Checked Again (Checked Series)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  I nod (of course). I also clench my thighs together under my skirt.

  He squeezes my hand before gently releasing it. Then he talks quickly as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hotel key. “This hotel has over thirty floors. Most of the suites are on the higher floors, but I was able to find this. It’s an executive suite.” He puts the key in the slot on the door. “I was able to check hotel records, and this room is not booked very often since it’s, well, a little expensive.” The light on the key reader turns green and clicks. He pushes the door open a crack. Then he continues talking. I listen as carefully as I can, my legs starting to bounce. {Avril continues to sing.} “The price isn’t important, of course, but what I’m trying to say is, well, no one has stayed in this room for over a month. It’s not used very often.” He presses his back against the door, pushing it the whole way open. I don’t look inside yet…because I’m stuck in his eyes once again. His nervous eyes.

  His mouth starts moving again. Quickly again. “I hired a very reputable cleaner to come in today to sanitize the bathroom. I had him replace the toilet seat, bathroom carpets, towels, shower curtain…everything. Everything in the bathroom is new.” He stops talking and stares at me. Anxious. Anxious eyes.

  But he doesn’t need to be anxious. He’s thought of everything. As usual.

  My lips scrunch up into a smile and I get out two words. “Thank you.”

  He smiles a little, little smile. Then he nods to the towel on the floor right inside the door. “The floor has just been sterilized.”

  I watch him slip off his shoes and put them on the towel. Silently, I step beside him, into the room. I take off my shoes and place them right beside his. Then he holds out his hands and nods to my purse. I slide it off of my shoulder and give it to him. Then…well, then, I run past him. Further into the hotel room. Right into the bathroom.

  It’s time.

  I MADE IT. I USED a hotel bathroom. And even though the bathroom was just specially sanitized for me…even though a brand new seat was on the toilet…even though I still hovered carefully over the seat, not touching anything…even though I had all of that going for me…I’m still rather impressed with myself.

  I wash my hands in one of the sparkling white sinks just below the bathroom mirror. The mirror is immaculate. No splotches from toothpaste or hairspray or…well, or anything else.

  I, on the other hand, am not immaculate. Not at all. My makeup has faded to almost nothing. My face looks extremely pale…except for the dark circles just below my eyes.

  And now I have to walk out and see him…looking like this. Like hell. Like crap. Like a mental case who hasn’t slept in days because she’s been overly busy with worrying and checking. Like—

  Like his mother.

  Ugh. Stop think—

  “Callie?” He sounds kind of far away. Like he moved to the other side of the room to give me some privacy. “Are you okay?”

  I look at myself again in the mirror, still holding my hands under the running faucet. Well, I’m okay as in my bladder isn’t going to burst now, but otherwise, well, I’m not okay. I look like shit. And I somehow have to spend the night in a hotel room. And I have another plane ride looming over my head. And—

  “Callie?”

  And…and he’s here with me. He’s here. He’s here.

  “Callie? Are you all right?” His voice sounds closer now. It also sounds worried.

  One. Two. Three. I grab three of the Kleenex hand towels from the box beside the sink. I dry my hands. With the towels still in my hand, I turn off the sink and open the door a crack (I know the bathroom is clean…but still…it can’t hurt to be careful). I toss the paper towels into the empty (new) trash can sitting under the counter. Then I push the door further open with my elbow and—

  And he’s standing right in front of me.

  He has his eyebrows raised in a question. Silently asking if everything went okay, I guess.

  I nod. Nod. Nod.

  I then hold out my hand to take my purse. He extends his arm to give it to me and somehow—

  Somehow his hand grazes mine during the exchange. My stomach flips as his eyes heat back—

  My phone rings. My stupid phone.

  He nods his head slowly, telling me to take the call. Then he backs away from me.

  I take a step out of the bathroom as I reach into my purse, finding my phone quickly. And it’s stupid freaking Dr. Gabriel.

  I could just not pick up…but then he might just come to my room instead. If he even knows where—

  Callie!

  One. Two. Three.

  “Hello, Dr. Gabriel.” I try not to sound annoyed.

  “Are you really sure about dinner? You have to eat. Why don’t we just order some room service in my room? Just the two of us. You can even work while we eat.”

  That sounds awful. His room. His germs. Dinner right beside his bed. No thanks.

  Pushing the revulsion out of my voice (I think), I respond. I lie. “Oh, that is such a nice idea, but I’ve already ordered some food for myself. It should be here any minute. And I’ve already started sorting through my notes from today.”

  “Well, I can stop by and help you—”

  “No, please don’t worry about me. You go out to dinner with the other professors. Really. I just need some quiet time alone to write.” I try to sound sweet and apologetic and busy. I hope it works.

  Dr. Gabriel sounds disappointed, but he starts to talk about alternative dinner plans. He starts to run through the names of restaurants where the other professors are going.

  I don’t really hear what he is saying, though. My focus has shifted to my hotel room, the large, wide open space beyond the bathroom hall. My eyes skim over the shiny, hardwood floors, the flat screen television, the massive desk, and the little bar in the corner. All of it is beautiful…and seemingly quite clean…but none of it is as interesting as what is happening in the middle of the room.

  Because he’s in the middle of the room. By the bed. A completely stripped bed. I watch as he walks over to a gigantic brown box and pulls out…

  A new package of sheets.

  He opens the package and begins making the bed, making my bed.

  Dr. Gabriel continues to talk. I make “uh huh” noises every once in a while, but I continue not to listen to him.

  In front of me, Dr. Blake arranges the bottom sheet, a white sheet, pulling each corner snugly over the mattress. Then he moves on to the top sheet, smoothing it carefully across the bed.

  Dr. Gabriel is now saying something about a young new professor who might need someone to eat with tonight (perhaps the woman in the business suit who was talking to him at the end of the last session?). He says he might take her to dinner to help her out. Like he’s a martyr. {Sandi Patty sings her “Via Dolorosa” to celebrate his sacrifice.} He begins to wonder aloud where he should take her to eat. I tune him out and watch the show going on in front of me.

  Next out of the big brown box is a packaged comforter. Big. Fluffy. White. He carefully arranges it on the bed. Then he starts pulling pillows out of packages and—

  And Dr. Gabriel stops talking. I seize my opportunity to end our conversation. I start talking before he can begin again. “Well, I hope you have a really nice dinner. I guess I should get to work if I’m going to have my first article in before ten tonight.”

  Still staring at the pillow arranging going on in front of me, at the back of the pillow arranger, I pause and wait for Dr. Gabriel’s response, praying that he’ll let me go.

  Miraculously, he does. “Okay, then. Call or come up and see me later if you get lonely. I’m in room 2725.”

  Even though there is not a chance of me calling or visiting him tonight, I say, “Uh huh” and then “Goodbye” quickly.

  In the second between our phone call ending and me putting my phone back into my purse, there is a knock on the door behind me.

  Please don’t let it be Dr. Gabriel. Please let him not be here. Please let him
not know where my room is.

  Before I can move, Dr. Blake turns toward me. He picks up the large brown box and then heads this way…toward the door? Closer and closer and closer. He catches my eyes for less than a second before he passes me, mumbling something about it being time for dinner.

  I should be happy about that. About dinner. My stomach has been ready to eat for about twenty-four hours now. I’m not happy, though. Because when he just looked at me, for only a second, I saw his eyes—and he’s miserable again.

  But why? What has changed?

  I turn toward him and watch as he opens the door, hands the (empty? I think) brown box to the uniformed server standing in the hallway, signs a receipt, and pushes a food cart into the room. He then thanks the server and closes the door before turning around. He doesn’t even look at me as he pushes the food cart past me, directly over to the little bar in the corner of the room.

  What happened?

  I replay my conversation with Dr. Gabriel through my mind, wondering if I said something upsetting. But I really didn’t say much at all…

  I watch him as he stops the cart right beside the bar. He looks back in my direction. Well, almost in my direction. His eyes don’t quite meet mine. It’s like he’s looking at the air directly above my head.

  What is going on?

  I study his face. Crinkled forehead. Tense jaw. Pained eyes. He—

  He mumbles again. Quietly. Terribly quietly. Still not looking directly at me. “I’ve already had everything in this room sanitized. The bar, the desk, the floor, the door handles. Everything. Now the bed is ready, too. So, it’s, um, okay to use the furniture. And it’s okay to come over here to eat, if you’re ready.” He turns his head, his body, toward the bar. Then he begins to uncover the dishes on the food tray.

  Okay…I have no idea what’s going on. But I should probably start moving over there. Over to him. Now.

  One. Two. Three.

  I don’t move. I watch as he carries two dishes over to the bar. I don’t really see the dishes, though. I see his lower arms…the skin exposed by his rolled up sleeves.

  I see tension. Tense, rigid skin.

  My feet don’t move.

  He goes back over to the food cart and picks up two glasses of water. He places them on the bar.

  Tense and rigid. Tense and rigid. Tense and rigid.

  His back still to me, he mumbles once more. “Ready?”

  Okay.

  One. Two. Three.

  He sits down on a barstool, still without looking back at me.

  One. Two. Three.

  He just sits. No movement.

  One. Two. Three.

  Move, Callie.

  Somehow, my feet move, taking me to a barstool, to the seat just beside him…beside all of that despair. I place my purse on top of the bar beside me and climb onto the stool. Then I look straight down at the salad sitting in front of me and the packet of fat free dressing sitting beside it. Around three hundred and ten calories total.

  My stomach begins to gurgle, begging me to pick up my fork.

  I can’t yet, though.

  Without moving my head, I slide my eyes over to him…to see what he is doing.

  Nothing. He’s doing nothing. Not eating. Not moving.

  Talk, Callie. Talk.

  One. Two. Three. I push out a “thank you,” a scratchy, quiet “thank you.” He nods. But he doesn’t look at me. He picks up his fork and begins to eat his food. A large steak and fries.

  Frustrated, speechless, and, well, hungry, I look away and start to eat as well.

  Forks and knives clink against dishes. Our mouths make quiet chewing noises. Our food slowly disappears. We don’t talk. {A Great Big World and Christina A. come back in with “Say Something.” They sing the entire song at least six times. They—}

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him put his fork down beside his plate. I try to see more.

  There is nothing to see, though. He doesn’t move. He—

  He clears his throat. Then deep, almost inaudible words start coming out of him. “I can’t. It can’t—”

  He breaks off and there is silence. I don’t move. I freeze, looking down, still holding my fork. My chest tightens. My throat refuses to swallow. {A Great Big World and Christina sing their refrain. Again.}

  “It can’t always be this way. I can’t be everywhere. Things can’t always be fixed, and—” He breaks off again. In the silence, my mind flips back to the hospital—to me, all but unconscious, listening to him say goodbye.

  Is he doing it again? Is he leaving again?

  The tightness in my chest spreads to my shoulders…my neck…my cheeks.

  Don’t do this again. Please don’t do this again. Please don’t. I can’t handle—

  {A Great Big World and Christina get loud. Blaringly loud. So—}

  He inhales. “I tried to do this. To fix everything. Before.” His voice gets soft, really soft. “With Mom.”

  Oh—

  He clears his throat. But he doesn’t go on. I stare at my half-eaten salad. At the fork still clenched in my hand.

  Another throat clearing. Another inhale. “Doing things like I’m, like I’m doing for you…taking away OCD triggers…trying to create a perfect, clean environment—I did all of this before. And then some. For Mom. It didn’t work. It didn’t make her better.”

  He pauses again. I hear him swallow. Hard. He—

  He gets up, off of the barstool. My head moves as he moves, and I watch as he walks a few steps away from the bar. A few steps away from me. Then he stops, keeping his back to me. His body remains rigid. Tense. Miserable.

  He speaks. Quietly. But quickly. “I’m not always going to be able to do this. I can’t guarantee that there will always be sanitized bathrooms, and new bedding, and fresh out of the package medical instruments, and—”

  He stops. {Lorde slips in with “Royals.”} I watch the back of his head shake back and forth. He starts again. Slowly now. “I can’t protect you from everything.”

  I know that. I nod my head. I don’t know why, though. He can’t see it. If I—

  “But even if I could, it wouldn’t make you better.” He says it so quietly. He’s obviously thinking about his mom. Dwelling on those horrible little details about her that he hasn’t told me about yet.

  Well…maybe he doesn’t plan to ever tell me. It’s not like—

  Callie! Stop. Talk to him. Make him feel better.

  One. Two. Three. I take a quick breath in and open my mouth. “I—” I shut my mouth. I don’t know what to say. I can’t—

  Think, Callie. You have—

  “Callie.” He starts talking again. “You have to get help.”

  Talk, Callie. Talk.

  My body starts moving off of my stool before my mind realizes what it’s doing. My feet move me right up behind him, behind his back, and—

  And I know I need to talk…to say something to make this better. To make him feel better. To take his mind off of his mother. His mother who—

  CALLIE.

  One. Two. Three. My mouth opens. Whispers of words begin to come out. “I will get help, Dr. Bl—”

  “I don’t want to be your doctor.” He flings his body around as he cuts me off loudly, emphatic—

  Now he’s facing me. His eyes stare straight into mine. Three inches of air linger between us.

  I freeze.

  His eyes are full of complication. Full of sadness. Frustration.

  Desire.

  My stomach tightens. Aches.

  I. Cannot. Keep. Up. With. His. Emotions.

  I. Also. Cannot. Breathe.

  His lips open in a whisper. “I can’t be your doctor, Callie.”

  He stares at me. He looks—he looks like a lot of things. Like he can’t decide what he is going to do next. Like he might scream…or like he might cry…or like he might kiss—

  He shakes his head, shakes his eyes away from mine and walks away from me, over to the bed.

  I don’
t move. Or inhale.

  I wait.

  He doesn’t want to be my doctor. He can’t be my doctor. Does that mean—

  He shakes his dark head once again. He’s turning back around. Coming back toward me. His fiery eyes. His lips. His cologne. All coming back toward—

  He passes me. What the—

  He walks right past me and heads over to the bar. I watch as he picks up our plates, our utensils…everything, and puts it all back on the food cart.

  Then he stops. He freezes. His back to me once again, he speaks.

  “I have to go.”

  My legs go numb. So do my arms. A pang hits my stomach.

  He’s leaving again. He’s leaving me again. He’s leaving me alone. {Damien st—}

  He turns around again and begins to push the food cart. He pushes it right past me, heading toward the door.

  I can’t believe that this is—

  “I have to let you work now if you are going to get your article turned in on time.”

  Oh. He’s—he’s not leaving. He’s not going to—

  Now at the door, he speaks again as he shoves his shoes back on his feet. Back still to me. “Okay. I’ll be back later.” With that, he opens the door and pushes the food cart out into the hallway.

  The door clicks shut.

  I stand. And stand. And stand.

  Several counts of three later, I convince my legs to take me over to the bar to grab my purse. I walk over to the bed and sit down on top of the brand new comforter…the brand new sheets…the brand new everything. {Lorde sings. And sings. And sings.} A brand new place to sleep. That he made for me. {Lorde gets louder.} But he won’t always be able to do things like this for me.

  Because he wants me to get help. But he doesn’t want to be my doctor.

  What does he want, though?

  I think back to the words he wrote when we were on the plane…the fact that he ---- worries about me. But what does that—

  CALLIE. WORK. Article. Due. Soon.

  I pull my netbook and his yellow notebook out of my purse. I sit down on the bed. And I get to work. Sort of. I type a few sentences. Then I take a few minutes to wonder where he is right now…what he’s doing while I’m working (or am supposed to be working) on my article. Then I type a little more. Then I try to determine when he’ll come back…what he’ll say…what he’ll do. And then I type some more. Then I think about the closet and him and us and—