Checked Again (Checked Series)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  Fabulous. He’s going to be stepping all over my personal space in just a few short hours.

  And there won’t be anyone there to save me this time…

  Those sad blue eyes pop back into my mind…as does the fact that I still haven’t written back to his cold, detached message. Nor have I called Dr. Grove’s office to take that appointment. But I don’t intend to take that appointment…or any appointment at all. I just haven’t figured out how to get away with that yet.

  {Demi Lovato begins her refrain to “Heart Attack.” I’m not sure what she’s suggesting…that I’ll have a heart attack if I have to go to another appointment, or that I should fake a heart attack to get out of going to the appointment. Hmm…if I fake a heart attack, I’ll just have to have more appointments—to check my heart and to check my brain because, really, who fakes a heart attack? And after all of those extra appointments, they’ll find out how crazy I am and then just send me right back to Dr. Blake. Damn it. Not going to work, Demi. Not going to work at all.}

  Back to my morning preparations.

  Somehow I manage to finish with no more interruptions. Then I get through a couple hundred pages of Anna Karenina, only having to stop once when Mandy pokes her head in my room. She says she only came home to change clothes since it’s so warm out today, but I’m not buying that. I’m sure she’s just following Mom’s Callie’s crazy—let’s stalk her schedule. I’m positive that this is the case when Mandy hands me a little white bag, saying she passed by an awesome new bakery on her way home.

  I thank her, put the white bag on my desk, and tell her she looks pretty adorable in her new outfit—a little blue dress and matching sandals. She then heads out and I keep reading, not opening the bag of, I’m sure, a zillion calories sitting beside me.

  Soon it’s time for my leaving-the-house preparations. Before I start them, I change into a lighter shirt and grab a pair of flip-flops from my closet, figuring that the writing center will probably be pretty warm. Since it’s October, I’m sure no one will think to put on the air conditioning…

  And I don’t want to sweat. And then stink. And then have to sit and dream about showering the entire time that I work…not that I don’t normally dream about showering for at least part of my shift—but not the whole time.

  Flip-flops on.

  Thirty-three checks completed times three.

  Out the door.

  Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist.

  Chapter 7

  rain

  I WAS RIGHT. THE WRITING center is pretty warm. It’s also rather packed once again. As I walk up to my desk, I look around carefully at each computer chair, looking out for any surprise guests.

  There don’t seem to be any.

  Unfortunately, Dr. Gabriel catches my eye as I look around, as though he figures I’m looking for him. Gross. I give him a quick nod and head to my desk. Fortunately, he has a line of students waiting to talk to him, so he doesn’t follow me.

  But he’ll be up here eventually…

  I try to push that ugly thought out of my brain as I check my computer for tickets. When I see that I don’t have any, I pull out my Kindle to continue reading…but, really, my eyes won’t focus on the screen in front of me. They keep floating up to the main door. Every time I hear the door click open, my head gets all fuzzy and I look up, hoping that Dr. Blake doesn’t show up again…hoping that he does. This goes on for hours. Looking at the door…trying to look at my Kindle...pausing to deal with the few tickets that come in…then looking at the door again.

  And then all of a sudden, my little routine is over and Dr. Gabriel is standing in front of me. I pick at my nails underneath my desk as he pulls up a chair right next to me.

  Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t—

  “Calista, I know you’ve had a rough couple of weeks,” he starts in a whisper, making it overly obvious that he is trying to be compassionately discreet. I bet he uses a variation of this technique to get some girls into bed with him. It’s a creepy technique—just as creepy as everything else he does.

  He continues. “Now, you’ve gotten through a few full days this week, and, well, I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  As he speaks, I look forward, out at the rows of computers and working students. I only have one more nail to pick off. If he asks me to go out on a date with him or something, I might have to start working on the red polish on my exposed toenails…

  He’s still talking. “So I’ve arranged to make next week a lot less stressful, perhaps even a bit enjoyable.”

  Please don’t ask me out. Please don’t ask me out. Please don’t—

  “I’ve signed you up to attend a writing conference with me and—”

  I look up at him in nervous surprise, stopping him mid-sentence.

  “Now, before you say anything, Calista, I want you to know that I’ve already taken care of everything—plane tickets, hotel rooms, registrations at the most popular presentation sessions. You don’t have to worry about a thing. You—”

  He’s still talking, but I can’t hear him anymore. My stomach starts caving into itself as little drops of moisture begin to form in the corners of my eyes. I know exactly what conference he’s talking about. My English professors keep talking about it. It’s a major writing conference. Only a few select students will get to go. And it’s in Florida.

  I try to speak, to cut him off, but my throat is impossibly dry. No words will come out.

  I can’t do this. I can’t get through this. I—

  “Now, Calista,” he stops rambling about his trip arrangements and raises his voice to a slightly louder level. “I’ve already talked to your graduate advisor. Dr. Hause.”

  What? Why would—

  “She’s thrilled that you are getting this opportunity so early—most graduate students don’t get to fulfill this conference graduation requirement until their last semester of classes.”

  I know. I have prayed and prayed that the requirement will disappear by the time I make it to my last semester…or that a conference will be held for the first time ever on the campus at Pierce…or that—

  He cuts into my thoughts with more horrible information. “Dr. Hause has taken care of the university’s credit paperwork, and—” He pauses as though he’s about to tell me the best part yet. A big smile spreads onto his face. “Dr. Hause has helped me to get both of us excused from classes at the end of next week, which means we can leave next Thursday morning and make it for the preregistration seminars.” He keeps talking…about how he can pick me up on Thursday morning to take me to the airport…to get on a plane…to go to a hotel…to—

  Oh. My. God.

  The moisture in my eyes isn’t only in the corners anymore.

  I have to get out of here. But he won’t stop talking. He has to stop. He has to stop. He has to—

  My phone buzzes. I hear its muffled sound coming from my purse, which is sitting beside me.

  Without a second thought, I pull the phone out of my purse, excusing myself and stopping Dr. Gabriel mid-sentence.

  And then I look at the ID screen.

  One of my tears falls right onto my phone…directly on top of the words “Unknown Number.”

  I can feel Dr. Gabriel staring at me, waiting for me to answer my call. And the phone—it keeps buzzing beneath my fingers.

  It’s too much…way too much.

  {Jordin Sparks fades in with “No Air.”}

  I don’t know what to do…except to stop the staring…and the buzzing…

  So I do that. I answer the call with a tiny hello.

  “You haven’t taken that appointment yet, Calista.” The detached voice on the other end of the phone replaces some of my tears with dry anger.

  I clear my throat, trying to steady my voice. “Um, well, I can’t talk now because I’m still at work and, well—”

  I am cut off by Dr. Gabriel, who is now holding his watch up by my downturned face. I mumble “excuse me” into the ph
one and listen to Dr. Gabriel as he whispers entirely too close to my face.

  “It’s seven fifteen, Calista. Your shift is over. You can go ahead and finish your call. We’ll talk more about our arrangements later.”

  I nod slightly without looking up at him.

  And by some miracle, he moves his face away from mine, pushes back his chair, and goes away.

  I breathe in a small, relieved breath.

  The relief lasts for about a third of a second.

  “Calista—are you there?” His voice. On the phone. {Jordin Sparks starts crying out her refrain.} I keep the phone on my ear, but I don’t respond. I have to get out of here…as far away from Dr. Gabriel’s conference discussion as possible. I gather my purse with one hand and head to the entrance, using the bottom of my flip-flopped foot to push open the door and lead me outside.

  And now it’s starting to rain. Of course.

  “Calista? What’s going on?” He’s still here. Right in my ear. His voice sounds so cold, though. So not him.

  The rain is picking up. If I can just get to my car quickly, I should be able to beat the downpour that is inevitably coming. I whisper to three and start to run, breathing heavily into the phone and focusing intently on the parking lot ahead. The rain gets heavier. I don’t have a lot of time. I pick up my pace, pressing the phone against my head and pulling my purse closer to my side. {Jordin gets louder and louder.}

  “Calista?” A pause. “Calista?” His voice gets less doctory with each call of my name. My breathing gets heavier as I run even faster. Large droplets of rain begin to create little puddles of slop around me. I lengthen my strides and jump over the disgusting pools of water, careful not to splash my almost naked feet.

  The puddles are multiplying, though, and they are growing in depth and disgustingness. I frantically try to move around them, running even faster than before and jumping over—

  “Callie?” He sounds like him. Like the real him.

  I stop mid-leap, surprised by the kind tone of his voice. Before I know what is happening, my foot rushes to the ground and my right ankle twists out in an unnatural position. It twists further as it lands on the ground, slipping on the wet sidewalk beneath me.

  In full panic mode now, I yank my foot back the other way, trying to regain my balance before I fall.

  And it works.

  But the little toe thong in my flip-flop snaps out of the base of the shoe.

  A small sob breaks through my lips as I look down at the gigantic hole in the bottom of my flip-flop. I’m not going to be able to fix it…and my car is still pretty far away.

  I stand there in shock, my legs parted awkwardly in my emergency balanced position. Rain pouring over me.

  {Jordin sings her refrain again and again and again.} He…still on the phone…calls my name over and over and over. And he still sounds like him…the him who held my hand and massaged my shoulders and—

  “Callie—I’m on my way. Don’t hang up.”

  I don’t hang up. I don’t move. I stand, my face covered with rain…and tears…and frustration.

  “Breathe, Callie. Just breathe.”

  I’m trying to breathe, Dr. Blake. But there are puddles of germs surrounding my feet.

  Okay. I’ve got to try to get out of this mess.

  After a slow count of three and a forced, belabored inhale, I squeeze my toes, trying to clench the little broken piece of flip-flop plastic…trying to see if I can somehow manage to hold the shoe together and walk.

  I try one step, but I can’t do it. The flip-flop falls, and my foot crashes back down to the ground, splashing my toes with puddle water. My chest tightens, turns into a stone. My stomach starts making gurgling noises. My brain begins spinning.

  Anything could be on this sidewalk, floating around in these puddles of water. Spit. Gum. Cigarette butts. Band-Aids.

  I feel the rising in my throat only a second before I begin throwing up, adding a whole new level of disgusting to the ground beneath me.

  What germs are on this sidewalk…in this puddle? What germs are touching my foot right now? If I have any tiny little cuts somewhere on my toes, different diseases are probably starting to—

  My reflexes fling my head down, and I start throwing up again. Another sob flies out of my mouth as I finish. I lift my head up to the sky to let the rain pour over my face and—

  “Callie? Callie? Hold on. I’m almost—”

  He’s here.

  I feel him. I smell him. I breathe him.

  Standing right in front of me.

  {Damien and Jordin now sing at the same time—both fighting to be heard.}

  I lower my head slowly, rain and tears streaming over my face.

  Our. Eyes. Meet.

  I inhale slowly.

  His eyes…his eyes seem to understand. They understand everything.

  Without any questions or words or even syllables, he lowers the phone from his ear, putting it into his pocket. He takes my phone out of my hand, off of my ear, and slides it into an opening in my purse. Then he leans his body down and…and…he…he…scoops one arm under my legs and…and the other around the back of my neck. Pulling me against him. So tight. My body starts to shake under the warmth of his arm…his skin against the back of my neck.

  Oh my God.

  He’s…he’s here…he’s holding me…so close.

  My body, now completely shaking, starts to fall into his—

  NO. No, Callie.

  I do my best to not lean into him as he carries me.

  I close my eyes as he begins to walk both of us toward the parking lot, leaving my broken flip-flop behind. I keep my eyes shut as he walks briskly ahead. The skin of his arm burns against the back of my neck. My body continues to shake. My head repeatedly falls into his strong shoulder, his warm body, but I keep doing everything I can to pull it back up. Straight up.

  I lose my focus, though, as I begin to feel the rain slide over my foot, my filthy foot. I’m sure it’s infected already…whatever germs and diseases were on that sidewalk, in that puddle, have probably already somehow seeped into my body and started to run through my blood stream, and—

  And I feel another rise in my throat. I spin my head away from him and mumble, trying to warn him. He stops walking immediately and just holds me in place as what now almost has to be the rest of the contents of my stomach comes tumbling out, joining the rain on its travel to the ground.

  Eventually, it stops. The throwing up stops. I stop shaking. I freeze.

  I stay where I am…leaning over, head pointed toward the ground. A repulsive mess.

  I force my mouth open and spit out the words “Just move” as loud as I can manage, hoping he’ll hear me.

  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.<
br />
  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.