Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  Now it’s my turn to laugh as I head to the hallway closet for the Lysol. “That’s right, Mel.”

  “Fine. Mandy will just have to keep me posted.”

  Back to the towel by the front door. “I’m sure she will.” Shoe disinfecting. Shoe spraying. “Now go rest, Melanie.”

  “I’m going to. Thanks for taking care of Abby today.”

  “Of course.” Lysol back to hall closet. “Talk to you later. Bye.”

  “Bye, Callie.”

  I hang up and head back to the kitchen to wash my hands again. My eyes catch the time on the microwave clock. 9:27 a.m.

  I don’t have much time.

  Upstairs for an I’m bleeding extra bath (which is also a bath to wash off the experience I just had at his office, the experience I don’t even want to think about), some I’m bleeding extra lotion, and an I already picked off all of my nail polish today nail painting session.

  Jeans and another sweater on. Leaving-the-house routine. Black pumps back on.

  10:43 a.m. Off to class to write poetry about something stupid, no doubt.

  3:15 P.M. BACK HOME.

  Abby and I have been playing Barbies for an hour. Actually, Abby probably played with them while I was at class, so she’s been Barbie-playing for like three hours.

  I don’t blame her. Picking out outfits, dressing the perfectly shaped Barbie bodies, combing shiny, fake hair—it’s so mindless. So relaxing. Maybe I should get some of my own Barbies…

  We are currently getting our Barbies ready for a Miss America-style pageant. We each have three contestants to prep for the competition. The host and judge will be Dr. Ken, although I’m not quite sure who is in charge of voicing him yet. I don’t think that Abby has thought through the ethics of one of us, each responsible for three pageant contenders, voicing (and thinking for) the judge of the competition.

  I don’t have time to worry about that right now, though. I’ve got to get my girls in some swimsuits. And heels? I think so. I hope Abby has enough Barbie shoes to—

  My doorbell is ringing.

  I glance up at Abby, who is currently putting a redhead in a high ponytail. “It can’t be time for Daddy to pick me up already. We haven’t even started the pageant.” She looks panicked.

  “No, honey, it’s not going to be your daddy. He’s not coming until later tonight.” I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”

  Abby, relieved, goes back to creating a Barbie ponytail.

  I walk slowly out of my room, down the stairs, and toward the door. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. I try to convince myself that murderers do not traditionally ring doorbells.

  One. Two. Three. At the door.

  Okay. Peephole check time.

  One. Two. Three. Look while praying that no murderers—

  It’s not the murderers.

  It’s him.

  But we already had therapy today. And shouldn’t he be at work? And—

  And Oh my God. What if now is “some other time”? What if now is “soon”?

  Oh. My. God.

  What if Judy is out there too? What if—

  The doorbell rings again.

  Shit.

  Chapter 6

  day two and a half…or two and a third…or seven and a third

  NAIL PICKING. NAIL PICKING. NAIL—

  The doorbell rings. AGAIN. Third time. Damn it. Gotta open it before it rings a fourth time or else—

  CALLIE.

  Onetwothree. Open.

  Happy eyes. Casual. Jeans and a sweater. A big brown grocery bag in his arms.

  No one else around.

  “I am finished with my appointments for today. Ready for more therapy?”

  That depends. Do you have needles in your grocery bag? Do you—

  “Aunt Callie?” Abby. Shouting from upstairs.

  I turn away from him and his grocery needle bag, and I call up the stairs to Abby. “I’ll be up in a few minutes, Abby. Don’t start the pageant without me.”

  “Pageant?”

  My head spins back around at the sound of his low, quiet voice. And—

  And he’s staring right at me, his eyebrows raised in an amused question.

  I smile. “Yes, a pageant.”

  “Like with evening gowns and little bathing suits and—”

  I nod.

  His eyebrows get higher. “You are going to be putting on a skimpy bathing suit?” He smiles. “I’d like to stick around f—”

  “No. NO.” I shake my head, laughing. “Barbies. A Barbie pageant. Barbies in skimpy swimwear.”

  “Oh.” His nose scrunches up a little. “That’s too bad.” Hot. Hot burning eyes. Almost—

  “Aunt Callie?”

  One. Two. Three. I reluctantly tear my eyes away from him and turn my head toward the stairs, calling back to Abby. “I’ll be right there.”

  “I guess you can’t have a therapy session right now.”

  My head turns back to him. To his amused eyes. Nope. Sorry. Have a pageant to attend. So you can’t Mary Poppins any needles or…or Judy herself…out of that bag.

  I shake my head. “I guess you don’t want to stick around for our Barbie pageant?”

  He smiles. “Of course I do.” His shoulders shrug. “But I haven’t been invited in yet.”

  {Damien slowly—}

  Callie.

  Smile still on my face. “Oh, please do come in and join me upstairs.”

  “I’d love to join you upstairs.” Heated eyes again.

  My stomach starts to flutt—

  CALLIE. Abby. Is. Upstairs. Waiting for you.

  One. Two. Three. His eyes burn into mine.

  One. Two. Three. {Damien. Quiet. Longing.} My head gets fuzzy. Drunken fuzzy. Blurr—

  CALLIE!

  I rip my eyes away from his, stepping aside so he can come through the doorway. He steps in, still holding his mystery bag. I shut the door behind him as he slips off his shoes. Then, without touching him, without letting myself look at him—at the same time feeling his body moving behind me, feeling his eyes on the back of my head—I lead him upstairs…for a Barbie pageant.

  HE PLAYS BARBIES LIKE HE runs therapy sessions.

  Abby is letting him play Ken. Dr. Ken, the judge. And Dr. Ken has said “all right” and “okay” at least three million times already.

  But it’s still adorable. Charming.

  He’s sitting on the floor. Playing freaking Barbies. BARBIES.

  And he’s making Abby smile. She seems to really appreciate the fact that he’s taking his host job so seriously—introducing the contestants during each separate competition category, clapping after each talent performance, and even making up questions to ask the Barbies during the speaking portion of the pageant (Abby has watched the Miss America and Miss Universe pageants every year since she was born. She has them memorized, and she likes to keep her Barbie pageant events as authentic as possible).

  Now it’s time for a winner to be announced. Four girls remain. Two of my Barbies. Two of Abby’s Barbies. All four of them are wearing gowns and standing in a line, holding hands (with our help, of course).

  Dr. Ken is holding a silky sash (Melanie made it recently for pageant play), a Barbie-sized crown, and a little bouquet of tiny plastic flowers.

  “Okay, girls. The results are in.” Dr. Ken speaks, pretending, I guess, that he has a panel of judges in front of him to help choose a winner.

  Dr. Ken…no, the person voicing Dr. Ken, seems to know a decent amount about pageant protocol. I think that perhaps he’s watched one or two Miss Americas win the crown before. Maybe he watched with his moth—

  Callie! He’s gonna somehow know that you are thinking about her. He always knows. And then he—

  “The third runner up is…Miss Shadyside.” My leggy blonde. The first loser.

  He looks at me with apologetic eyes, as though he thinks that I’m going to be devastated if one of my Barbies doesn’t win the pageant.

  I roll my eyes. Then I h
elp my Barbie gracefully hug the remaining three girls before walking her off of our pageant stage (a long box covered with a pink pillowcase).

  “The second runner up is…Miss Penn Hills.” Abby’s redhead with the high ponytail. Abby makes a little shocked face, but she doesn’t voice her disappointment. She knows that her voice is her redheaded Barbie’s voice, and she likes her Barbies to be good losers. (Melanie has clearly taught her this during the many times they’ve played Abby’s Pittsburgh-themed Barbie pageants at home). Abby helps her Barbie hug the remaining two contestants before she walks her off of the stage.

  Two to go.

  My last Barbie, the black-haired Miss Oakland, turns to clasp both hands with Abby’s brunette Miss South Side.

  I sneak a glance beside me at Abby. She is looking anxiously across the stage at him, the person she entrusted with the crucial job of pageant judge. She looks nervous, really nervous. Her top teeth bite her bottom lip. She uses the hand not holding up her brunette contestant to mindlessly twirl her hair.

  She doesn’t trust that she’ll win. That he’ll pick her Barbie.

  I trust it. Trust him.

  He wouldn’t purposefully break this little girl’s heart. I know he—

  “And now, the winner of a sash, some flowers, and this crown…our new Miss Pittsburgh is…”

  I glance over at him during his pause. And he—he’s looking at Abby.

  “Miss South Side.” His face, still looking at Abby, breaks out into a gigantic smile.

  I turn back to see Abby. She beams back at him for a few seconds before making Miss South Side jump up and down. I have Miss Oakland quickly give Abby’s Barbie a hug and then make her hurry off the stage so Ab—um, Miss South Side—can have her moment.

  Ken walks over to crown Abby’s Barbie. He gets the sash over the Barbie’s purple gown, the flowers in her arms, and the tiny crown on her head. He then walks off the stage so Miss South Side can walk around and wave all by herself.

  I start to clap as Abby struts her Barbie around the stage. He claps too, and—

  And he’s looking at me now. Relaxed face. Amused eyes. Happy mouth.

  {David Cassidy and the rest of The Partridge Family slowly, quietly bring in the refrain of “I Think I Love You.”}

  This must be what normal people experience all of the time. Calm, quiet moments. Content moments. Not crazytown, nail picking, purse-throwing-out, head pounding moments of insanity. Not—

  “What’s in your bag?” Abby’s voice breaks my thoughts, but doesn’t really break the calmness of the moment. {Nor does it break off David Cassidy’s singing.}

  We both turn to look back at Abby, who is staring at the brown grocery bag sitting beside my bedroom door.

  “Oh,” he begins. “Well, I brought some things over to do an, ah, an activity with, um, Aunt Callie.”

  “Like an art project?” Abby puts Miss South Side down on the stage, clearly ready for a new activity.

  But not THIS activity, Abby. Not HIS activity. My stomach starts to cramp up. {David Cassidy starts to sing at a warpy, trippy…disturbing speed.}

  I mentally plead with Abby to stop talking about the brown grocery needle bag as he begins to laugh.

  “Well, sort of like an art project, but an outside project.”

  Outside? I don’t think he’d draw my blood outside. Too dirty. Too unsanitary.

  {David slows back down to a normal speed.} My stomach calms down for a second. A second only.

  Because if it’s not blood work…if he’s not here to take my blood, then he just must have some other awful therapy activity planned for me. Collecting mouse crap. Scraping gum off of park benches. Picking up trash along the highway. Or something equally nefarious.

  Stomach gurgling. Head fuzzing. {Cassidy flailing arou—}

  “Can I do the project too?”

  No, Abby. No. No. NO. You don’t—

  “Well, only if your aunt says it’s okay.”

  This is madness. Utter madness. And I don’t know how to make it stop. I don’t—

  “Can I, Callie? Please?”

  Abby, you have no idea what you are saying. You aren’t going to like—

  “Maybe I should show the project to Callie before she decides.”

  Great. Now he’s standing up and walking over to the bag. With Abby following him. And there is nothing I can do to stop this and make it all—

  “Here it is.”

  Only I can’t see what it is because Abby is now standing in front of him, in front of the “project.”

  “What is that?” Abby’s sweet little voice. An innocent voice, a trusting—

  “It’s a mum.”

  “A mum?” Abby says exactly what I’m thinking.

  “Yes. It’s a plant that’s pretty popular during this time of year.”

  It is. And I like mums. But what are we going to do with it? Give it to a homeless person standing in the street, holding up a sign telling that he or she is infected with—

  He continues. “I thought we could plant it.”

  Plant it? Put it in the ground?

  That’s it?

  I mean, it’s not like I want to dig around in the dirt or anything, but it could be so much worse. Dirt isn’t…wasn’t…even on my list of “dirty” things that I sent him forever ago.

  It’s not that I like dirt. I just like it three hundred billion thousand more times than I like blood.

  “So what do you think?”

  I can’t see him. He’s bending down, and Abby is still in front of him. So I don’t know who he’s talking to—her or me.

  Abby doesn’t answer, though. So I probably should.

  And I don’t want to hurt his feelings. And I did say that I would do my best at this therapy stuff. AND I don’t want him to think of another, no doubt worse, afternoon therapy activity.

  But I don’t really want to be messing around with dirt eith—

  Abby’s little body slowly turns around. Turns. Turns. Turns. Turns until she is facing me.

  Her eyes have dread in them. Her little nose is all scrunched up. {Sam Smith pushes David Cassidy aside with “I’m Not the Only One.”}

  Shit. I’m supposed to be the adult here. The role model. The decision maker. Probably the unafraid one.

  This responsible adult stuff is no joke.

  I’m pretty sure if a kid is scared of something, the parent or guardian…or aunt…is supposed to show said kid that there is nothing to be afraid of…not supposed to say that she’s afraid too…

  Shit again. Shitshitshitshitshitshi—

  One. Two. Three.

  One. Two. Three.

  Ooonnneee. Tttwwwooo. Ttthhhrrreeeeee.

  Look at Abby. Mouth open. “Don’t worry, Abby. It will be—”

  What am I saying? What is this crazy talk coming out of—

  “I did bring latex gloves, Callie.”

  He did? I look over at him. Reassuring, patient eyes. Of course he did. He brought gloves.

  We can do this.

  I glance back at Abby, who looks like she’s going to cry.

  Well, I can do this. I think.

  One. Two. Three.

  “Come on, Abby. It will be okay.” I stand up and go over to her, running my fingers through her little blonde curls. “You only have to help me if you feel up to it.”

  Her little arm goes around my waist. In relief? For protection?

  I wait for her to say that she just doesn’t want to do the activity at all. To say that she wants to play Barbies again or eat a snack or something. But she says nothing.

  She probably thinks she’ll hurt his feelings if she says she doesn’t want to do his activity. And Melanie is always telling her that she should never hurt her friends’ feelings.

  So she’s going to participate in his therapy…or at least watch his therapy…so as not to upset him.

  Hmm…sounds familiar. {Sam Smith blasts out his refrain.} Melanie would be so prou—

  “Ready?” He’s standing
by my bedroom door, holding his grocery bag—the one that apparently isn’t holding any needles.

  No. No. No. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

  Abby’s little hand finds my fingers. She holds them. Squeezes them.

  My mouth opens. “Let’s go.”

  Abby and I float down the stairs behind him, holding hands. His bag makes crunching sounds as we move. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The sunlight beats in from a downstairs window. Beaming. Beaming. Beaming.

  I am about to touch dirt. Gross. Gross. Gross.

  We reach the bottom of the stairs. He leads us right to my shoe towel. Three pairs of shoes sit on top of it. His brown shoes. Abby’s pink sneakers. My…black pumps. Not really gardening shoes.

  Is it even called gardening when you plant a flower and not something you are going to eat…like tomatoes or, I don’t know, some—

  CALLIE!

  He is slipping his shoes on. Abby is standing beside me, waiting for me to make the next move.

  And I don’t really have next move options. I have a pair of sneakers upstairs. But they are white. Clean and shiny and white. They don’t belong in the dir—

  “Hey.”

  I look up, up from my shoe towel, at the sound of his voice. His eyes are calm.

  “Stop freaking out.” He looks down and reaches his hand into the grocery bag. Crinkle crinkle crunch.

  My eyes follow his movement, follow his hands as they pull out…black sneakers. Brand new black sneakers, no doubt. Sneakers that look like they’ll fit my feet—which means that he somehow used his mind-reading superhero powers to read the size number on the inside of one of my shoes or that—

  “Mandy.” He explains simply. Answers my unspoken question. He called Mandy. Of course he—

  “She told me about your shiny white sneakers. They didn’t sound like gardening sneakers.”

  Gardening sneakers. Planting flowers must still count as gardening. Doesn’t matter…no matter what he wants to call what we are about to do, these sneakers are going to get filth—

  He continues to talk as he holds the sneakers out to me. “Don’t worry about these. They were cheap. You can throw them out afterward if you want.”

  Does he ever NOT know everything? Does he—