He carries me directly to my bathroom. He bends down to place me on the bath mat just outside of my shower.
And then we are face-to-face once more.
Sad eyes on sad eyes. Pain burning into pain.
For a second, a second only, my foot problem seems silly, and my mind focuses instead on the problem standing right in front of me. For a second, I’m every other girl. For just a second, my biggest issue seems to be him…us…fixing all of this sadness.
Then, my foot…the puddle…the diseases—everything just breaks back in, filling my mind. {Alanis Morissette begins the haunting “Uninvited.”}
As he looks into my eyes, he must see this change in me. From every other girl to…me.
“I’m going to go,” he mumbles, ripping his eyes away from me. “Leave your clothes down there when you take your shower.” He nods down to the mat below my feet. “I’ll send Mandy up to throw them out when she comes up to get rid of that bath mat.”
He doesn’t look back up at me as he turns to leave.
My mouth is dry, but I manage to scrape out one word. “Thanks.”
He nods, but his back is to me. And then he goes.
He’s gone. Again.
Fortunately (in a strange kind of sadistic way), I can’t think about that right now. I have to take a shower.
After leaning in and turning the shower on, I do as I’m told. I take off all of my clothes and leave them and my one remaining flip-flop on the mat beneath me. I then empty the contents of my purse on the bathroom counter and drop the purse on the mat, too.
I’m probably going to need to go purse shopping soon. Perhaps when I go bathroom mat shopping.
I won’t be shopping for new flip-flops, though. Ever. Screw me once…
For now, the water is nice and burning, so it’s time for my shower. Before I even step in, I hold out my foot and just let the water pound over it. Maybe the burning water can still remove some of the diseases before they somehow enter my body. I’m not sure. But it’s worth a try.
After thirty counts of three, I step fully into the shower. Using my purple bath pouf, I scrub for about ten minutes, rinse, and repeat. And repeat again. Before my final rinse, I hear Mandy come in. She doesn’t speak as she gathers the items on the floor, depositing them all into a trash bag. I open the shower door a little and ask her to also get rid of my purple pouf (I’ll obviously need to grab a new one from my closet after tonight). Mandy holds out the trash bag, and I drop it in. She looks at me with sad, concerned eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.
I try to make the corners of my mouth turn up in a smile as I thank her, but I don’t do very well. And Mandy’s expression doesn’t change. She just sort of nods and exits the bathroom with my bag of hazardous waste.
I hope she’s not too upset.
And I hope she doesn’t tell Mom.
As I climb out of the shower and get ready to start my night preparations, I try to come up with a way to explain this situation to Mandy…a way that will make her feel better. I don’t really get much of a chance to come up with a good explanation, though, because Mandy walks into my room right after I get dressed. She holds up my spare car key.
And…I’m not surprised. Of course he took Mandy back to the parking lot and had her bring my car home. Of course he took care of that. Of course he took every proper comforting step he could think of. He always does.
Except when he left me. When he—
“He still cares about you, Callie.” Mandy speaks quietly. “It’s so obvious.”
I catch her eyes for a second. She’s watching me carefully, waiting for a reaction. Waiting for me to say something. I don’t want to talk about it…him…though. I shrug and look away, thanking her for once again going to get my car.
“He insisted,” she responds. “And he wanted me to tell you right away. He didn’t want you to have to worry about your car all night or to freak out about needing it to get groceries tomorrow or something.”
Groceries. Right. He remembers my entire schedule. Of course.
Mandy keeps talking, still standing just inside the doorway to my room. “He also wanted me to tell you that he was going back for your flip-flop. He was certain that you’d be upset about it being left behind and in the way or something.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. It. It. It.
Get. Out. Of. My. Head.
{Alanis starts “Uninvited” again.}
“Would you really be upset about something like that?” Mandy asks as though she doesn’t believe anyone would ever be worried about something like this.
I look away and offer a simple “maybe” as an answer to her question.
Fortunately, she doesn’t say anything else about it. She gives me a hug, says good night, and mumbles something about being around if I want to talk.
I guess she thinks that I might want to verbally run through my whole broken ass flip-flop-leaving Cinderella story…that I might want to talk about throwing up all over myself as well as on the guy who dumped me when I was in a partial coma in the hospital…that I might want to discuss the diseases that I undoubtedly acquired tonight. No thanks. I’ve gone through all of this mentally at least forty-five times already. Oh, or maybe she thinks I want to talk about something else…maybe she thinks something else is on my mind…like a certain conference that I heard about tonight…a conference that I’ve already decided to somehow lie my way out of…
Don’t want to talk about that either.
Mandy hesitantly starts to leave. I force a smile on my face and use my best camp counselor with a bunch of kids in the middle of a lightning storm-voice to tell her that everything will be fine. She leaves after that (although she doesn’t really look convinced by my performance). I then spend an endless amount of time trying to convince myself that everything will be fine. Really, I should be fine. I should. I don’t feel like I have a new disease yet. I don’t seem to be experiencing any bizarre symptoms or—
But, maybe there aren’t any symptoms yet. Maybe the disease is just starting to—
CALLIE. STOP. You have to—
My phone is buzzing, vibrating on the bathroom counter. I go to get it.
And I have a new text. From him.
One. Two. Three. Open.
The odds that you contracted a disease tonight are very slim. There was nothing but rain water in that puddle—I checked when I went back for your flip-flop. You are fine. You are fine. You are fine. Try to sleep.
I read his message over and over and over. And…it helps. He helps. Again.
I put down the phone and get to work. Night preparation work.
After a lot of cleaning, a lot of checking, {a lot of listening to Damien}, and another burning shower with a brand new pouf, I crawl into bed wearing many-days-old pajamas. I think of his message over and over. And eventually…I fall asleep.
Chapter 8
lies
THE RINGING OF MY PHONE wakes me up minutes before my alarm clock goes off. Immediately, flip-flops, rain, sad blue eyes—they all fill my head.
{Well, they almost fill it. There’s space for Damien in there too.}
Trying to push my thoughts aside, I get out of bed and grab my ringing phone from my dresser.
And it’s not him. It’s Melanie.
Silently praying that Mandy didn’t tell on me for last night’s disaster, I answer the phone.
And Mandy didn’t tell. Well, yet, anyway. I don’t think Melanie is even calling to secretly check up on me. She only has a couple minutes to talk, and she speeds through her words. All of the words are about Jared and his new girlfriend.
It sounds like Melanie started to Facebook stalk this girl late last night. Now she wants me to do the same. Pretty standard protocol for a new Jared girlfriend situation. {Here come The Police again. “Every Breath You Take.”} I assure Melanie that I’ll log on to Facebook to look this girl up. And then Melanie has to go get ready for work, so we hang up.
I’m guessing that Melanie isn’t pregnant yet
. If she was, she would’ve said something. It will probably happen soon, though. Melanie’s life follows a pretty strict schedule—I’m sure her uterus does too.
I switch off my alarm so it doesn’t start to go off in like thirty seconds. Then I turn on my computer to do a little pre-routine work. A few months ago, the idea of doing any activity like this before my morning routine would’ve made me very uncomfortable. Throw-uppy uncomfortable. But when I logged on to my computer in the morning a few times last month to check my email…to check for his emails…it kind of took the scariness away, I guess. Just add it to the list of things he’s helped me with…
Last night storms into my mind once again as I enter my Facebook username and password. Last night. His arms. Him taking care of me. Holding me. All of it comes back.
And really, I need to thank him. I can’t even imagine what I would’ve done if he hadn’t shown up. {Barry Manilow sings a new version of “I Made It Through the Rain.” In this version, he doesn’t make it.}
But have I made it? I look down at my foot. Is it really okay? Am I really okay? What if the diseases—
Callie! STOP STOP STOP. He said that you are okay. He said that you are fine. He said it—he wouldn’t lie.
Okay. Back to work. Facebook page up. A pretty empty Facebook page. I only have six “friends” and most of them don’t post much (and all but one of them also fit into the “family” category).
Before I can search for Jared’s new girlfriend, I notice the number seven on the little silhouette shadow people friend button at the top of my page. Too curious to wait, I click on the little seven to see the names of the people who, I guess, want to be friends with me.
First three: Dad (I didn’t even know that he joined Facebook), a girl in one of my grad classes, and Dr. Gabriel. Ugh. I accept the first two requests and click “Not Now” for the third. Second three: Two of Mandy’s sorority sisters who were at our table when I went out on that Thursday night like two million years ago and—get this—Jared’s breakfast date ex-girlfriend. I click “Confirm” for the first two—even though I don’t really see the point…I’m not really friends with those girls. However, I don’t want to be rude and for my rudeness to somehow reflect on Mandy and for her to, I don’t know, lose friends and her spot in the sorority all because of me. Better to just be friends with these girls on Facebook. As for the third request, however, I hit “Not Now” without feeling bad at all. This girl is already done and gone. Jared has a new girlfriend…that’s kind of why I’m even on Facebook right now to begin with.
Now…there’s only one more request…and technically, I shouldn’t even have to deal with it right now, or until two more requests come.
But my eyes can’t stop looking at the name. Anthony Marsol.
Tony.
I just stare at his name, his picture (him in the middle of a bunch of other guys—all holding beers), and the “Confirm” and “Not Now” buttons. I stare and stare and stare. {Blondie rocks in with “One Way or Another” and she—}
My cell phone starts to buzz. I take a break from my staring to pick it up.
A text. From Unknown Number.
Now my eyes are back to staring again—this time at the little screen on my phone.
One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. On—
Callie!
Open text.
Are you okay, Callie?
My eyes don’t move from the screen, from his words, but everything gets a little fuzzy.
He’s still him. Not doctory, clinical him, but him. The real him.
Count. Reply.
I am. Thanks for helping me last night—with everything.
One. Two. Three. Send.
I continue to stare at my phone screen. Waiting for a response. Hoping for a response. {Damien sings to me as I wait. His refrain—}
BUZZ.
Count. Open.
Not a problem.
Buzz again.
Count again. Open again.
I have taken last night’s situation into consideration, and I’ll give you another day to make the call to schedule your appointment with Dr. Grove. I’ll call his office tomorrow morning to make sure you’ve taken care of this.
And we’re back to Dr. Douchebag, I see.
Firmly placing my phone face down beside my computer, I look back up—right back at Tony’s picture, Tony’s face.
{“One Way or Another” replaces Damien and—}
And…what the hell? I hit “Confirm” to accept him as a friend. Why not? He’s just another guy who ditched me because of my mental state—really no worse than anyone else right now.
Less than a second after I make this decision, my phone begins to ring. Great. Reluctantly, I flip it over. And I pick it up, because it’s Melanie again. She is now about to leave for work, and she wants to know what I think of Jared’s new girlfriend. I admit that I haven’t gotten to the girl’s page yet, but I don’t tell her about all of my distractions. Before we hang up, I promise again to do my stalking, and then I wish her a careful drive to work.
Then I look up the new girl. Melanie seems more serious than usual about me investigating this one. I can’t wait to see why. I’m imagining odd piercings and spiky green hair…and Mom’s face when she sees all of that coming to a Sunday night dinner.
With these images swimming through my head, I am quite surprised when this girl’s Facebook page comes up, when Holly’s page comes up.
Holly is beautiful, but not just beautiful. She looks friendly, happy, real. I skim through her information. Elementary school teacher. Likes classical music, old sitcoms, butterflies, chocolate, and Italian food.
Everything sounds good. I can’t find anything wrong with her. I will have to text Melanie later (later—after she is off the road and safely at work) so she can tell me what I’m not seeing.
For now, I’ve got to get to work if I want to make it to the grocery store on time.
Morning routine—BEGIN.
AFTER GETTING GROCERIES, BEFORE CLASS, and right in the middle of a session of worrying about getting out of going to the conference with Dr. Gabriel, my phone makes two noises almost at the same time.
The first noise is a text from Melanie. A reply to my text about Jared’s new girlfriend.
No, Callie. You aren’t missing anything. She seems perfect!
Well, I’m glad I didn’t fail at my Facebook stalking. I send a smiley face back to Melanie, and then I check on the cause of the other noise from my phone.
A new Words with Friends alert. I already know it’s my turn in both of my games. And I don’t intend to play either of them right now.
I click on the little game icon, wondering why I’m getting a new notification right now.
And, well, I have a new game request. From Tony.
What the hell?
Hmm…no…at this point…what the hell—why not? I’ve already accepted him as a friend on Facebook. And playing a game…even with Tony…is probably better for me than thinking about Dr. Gabriel and the conference. Or about…other things…people…I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Accept game. Take my turn (I’m already losing). Play Melanie’s game too (I’ve never not been losing during my game with her).
Ignore other game.
Leaving-the-house checks.
I grab my purse (the new one I took out of the closet this morning—black and white checkered). Out the door. Three handle twists.
Off to Professional Writing Lab class where I research, research, research. I spend a couple hours in class jumping around teen pregnancy websites while scraping off my nail polish. I try to take some notes on my research. I don’t get a whole lot of information, though—STD statistics keep popping up in my reading, and my finger keeps clicking the X on my browser. I’m going to have to find another way to get information for this paper. Clearly.
When I stop looking for new websites and instead just pretend to be using my netbo
ok, I quickly fall back into thinking about Dr. Gabriel and the conference. I start to type a list of reasons why I can’t go with him.
1.) Missed too many classes when I was in the hospital—afraid to miss more.
2.) Too much homework to do.
3.) Already scheduled a conference for my graduation requirement—no need to go to two.
I know already that none of these excuses will work. Dr. Gabriel has already gotten me out of class (there goes Excuse #1)…he could probably get me out of my homework too (there goes Excuse #2). As for Excuse #3, it’s pretty obvious that I haven’t already scheduled a conference. My advisor would’ve told him that.
Damn it. Next three…
1.) Have to go to some family event of importance. A wedding. A confirmation or communion party (not normally held in the fall, but I don’t think Dr. Gabriel is Catholic—he won’t know that).
2.) Have already planned a vacation during the conference dates.
3.) Have scheduled a follow-up doctor appointment that I absolutely can’t miss.
(Yeah—I don’t want to go to the conference THAT much.)
I’m obviously going to have a lot of preplanned lying to report at confession this week.
Well…my last option wouldn’t involve lying, but I’ve already spent quite a bit of time planning on lying to get out of that option. Really, I—
Dr. Harper interrupts my thoughts as he gives a closing speech. Class is ending. I’ve done almost no research, though. And I still don’t know what I’m going to tell Dr. Gabriel tomorrow.
My nails are free and clear of nail polish, though. At least I’ve accomplished something.
Checked Again (Checked Series) Page 7
