Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  I shake my head slowly. “I can’t believe…” I can’t believe that the silence is…was…all because of me. I can’t—

  He nods his head. And he continues. “I also tried to create silence at the office during your appointments. Annie plays music periodically in the waiting room, so I asked her to make sure not to have it on right before, during, and right after your scheduled appointments. I also had her take the little bell off of the main office door. I removed any extra sounds that might distract you and then affect the music in your head, might affect my study of that music during the times I observed you in the waiting room.”

  He stares at me, waiting for a response, I guess. I don’t have one yet.

  He created the silence for me. Because of me. Not because—

  Wait.

  Why did the nurses say what they did? They said that he stopped listening after his mother died, not after he met me.

  My eyebrows scrunch up. “But the nurses in the hospital said that you stopped—”

  “Stopped listening to music?” His eyes get serious. More serious. Sad.

  CALLIE. You shouldn’t—

  “I did. Right after Mom died, I did. That’s true. The nurses were right. Were right. Right for a period of time.” He shakes his head. “But you can’t, I couldn’t, completely avoid music. And I like music.” He smiles and now scrunches up his own eyebrows. “Wait—you thought that I never listened to the radio, to music? For all of these years?”

  Um…yes.

  I shrug. “Well, yeah. With the silence in the car and with what the nurses said and—and, wait. What about the piano?” The words just fly out.

  His eyes get sadder.

  I look down. Freaking Callie. Seriously? Bringing up the piano? You are—

  “That was different.” Quiet. “Mom taught me how to play.” He pauses. He’s even more quiet now. “And it was piano music that was stuck in her head at the, at the end.” Another pause. “So I didn’t play for a long time, not until, well until you asked me to.”

  Silence. I keep looking down. Keep berating myself. Keep—

  “But I’m glad that you asked me to play.”

  What? Head back up.

  He’s nodding. Still serious. Sad. Pensive. “I had to start again at some point. I should’ve done it a long time ago. If a patient had been in my situation, I would’ve advised him or her to play as soon as possible. To help the healing.” He stops nodding. “I think it was worse before you had me play, when I would try not to look at the piano. Try to pretend that it didn’t exist. It took so much energy to avoid it.” He smiles. Still sad, but smiling.

  “And it felt good to play. It felt right. I’ve even played since.” He coughs and shakes his head. Shakes most of the sadness out of his eyes.

  “Thanks for my gift. I will get some music on it soon.” He puts the iPod box down on the other side of him. “Now it’s time for your gift.” He picks up the impeccably wrapped, large box and places it on my lap. “I have to confess that I had some help picking this out and, obviously, a lot of help with wrapping it. But the idea was all mine.”

  As I start to remove the ribbon, he continues to talk. “Mandy helped me pick this out, and Melanie wrapped it for me. Mandy said that Melanie would do a better wrapping job than she would.”

  Leaving the shopping up to Mandy and the wrapping up to Mel. Sounds about right.

  Ribbon off. Paper off.

  Lid off. Tissue paper pushed back to reveal—

  To reveal a brand new purse. Black. Leather. Silver hardware.

  Beautiful. Just beautiful.

  I pick it up, out of the box, and smile over at him. “Thank you. I love it.”

  His shoulders raise in a shrug. His eyes gleam. “I don’t know why, but I had this feeling that you might be running low on purses.”

  THREE HOURS LATER

  In the car. He is driving me home so that I can get ready for tonight’s family dinner, and—

  And he just turned music on! There is music on in his car.

  Not music from his iPod—he doesn’t have that ready yet. But he turned the radio on. HE TURNED THE RADIO ON.

  I don’t know the song that is currently playing, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

  The radio is on. That is the point.

  {And in my head radio, John Lennon is still singing. Which makes sense. It is still Christmas, after all.}

  THREE HOURS AFTER THAT

  It’s 3:00 p.m. We aren’t leaving for Mom and Dad’s house until 5:00 p.m.

  I have some extra time. Some downtime.

  I already did my ever-shrinking morning routine, and I wrapped all of my presents for tonight (most of which are for Abby).

  So, now I’m going to take a nap.

  TV on. Holiday meals being cooked.

  Head on couch pillow.

  {John Lennon still singing.}

  THREE HOURS AND THIRTY MINUTES LATER

  Christmas dinner.

  All of us are sitting at my parents’ dining room table. Mom and Dad. Melanie and Doug and Abby. Jared and Holly. Mandy.

  And him. Sitting right beside me. Eating and talking and laughing and—

  And fitting right in.

  Everything is calm. Everyone is here.

  Happy. Healthy. Here.

  Perfect.

  THREE DAYS LATER

  I just got a text.

  I put music on my iPod this morning. I’m going to use it in my car when I go to work.

  Just like that.

  Like. It’s. No. Big. Deal.

  THREE + THREE + THREE DAYS LATER

  He wants me to eat syrup. Today.

  He thinks that now is a good time. Because the holidays are over. Because my new semester starts next week and I’ll have a lot to do. Because I only have two therapy activities that I haven’t completed. And he wants me to complete them.

  So he let me pick. Syrup or blood work.

  So I’m going to eat syrup today. Obviously.

  And it’s time. Right now.

  I’m sitting at the table in his immaculate kitchen. The smell of pancakes is in the air. The smell of small pancakes, because I insisted that they be small. I’m not wasting all kinds of calories for this. I wish he’d just make frozen pancakes, ones that come from a box that a person can consult to determine a calorie count. This would be especially nice on a day that the aforementioned pancake-eating person is also being required to consume several unwanted calories of syrup. Serious—

  He is in front of me now, standing across from me at the table. Holding two plates.

  Fabulous.

  He sits down and hands me a plate. A plate of lots of sticky calories.

  Just freaking fabulous.

  I take the plate and place it in front of me.

  “I already put syrup on your pancake—exactly one serving of syrup, so you know your calorie count.”

  Well, that is nice at least. Except he doesn’t know that I don’t actually intend to eat all of the syrup on my plate. I’m only going to eat enough to be able to say that I tried it. I—

  Ugh. Great. He’s watching me. Not eating his own food. Waiting.

  Okay. One. Two. Three. I pick up my fork. I use the side of the fork to cut off a small piece of my pancake, my pancake with gross, oozy syrup all over it.

  He’s still watching me.

  Ugh.

  One. Two. Three. I put a bite into my mouth.

  And…and it tastes okay. Warm. Mapley. Just like I remember it tasting when I was small and Mom put it on my pancakes once (once only—I told her that I wanted plain, dry pancakes after that).

  The syrup tastes fine.

  But it feels awful. Gooey. Drizzly. Sticky.

  Disgusting. Not something I want in my mouth.

  {The Ghostbusters theme song starts in my head. Because the syrup feels like slime. It feels like I’m eating slime. I think it does, anyway. I’ve never actually eaten slime. Obviously.}

  “Now, do you wan
t to go through your odds of—”

  I swallow quickly.

  I swallowed. I actually did it. No time for celebrating, though.

  I cut him off. “I’m not afraid of getting a disease from syrup or anything. I just don’t like the feel of it. The stickiness of it. So I don’t want to eat it. And I don’t want to have to clean it off of dishes or silverware.”

  He’s nodding. “Okay. All right.”

  Okay. Okay. All right. All right. Oka—

  “So one of your worst case scenarios would come into play if syrup was spilled somewhere and you had to clean it up?”

  I nod, putting down my fork. “Yes—especially if it ended up in a place where I might not be able to clean it adequately. Like if someone spilled it on my carpet.”

  He takes a bite of his food and swallows.

  {Akinyele starts singing “Put It in Your Mou—” Gross, Callie. Just gross.}

  “So if you were to somehow get syrup on your carpet, what would your worst case scenario be? What would you—”

  “I won’t get syrup on my carpet. I don’t use it. I won’t use it.”

  He swallows another bite. “But what if someone else spills it accidentally in your house?”

  Why would someone have syrup in my house? I have made it very clear that I don’t want it there. And, on top of that, it’s not like I’m going to cook pancakes for anyone. I don’t think Mandy would either. So there would be no—

  He smiles. “Just pretend, Callie. Pretend syrup isn’t outlawed from your house. Pretend that people actually cook in your house. Pretend that Abby puts syrup on her pancakes and accidentally spills some.”

  I highly doubt that Abby would even want to use syr—

  “Pretend, Callie.”

  UGH. Fine.

  He continues to eat, and I…I think…pretend…out loud. “Okay. There is syrup on my carpet. In my carpet. I put on gloves and try to get it out, but it doesn’t fully go away.”

  He nods again. “Yes—so what do you do? Worst case scenario?”

  “I—” Hmm… “I take out a loan and buy all new carpet.” I smile as I say it, because it sounds so absur—

  He’s nodding even more. “Yes, Callie. That’s good.”

  What? It is?

  “As I told you before when we were at the gas station, your worst case scenario plan can be extreme. If an extreme idea is what is needed to make you feel better in the moment when you are facing one of your fears, then that is what you should be thinking about.

  “If the situation you fear really happens, you might not end up going through with that worst case scenario plan. If you end up with syrup on your carpet, you might find that you can just maybe hire a professional carpet cleaner. Or you might end up buying an area rug to cover the affected area. Or, maybe you would find a way to deal with the spot being on your carpet.”

  What? My nose scrunches up. My head shakes.

  He laughs. “Calm down, Callie. I said ‘maybe.’” He fixes another forkful of food. “And maybe you would actually end up getting all new carpet. Maybe you would actually go with your worst case scenario plan. But you won’t know for sure unless it happens.”

  But it’s not going to happen. The syrup ban in my house stays.

  He swallows another bite. “But your worst case scenario plan should empower you, make you feel like you have some control over the situation, and just in general help you get through the heat of whatever circumstance you find yourself in.”

  He continues to eat. Smiling. Pleased with my session, our session, I guess.

  I’m pleased too. My Day Eleven session is done.

  Only one more session to go. One suckful, treacherous, impossible activity to go…

  THREE + THREE HOURS LATER

  Buzz.

  I put down the pink towels I just folded, and I pick up the phone beside me on the floor.

  One text from Melanie. Open.

  Just got back from Abby’s therapy appointment. The doctor asked a lot of questions. Abby answered some, and I answered some. The doctor seems to be good with kids. Very patient. Also very bubbly. I think Abby likes her. I hope so, because we are supposed to go for a session every week.

  Reply.

  I’m so glad that it went well—and that she’ll be going to appointments regularly. It’s nice that she likes her doctor.

  Send.

  Back to organizing the linen closet. On to the purple towels. Refolding each—

  Buzz.

  Another text from Melanie. Open.

  Not like you like your doctor.

  Reply.

  Shut up, Mel :)

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  I’m back in his office. Back in my chair.

  Ready for blood work. Well, not ready for blood work. Never ready for blood work.

  Never. Never. Never.

  But he wants me to try. He thinks I’m ready to try. And, for some reason, I am going along with it. I am trying.

  He’s here. Beside me. Holding my hand.

  Judy is here too. Freaking Judy.

  She’s busy pulling stuff out of her bag. She’s probably pulling out all of her super scary supplies.

  I don’t know what she’s pulling out. Because I’m not looking.

  Nothing good can come of that. Because if I see how many tubes of—

  CALLIE. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. STOP THINKING ABOUT IT.

  I close my eyes, wishing that I hadn’t picked off all of my nail polish in the car on the way here.

  But it doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t be able to pick at your nails while she takes your—

  My body starts to tense up, and—

  I bounce my legs up and down. Feet going up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

  Stop getting tense, Callie.

  BOUNCE. BOUNCE. BOUNCE. {Some sort of dance party beat fills my head.}

  I squeeze his hand. I focus on my bouncing. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and—

  “I’m ready, honey. I’m just going to roll up your sleeve.”

  Bouncing legs. Bouncing legs. Bouncing legs.

  She’s turning my arm over. Rolling up my sleeve. Tying that awful tourni—

  CALLIE!

  Bouncing and bouncing and—

  A hand is on my knee, on my nyloned knee.

  His hand.

  I guess I have to stop bouncing now.

  Okay. Okay. Okay.

  I press my feet against the floor. Pressing. Pressing. Pressing.

  So much pressure on my arm. So much—

  Stop, Callie.

  Feet pushing down. Feet pushing down. Feet pushing down.

  Squeezing his hand. Squeezing his hand. Squeezing his hand.

  He’s going to take my diseases if the needle is dir—

  CALLIE. No thinking about dirty needles. No dirty needles. No dirty needles. No—

  “Okay, you are going to feel a little pinch.”

  Shh. Shh. Shh, Judy. Don’t say that. Don’t—

  Pinch.

  Okay. It’s in. It’s in. It’s—

  {Dead or Alive. “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record).” Spinning around and around and around.}

  Dizziness behind my closed eyes. Dryness in my throat. Lightheadedness. Lack of breath—

  THREE SECONDS OR MINUTES OR SOMETHING LATER

  “Callie? Callie?” Him.

  Ammonia under my nose.

  My body pressed back into my chair. No...no pressure on my arm anymore.

  Wait. Is it over? Did they finish? Am I—

  My eyes flip open, and—

  And he’s right in front of me. Concern on his face.

  “Callie, are you ok—”

  “Am I done? Is it over? Did you finish drawing—”

  He shakes his head before I can finish. “We stopped as soon as you passed out.”

  DAMN IT. DAMN IT. DAMN IT.

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  BUZZ.

  My eyes open. My hand wipes the drool off of my
mouth.

  I pick up the phone next to me on the couch.

  And I have one text. From him.

  Open.

  Want to get blood work this afternoon before we go out to dinner?

  Reply.

  Nope.

  Send.

  Back to napping.

  THREE HOURS LATER

  The mail just came. And I have one letter from Pierce University. A letter I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for.

  Deep breath.

  Please. Please. Please.

  One. Two. Three. Open envelope. Pull out letter.

  One. Two. Three. Unfold letter.

  One. Two. Three. Skip the words in the letterhead. Skip the heading. Skip the salutation. Skip right down to the first sentence. Read.

  It is our pleasure to accept you into our PhD program in Creative Writing.

  There are lots of words after that sentence. But none of them matter right now. Because I got in.

  I got in. I got in. I got in.

  I jump up and down a few times. Then I read the first sentence about three million times. And then I pick up the phone to call my siblings, my parents, and Dr. Bl—

  Aiden.

  THREE MONTHS AFTER THAT

  I’m at his house. On his couch. In his arms.

  We’re watching a movie. Ocean’s Eleven. Or is it Ocean’s Twelve? Or—

  Okay, I definitely don’t know which one it is. I’m only half watching. I’m also reading a magazine. Catching up on the royals and popular red carpet summer looks.

  I—

  “I took tomorrow off.”

  I stop reading for a moment. “Why?”

  “I thought we could spend the day together.”

  I sit up, closing my magazine. Suspicious now. “Doing what?”

  I look right at him as I say it. And he looks…off somehow. I can’t quite put my finger on what is off, though. I can’t quite read his expression, his—

  “Whatever you want to do. You pick.”

  “Really?” I look at him, searching his eyes.

  Really? It’s just a day off? Even though you never really take days—