Checked (10 page)

No count necessary. DELETE.

I hit “check email” once more. Just in case. Nothing.
{Schoolgirl-style Britney Spears begins “…Baby One More Time.”}
I close my laptop and head to the laundry closet. Maybe he’ll write tomorrow. Or perhaps Annie will call with an appointment time.

Or maybe nothing will happen. Maybe he changed his mind.

Time for dusting. I grab my duster from the shelf above the washer.
{On to the desperate refrain. And repeat. And rep—}
My cell phone is ringing. It’s almost 11:00 p.m. He didn’t give up.

I pick up the phone. It’s not him.

“Hey, Melanie.”

“Callie—I know it’s late. I had a really busy night, but I’m out of the office now, and I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. How did it go today?”

She wants to know how the appointment went.
Get behind me in line.

“Well, I don’t really know, Mel,” I start out. “It’s still early yet. I think I’m going to be starting some intense immersion treatment.”

“Wow. Is that like touching dirty things and then not washing your hands?” I feel my body convulse a bit at her words.

I decide not to tell her that I only agreed to the therapy as an apology. Might sound ridiculous. “Well, uh, I think there’s more to it than that. I don’t really want to think about it just yet.”

“I understand,” Melanie blurts out before smoothly changing the subject. Her new subject is Mandy. “What is Mandy up to tonight?”

“I think she is on the phone with Josh. Making plans for next weekend.” I pick up my duster and get to work on my dresser as we talk. It is already pretty late, after all.

Melanie has that motherly, worried ring in her voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us, Callie? We could do a whole sleepover weekend thing. Abby would love it if we did makeovers and junk food and all that girl stuff.”

“We’ll see how things go, Mel. I really do need to be able to stay here on my own. I can’t still be bringing a sleeping bag to your house when I’m fifty.” I finish dusting my room and take the duster out to the living room.

“Well, we’ll just see how you feel at the end of next week, okay?”

“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Mel.”

“All right—I’ve got to get to bed. That alarm will be going off in a blink.”

“I know what you mean. Okay—see you Friday night.”

“Good night, Callie.”

“Night, Mel.”

I finish dusting, scrubbing, and sanitizing. Time to get clean. Shower. Apply body lotion. Dress for bed. Check email…one last time. Nothing. Television on. Filled pasta dishes tonight. Heavy food to be thinking about so late at night. Luckily, I don’t have to listen for long. Last night’s lack of sleep has rewarded me tonight…I’m exhausted. I drift off just as the manicotti is being put in the oven.

I DREAM ABOUT HIM. WE are jousting in some inflatable game type thing, like the ones rented for freshman orientation activities every year. We are standing on four-foot blow up round stands, both wearing ridiculous, gigantic masks as if we might be severely injured by our inflatable swords. The mask covers his face so I can only see those miserable eyes. When a whistle blows, we try to knock each other off the stands. I’m terrible at the activity. I almost knock myself off of my own stand a few times. He seems pretty steady on his stand, but he isn’t getting anywhere in our match either.

After a few minutes of a very lame battle, I lose my balance yet again and start to fall. As I go down, I reach out and grab his arm. He loses his balance and we both plummet to the cushy game surface below.

That’s it. The dream ends and then starts all over again.

And then again after that. I even dream in threes.

When my alarm finally rings, I don’t feel very rested. But I know I have to get moving if I want to beat the grocery-getting crowd.

Before I can start my routine, I know I have to check my email. No new messages. I briefly consider writing to him, but then realize that I have nothing to say.
Hey…I just dreamt about you all night—thought you might like to know. Oh, and P.S.—are you still mad at me?
Yeah.
Awesome idea, Callie.
I close my laptop and get moving.

9:45 a.m. Grocery shopping. No major drama beyond my normal blueberry fat-free yogurt being completely out of stock. I decide to try another brand even though each cup is ten calories more than usual.

I leave the parking lot with no trouble. 9:45 a.m. it is from now on…

Home. As I’m soaping up my hands, I hear my phone buzz. A text message. I get through the hand-washing process as fast as I can. My hands are almost dry when I reach into my purse for the phone.

Not him. Still.

It’s from Mandy. The Thirsty Thursday invite. I quickly type my reply.

Thanks but not tonight. Have a good time. Careful!

Send. No other texts.
{Damien Rice comes rushing back in with
“The Blower’s Daughter.”
}
I spend my afternoon finishing
Crime and Punishment
and taking notes for my paper.
{It plays over and over and over and over and over and over.}

5:00 p.m. Leaving routine.

5:43 p.m. Check email. Nothing.
{The song begins again.}

5:58 p.m. In my seat, ready for another presentation. I pull out my fresh notebook to jot down more ideas for my paper, but I cannot concentrate. He stood only a few feet in front of me in this very room. Only forty-eight hours ago.
{And again and again and again.}

Class begins. Tonight’s speaker is a young woman. Late twenties. Early thirties at most. Long, pin straight hair. Acrylic French manicure. Fitted black suit. Probably a size two. She writes for a celebrity magazine. In a sugary voice, she tells us how she researches her stories (pretty much by stalking people, it seems) while I manage to remove all of the polish from my nails.

She moves around the front of the room as she talks, heel clicks accompanying her presentation. We are given some time to examine a few of her latest articles. Pregnancy. Affairs. Shopping splurges. Arrests. As I skim the pages and half listen to the Q&A session, I can’t help but wonder how many of these articles are actually true. Probably not a good question to bring up.

Finally, it sounds like she is wrapping up her presentation. Wishing us luck. Giving us contact information. Yep, sounds like an ending.

8:35 p.m. Class is over. Only twenty-five minutes early. Still better than ending at the scheduled time, I guess. I gather my stuff and head out. No mishaps this time.

It is one of those fall nights outside. Slightly chilly sweatshirt weather. Leaves blowing around. I take a slow walk to my car, breathing in the new season and letting my step match the beat in my head radio.
{The owner of the beat is Lady Gaga with
“Paparazzi.”
}

I hear a rustle of leaves behind me. A classmate in a hurry to get to the parking lot, I’m sure. I slow my step and move to the grass on the side of the walkway.

Hasn’t passed me yet. I can’t slow down much more without completely stopping.

“Calista.” Quiet. Low.

Him.

Chapter 12

immersion eve

I STOP.
{LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, Mr. Damien Rice.}

“Calista.”

I can hear him breathing behind me now. I try to look back out of the corner of my eye, but I can only see my own dark ponytail. Gotta turn around. This is awkward—even more awkward than it usually is when we are in the same space. If that is even possible.

Inhale. One. Two. Three. Exhale. Turn. He is two steps away from me. Lit by a dim walkway light. Dark pants. Hands in his front pockets. Light dress shirt with the collar open and no tie. Mouth—serious. Eyes—haven’t made it there yet.

“Are you ready to begin?”

What?
My eyes accidentally meet his as my head snaps up. “Um, what?”

“Your twelve days?” His eyes aren’t sad. They are almost calm. Almost.

Maybe the lighting is just bad.

I clear my throat. “Um, now?”
So articulate, Callie. I’m sure this university won’t regret giving you a degree for a mastery of the English language.

“Why not now?” He slides his eyes away from me momentarily. “Unless you have plans.” Well, I do have a hot date with my stove, my laundry, and my alarm clock, but they’ll all be waiting for me when I get home.

He hasn’t looked back at me yet. He’s looking past me, and some of the calmness in his eyes has seemed to disappear. I decide to go along with his plan before his eyes get any worse.

“No. I don’t have plans.”

He blinks back over to me. His eyes have a new expression. Relief? Anticipation? I’m not sure. “So you’ll come with me?”

Sure. What the hell? I’ll go with this mega-intense, super sad stalker guy who waits for me for God knows how long outside of my class. At 9:00 at night.
Good plan there, Callie.
I try to reassure myself that there aren’t too many doctors slash ax murderers out there. I really don’t think he is a Hannibal Lecter-type exception to that. I take my chances.

“Sure,” I say pseudo-confidently. I wait for further information. Where is it that we are going? What is he going to try to fix at this hour of the night?

“Great. I’ll drive.” He takes his right hand out of his pocket and motions for me to keep heading toward the parking lot. As I start to move, he catches up to walk beside me. Beside me, leaving enough room for each of us to have a comfortable bubble of personal space.

We don’t talk. Leaves crunch. Twigs snap. Trees rustle. Crunch. Snap. Rustle. Crunch Snap Rustle. Crunchsnaprustle. We reach the parking lot, and he leads me to a car right next to my small grey Hyundai. Unbelievable. Parked right beside me. Was he already there when I parked?

He opens the passenger door for me. A black Lexus. Clean black leather seats. Immaculate floor. I can do this. This part anyway. I slide into the car, and he gently shuts the door behind me. As he climbs into the driver’s seat, he breaks our silence.

“I’ll drive you back to your car when we’re done.”

“Okay.”
Okay. Okay.

No music. Breathing. Soft clicky turn signal sound now and then. More breathing. Two sets of eyes staring straight ahead.
{The track finally changes, and Simon & Garfunkel come in with
“The Sound of Silence.”
}
Eventually, we arrive at his office building. The parking lot is empty. Two dull lights shine from the front of the building. He parks. I don’t wait for him to get around the car to open my door. This isn’t a date.

He meets me as I step out, and we walk together to the front door. Right by the trash can where I threw away my purse…

I allow him to open the front door for me. As a doctor protecting me from doorknob germs—not as a suitor following the rules of chivalry.

Everything is dark in the waiting room. I step to the side of the door to let him pass so he can lead the way.
{The song begins again.}
I hear only his soft footsteps as he crosses the room. I stand. Wait. Listen. A door is opening. Probably that brown one beside Annie’s desk. A dim light flickers on beyond the door.

There he is. Standing at that brown door, waiting for me to pass him. Just like last time. Yet totally different from last time. No other patients. No Annie. Us. Nothing else.

I squeeze past him and then pause, waiting for him to lead me down the hallway. He steps in front of me, and I begin to follow. The birds hanging on the walls, looking creepier yet in the dim lighting, by the way, stare at me as I, well, stare at him. At the back of him. As usual.

We get to his door. He lets me in, turns on the light, and closes the door behind us. As if it matters. As if anyone else is in the building.

I stand in the same spot as usual, right inside the door. My spot. He heads right to the left corner of the room. I’ve been in this office twice before and never even glanced at that side of the room. Until now. There is a large brown microfiber couch against the left wall. Looks comfortable. Until you consider how many other crazy people have sat there…

In the far corner of the room, a few feet away from the couch, is a door. A locked door, apparently, because he now sorts through his keys as he stands in front of it.

He finds the key and opens the door. It appears to be a decently-sized closet, but I can’t really see much with him standing right there. I can see his back, but of course, I already have that memorized.

He leans down a little and starts pulling something out of the closet. Something pretty big. He keeps pulling and backing up until he is in the middle of the room, at the corner of his cherry desk.

Finally, he turns to me, mumbling, “First things first.” I am only caught in his hopeful eyes for a moment because he abruptly moves aside so I can see.

Wow.
This is pretty big. Sitting at the corner of his desk is a tall-backed office chair. Or maybe a conference room chair, like the ones Melanie sits in during important meetings in Board Room I. If it was larger, maybe. Or if it didn’t have wheels.

At the top right corner of the chair, a white square is hanging. A tag.

Holy shit.

“This is for you. Just you.” My eyes rise again to his. “When you aren’t here, it will be locked up in that closet.”

A clean, new, untouched place for me to sit. All bases covered yet again.

He nods his head toward the chair and points to the tag.

“Go ahead—it’s yours.”

I reach out and remove the tag and the little piece of plastic that secured it to the chair. When I look back at him, he holds his hand out toward me.

Oh. I hold my hand over his and drop the tag and the plastic piece into his palm. Careful not to drop anything. More careful not to graze his hand.

He moves his hand slightly to drop the items into the trash can to the left of his desk. I simultaneously pull my hand back and let it rest by my side.