want to go to the conference THAT much.)

I’m
obviously going to have a lot of preplanned lying to report at confession this
week.

Well…my
last option wouldn’t involve lying, but I’ve already spent quite a bit of time
planning on lying to get out of that option. Really, I—

Dr.
Harper interrupts my thoughts as he gives a closing speech. Class is ending.
I’ve done almost no research, though. And I still don’t know what I’m going to
tell Dr. Gabriel tomorrow.

My
nails are free and clear of nail polish, though. At least I’ve accomplished
something.

As
soon as Dr. Harper finishes speaking, I pack up to leave and then head home.

Very
busy schedule tonight. I complete my night routine. I mentally go through my
list of lies, trying to pick out the best one but not succeeding. Then I spend
some time feeling guilty about my lying premeditation. I also play a few rounds
of Words with Friends with Melanie…and Tony.

Eventually,
I head to bed…once again in many, many, many-days-old pajamas.

FRIDAY
MORNING. I’M NOT VERY far into my morning routine when the house phone rings.
And it’s Annie.
Seriously?
Why did he tell her to call this early? His
office isn’t even open yet. I bet Dr. Grove’s office isn’t open yet either. I
wouldn’t even have had time to call and schedule that appointment with Dr.
Grove if I had wanted to (and I don’t want to…and I’m not going to…but that is
beside the point). And I thought the plan was for Dr. Blake to call Dr. Grove’s
office this morning to see if I had scheduled the appointment…