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.
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? You
r 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-m
aking 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—
Checked Again (Checked Series) Page 3
