My limbs, no, my whole body starts to lose its numbness. Its natural anesthesia. Everything starts shivering, beating, feeling.
Feeling. Realizing. Understanding.
Thoughts…memories…hammering through my head.
Stomach aching. Throbbing.
Face. Wet. Soaking wet. Silk pajamas wet too.
My body slides to the floor in front of the hamper.
It’s over. It’s really over. And I can’t—
I can’t do this. I can’t take this.
I can’t feel this.
I’ll take numb over this. Nothingness over this.
One.
One. One. One.
Two.
Two. Two. Two.
Three.
Three. Three. Three.
I move…slide…crawl…over to my closet, the silk pajamas still in my hand. In my hand, but far away from my face.
Closet door open. Piles and piles of shoe boxes stacked on the floor in uniform rows.
I grab the first one that I can, the black one at the top of the first pile.
I tear off the lid and dump the shoes inside on the floor. Two light pink pumps abandoned on the ground. Tiny purple silk pajamas, top and bottom, flung into the box. As many memories…and thoughts…and hopes…as a box can hold thrown in there too.
I shove the lid back on the box and cram the box into a back corner of the closet. Behind other shoe boxes. Not visible unless someone is looking for it.
And no one should be looking for it.
Closet door closed.
My body raises itself from the floor. My hand wipes itself over my face, drying my chin, my cheeks, my eyes.
My feet take me back to bed.
But not to sleep.
Chapter 10
not day five (not day ten)
FRIDAY. 7:30 A.M.
I’ve been here, in bed, for hours.
Not moving.
Not shaking. Not throwing up. Not crying.
Not tired, but not really awake.
Not. Really. Anything.
I have to get up soon. I have to do my morning routine and leaving-the-house routine, and I have to get ready for class. Dr. Gabriel is going to introduce me to his class today.
I don’t even care.
I. Just. Don’t. Care.
{Pink Floyd sings “Comfortably Numb.” It’s been playing all night. But it’s not accurate. I’m not comfortable. At all. Comfortable implies relaxed. Comfortable implies at ease. Comfortable implies content.}
My body gets out of bed. Goes through the motions of my morning and leaving-the-house routines. Gets into my car. Goes to campus.
My legs stand me up when Dr. Gabriel says my name, when he identifies me as the person who will soon be teaching his class. My head nods in acknowledgement.
Yes. I heard you say my name. Yes. I’m going to teach your class. No. I don’t care.
When class ends, I leave, drift out of the classroom before Dr. Gabriel can even put his lecture notes away in his briefcase.
I float to my car. Drive. Make it back to my house.
3:42 P.M. IN BED AGAIN.
Existing. Being. Nothing else.
{Uncle Kracker and Dobie Gray. “Drift Away.” Far, far, far away.}
STAIRS CREAKING. FEET WALKING.
“Callie?”
Melanie’s voice. In my room.
“Are you coming down for Girls’ Night?”
Girls’ Night. Friday night. Must be around 8:00 p.m.
It doesn’t matter.
I don’t say anything. My head doesn’t shake or nod.
The blanket, my comforter, is being lifted off of me. Melanie’s arms pull me out of bed and lead me downstairs.
ON THE COUCH. BODY PRESSED against the cushions. Eyes closed.
Friends is on. Season 2? Or 8? Maybe 5?
I don’t know. I’m not watching. I’m not listening.
Mandy and Melanie’s voices occasionally waft through the air. I can’t quite catch what they are talking about. Their voices are too low. Too soft. That, and I’m not really trying to hear them. It doesn’t matter what they are—
A body sits beside me on the couch. Right by my stomach. It must be—
“Callie? You want a margarita?” Mandy.
My head shakes back and forth a tiny bit. No. No, I don’t want a margarita. I don’t want to have to sit up to drink it. I don’t want to have to hold a glass in my hands, to have to lift a glass up to my lips.
Plus, I haven’t eaten anything in…well, in a long time.
Drinking doesn’t seem like a great idea.
Mandy’s body slips away from mine, off of the couch.
My sisters’ low voices start making noise again. They blend in with Rachel and Ross and Joey and all of the other “friends.”
A bunch of words. A bunch of talking.
I hear all and none of it.
A BODY SITS BESIDE ME again. I don’t know how long it’s been since the last time. I don’t know what time it is now…or was then.
“Callie?” Melanie this time. Her hand pushes away pieces of my hair that are splattered against my forehead. Just like what Mom would’ve done if she—
“What happened, Callie? What—”
My head shakes back and forth, cutting her off.
What did happen?
Everything ended. Just like before. It ended. It ended. It—
Except…except he didn’t leave this time. This time, he drove me home. He helped me leave this ti—
“Callie?” Melanie is waiting. Hand still brushing back my hair.
Words drop out of my mouth. “It’s over.” A simple explanation. Simple summary of what—
“Who ended it?”
Who ended it? Did I end it?
I left. But he drove me home. He helped me leave. So who is respons—
“Callie?” My sister, the lawyer. Not giving up.
More words. Concise account of events. “Me? Him?” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Who said it? Who said that it was over?”
No one said that, Melanie. I’m saying that now. Because it is. Because it—
“What did he say to you, Callie?”
He didn’t say much. What did he say? He…He—
“He told me that he loves me.”
He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. Or he did.
Does he still? Can he possibly—
“But how does that—” She stops and starts again. “Why did he—”
Flustered. Melanie’s flustered. Her hand pauses in my hair. “Well,” she tries again. “What did you say to him?”
What didn’t I say? I said everything. Everything I’ve been holding back for weeks.
His eyes, his bruised eyes, appear in my head. {Tiffany comes back in with—}
“Callie.”
I shake my head, eyes still closed. My eyes. Watery now at the corners. Mouth open. “I—I just freaked out about everything.”
“And then you left?”
My head nods. And nods. And nods.
Not just watery eyes anymore. Watery face.
Melanie’s hands travel quickly from my hair to my cheeks, wiping away my—
“But why, Callie? Don’t you feel the same way?”
I nod. And nod and nod. Face and hair and pillow getting wetter and wetter. Throat dry. Head spinning.
Of course I feel the same way. Of course I—
“Why then, Callie?”
I just shake my head. Emphatically. I can’t talk. And I wouldn’t be able to explain everything even if I could find a way to calm myself down enough to speak right now. It’s too much. Too complicated.
Too exhausting.
Melanie seems to get that. Her hand finishes wiping off my face, and it goes back to my hair. She brushes her fingers over and over and over and over and—
Chapter 11
weekend
I WAKE UP TO A wet pillow. The Friends DVD menu screen. The sun.
The sun? What
the—
I slept through my night routine. Right through it.
I glance over at the loveseat. Empty. I slept through Melanie going home. I slept through—
I hear a crinkling beside me as I move my head around. I reach up and grab—grab a piece of paper beside my pillow. I hold the paper up in front of my eyes.
Callie,
I have to head home to take Abby to a birthday party. I didn’t want to wake you up. But I’m really worried about you.
I’ll call later.
Love,
Melanie
Folding up Melanie’s note, I glance over at the clock on the cable box. 8:42 a.m.
I have to get moving.
Drifting. Floating. Existing.
Night routine. Latest (or earliest?) night routine ever. Extra last day of period shower. Morning routine. Extra bath. Leaving-the-house routine.
3:45 p.m. Leave for confession.
4:02 p.m. In the confessional.
Father Patrick looks concerned. Really concerned.
Because of how upset I was a week ago when he found me…us…at church late in the evening (was that really only a week ago)?
Because my confessed sins—my lying, my causing pain, my total lack of concern for the feelings of others—are so bad that there is no penance large enough to help me atone?
Because I look that awful?
I don’t know. He doesn’t say. He does let me off with a rather small penance, though (only a Hail Mary and a Glory Be—I say them each nine times), so he must not feel that my soul is in too much jeopardy. Or else, I guess, maybe he just thinks my chance of salvation, my whole soul situation, is completely hopeless. Helpless.
He’s probably right. Sounds like me.
Hopeless. Helpless. Emotionless. Motivation-less. Plan-less. Feeling-less. {Not song-less. Damien’s here.}
I go home. And I bathe.
And I fall back into my bed. And stare at the ceiling.
5:15 P.M. MY PHONE RINGS.
What if it’s hi—
It’s not. It’s Melanie. I answer. “Hey, Mel.”
“How are you, Callie?”
“Okay. Fine, Mel. Fine.” Lies, Mel. Lies.
She clears her throat and pauses heavily. She is about to say something uncomfortable, I’m—
“Do you think you should call him?”
What? Why? Why would I—
“Callie, maybe he—”
“I’m not calling him. And I don’t want to talk about him. At all.”
Silence on the other line.
“I’m sorry, Melanie.” I’m not trying to upset you. I’m not trying to be mean. Or abrupt. Or ungrateful.
I. Just. Don’t. Want. To. Talk. About. Him. Or think about him. Or—
“It’s okay, Callie. It’s okay. I’m here when you are ready to talk, though.”
“I know, Mel. Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
Will I ever be ready, though? What is the point of talking about—
“I’ll talk to you soon, Callie.”
“Thanks, Mel. Bye.”
We hang up.
Back to staring at the ceiling.
7:33 P.M.
Phone again.
Maybe it’s—
Mom and Dad. It’s Mom and Dad.
I answer. “Hello.”
“Hi, Callie.” Mom.
“Hey, Cal.” Dad.
“How are you doing?” Mom.
Melanie has talked to them. I can tell. She obviously told them not to mention anything—not to mention him. Thanks, Mel.
“I’m fine, Mom. Just tired.” Lies. Not fine. Not tired.
“Do you want to come for dinner tomorrow night? Your mother and I can cancel—”
“No, Dad. You and Mom go to your neighborhood party thing. I have a lot of schoolwork to do anyway.” That’s actually true. I said something that is true. I have done no schoolwork since Thursday.
Silence on the other end of the phone. Just breathing.
Awkward.
I’m sorry that I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—
“Okay, we’ll let you go get some work done then.” Mom. “We love you, Callie.”
“I love you guys too.”
“Good night, Cal.”
“Night, Dad. Night, Mom.”
Phone down.
Staring again. Staring at the clock. Staring at the ceiling.
{Listening to something. It doesn’t even matter what.}
9:02 P.M.
“Callie?”
Mandy’s here. Standing over my bed.
I nod my head to acknowledge that I know she’s here. That I see her. That I hear her.
“I’m just hanging out at home tonight. Want to watch a movie or something?”
Melanie made her stay home. Or Mom did.
That’s not fair. It’s really—
“Or I can stay in here if you—”
“No, Mandy. You should go out. Don’t worry about me. I have a lot of stuff to do.” Like counting the particles in the air between the ceiling and me.
“Oh, nah, I don’t feel like going out. I’ll just be in my room if you need me.” She sounds worried. So worried.
I’m sorry, Mandy. I’m sorry, Mandy. I’m sorry, Mandy.
She leaves. Back to silence.
Dark silence. It’s getting late.
My body seems to acknowledge the time, the lateness. My feet slide out of my bed. They move around, pushing me aimlessly through my night routine.
12:20 A.M.
Back in bed.
Back to nothing.
6:14 A.M. SUNDAY MORNING.
I guess I should get up now.
I should’ve gotten up hours ago. No point in just being here, in bed. Not sleeping. Not doing anything.
No point in getting up, though, either.
But you have church, Callie. Church. You have to go. You still have to look out for your soul.
My feet slide out of the covers, hitting the floor.
Morning routine. Leaving-the-house routine. Church. Home.
2:20 P.M.
Heart of Darkness paper writing.
Wondering about my own “Heart of Darkness”…but that’s not accurate, is it?
Maybe Heart of Emptiness. Loneliness. Nothingness.
Mandy, on the other hand, seems to have a heart of pissed-off-ed-ness. Josh apparently screwed up twice this week. First, Mandy must’ve caught him lying a few days ago about somewhere he went and who he went with. Then he apparently forgot some anniversary of theirs that should’ve been celebrated yesterday—I think the anniversary of when they first went on a date.
Mandy didn’t tell me about all of this. Or any of this. But I heard her yelling on the phone late last night. It wasn’t a long conversation. But it was a fiery one. And a LOUD one. I’m pretty sure it ended with Mandy hanging up on him.
Mandy hasn’t said anything to me about it. She doesn’t say much to me—she just asks me how I’m doing on a somewhat regular basis. She’s come in here three times this afternoon already, just for quick check-ins.
Maybe that’s what Melanie told her to do. Maybe that’s all she’s supposed to do. I’m sure that Melanie made rules for the family, guidelines to follow when talking to me right now. Maybe Mandy isn’t allowed to tell me about Josh.
Or…maybe she’s not ready to talk about it yet.
And that’s fair.
Back to paper writing.
Thinking about anniversaries. First dates. What day would even count as my first date with Dr. Blake? When he took my blood pressure? When he taught me relaxation techniques? At the movie? At the bar? Or—
Doesn’t matter now, Callie.
It. Doesn’t. Matter.
I finish my paper. Try to eat a little dinner. Some yogurt and a granola bar. Not many calories. Less than usual. I never went to the grocery store last week. So there isn’t much to eat here. But it doesn’t matter. I’m really not hungry.
Answer some ch
ecking-in texts from Mom and Dad. They don’t ask much. I don’t say much.
Melanie doesn’t text. She contacts me through Words with Friends. She plays a word (that scores her like thirty thousand points) and writes a quick message, asking how my day is going.
My day is going. Just going. Just moving along. Life moving along. Life is moving along.
I don’t write that, any of that, to Melanie—that will get me back on family suicide watch for sure.
I write back with one word.
Well.
And it’s not a complete lie. It’s not.
I haven’t gotten a call telling me that one of my family members has gotten into a car crash today. No one has been diagnosed with a horrible disease today. Melanie isn’t bleeding again today. Today Abby wasn’t told that she is failing first grade.
Nothing bad happened today. Today.
So I’m not lying.
Send message.
My eyes glance at my other Words with Friends game. The one with him. The one that will probably just terminate eventually because no one is going to play any more words.
There are no more words. Not in Words with Friends. Not in texts or emails (I’ve checked—no emails from him. No anything from him). Not on the phone. Not in person. No more.
{Damien starts to—}
No, Callie. No.
Night routine time.
Checking and cleaning and showering and everything. Staying far away from my closet…from the box inside. But I can’t stay away from thinking about it. Thinking about the box. Thinking about—
CALLIE!
Television on. Mahi-mahi tonight.
Bed. Lying in bed.
Hoping to fall asleep. Hoping to dream—to dream myself to a place where everything really is well.
Chapter 12
not day six…or eleven
5:58 A.M. MONDAY MORNING.
My stomach wakes me up before my alarm rings. I guess it’s hungry.
I don’t feel like eating though.
I don’t feel like doing anything.
Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) Page 12
