He shakes his head and miraculously stops smirking. He doesn’t make fun of me. Perhaps he’s grown up a little over the last few years. Or maybe he has somewhere else to be and no time to start cracking OCD jokes. Either way is fine with me.
He talks again. “Okay…well, thanks for coming. I’ll see you on Words with Friends.”
He makes no attempt to touch me. Thank God.
I nod as I take a few steps away from him. “Sure. Bye, Tony.”
“Later, Angel.”
He turns to his car, and I head the other way, back to the front of the restaurant. I stand, holding the top of the box awkwardly, watching him drive off. Once his car is out of sight, I take nine steps, three counts of three, to the nearest trash can. Then I do one more quick count of three and toss the entire box into it.
It feels…it feels so many things. Good…relieving…a little officially closing a chapter in my life-ish, but right. It feels right. {“Here Comes the Sun” is back, but this time Linda Eder is singing the refrain, adding in a pretty legendary key change.}
I walk the nine steps back to the front of the restaurant, careful not to get too close to the people that pass by. Then, once again, I stand and pray for no talking…no touching…no spitting.
After a few minutes of praying, I see Mandy’s car. Carefully, quickly, I navigate through the crowded street once more and then climb into her back seat. Josh is driving now. He has one hand on the wheel and one on Mandy’s leg.
I spend most of the car ride giving (fake) answers to Mandy’s questions about my meeting and also praying for Josh to put his other hand on the steering wheel (my prayers don’t work this time). {I bring back Carrie Underwood and “Jesus, Take the Wheel” for backup. Still doesn’t work.} Fortunately, we somehow make it safely to Mom and Dad’s house, where we begin a rather standard Sunday evening dinner.
I get to meet Holly, Jared’s new girlfriend. And she seems just as amazing as she did on her Facebook page. Can’t find anything wrong (this probably means that Jared will soon find some way to accidentally screw things up with her).
While we are eating, I have to endure a few questions about my pre-dinner meeting. I attempt to answer the questions as vaguely and quickly as possible. My stomach begins to jump around as I worry that someone will call me out on my lies, call me out about seeing Tony. {Yes, House of Pain’s “Jump Around” plays as I sit at the table.}
My jumpy stomach gets much worse after dinner when I’m in the kitchen washing my hands, starting to overhear Dad and Mandy talking in the dining room.
After the words “Dr. Blake” float into the kitchen, my ears are on full alert. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to hear over the sound of the water streaming from the kitchen faucet or above the noisy hum of the refrigerator. I only hear some of the conversation. I hear enough, though.
Mandy says the words “carried her in” and then “car” and “flip-flop”—not too hard to figure out what she’s talking about.
Dad says a stream of words that ends with “break up.” His voice goes up a little on the word “up.” He’s asking a question.
I leave the water faucet running, grab a towel, and move closer to the edge of the kitchen, straining to hear how Mandy responds to him.
I’m not prepared for what she says. I drop my towel on the ground as I hear her sentence. Her response. His lie.
“He told me that Callie needs a break from him. I guess she was the one who broke things off.”
What. The. Hell?
Chapter 10
even more communication
SOMEHOW, I MANAGE TO GET through the rest of my family evening without screaming…without letting anyone know that I overheard Mandy and Dad’s conversation. After we say our goodbyes and leave, I spend the entire car ride home trying to balance listening to Mandy talk about an upcoming sorority 1980’s party, feeling guilty about all of the lying and eavesdropping I’ve done this evening, wondering why Dr. Blake lied to Mandy, and trying to calm my angry, frustrated stomach.
If Mandy knows that all of this is going on in the seat beside her, she doesn’t let on. She fills most of the car ride with talk of 1980’s bangs, obnoxious earrings, and stirrup pants. {Add Cyndi Lauper and “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” to the jumble in my brain.}
As soon as we arrive back home, Mandy heads for study hours at the library, and I get an early start on my night routine. I work slowly through my tasks, going over and over and over his possible reasons for lying.
Was he just trying to look good in front of Mandy? Trying not to come off as the guy who broke up with a girl who was unconscious in a hospital bed? Is he trying to make me look good…like I’m not the pathetic, heartbroken one who was left behind, but the one who let go? Is he delusional? Does he really not remember how it happened?
Am I delusional? Did I say those words when I was unconscious? Did I break it off with him and not know it?
Utterly confused, I sit down at my computer to check my email.
DA Blake has written. His email subject is “Questions.” He has questions?
One. Two. Three. I try (unsuccessfully) to slow my furious stomach. One. Two. Three. I try again. One. Two. Three. And again. No luck.
One. Two. Three. Click. Open email.
1.) Are you flying by yourself?
2.) How many nights are you staying?
3.) I can come. Really. I know that I ended things and made everything weird between us. But still…this is going to be a difficult experience for you—I’ll be there if you need me.
Well, there it is. In writing. He ended things…and then he blatantly lied to Mandy. He played the victim with Mandy. And now he wants to play the selfless hero with me—giving up his time to assist an old patient, old significant other, old everything. Quite the martyr.
The pounding in my head…in my stomach…in my chest…is going off the charts. I can’t even st—
Wait.
Through fuzzy, furious eyes, I see his email address pop up once more.
He wrote again.
I stare at the screen. I count three times. Then three more. Then three more.
Then I click open his email. I blink a few times to unblur my eyes.
I read.
Unbelievable. You went to see Tony today? After what he put you through? After us?
Unbelievable? {Katy Perry begins to sing “Roar.” She fights to be heard over the ringing in my ears.}
I don’t count. I hit reply.
You think me seeing Tony is unbelievable? Really? What about you leaving me…in a hospital bed…unconscious? Isn’t that unbelievable? And how about you lying to Mandy and pretending that I left you? And what about you sending all of these emails and texts where you are inexplicably so concerned about me all of a sudden?
I think all of that trumps me seeing an ex-boyfriend. And how do you know about that anyway? Are you having me followed or something? Some new creepy doctor technique? Talk about unbelievable.
I don’t count. I hit send.
Then I stare at my laptop screen through blurry, blurry, blurry eyes. Wet eyes.
For a moment, I contemplate responding again to put the rest out there…to tell him that I know why he left…that I know that his mother committed suicide…that I know why she did it. Oh, and also to tell him that music runs through my head just as much as it probably ran through hers.
But what would be the point in telling him? It doesn’t matter now.
I don’t open up a new email. I don’t type anything. I don’t do anything at all. {Oh, except listen to Katy.}
I sit there for…I don’t know…a really long while. By the time I scrape myself off of the chair, complete my night routine, and get into bed, it’s 3:00 in the morning. I crawl into bed, for once not wearing old pajamas…his pajamas. On the television in front of me, a big man with a chef’s hat talks about foods that make a person energetic.
What about foods that make a person sleepy?
I close my eyes and try to turn the chef’s voice i
nto white noise…a white noise that will drown out everything—thoughts about the conference, anger about emails, worries about…well, an endless list of things.
Somehow…eventually…after hours of thinking…it happens. The white noise takes over.
ABOUT A SECOND AFTER I fall asleep (it feels like that anyway), I hear my name being called over and over again. My eyes flip open as I try to convince myself that my guest must not be one of the murderers…because the murderers shouldn’t know my name…
And…Mandy is looking down at me, hair swept into a messy ponytail…eyes angry.
“You saw Tony last night?”
What? How the hell does she—
“You said you were meeting an old friend. A friend. Not Tony.”
I sit up in bed, confused. So confused. “Did…did, um, Dr. Blake call you?”
Mandy’s eyes begin to squint and she shakes her head. “What? You told him and not me? Seriously?”
More confusion. “Um, no. But he found out somehow.”
Mandy rolls her eyes. “Well of course he found out.” Now she’s shoving her phone in my still pillow-resting face.
I see her Facebook news feed. And then I see…it. My name beside Tony’s name. Beside our names, Dawson’s Grille. Tony must’ve posted this, tagged us, while we were at the restaurant.
Oh. Shit.
My late night email scrolls through my head…all of those awful things that I said.
“Callie?” Mandy is still staring at me angrily, waiting, I guess, for an explanation.
I push her phone away from my face and sit up in my bed.
When I don’t begin talking right away, Mandy starts again. “God, Callie. I thought you were finally trying to connect with one of your old friends again. I took it as a sign that you were getting better…or trying to get better at least.” Her eyes aren’t as mad as they are sad now.
I grab her non-phone-holding hand. And I speak. “I’m sorry, Mandy. Really. I feel awful for lying to you. I just…Tony asked me to meet him to return some car keys and I didn’t want to worry anyone or start any crazy gossip or whatever.”
I tug her little body down beside me on the bed. “Everything was fine, Mandy. I gave him the keys, and that was really it.”
The anger is pretty much gone from her eyes now. Only sadness remains.
“I am trying to get better, Mandy.” I smile. “I’m just not ready to resume socializing yet…unless, of course, it’s with you.”
Finally, the corners of her mouth turn up into somewhat of a smile. “Okay…but you still should’ve told me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll tell you if I ever decide to meet with Tony again…which I won’t.”
Mandy gives me a hug, and soon she’s off to finish a paper that must be due in a few hours. After she goes, I plop my head back down on my pillow for a few minutes, realizing that I need to send some sort of I’m sorry for accusing you of stalking me email.
Seriously, though, he deserved some of that email. He left me in a hospital bed. Then he lied about it.
If only I had focused on these two areas in the email…
Then I might have no need to apologize now.
Ugh.
I look at the clock, and it’s 5:15 a.m. My alarm is not going to go off for another forty-five minutes. But I know that there is no chance that the young guy steaming vegetables on the television is going to be able to lull me back to sleep. Nothing will be able to do that. Not when I have such a big task on my to-do list.
I push back my warm bedspread and move myself over to my computer. I stare at the screen and remove all of the nail polish from my fingers.
At 5:30 a.m., I finally open up a new message and type in DA Blake’s address.
Okay…here goes.
One. Two. Three.
I’m sorry.
Hmm…but what if he thinks I’m sorry about everything I wrote? Because I’m not…
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Try again.
One. Two. Three.
I didn’t know Tony put our meeting on Facebook. I’m sorry I accused you of stalking me.
That looks…sounds…ridiculous. Even though that’s exactly what I accused him of…
I probably shouldn’t send emails when I’m in pissed off mode. Perhaps I need some sort of breathalyzer-type device on my computer to check if I’m rational enough to be communicating with other people.
I might be on to something…if everyone had a device like that, maybe—
Callie! Focus.
I click back over to my sent folder to reread the wording of my accusations. I used the word “unbelievable” like two thousand times. And I was overly sarcastic. AND I was a complete bitch.
And I’m sure I put that miserable look back on his face.
{Damien sings. And sings. And sings.}
I went too far.
Way. Too. Far.
Leaning back into my chair, I try to pick off my nail polish again…but there is nothing to pick off. I hug my arms around my waist and close my eyes. And then, a memory montage begins—just like one always does during a pivotal moment in a movie or television show.
Eyes closed, I watch us, watch him. Sitting beside me in the movie theatre. Dancing with me at the bar. Showing up at my front door. Eyes burning. Arms reaching for me. Lips—
CALLIE! Stop. Think.
Keeping my eyes shut, I try to think of something to write to him. I don’t come up with anything. Before I know it, another little movie begins in my brain. This film only focuses on one scene, an imagined scene…an imagined view of him reading my mean email…an imagined view of his eyes becoming completely miserable…all because of me. Again.
I have to fix this somehow. Now.
Eyes open. Hands back on the keyboard.
One. Two. Three.
Hmm…perhaps my original apology email was the right one after all.
One. Two. Three.
I type the same words again.
I’m sorry.
No more words to write. Nothing to do but to hit send…
One. Two. Three.
I close my eyes and click the send button, sending him my email while at the same time sending up a prayer for him to write back.
I then stare at the laptop, at my inbox, for a long time. I click the refresh button at the top of the screen a few times…every three minutes or so.
Nothing happens, though. No new messages. No answered prayer.
He probably isn’t even awake yet, Callie. (In a surprisingly compassionate move, my mind tries to comfort itself.) Or maybe he’s getting dressed and ready for the day…which is pretty much what you should be doing right now.
It’s now 6:15 a.m., and I should’ve already started my morning routine.
I guess the sooner I get it done, the sooner I can check my email again…
Onetwothree. Stand. GO.
9:10 A.M. DONE.
Before I start my leaving-the-house preparations, I sit back down at my computer.
I have two messages, but neither of them is from him. The first message is about a diet pill that supposedly will make me lose thirty pounds in thirty days. I think I’ll pass on that—I always wonder what kinds of scary side effects go along with those types of products. DELETE.
The second email is from Dr. Gabriel. Ugh. He first tells me that he has a date tonight (of course). Then he tells me that he’s still going to make time to stop by the writing center to talk to me about our upcoming trip.
Fabulous.
I guess the trip is still on—even though I keep praying that the conference will be canceled (or in the very least moved here to Pierce). I’ve got to step up my praying. I only have three more days to get out of going on this trip. Maybe I should do some rosaries or something.
For now, I delete Dr. Gabriel’s message. I don’t need to respond—he didn’t ask me a question…like about whether or not I’d actually like him to stop by the writing center tonight…
I
hit refresh one more time on my screen, but no new messages show up. My inbox is empty. Ugh.
I stare at the screen for a few more minutes before forcing myself to stand up. I know I have to get my leaving-the-house checks going. Now.
I DON’T GET VERY FAR into my leaving-the-house checks. I’m almost halfway through my second round when the house phone rings. Reluctantly, I leave Mandy’s partially checked room to answer (fortunately, Mandy has already left for class—so she’s not going to mess up the work I’ve already done in her room as I answer the phone).
I get downstairs to the kitchen on the sixth ring, quickly taking the phone out of its cradle and saying “Hello” as I turn to go back to Mandy’s room. I don’t get very far.
“Hello. This is Annie from Pierce Mental Health.”
I stop right outside of the kitchen. Frozen.
She goes on. “Dr. Blake has an opening tomorrow at four o’clock. He’d like to see you for an appointment. Are you available?”
My eyes blur as I stare at the wall in front of me.
When did he ask Annie to make this call? Did he ask her before or after he got my email (well…emails)? If it was before, will he really even want to see me now? Did he forget to tell Annie not to call me? Is this a mistake? Should I—
“Ma’am?”
I clear my throat and try to clear my head. “Oh, um, well, I—”
Annie interrupts my wordy stream of nothing. “If you need to check your calendar, that’s fine. This appointment time only opened up moments ago, and Dr. Blake just now asked me to call—I’m sure he’ll be okay with holding the appointment until you call back after checking your schedule.”
I don’t need to check my schedule, Annie. I know my schedule. He knows my schedule.
And if he just asked…he has to have already seen my emails (or at least the dreadful first one), right?
But he hasn’t written back or accepted my apology…unless this is his way of accepting—
Checked Again (Checked Series) Page 10
