“Hold on, Callie.”
I hold on, staring out my window as a few students cross through the parking lot, laughing. Three girls—wearing teeny tiny little tube top-type shirts and jeans. Not even close to enough clothing for the breezy night we’re having. Their bared stomachs must be so cold. And speaking of their stomachs, they must never eat. Ever.
Hmm…and speaking of eating…I really should try to consume something when I get home…I should at least have some water so I don’t—
“Callie?” Melanie still sounds really weird.
“Yep—I’m here.”
“Hey, I should take this call. But I’ll talk to you soon.”
No mention of the conference? Something is definitely up.
“Um, okay, Melanie.”
“All right.” She draws out the two words wistfully, as though she has at least three hundred more things to say. “Be careful, Callie.”
Something. Is. Really. Really. Really. Up.
I try to pretend otherwise. “Ah…well, yes, you be careful too, Melanie. Bye.”
Melanie gives me a hesitant “goodbye” and hangs up. I spend a few minutes just sitting and staring at my steering wheel, trying to figure out what is going on.
And I have no idea. So I take a break from thinking about it, thinking about what my sisters are up to, and look back at my phone. Time to open my two messages from Unknown Number.
Count. Open. First message.
Can you just tell me what time your flight leaves tomorrow?
No. I honestly don’t know. Dr. Gabriel said he’ll pick me up in the morning…so I assume it’s a morning flight. But I don’t know. And I can’t think anymore about this right now.
Count. Look at second message.
Don’t get mad at Mandy.
What? What does that mean?
Did something happen to her? Did she forget to wear a seatbelt and get into a car crash? Or did she let one of her drunken sorority sisters drive her home and—
Wait. If something happened to Mandy, he wouldn’t have written about it that way, right? He wouldn’t have told me to not get angry with her. Right?
I don’t know. I’ve gotta get home to find out. I count to three, turn on my car, and head home…wishing that just this once my mind, my head, would allow me to drive a little over the speed limit.
8:19 p.m. I park and breathe out a little relief as I see Mandy’s car safely in its spot. Still…that doesn’t mean that something bad didn’t happen to her, though. I lock, lock, lock my car doors and hurry into the house.
“Mandy?” I call out her name as I slip out of my heels, trying to decide if I should (or can) postpone my shoe spraying and hand washing to search the house for—
“Hey, Callie. How was work?” I hear Mandy’s yelling voice. It sounds like she is upstairs, probably in her room. More relief breathes out of me.
She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay.
I quickly spray my shoes and wash my hands before heading upstairs. I go right to Mandy’s room. And…it’s empty.
What the—
Glancing across the hall, I see light shining in my room.
What is going on? I pause for a minute, right in the doorway of Mandy’s room, trying to decide if the murderers are in my room…if they have Mandy.
Well, the light is on in my room. I don’t think the murderers would turn on the light. They would definitely work in the dark, right? Unless this is some sort of trick. Unless they already have Mandy and are making her call out to me so she can lure me into my room…
If that is the case, well, they have Mandy, and I have to try to save her, so—
I rush over to my room.
Mandy’s standing right beside my bed, zipping up a travel bag.
No murderers.
Relief pours out of me, which has to be cleansing somehow, because—
Wait.
Mandy is zipping up a travel bag. My travel bag.
I look at her in confusion.
She looks back nervously, immediately beginning to speak. “Please don’t be mad, Callie. I just…since you’ve been making yourself sick and throwing up or whatever today thinking about, well, about everything…I just didn’t want you to have a horrible time packing.”
“Wait—how do you know that I’ve been sick today?” I ask, but I already know the answer. There’s only one way that she could know…if she was told by a certain someone who magically knows every little minute detail about me (well, except one music-oriented detail…). I never confirmed that I was sick today, though…that I was throwing up. He has just assumed this…assumed correctly…
“Dr. Blake called me,” Mandy interrupts my thoughts. Her face looks serious for about a second, and then her eyes begin to twinkle. “And, seriously, who can say no to him when he needs a favor?”
I shake my head. “So he told you to pack for me?”
Mandy nods, now sitting down on the corner of my bed. The twinkle in her eyes disappears for a moment as she looks up at me. “I promise I washed my hands before I started, and I was careful not to mess up anything in your clos—”
I shake my head again and move to sit beside her. “It’s fine, Mandy. Thank you. I probably would’ve thrown up all over my clothes if I had tried to pack.”
Mandy smiles. “That’s exactly what he said might happen if I didn’t pack for you.”
Of course. Of course he did.
“What else did he say?” Did he mention any other information that he’s somehow snatched from my brain?
Mandy wrinkles her eyebrows a little. Her nose scrunches up too.
“What?” I ask, almost afraid to ask.
“Well, he,” she fumbles, not looking at me anymore, “he told me not to mention the, um, the conference.” She sneaks a look over at me and then looks away just as quickly. “He said that talking about it will just upset you.”
Yep. More mind magic. Ah…and now Melanie’s phone call makes much more sense. He obviously got to her (again) too.
Mandy is looking at me, studying me…perhaps wondering if she should run to get a bucket or something.
“Hey.” I smile over at her. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for helping me.”
Mandy smiles a little now too, but her eyes look sad.
Time to change the subject. “Hey, do you want to go in with me on a Yay, you’re pregnant gift for Mel?”
Mandy nods.
I go on. “Okay…well, I was thinking about ordering some—”
My phone buzzes in my purse.
Mandy’s eyes get all glittery again. “Hello, hot Dr. Blake.”
I roll my eyes and reach into my purse to grab my phone and check my text.
And yes, it’s from him.
“Was I right? Is it him?”
I nod.
Mandy jumps up off the bed. “Talk to him, Callie.” She smiles back at me. “We’ll pick out a gift for Mel later.” With that, she leaves the room, leaves me alone with my phone, my text, him.
One. Two. Three. Open text.
Did you get my text about your flight time?
Ugh. He’s just going to keep asking if I don’t answer…or else he’ll try to get the information through Melanie or Mandy…and he has them way too involved in all of this anyway…
So I guess I’d better try to figure out my flight time.
One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
I slowly get up, off of my bed. I head over to my computer and find the email Dr. Gabriel sent to me. I open it and stare at the link to his attachment. The link that I just have to click on…and then I will see my trip itinerary.
Surprisingly, my stomach doesn’t start to contract…I don’t feel the need to run to the bathroom to throw up.
Instead, my eyes start to burn. And my throat fights to swallow.
I move the little white arrow on my screen so it hovers right above the link for Dr. Gabriel’s attachment.
One two three. One two three. One two three.
&n
bsp; One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
One.
Two.
Three.
I.
Can’t.
Do.
This.
Eyes blurry, throat pretty much closed now.
I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I—
I have an idea.
I move my hand and the little white arrow on the screen toward the word “Forward” at the top of the page.
One. Two. Three. Click.
I type DA Blake’s address in the recipient line.
One. Two. Three. Send.
Done.
My flight time has to be in that email attachment somewhere. He’ll find it.
{Peter, Paul, and Mary break in with “Leaving on a Jet—”}
Stop it, Callie.
I click out of my email program and get up. I head back over to my bed, trying not to look over at the packed travel bag sitting on top of it, sitting there as a reminder that—
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I grab my phone, count, and click to reply to my last message.
I just sent some info in an email.
Count. Send.
8:47 p.m. Time for a few monotonous, perhaps distracting…hopefully mind-erasing…hours of my night preparations.
GO.
9:24 p.m. My phone buzzes just as I am pulling a gray sweater dress, tomorrow’s outfit, out of my closet. With my dress draped over my arm, I walk over to my dresser to check the message. I pick up the phone. My new message is from him. His message.
Count. Open.
I got your email. Thanks for all of the information. You haven’t read any of it yet, though, have you?
Stop. Knowing. Everything.
Count. Reply.
No.
Count. Send. No use in lying. He’d know. He probably also knows that I considered lying before sending my response.
I put my phone back in its spot and head back to my closet to pick out shoes for tomorrow.
Do not think about tomorrow. Do not think about tomorrow. Do not think about tomorrow.
I keep working, keep making my way through my routine, until I hear another buzz from my phone as I’m putting my laundry away.
Like a stupid, helpless puppet, I head back to my dresser.
One new Unknown Number message.
Count. Open.
I’m worried, Callie. About this trip. About you probably not eating anything today. About you probably not sleeping tonight. About you.
I stare at his words. My legs, my stomach, my arms—everything becomes heavy, making it almost impossible to remain standing. I drag my body over to sit on the edge of my bed, still looking at the text, still seeing his words.
{Damien crawls in, starting at the beginning of “The Blower’s Daughter.”}
Why is he doing this to me?
He shouldn’t be saying, typing, these things to me. He shouldn’t be so involved in everything. He shouldn’t—
My phone buzzes again, vibrating against my hand.
There’s more?
One. Two. Three. I slide my finger across my little phone screen and open his text.
Promise me that you won’t do anything you shouldn’t—no taking cough syrup or sleeping pills or anything like that.
The words “medicinal Band-Aid” echo through my mind, bouncing from one side of my head to the other.
I know. I know about you and medication. About your mother and medication.
But you don’t know that I know. You don’t know—
I see his face, his devastated eyes…how he looked that first day, during our first appointment…then how he looked when he told me about his mother for the first time…then how he must’ve looked when I accidentally recreated the scene of her suicide…
How he might look right now.
Quick count. Reply.
I won’t.
Hmm…I need more…to reassure him…
Don’t worry.
Please don’t be sad. Please don’t think that I would ever do something stupid with medication…on purpose.
One. Two. Three.
Send (text sent to him and a few prayers sent up to the patron saint of…medication? OCD? Sad eyes? All of them.)
I push my body off the edge of my bed. I have to get back to my night preparations if…if I ever want to get to bed and probably not sleep all night.
Back to work.
10:02 p.m. I’m just getting out of the shower when my phone rings. I wrap a towel around myself and head toward my dresser.
He doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m going to take a whole bottle of—
It isn’t him. It’s Mom.
I click to accept the call and put the phone beside my still a little wet ear and really wet hair, quietly wondering if the water from my hair can destroy my ph—
“Hi, honey.”
“Hel—”
“Hey, Cal.”
Oh—it’s Mom AND Dad.
Mom starts talking again before I can get any full words in. “We were just, uh, you know, thinking about you, honey. So we thought we’d give you a call.”
Dad jumps right in. “Yes, that’s right. So how are you doing tonight?”
So Dr. Blake has somehow gotten to them too. I can’t really imagine that he would’ve called my parents, though. He probably had Melanie tell them. Or maybe he put an ad in all major newspapers…
Do NOT say the C-word in the presence of one Calista Royce.
P.S. Using the P-word or the H-word around her is also a bad idea. And—
“Cal?”
Oh.
“Oh, sorry. I’m here.”
“So what’s going on?” Mom tries a new method…a new way of asking if I am or am not freaking out about tomorrow.
I can’t think about tomorrow. Or talk about it.
“Well,” I start, “I just took a shower, and I’ve been running around and getting stuff done for the last couple hours.” All true. “What are you guys up to?” Pushing up my almost dry shoulder, I sandwich my phone against my pretty dry ear so I can start applying my lotion before my body is completely dry.
Mom and Dad don’t talk about much…they make generic comments about work and the weather. They also spend a little time discussing Jared’s girlfriend. They really seem to like her. That’s a first. They also say something about Jared taking her to a local concert this evening.
That is their way of telling me why Jared will probably not be calling to check on me tonight. Jared probably also isn’t calling because he’d be afraid that he’d accidentally forget the hush hush mandate and use the C-word.
I can’t help smiling at the thought of him trying to only say what he’s been told…reading from a Melanie script…or maybe a Dr. Blake script? I don’t know.
I finish with my lotion, and Mom and Dad seem to run out of things to talk about. Now they seem to just be waiting for me to say something.
Callie! Talk to your parents. They are worried about you. They deserve some—
Callie! Talk!
“Thank you guys for calling. I’m really glad you did.”
And I am. I really am.
“Of course, honey.” Mom sounds worried. Really worried.
I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I can’t talk about…well, anything really right now.
I don’t say that. I say this. “Have a good night. I’ll talk to you guys soon.”
We say our goodbyes and I finish my preparations, finish getting ready for bed. For the first night in a long time, I put on (and know I’ll keep on) clean pajamas from my drawer.
Not. By. Choice.
I wonder why he hasn’t written me back. Does he—
I am knocked out of my thoughts as my stomach grumbles a bit. Okay, a lot. But I can’t eat. I can’t be up all night throwing up. I can’t be throwing up tom—
I can’t think about that.
I go over to my bathroom and risk a drink of water…water from my bathroom sin
k. If I go down to the kitchen for a glass of water, well, then I’ll have to start my whole routine again. And it’s already so late. And if I do my whole routine again, I’ll probably just be even more hungry later. And then I’ll allow myself another drink of water. And then…
Enough, Callie.
Time for bed.
Just as I’m pulling back my comforter, my phone buzzes on my dresser.
I lean over and grab it, unplugging it from its charger.
And it’s him. Finally.
Count. Open.
I hope you are able to get some sleep tonight. Call me if you need to talk. Even if it’s at 3:00 in the morning.
My mouth turns up in a little smile…even though it shouldn’t. Even though his message means nothing…nothing except that he is acting as a concerned doctor…a doctor who doesn’t really want to be my doctor anymore.
Despite that, despite this knowledge, I count and click to reply…because it’s the polite thing to do…because I’m sure that he knows I’m still awake and that I’ve seen his message…because otherwise, I’ll just think all night about my decision to not reply.
Okay. A response.
Thank you. Good night.
Enough? I’ve thanked him for his offer, and by saying good night, I’ve essentially let him know that I won’t be needing his offer or using his offer. I’ve let him know that I’m going to sleep. That I’m not about to make a phone call.
That has to be enough.
One. Two. Three. Send.
I plug my phone back in and tuck myself into my bed. On television? A brother and sister chef team making a variety of comfort foods. Cooking. And talking. And refusing to morph into white noise.
{Matchbox Twenty’s “3 A.M.” plays in my head as I don’t sleep. And don’t sleep. And don’t sleep.}
3:00 A.M. THE SISTER AND BROTHER chefs are working on like their sixth comfort food dish. Their voices have still refused to produce any sort of comforting white noise for me, however.
Since I can’t sleep, I’ve considered just getting up and trying to work on my Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance paper. I’ve also considered repainting my nails (I took care of de-polishing them about an hour ago). And I’ve thought about playing my Words with Friends turn with Melanie. I’ve even pondered going to my laptop to look up more exhausting information about exoplanets.
Checked Again (Checked Series) Page 15
