It doesn’t work.
My mind keeps replaying a report I saw once about all of the germs on hotel beds.
And all of the people at the conference will be sleeping in those beds, sleeping on those germs, walking around just covered in diseases, and—
And I get up.
1:43 a.m. I take a shower.
2:03 a.m. I begin my routine again.
Around 5:00 in the morning, I put myself back into bed.
I close my eyes and four words replay over and over again in my mind. They lull me to sleep.
“We will talk soon. We will talk soon. We will talk soon. We will talk soon. We will talk soon. We will talk—”
Chapter 12
questions
“WE WILL TALK SOON. WE will talk soon. We will talk soon.”
My alarm wakes me up at 7:30 a.m., and the same four words echo in my head. I open my eyes, and another word plunges through my brain.
Conference.
As the ceiling above me becomes dizzyingly blurry and my ears begin to buzz, I slam my eyes shut again.
It doesn’t help.
I start to taste a mixture of yesterday’s calories coming back up in my—
I’ve got to run.
I throw back my comforter and swing my feet to the floor. I sprint to the bathroom in one rushed count of three, and—
And I don’t make it.
Right here, one foot in the bathroom…one step in, everything comes out of me. Fruit. Soup. Yogurt.
All over the bathroom tile. On my pajamas. His pajamas.
DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT.
I freeze. Hands in the air. Feet awkwardly parted. I try to blink away the little droplets of water that have materialized in the corners of my eyes, but I only make things worse. More watery drops come out…more and more…they slide down my face and add to the mess on the floor.
Okay, Callie. You can’t just stand here. Things aren’t going to just get magically better. Or cleaner.
Focus, Callie. Focus. Focus.
One. Two. Three.
Taking one very slow step at a time, I work my feet around the mess on the floor, moving all the way over to my bathroom trash can. As I move, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Short shorts. Oversized t-shirt. Both covered in throw up. Ruined.
One. Two. Three.
I squeeze my arms and hands in through the sleeves of my shirt. After I get both hands under, I push the fabric up over my head.
One. Two. Three.
Shirt in the trash can.
Next, I slide off my shorts…and my underwear. Into the trash.
Standing naked in my bathroom, I think carefully. And after a few seconds, I somehow come up with a plan. Then I get to work.
I take a shower. Lots of soap. Lots of scrubbing.
I brush my teeth. Lots of toothpaste. Bleeding gums.
I run out of the bathroom in a towel (carefully avoiding the mess on the floor). I go to the kitchen where I grab three large trash bags, window cleaner, a large roll of paper towels, and gloves. Before heading back up to my room, I grab the Lysol spray from the hall closet.
Back to the bathroom. Towel off.
I do some naked cleaning and scrubbing. Then I deposit all of the used paper towels, my pair of gloves, and my entire bathroom trash can into a large white trash bag. And I double bag it all. And triple bag it.
After propping the bag up against the wall, I take another shower. I scrub and scrub and scrub. Eventually, I get out. I put on a clean pair of pajamas (for once). Then I take the triple-bagged garbage bag downstairs (holding it far, far away from my body as I walk) and put it right outside the back door. Out of the way. Out of my sight.
I head back into the kitchen, wash my hands, and start upstairs to begin my morning preparations. Just as I turn the corner into my room, I hear my phone buzz against the top of my dresser.
Resigned to the fact that I am going to be way behind schedule today, I go over to my dresser and pick up my phone.
I have a text message. From Unknown Number.
One. Two. Three. Open text.
Please check your email this morning.
Although I know that going to check my email right now will mean that I will be even more behind schedule this morning, I head straight to my computer.
Open inbox.
One new message. DA Blake. Subject: Questions.
More questions.
One. Two. Three. Click.
I know you don’t want to think about the conference. I know you are trying to avoid any mention of it. However, I also know that tomorrow is going to be here in no time…and also that we’ll both regret it if we don’t make some sort of game plan for you while we still have time.
We’ll both? Him and me? I’ll regret it and he’ll regret it?
Callie. Focus.
One. Two. Three. Eyes back to my email.
With that all being said, I have some questions for you.
1.) Why did you refuse Mandy’s offer to go with you?
2.) Is there any way that you can get out of going?
3.) Are you attending some of the pre-session activities?
-AB
AB. Not the formal Dr. Blake. Not the familiar Aiden. Something in between.
Well, AB, here goes.
Count. Click reply.
1.) Mandy shouldn’t be missing classes for me. Even if her professors have okayed this, she still might miss something important. A concept. Some notes. A brilliant question from a classmate. Something. Then it’ll come back to hurt her someday. She’ll miss a question on a test. She’ll mess up something in some sort of art portfolio. She’ll have a client ask her a question ten years from now and she won’t have the answer. All because of me.
And she’s not getting on a plane for me. And—
And I’m writing too much. WAY too much.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Start again.
1.) Mandy shouldn’t be missing classes for me. And I can’t have a babysitter with me on this trip—that would look ridiculous.
Hmm…that’ll do.
2.) I can’t get out of it. I’ve been asked to write some articles about the conference.
Articles that, I’m sure, won’t be taken very seriously if I have to have someone holding my hand throughout the event.
3.) Yes.
Okay…looks good. Good enough.
One. Two. Three. Send.
9:02 a.m. Morning routine—you’re up.
Thermostat: 70 degrees. Stove: off (still…basically since Mandy and I first moved in here). Door: locked.
9:11 a.m. I wonder if he’s written back yet. I wonder if I should just quickly check…
{My mind makes up its own song…I don’t think it has a title, but the refrain starts with the line “Like you have a freaking choice, Callie.”}
Back up to my computer.
Open email.
One new message from DA Blake. Subject: Questions #2.
How many questions does he have?
One. Two. Three. Open.
Here are more questions:
1.) What are your responsibilities at this conference?
2.) Have you ever been on a plane before?
3.) Who is taking you to the airport?
Airport. Plane. Airport. Plane. Airport. Plane. The two words look larger than all of the other words in his email. Ten times larger. They may as well be highlighted in neon and have stars around them. The word “crash” should probably also—
My stomach starts to churn. The back of my throat begins—
I’ve gotta move.
My feet start running before I can even get to a standing position. I bolt to the bathroom. And I make it to the toilet. Just in time. Another mixture of yesterday’s calories leaves my system.
Eventually, nothing more comes out of me.
Feeling slightly better…but also a little weak physically (no comment on mentally), I brush my teeth, get undressed (my clothes don’t have any throw up on them—s
o they go to the hamper, not the trash can), and take a shower.
9:36 a.m. Out of the bathroom. In yet another clean pair of pajamas. Ready to brave my computer again. I think.
One. Two. Three.
I sit down slowly and focus my eyes on the end of the email I was reading…the part I haven’t gotten to yet.
Callie—I’m sure today is going to be rough…or has already been rough. Please still try to eat.
Wow. His all-knowing powers are a bit off. I don’t think eating would be the best plan for me right now.
Especially now that I have to answer his airplane-themed questions. And think about flying. Tomorr—
CALLIE. Stop. Focus. Answer his questions. Quickly.
Okay. Count. Reply.
1.) Attending multiple presentations. Writing and submitting articles about them. Not passing out.
Okay. First question done. Well, almost. I delete the last part about not passing out.
On to the second question. Fast. No thinking.
2.) No.
Never. And I never intended to get on one. But now—
My stomach starts to gurgle again and—
CALLIE! Stop. You are almost there. Get this done.
{Kendrick Lamar, all in white, saunters in with “Bitch, Don’t Kill my Vibe.”}
3.) Dr. Gabriel.
Okay. Done. Onetwothreesend.
9:42 a.m. Stand up. Back to work. I open the blinds. I make sure my alarm is still off. I brush my teeth. Again. I straighten pictures, clean the living room, and sweep the floor.
10:21 a.m. Fully aware of the fact that I have no self control whatsoever, I head back to my computer.
And he wrote again. Twice.
Please don’t make me throw up again. Please don’t make me throw up again. Please don’t make me throw up again.
One. Two. Three. Open first email. Subject: Correction.
Obviously ignore my eating advice if you’ve gotten yourself so worked up that you are making yourself sick.
Back in my head again, I see, Dr. Blake. Ugh.
Delete email.
Next email. Subject: Questions #3.
Count. Open.
1.) Are you staying in a room by yourself?
2.) Is that Gabriel guy going to be everywhere?
3.) What happened with Tony?
WHAT?
If he wants to know that, then he must care a—
No, Callie.
But—
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Hurry up and reply. Countclick.
1.) God, I hope so.
2.) Probably.
3.) Nothing.
Countsend. No thinking about why he asked that…what he meant…if he—
AHHH…stop, Callie.
10:25 a.m. Out of my chair. Down to the kitchen for refrigerator sorting, dish washing, and floor scrubbing. Then on to doorknob wiping and laundry washing.
11:36 a.m. After I say a few rounds of prayers (The Act of Contrition, the Hail Mary, and The Lord’s Prayer—three times each), I allow myself to head back to my computer.
And he wrote again.
Did he forget about going to work today?
Count. Open email. Subject: Questions #4.
1.) What time is your flight?
2.) What is your flight number?
3.) Are you going to stay at the hotel where the conference is being held?
Ugh. I lean back in my chair and begin to pick my nails, hoping to distract my nervous stomach.
I don’t have answers to any of those questions. Well…to be honest…I probably have access to all of the answers…I would just have to open up Dr. Gabriel’s email attachment to find them. But if I do that, then I’ll have to see all of the conference information. All of the hotel information. All of the plane inf—
My chest…my throat…my body…begins to convulse in one dry heave after another.
In a fast maneuver, I stand up and step away from my computer.
Moments later, I’m back in the safety of my morning routine, sanitizing my bathroom and steam mopping the bathroom floor. Without stopping to go back to my computer, back to his message, I jump in the shower and then proceed to finish the rest of my routine.
1:03 p.m. Done.
My stomach is growling a little. Too bad. I can’t afford to eat right now, not with a work shift ahead of me. I will not throw up at work. I will not throw up at work. I will not throw up at work.
I grab my Kindle and try to get back to my homework. I try. I try to read, to take notes, to highlight important information, but I don’t get anywhere. I do, however, peel every last bit of nail polish from my fingernails. And repaint them. Peel again. Repaint again. Peel. Repaint. Peel. Repaint. Peel. Repaint.
I also stare at my computer. A lot. Feeling bad that I haven’t written back. Wondering if he knows that I can’t write back. If he knows—
2:58 p.m. My phone buzzes against my dresser. I put my Kindle down and lean over to get it. As I pick it up, it buzzes again.
I have two new messages. Both from Unknown Number.
Count. Open text.
Message #1.
I’m sorry, Callie—I know you don’t want to think about all of those questions I asked you. Take your time—respond when you can.
When I can? How about if I can?
Second message.
Are you okay?
Okay with riding in Dr. Gabriel’s car in less than twenty-four hours? Okay with getting on a plane? Okay with staying in a hotel room?
My stomach begins to feel like…well, like a freaking mess. I lean back on my bed, pick at my nails, and plead with my body to settle. I don’t have time for throwing up…and cleaning up…right now. I’ll never make it to work on time.
Okay. Okay. Okay. Pick fingernails. Okay. Okay. Ok—
There’s that word. Okay.
Are you okay?
I look at his text once again, my stomach in some sort of throw up purgatory. Nothing’s happening now, but it could go either way…
I try not to think about my stomach. I stare at his words instead.
Are you okay?
Okay with you all of a sudden communicating with me again after calling off everything between us? Okay without you? Okay with being so very tied to your mother?
{The Kiki Dee Band brings out “I’ve Got the Music in Me.”}
Okay with you not knowing—
Stop.
One. Two. Three. My finger moves to click the reply button on my phone.
I type three letters quickly. Y-E-S.
I am okay right now…okay as in I’m not about to throw up…okay as in I’m not in any life threatening danger and in need of a hospital or anything at this moment. So I am not lying as I send my three little letters through the text messaging universe. Countclick. Send.
I look at the time on my phone. 3:12 p.m. Gotta move.
3:13 p.m. Leaving-the-house preparations.
3:46 p.m. On my way to work.
4:24 P.M. ONLY ONE OTHER PERSON is here at the writing center. Ian at Computer 3. He has already sent me another science-related paper to proofread. It’d be easier to proofread if I knew anything about exoplanets…especially since Ian has used the word “exoplanet” ninety-three times in his ten page paper (seriously—he did use it that many times. I counted).
My lack of knowledge on his topic keeps me busy, really, REALLY busy, as I look up research, definitions, spellings, etc. I get even busier as I notice that Ian has misspelled many terms and also used the incorrect citation format for his research sources. In a way, though, all of his errors paired with my stupidity in science adds up to one gigantic miracle, because my time at work goes very quickly.
It actually goes too quickly. I still have a page to go at 7:00 p.m., when I’m supposed to be leaving. I decide to stay to finish Ian’s paper. For many reasons.
1.) Umm…leaving something undone isn’t really an option for me.
2.) Based on my previous experience with students in
the writing center, I’m pretty certain that Ian has waited until the last minute to finish this paper. I’m pretty sure that his paper is due tomorrow…probably at 8:00 a.m. And I don’t want him to get a bad grade or not turn it in just because of me.
3.) All of this scientific exploration is making me sort of tired…and I could use tired tonight.
Okay…so I don’t have many reasons. I have three. But that is plenty. I stay to finish Ian’s paper.
8:04 p.m. Done. I send Ian’s paper back to him and head to the parking lot. Before I start my car, I check my phone.
And I have two new messages from Unknown—
My phone rings.
Melanie. I answer.
“Hey, Mel.”
“Hi, Callie. Where are you?” Her voice is somewhat anxious, worried…but pretending not to be. Clearly Mandy has sent out some sort of report informing Melanie (and the rest of my family?) that I have not yet returned from work.
I pretend not to realize this, though, as I casually (I think) say, “Oh, you know. I was caught up late at the writing center. I’m just about to leave now.”
Melanie tries to cover with a cough, but I hear her quick sigh of relief.
And I feel bad. I feel bad that I worried her. And Mandy. And whoever else Mandy called.
Melanie continues. “Oh, right. Great. Well, how is everything going?”
What is going on? Why are you being so weird, Mel?
“Everything’s fine, Mel. How have you been feeling?”
“Oh, fine. Surprisingly fine. No throwing up so far.”
Wish I could say the same thing about myself.
I don’t tell her that. “Good. I’m really glad. How’s Abby?”
“Oh, she’s fine too. She—”
I hear Melanie’s phone, her landline, ringing in the background.
Checked Again (Checked Series) Page 14
