Checked Again (Checked Series)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  She slowly gets up from the bed and leaves the room.

  I know that she’s going to call Melanie or Mom…and I know that one (or both) of them will then probably be calling me within the next twelve hours to talk about the conference.

  But I don’t want to talk about the conference. I can’t talk about the conference…or think about the conference…

  So I pull out my phone and open Words with Friends, and I focus on, I’m sure, a much healthier issue…

  {Damien sings “The Blower’s Daughter.”}

  I stare at the three little tiles on my screen. S-A-D.

  {He sings it again.}

  My eyes don’t move from the screen.

  {And again.}

  {And again and again and again and again and again and again and—}

  Callie!

  I push my phone away, placing it face down on my dresser. I have to start my night routine or I’ll never get to bed. And even though I already know that getting to bed tonight will probably not equate to getting some sleep (it will most likely just mean that I’ll be lying on my pillow and worrying about my appointment…and about the conference…and probably a little about the front door…and the stove…and the murderers…), I get to work.

  Night routine. Begin.

  12:02 A.M. DONE.

  I decide to check my email one last time before bed.

  Just in case.

  Open inbox.

  One new message. From Dr. Gabriel.

  Ugh.

  Open email. Reluctantly. Like it’s poison.

  Hello, Calista,

  So sorry to be writing so late, but I had that date. It went longer than expected.

  Late date. Late date. Late date. Stupid rhyming sentence. Freaking gross underlying meaning. A late date, I can only assume, means that Dr. Gabriel had sex with yet another person…probably yet another student at Pierce. That in turn means that more diseases are now walking around the campus. Fantastic.

  I shake my head, try to shake that thought, and turn back to his email.

  I’ve attached our itinerary for this conference.

  Please review it carefully and let me know if you have any questions. Call anytime.

  No thanks, Dr. Gabriel.

  There’s a P.S. at the end of his email. I read it.

  P.S. I’ll pick you up at 8:00 on Thursday morning.

  Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

  I shut his email, keeping the little pointy arrow on my screen far away from the “open attachment” button. I don’t want to accidentally see any of the details for the emotional tragedy I have ahead of me.

  I get up, grab my phone, turn on my television, and get into bed (I have no comment on the pajamas I’ve chosen to wear…AGAIN…tonight).

  Before I know it, my eyes are again glued to the word “sad” on my little phone screen.

  Sad. S-A-D. SSSAAADDD.

  I lean back on my pillow and just stare, wondering what to do next.

  If I don’t play another turn, I’ll just be re-shutting our line of communication. And if I close that line of communication now, before our appointment tomorrow, it could be really awkward. More awkward than it’s already going to be with us existing in the same room. Face-to-face. Sad eyes to sad eyes. Once again.

  Hmm…perhaps if I don’t play, he’ll just think I was too busy to check my game. But…he has my schedule memorized…he won’t buy that I couldn’t find a second to play.

  Hmm…

  SAD. SAD. SAD.

  Maybe he didn’t mean anything by it. Maybe it was just a word. And if that was the case, is the case, I can just play any word I want right now.

  But if that’s not the case…well, then playing the word “nerds” (which is currently up and ready to go on my virtual shelf) wouldn’t be the best plan.

  {Jann Arden comes in, blaring the refrain to “Insensitive.”}

  I continue to stare at the screen, my eyes now only seeing a blur of letters. I vaguely hear the chef on the television as she preheats the oven for some sort of breaded chicken.

  Blurred letters. Blurred cooking instructions. Blurred thoughts.

  {Jann Arden disappears. Robin Thicke and a slew of undressed women take over with “Blurred Lines.”}

  Wait. Wait. WAIT.

  I see it.

  D-E-N-S. Four little letters on my virtual shelf that might have just solved my problem. Without counting, I shove the letters into the slots on the board, slots right beside his word.

  And there it is.

  S-A-D-D-E-N-S.

  I’m not breaking off communication. I’m not being insensitive to his word choice if there was some deeper meaning behind it. And if he didn’t intend any deeper meaning, I’ve simply used a commonly accepted Scrabble (or, Words with Friends) technique of adding to an opponent’s word.

  Pretty ingenious.

  Well, it’ll be pretty ingenious if I actually click to submit the word.

  But if I do that, am I admitting that I’m also sad? That I’m hurt? That it saddens me that he left me? That it saddens me that everything is over between the two of us? That I have nothing in my life to look forward to now…that I’m back to spending most of my time by myself, stuck in my head?

  Clearly, submitting this word means admitting that I’m pathetic.

  But he already knows that. More than anyone.

  Okay. Here goes.

  One. Two. Three. One One. Two Two. Three Three. One One One. Two Two Two. Three Three Three.

  OOONNNEEE. TTTWWW—

  CALLIE!

  I push my finger down on my phone’s screen. Click. Word submitted.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I flip onto my side and bury my head into my pillow. I know I should get up to plug in my phone, but I can’t make myself do it. If I plug it in, it will have to sit on my dresser. That might be too far away. If he plays his turn and the game alerts me, I might not hear it. It might not wake me up.

  I do have an outlet right beside my bed, but I can’t use that. If I plug in my charger there, I’ll have a cord just hanging out in the middle of the floor. If I wake up suddenly, I’m sure I’ll trip over the cord and crash into the corner of my dresser and get a concussion or something.

  Plus, if I get out of bed to unplug my charger from the outlet behind my dresser, then I’ll probably just end up starting my night routine over again. And then I’ll never get any sleep (if I’m going to get any sleep tonight anyway).

  Resigned to the fact that my phone will not be fully charged tomorrow morning, I place it down on the pillow beside me.

  I keep my eyes closed and I tell myself to sleep, but it doesn’t happen. I don’t hear white noise. I hear the chef on television as she breads and bakes her chicken…as she goes on to make some sort of seafood…and as the next two chefs after her cook their own meals.

  My phone never beeps. My eyes remain closed.

  But I don’t sleep. I. Don’t. Sleep.

  Chapter 11

  an appointment…yet again

  6:30 A.M. WHEN MY ALARM RINGS, my eyes open. I see my phone on the pillow beside me, and I quickly realize how futile all of my phone worrying was last night.

  I didn’t need to have the phone near me to hear a game notification, because a game notification never came. And I didn’t need to worry about not waking up to the sound of a beep…or about waking up suddenly and tripping over a phone charging wire…or about losing sleep because of needing to redo my routine. None of that was worth worrying about, none of that matters, because I never fell asleep.

  And now…now that it’s time to get up, I’m not even tired. Just nervous. And achy. Stomach-achy. Mind-achy. Having trouble swallowing-achy.

  I’m going to see him again. Soon. And alone.

  {Damien Rice calmly sings his song. His calmness does nothing to soothe my crazy, shaky stomach, though. I think it makes it worse.}

  I fling myself out of bed, plug in my phone, and head to my computer.

  And I have no new messages.

  I
don’t have long to sit and dwell on that right now, though. Not if I’m going to be ready in time to leave the house for class…ready to write poems about, I don’t know, probably hearts and ponies and freaking teddy bears or something.

  I stand up and get myself moving, hoping the busyness of my routine will somehow calm my all over the place stomach.

  10:02 a.m. Done. Dressed in a dark purple shift dress and matching pumps.

  10:03 a.m. Check email again. Nothing. Again.

  Nothing even from my family members. They’ve really slowed down on their checking up calls and messages. For now. Until Melanie and Mom get them all worked up about this conference.

  I can’t think about that right now.

  10:05 a.m. Check Words with Friends game. Nothing. Not my turn in any of my three games.

  10:06 a.m. Pick off my nail polish.

  10:07 a.m. Paint my nails.

  10:10 a.m. Nails are dry. Begin leaving-the-house checks.

  10:49 a.m. Skip breakfast. My stomach can’t handle food right now.

  Out the door.

  Door closed. Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist.

  10:59 (AND LIKE THIRTY SECONDS) A.M. I arrive at class just in time and sit in my usual seat. Dr. Emery gets started moments later…and today’s subject is…birds. Just like the ones I’m about to see lining the hallways of the Pierce Mental Health office.

  I hate birds. I don’t want to write poems about them. To be honest, I don’t want to write poems about anything else, though, either.

  And I don’t. I don’t write any poems over the next couple hours. I pretend to work, but really I just write the word “bird” over and over again on my paper.

  I pick off my nail polish and stare at the pictures of cardinals and doves and crows and larks that Dr. Emery has hung in the front of the room. I think of other pictures of other birds in other places with other people…no…with another person.

  {And Damien sings.}

  Eventually, classmates start to volunteer for the stupid “sharing” portion of class. I stare at each classmate, each person that “shares” a poem, but I don’t hear any of the words that are said.

  {I hear Damien.}

  Finally, mercifully, it ends. Well, class ends.

  {Damien’s song doesn’t.}

  2:13 p.m. When I get home, I quickly spray my shoes and wash my hands. Before I get the chance to run up to my computer to check my email, my house phone rings.

  Annie pops right into my mind.

  He’s going to cancel. He’s going to cancel. He’s going to cancel. Right now.

  I rush to the phone and take a second to check my caller ID.

  And it’s Melanie.

  Not Annie. Not a cancellation.

  I answer.“Hi, Mel. How are you?” Please don’t want to talk about the conference. Please don’t want to talk about the conference. Please—

  “Well…I think I’m about to be feeling great.” I can hear a big smile in her voice. This can’t be conference-related.

  I find myself smiling back at Melanie through the phone. It’s not often that she sounds excited. Normally, she sounds tired and overworked.

  “What’s going on, Mel?”

  “Well…” I’m pretty sure her smile is even bigger now. She even squeals a little at the end of her word.

  “You are killing me here, Mel. What’s up?”

  She laughs a little and then starts talking fast, spilling a jumble of words into the phone. “Well, Doug said it would be okay if I called you since he’s in meetings at work all day and can’t be here. He didn’t want me to have to wait longer just for him to be here because he knows that would’ve driven me crazy, and I just have been drinking water all day and I really can’t wait any longer to go—”

  “Wait.” I interrupt her ridiculously long sentence, my face breaking into an even bigger smile. “Is it time for a pregnancy test?”

  Melanie squeals a little again. I wonder briefly how shocked her clients…or her opposing counsel…would be if they could see (or hear) this side of the all business, all professional Work Melanie.

  I don’t have time to wonder for long, because Melanie starts talking again. I concentrate on her rushed words about dates, temperatures, and symptoms.

  “…have been really sore and I’ve just been famished and…and…will you do this with me? Do you have time?”

  I smile again. Or still. “Of course.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m already in the bathroom, so I’m going to put the phone down and on mute while I, well, you know.”

  “All right, Mel. I’ll wait.”

  “Okay.” She squeals once more.

  “Good luck. You’ve got this.”

  Melanie laughs and then disappears as, I guess, she pushes the mute button.

  I use my wait time to send up a few renditions of the Hail Mary for her…because Mary would want Melanie to be pregnant. She would be hoping for the plus sign or the double pink lines or the smiley face or whatever—

  “You there, Callie?” Melanie sounds nervous.

  “Yep.”

  “One minute.”

  One long minute for her, I know. With no more than a second’s pause, I start the first verse to this song from our favorite musical, Sideshow. “Who Will Love Me as I Am?” Not really a baby-themed song (unless, I guess, we address the fact that the baby Melanie might be having will most likely love her for who she is), but it does the trick. Melanie joins in at “her” part (we’ve sung this song so many times that, yes, she has “her” part), and we blast through the refrain, the second verse, the refrain again, a key change, and an obnoxiously loud ending. It takes at least two minutes. Probably three.

  We both laugh for a bit as we stop singing. Then it’s quiet.

  “It’s time,” I tell her, for once (and really only once out of maybe like three times in my twenty-four years) feeling like the more in control sister.

  “I know,” she whispers. “I’m going to look. Should we count first?”

  Duh.

  “Yes,” I answer. “One. Two. Three. LOOK.”

  There is a pause of silence. And then—

  Then Melanie squeals again, much louder than before. And I think I hear her practical ballet flats jumping up and down on the bathroom floor.

  She breathes heavily into the phone, exclaiming, “It says pregnant!”

  Oh—no pink lines or smiley faces or—

  CALLIE!

  “YAY,” I cheer, squealing a little bit myself. “This is so exciting.”

  It really is exciting. Soon there will be another little Abby kind of figure running around—I can’t think of anything better to add to this world.

  We squeal a little more. Like cliché young school girls. It actually feels kind of good. Kind of tension-relieving. Maybe squealy, giggly, jumpy girls are on to something.

  Eventually, the squealing stops. We talk about sonograms and due dates and genders and names. Then we decide to hang up so Melanie can text Doug (he must’ve promised that he’d secretly check his phone at 2:59 p.m., right in the middle of his 2:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. meetings).

  “Thanks for doing this with me, Callie.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hey—I want to talk to you later about your confer—”

  I interrupt. “Mel—you’d better go. It’s already two fifty-seven.”

  “Okay, Callie. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Sounds good. Bye, Mel.”

  I hang up, all mixed up with emotions. So happy for Melanie. Elated for her. Also pretty relieved that we didn’t have time to talk about the conference. And nervous about the conference. Maybe a little in denial about the fact that it’s only two days away.

  And nervous about my appointment. Maybe a little in denial about the fact that it’s only an hour away…

  I walk upstairs, check my email (nothing there), and paint my nails. After they dry, I begin my leaving-the-house preparations, my thirty-three checks. I try to focus even more than no
rmal on each air vent, faucet, light switch…trying to trick my stomach, my head, my body—trying to trick all of them into relaxing a little.

  It doesn’t work.

  My stomach hops around, my head pounds, and my body shakes.

  {And Damien sings.}

  3:44 p.m. Done.

  I make my hands grab my coat and purse, and then I drag my body out of the door.

  3:56 P.M. I’M HERE. BACK IN the Pierce Mental Health parking lot. His parking lot.

  3:56 and about three seconds p.m. Looking through my rearview mirror, I see the office door opening. Then…then I see him.

  Dark gray pants. Deep green shirt. Matching tie. Head pointed exactly in my direction. Eyes…can’t tell just yet…

  Can he see me looking at him through the mirror? Does he—

  Wait.

  He’s moving this way. Slowly. Cautiously. One hand in his pocket. The other running (nervously?) through his hair.

  I lower my eyes before he definitely notices that I’m watching him in my mirror. My legs become heavy. My body is glued to my seat. My stomach stops jumping and just freezes, shuts down. I—

  I hear knocking on my window. And see the top of his pants, the green shirt tucked in at his waist—the middle of his body—out of the corner of my eye.

  Other parts of me start to shut down. My breathing stops. My ability to swallow vanishes.

  I can’t move my head to look at him…to see him. I can’t.

  I sit…for I don’t know how long…I can’t even bring myself to do some counts of three.

  {Dam—}

  My door is making a noise. It’s opening.

  I don’t move. I stare at my steering wheel.

  I can feel a slight breeze. The door is completely open. And he’s in the opening.

  I am all of a sudden very aware of the fact that I’m still wearing my seatbelt. I think it’s getting tighter somehow…cutting into my neck and chest…holding me in place.

  I don’t move. I can’t move.

  Somehow, I manage to take a breath. I inhale slowly, and I’m quickly caught up in the smell of his cologne. The smell of him.