Checked Again (Checked Series)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  Mom murmurs her agreement, and then Mandy gets ready to leave. As she gives me a goodbye hug, she reminds me that she’ll see me tomorrow night. I tell her to have fun with Josh and, uh, her sorority friends, and I remind her to drive carefully.

  And then she clicks away—out of my room, down the steps, and out the front door. Mom continues to lesson plan for another forty-five minutes, and I try to write a poem about a field for my now overdue—but not really overdue since I was in the hospital and have been given a rather lengthy extension—poetry portfolio. I do try to write, but I have no success. Around 10:15 p.m., Mom begins to pack up her books and papers. Almost time for bed.

  She kisses me good night. A forehead kiss. Probably just another way to check my forehead for whatever it is that she checks for…

  She reminds me to only get up when it’s necessary (this pretty much means that I can brush my teeth, go to the bathroom, and change my clothes—if I need to do anything more strenuous like shower or go downstairs, I am supposed to wake her), and she asks if she can bring me up any more food.

  “No thanks, Mom. I’m full.”

  She looks disappointed, but she says good night, takes my plate and Mandy’s hoagie tray, and leaves—and leaves the door open as wide as it will go.

  Okay. Time for a little reading. Since I finished my Jane Eyre assignment yesterday, I emailed Dr. Sumpter for this week’s work. She reluctantly sent me some missed work, but she feels “rest is more important than school assignments right now.” I don’t agree. If I don’t get some work done now, I’m going to be terribly behind when I get back next week. Besides, my missed work involves reading Wuthering Heights—one of my favorites—so, of course I’m going to do it. It’s not like I have better things to do anyway…other than writing stupid poems for my stupid poetry portfolio…

  I read only until 11:00 p.m., the time when both of my parents are usually completely asleep. I then put my book down and get to work.

  I tiptoe out of my bed in my Isotoners. I head right to my parents’ room—two doors down the hall. Their bedroom door is open no more than a tiny crack—guess neither of them is in danger of any sort of self harm.

  One. Two. Three. I push on their door very, very slowly. Very, very gently. I feel like the guy in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

  Okay—the door is finally open enough for me to slip in. I take three steps inside. My parents are both sleeping. Both snoring. Almost in sync.

  I start my night routine right there in their room.

  Vents are uncovered. Dresser drawers are all closed. Much better than Mandy’s room. I nudge Dad’s dress shirt (the white one that he wore to work today) so it is actually in the hamper instead of half in and half falling out. Then I move Mom’s slippers over a bit so she won’t accidentally trip over them when she gets out of bed in the morning.

  Not bad. I’m out of their room in less than three minutes.

  Time to work on the rest of my preparations, my “home” preparations—used really only on holidays.

  And, well, in emergency situations such as this.

  These preparations take a little longer than my normal routine. Having to do everything silently definitely adds time. I’ve been spoiled living with Mandy since she’s always out somewhere or else dead to the world, passed out asleep.

  {And now, here’s Cinderella with “Don’t Know What You Got (Till It’s Gone).”}

  I’m also not well rehearsed (since I’ve only been staying here since Tuesday night…and since I haven’t stayed overnight here before that since Easter), so nothing seems to be running smoothly. I should probably make a list so I’m better prepared when I stay here. I could just tuck the list under my mattress so it would be there when—

  But Mom might find it. And then she’ll think I’m even crazier than she already believes I am. Then she’ll probably try to force me to move back home. And she’ll ask Dr. Lennox to be my roommate or something.

  Okay. No list. No documentation of my work.

  Back to my mental schedule.

  Jared’s old room: spotless. Just like yesterday. Makes sense since no one has been in there since last night’s routine. Same situation in Melanie’s room and Mandy’s room. I close all three doors to my siblings’ old bedrooms. Then I go into the only bedroom with the currently forever-open (or supposed to be forever-open) door. And I shut it, oh so carefully. This next part gets a little tricky.

  Over to my five-drawered childhood dresser. Open drawer number three.

  Damn it. It screeches slightly. Slightly, but loudly. Annoyingly.

  {Cinderella repeats the refrain.}

  Pull travel case out. Carefully.

  Case on bed. Unzip. Excruciatingly slow pace. And it’s open.

  Hello, supplies. Everything I need (and more) is right here…it has been since I moved out. Mom knows about it…she knows about this case. She’s probably even unzipped it and looked inside at some point.

  And that’s okay. Every item in the case holds a “legitimate” (but fake) purpose (to cover up its crazytown, but real, purpose). Rather brilliant, I must say.

  Top item in the case—pair of matching plaid pajamas. “Legitimate” purpose: um…to wear if I forget to bring pajamas on a trip…obviously. Crazytown, secret purpose: to make Mom believe that this really is a common, traditional emergency travel case.

  I set the pajamas aside and move on to item number two. Small purple cosmetic bag. Inside the purple bag—foundation, blush, eyeliner, toothbrush, toothpaste, lip gloss, deodorant, body lotion, soap, etc. All brand new. And still in original packaging. In the same condition as when I bought all of it (and the purple bag) at Target years and years ago when I decided to pack this emergency travel case. I’ve never needed to open this little purple bag. I’ve never accidentally forgotten any of these necessary items when traveling to my parents’ house.

  “Legitimate” purpose for the purple bag: to use the inside items if at some point I do forget to bring them…much like the “legitimate” purpose for the pajamas. Secret purpose: again, exceedingly similar to the purpose for the pajamas—looks good…normal…to have travel bag-type items in a travel case.

  Okay. Purple cosmetic bag on bed. Moving on. Next up—a small LED flashlight. “Legitimate” purpose: safety in surprise power outages.

  Do not think about surprise power outages. Do not think about surprise power outages. Do not think about surprise power outages.

  Secret (real) purpose: for emergency situations when a family member decides to sleep downstairs in the living room over a holiday, leaving me no choice but to perform part of my routine in the almost dark. Oh, it’s also useful when I’m involved in illicit, bed prison rule-breaking behaviors…like I am right now.

  I put the flashlight in the pocket of my pajamas. Then I move on to the only other vital item in the entire case: a three-pack of baby wipes. “Legitimate” purpose (if anyone ever asks): for Melanie to use in case she ever forgets to bring wipes when traveling with Abby.

  Okay…my purpose is outdated. I know. It made a lot more sense when Abby was still wearing a diaper (which, by the way, I also have in my case. Just to make the wipes look more legit. One diaper. Size one. Talk about outdated. Hmm…I guess it will be ready for Melanie’s next baby. Or if Mandy and Josh accidentally have one…I always pray that doesn’t happen, though).

  So…anyway…if someone ever does look in this case and see the wipes, hopefully it will appear that the wipes are just left over from when Abby was young and in diapers. No one has to know that I secretly restock them every time I’m running low. And I have to restock them quite often since my secret purpose for the wipes (naturally) involves cleaning.

  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.”