Checked Again (Checked Series)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  I’m feeling much better. Thanks for asking…and for helping me two weeks ago. I really appreciate it.

  As I hit send, I look up and meet Brittany’s eyes with a smile. She smiles too, and then we both get back to work…well, she does anyway. I get back to pretend reading.

  It’s a slow night for me. Students come and go, but almost all of them show up to see the two professors…and that means that the two professors (one of them in particular) are quite busy and so cannot come over to talk to me.

  {The Pointer Sisters turn up their volume on “I’m So Excited.” It sounds like they really mean it this time.}

  Eventually, I get a real ticket. Ian from Computer 3 wants me to proofread the rough draft of his paper about the geologic time scale. Well, this will keep me busy. I open up a navigation window online since I’ll probably have to look up different words and concepts to even understand his paper. At least it gives me something to do.

  I spend the next hour or so reading sentences, entering words into Google and Dictionary.com, and typing notes. I’m only on page eight (of ten) when my computer dings again.

  I click out of Google to check my new ticket. It’s from someone at Computer 20, way in the back. No name is on the ticket.

  Before even reading this person’s request, I hit reply and type a reminder that I must have a name for my writing center log.

  Then I look down at the request.

  And, well, I don’t need a name.

  I brought your driver’s license.

  Chapter 5

  more communication

  {DAMIEN. DAMIEN. DAMIEN.}

  He’s here. Only feet away.

  My ability to breathe goes away.

  I delete my premature response and give my eyes a quick lecture. Do not move. Do not look up. Do not look back. Focus on the computer.

  Another ding.

  One. Two. Three. Click.

  But that’s not why I’m here.

  It’s not? My head starts to move upwa—

  CALLIE!

  I push my eyes back to the computer before they can cause too much damage. I try to start breathing again. I—

  DING.

  Count.

  Count again.

  Count once more.

  Open.

  I got a call from Dr. Grove. Why did you cancel your appointment on Wednesday?

  DAMN IT.

  Stop knowing everything. Seriously—it’s ridiculous.

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t have a response for him. So I sit and remove my nail polish.

  And my computer dings again.

  Count. Click.

  This is serious. You have to have a follow-up appointment. And if you don’t respond to me, I can just come up there to talk to you in front of all of these students and those professors who appear to be babysitting you.

  Ugh. I hit reply quickly…because I don’t want Dr. Gabriel to see me doing non-work-related business…but moreover, because I don’t know if I’m ready for face-to-face interaction with him.

  No—don’t do that.

  I count and hit send. I wish I had more nail polish on or—

  DING. DING.

  Two tickets.

  Shit. The first one is from Ian at Computer 3. He’s asking about the status of his paper.

  I write back to him immediately. I send him my notes for pages one through seven and tell him that I’m still working on the rest.

  My second message is from No Name, Computer 20.

  Count. Open.

  Dr. Spencer is in New York again, but he has called several times for updates about you. He was very concerned when I told him that you’ve canceled your follow-up appointment. He wants me to do the follow-up if I can’t get you to go back to Dr. Grove.

  Oh my God.

  My body sinks into my chair, a pile of motionless weight. Snippets of moments blow through me…him bringing out my brand new chair…listening to me breathe…checking my pulse…

  {Damien Rice gets louder and louder.}

  A new ding breaks me out of the past.

  Count. Click.

  Is that what you want?

  Is that what you want?

  I can’t write that…but I also can’t think of anything else to type.

  Another ding. Count. Click.

  I know that everything is messed up…but I’m worried about you, Callie.

  My eyes rebel. They shoot up before I can even think to stop them.

  Fortunately, they don’t really see anything. Computer 20 is way in the back. All of the faces back there are covered by computer screens.

  I breathe in with relieved disappointment.

  Unfortunately, I don’t look back down fast enough. Dr. Gabriel, who is sitting rather close to Computer 20, catches my eye and gives me an over-the-top concerned look. Then he stands and starts walking toward me.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  I look back down at my computer screen and pull up the geology-related paper I still need to finish proofing. In no time, Dr. Gabriel is standing in front of me, asking me how I’m holding up. I quickly assure him that I’m fine as I simultaneously pray that he doesn’t come any closer.

  My prayers don’t work.

  He begins coming around to the area behind my desk. I start to scrunch further back into my chair and hope that he doesn’t—

  My computer dings. A ticket from Computer 20.

  Dr. Gabriel stops moving, and I quickly spit out something about needing to get back to proofreading.

  It works. He goes away, back to his line of waiting students.

  Thank God.

  Now, as for the ding from Computer 20…I count and click on his ticket. It’s blank.

  Deep breath. One. Two. Three. Click reply.

  Thank you.

  One. Two. Three. Send.

  A new ding comes seconds later.

  Count. Open.

  Glad to help. I can only assume that he is that Dr. Gabriel guy you told me about…arrogant…creepy stare…stands way too close to you…

  Of course he figured that out. I think I only mentioned Dr. Gabriel in passing during our ride to Pittsburgh. He, of course, memorized everything I said.

  But he helped me just now. So I count and reply simply.

  Yes. That was him.

  Before I can send my message, a new sort of noise fills the room. The beep of a pager.

  I personally only know one person in Pierce who carries a pager. So, while a flutter of heads in the computer lab turn around to see where the noise is coming from, I keep my eyes focused on my computer screen.

  The noise stops, and my computer dings again shortly after. Count. Open.

  I have to head to the hospital. But this conversation isn’t over. Dr. Grove has a pretty full schedule (your Wednesday appointment has already been taken), but he has an opening next Friday at noon. I’ve asked him to hold it open for you. If you don’t call his office and accept this appointment, I’ll have Annie call you to make one with me.

  Before my head gets too far lost in appointment memories again, I see him stand up out of the corner of my eye. {Damien’s refrain plays at a painfully slow pace.} Without checking in with me first, my eyes make their way over to him. And he’s staring at me. With concern. With sorrow. With…with so much there that I can’t even place it all. He doesn’t let go of my eyes as he begins to move—wait—toward me!

  I try to swallow back the growing lump in my throat, afraid that I won’t even be able to speak if he tries to talk to me. When that doesn’t work, when my throat doesn’t swallow, I attempt to blink my eyes for a moment of relief, a second of clear thinking. That doesn’t work either.

  His eyes burn into mine as he gets closer and closer. {Damien slows down even more, almost singing in slow motion.}

  A cramp, an ache, sinks into my stomach as he makes his final three steps.

  One. Two. Three.

  And he’s here.

  His eyes are sad…terribly sad…just like the first ti
me that I met him.

  I’m sure mine are pretty sad too.

  He opens his mouth as though to speak, but then he sighs and closes it again. After a few seconds, he shakes his head slowly before lowering his eyes and holding out his hand toward me.

  Somehow, I move my eyes from his. I look down and see my license between his fingers. One. Two. Three. I allow my own fingers to reach out to take my license, carefully grabbing the top part of the plastic card, the portion furthest away from his skin.

  And then our eyes find each other once more. {Damien’s slow motion refrain starts over.} When he again inhales and tries to speak, no sound comes out…but his lips mouth my name. And—

  DING. Another freaking ding.

  He nods his head toward my computer, moves his lips into an understanding, closed-mouth smile…but not really a smile...and blinks away from me.

  I watch him turn and walk away. Gray pants. White dress shirt. He walks to the door, turns around to give me one more glance, and goes.

  I take a minute to breathe in some much needed air before forcing myself to turn back to my computer, back to my message from Ian at Computer 3, and back to my life without him…

  Chapter 6

  tuesday and wednesday

  AFTER LAST NIGHT’S CARROT CAKE dessert, my weight is just about back to normal. That means back to normal eating today. Back to fourteen hundred calories.

  It’s quite relieving. No more pressure of weighing less than usual…no more wondering if I ought to try to maintain the new, four pounds under normal, weight and just start eating less calories each day. Too much extra stuff to think about.

  {Enter David Bowie again…this time with Queen and “Under Pressure.”}

  I already have plenty of extra stuff to think about…like last night…his eyes…having to make an impossible appointment decision…

  Oh, and also clouds…I’m now supposed to be thinking about clouds as I sit here, back in poetry class. As usual, I have nothing but suckful sentences written on the paper in front of me. A poet I am not. Clearly.

  As the “sharing” part of class commences, I lower my head and pick off my nail polish. When the girl next to me reads one of her masterpieces, I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at her ridiculous stream of rhyming words. It’s like some Dr. Seuss book on crack.

  Dr. Emery is falling all over herself in love with it, however. Her opinion isn’t really to be trusted, though; she did just tell me minutes ago that my poetry portfolio looks “enlightening” and “thought-provoking.” Sure it does. Fortunately, Dr. Emery hasn’t asked me to “share” any of my portfolio brilliance during class. She also hasn’t called on me to read my cloud poetry.

  She dismisses us about twenty minutes early, and I head home to continue reading Anna Karenina. I get lost in the book for most of the day. Of course, it takes me longer than usual to read since I keep thinking about last night…and also because I have to stop every hour or so when a different family member calls to check in.

  I wonder how long this phone babysitting schedule will go on. A couple more days? A week?

  {The Police sneak in with a super stalkery “Every Breath You Take.”}

  Melanie’s call comes right before I’m about to start preparing to leave the house for Professional Writing Lab I. Our conversation lasts a little longer than my conversations with my other family members because she has a bunch of Jared information for me…information about him breaking up with teeny tiny non-breakfast-eating girl…information about him already meeting a new girl (which is unreal—it’s only been three days since that breakfast).

  Melanie and I hang up after dedicating a reasonable amount of speculation to the duration and consistency of his new relationship. Then I move on to my thirty-three checks. I have less time than usual to complete them, but I get them done. And then I’m off to class…for once, not to hear a special publishing presentation. That’s finally over. Thank God. For the next few weeks, we are researching assigned topics that deal with contemporary issues.

  Dr. Harper hands me my topic slip after he comes over to my desk to ask how I’m feeling. I don’t tell him that I’d be feeling a lot better if he wasn’t standing so close to my desk. It’s not his fault that he’s invading my personal space bubble—he doesn’t know how big my bubble is…that it’s at least triple the size of the socially accepted one.

  I tell him that I’m feeling fine, and soon he’s on his way to help another student. After he’s gone, I glance at the paper he’s left on my desk. My topic.

  Teen pregnancy

  I’m supposed to research teen pregnancy. Fabulous. I’m sure I’ll come across no mention of STDs or blood or anything in my research. UGH. I could ask for a new topic. But then I’d just be inviting Dr. Harper back for a visit in my personal bubble…and he’ll probably just have me research contagious diseases or murderers or something. Forget that.

  Time to get to work. Some students are heading to the front of the room to grab actual encyclopedias and reference books. Seriously? Who researches like that now? Forget that too.

  I came prepared. I brought the netbook that normally just sits in my closet. I haven’t had to use it for quite some time, not since last year when I had a class that met in a computer lab. After the first day of that class, after I was told that we would be required to use computers every day in class (computers that had been touched by countless students), I went out to buy my netbook. Obviously a no-brainer.

  I pull the netbook out of my purse and start to work, reading articles and taking notes, picking at my nails, and closing my browser window every time it looks like disease rates might soon be mentioned.

  As soon as class ends, I walk slowly to the parking lot, enjoying the unseasonably warm fall weather. My phone buzzes as soon as I get into my car. I pull it out of my purse.

  It’s him.

  Unknown Number.

  Count. Open…already knowing what the message will be about.

  You haven’t called to take that appointment yet. Dr. Grove can only hold it for a couple more days. If you don’t take care of it by Thursday morning, you can expect a call from Annie.

  {The Police begin “Every Breath You Take” again—this time with a special verse for Dr. Blake.}

  I throw my phone back into my purse, angry at the clinical tone of his text. I drive home and start my night preparations right away. When I finish, I try once more to throw my hamper-sitting pajamas into the washer…but somehow I instead end up crawling into them once again before falling asleep to a fall casserole special on television.

  7:30 A.M. WEDNESDAY MORNING. I WAKE up to a program about breakfasts wrapped in bacon…wrapping calories around calories around calories. Very disturbing.

  Also disturbing? The faint smell of him on my skin.

  I leap out of bed, mentally chastising myself for being so weak in the pajama-wearing department. I change into a new (freshly washed) pair of pajamas and head to the thermostat. And morning preparations are under way.

  Well, I think they are under way…but then I’m interrupted three times before I can even start sorting the items in my still pretty full (still full of food that Mom made Mandy buy) refrigerator.

  Dad is my first interruption. He calls as I’m brushing my teeth. Just a quick check-in. I’m pretty sure I hear him typing as we talk. He’s probably reporting the call via email to Mom since she can’t really call during the day when she’s teaching.

  I wonder what he reports. The tone of my voice? How many rings it takes before I pick up? I’m sure there’s a special form or something to record all of this information. Melanie probably made one…

  Before we get off the phone, I thank Dad for calling and checking in. I tell him that I really do appreciate all of the phone calls. And I do. I know I’m lucky to have a family that cares…really cares. And I want Dad (and the rest of them) to know that. But I also want him to write down that I said that—it has to score me mad points on the form.

  I hang u
p with Dad wondering if there is some sort of a point scale on the form (if there really is a form). There almost has to be a point scale. Otherwise, how will they ever measure my progress? How will they decide when I don’t need to be evaluated by the form anymore?

  With these thoughts in mind, I finish brushing my teeth and begin straightening pictures.

  And then my phone makes a couple noises I haven’t heard in quite a long time, so I stop to pull it out of my pocket.

  It seems that Melanie is checking on me through Words with Friends again. Tricky. Tricky. Tricky. She has played a word for over fifty points, and she’s also sent me a message.

  How is it going?

  I respond quickly…trying to look good for the form.

  Fine :)

  She writes back a couple times, telling me about work, asking me if I’m going to take my turn in our game. I haven’t taken a turn in weeks. And she only took a turn just now as a means of stalking me…

  I don’t call her on it, though. I know that she cares…that she doesn’t mean to act like a stalker. I tell her that I’ll take a turn soon. Then we say our goodbyes, and I go back to my picture straightening.

  My next interruption comes as I’m sweeping the floor. Another phone call.

  Thank God I check the caller ID before I answer. And thank God I took the time to program this number into my phone.

  Dr. Gabriel. Ugh.

  Send to voicemail. Send far, far away.

  I check his message right before I begin working on the refrigerator. He’s hoping I’m feeling well…reminding me to get some rest in between classes…oh, and he’s just going to hold his office hours in the writing center again tonight…in case I need some relief…and so he can run something by me…