Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3)
Page 21
“Sure. Is there something that you’d like to do tomorrow afternoon? If you can’t think of anything, we can just hang out here until it is time for you to go to the writing center tomorrow night. Either way is fine with me.”
I do have an idea. I actually do. “Maybe we can go see Melanie and Abby and the new baby again.” I know I just saw them last weekend, but I swear that little Alyssa changes every single day. And Abby had another therapy session this week, so I can talk to her about that. It would be nice—
“Sure. We can do that.”
“Really?” He really took a day off. He really doesn’t seem to have a secret agenda. I thought that—
My mouth opens as my body slowly relaxes back into his arms. “I thought you secretly took off so you could make me try to get blood work again.”
His arms freeze around me. Arms and legs and, and everything. Still. His body is completely still.
He breathes in and starts to talk. Quietly. “Well, I thought that we could do that too, in the morning before we—”
I push up, out of his arms. Breaking away from his frozen embrace. Looking into his eyes again.
Now reading his face rather perfectly. He’s nervous. Manipulative and nervous. Oh, and he’s out of his freaking mind.
“No.” I shake my head.
I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I’m not ready.
“But we decided that we’d finish everything within a year. And we—”
“And we have three more months left in that year.”
He sighs. Shakes his head. And pulls me back into his arms.
“Okay. Then tomorrow is wide open, I guess. What time do you want to leave for Melanie’s house?”
THREE MONTHS, THREE DAYS, AND THREE + THREE + THREE HOURS LATER
It’s Halloween. 6:30 a.m.
My year is up.
So I’m in his office. Again.
In my chair. Beside him. Again.
With Judy. AGAIN.
{Whitesnake comes in with “Here I Go—”}
“I’m almost ready, my dear.” Stupid Judy.
I’m sorry, Judy. I’m sure you are very nice. And you are probably smart. I’m sorry I don’t like you. It has nothing to do with—
He squeezes my shoulders.
I close my eyes. Pick my nails. Bounce my legs.
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this.
And I probably can’t do this. I couldn’t do it last—
Wait.
Eyes open. Looking at Judy.
Mouth open too. “If I pass out this time, just keep going. Don’t stop.”
Judy begins to shake her—
“No, Callie.” Him. Still right beside me. Speaking as though I’m being ridiculous. As though—
“We’ve got to take care of you. That’s our top priority.” He pauses and squeezes my shoulders again. “But you aren’t going to pass out this time.” He leans down, leans in close to my face. “You’re not. You can do this.”
He’s nodding, looking at me with big, focused eyes, and—
“I’m going to begin now.”
Ugh. JUDY.
Eyes closed again.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this.
I tell my legs, my feet, to stop bouncing. I stop picking at my nails and force my arms onto the armrests of my chair.
His hand grabs one of mine, the one far away from Judy, and he squeezes—
Judy lifts my other hand, my other arm, turning it over. She starts to tie that awful tourn—
“I love you.” He whispers in my ear.
My lips mouth the same words back to him. No sound comes out, though.
So much arm pressure. So—
Stop thinking about it, Callie. Stop. Stop. Stop.
It’s going to be okay.
He is right here. He insists that everything is clean. He is adamant that all of the tests are going to be negative, that I’m—
“Okay. You will feel a little pinch.”
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my—
A little pinch. It doesn’t hurt.
But now it’s in my arm. Taking my blo—
CALLIE!
STOP. STOP. STOP.
He is here. Everything is clean. It’s almost over.
{Leona Lewis blasts in with “Bleeding Love.”}
He is here. Everything is clean. It’s almost over.
{Refrain over and over. Super speed.}
He is here. Everything is clean. It’s almost over.
{Louder and loud—}
Fuzzy head. Wet, sweaty back. Neck falling forward. Limbs—
“Callie. Callie. You are almost done. Stay with me.” Him. Whispering in my ear. Squeezing my hand.
{And louder and loud—}
Body draining. Slumping further into the—
A release of pressure on my arm. A release of—
“All done, honey.”
Done. I’m done.
I did it.
Eyes open. My head flings up. Up. Up. Up to—
Up to a spinning room.
Nothing clear. Nothing focusing. Nothing—
Neck rolling forw—
THREE SECONDS OR SO LATER
Ammonia again.
Damn it, Callie.
OVER THIRTY HOURS LATER
5:30 p.m.
At home. On my bed. Typing my paper for tomorrow’s Literary Analysis III class. I need to—
The doorbell is ringing.
He’s here.
And he told me earlier that he is bringing something for me. Which has to mean that he got my blood test results back already. Which means that I’m about to find out whether I’m diseased or not.
Okay. One. Two. Three. I head downstairs.
Please don’t let me have any diseases. Please don’t let me have any diseases. Please don’t let me have any diseases.
But wouldn’t he have told me already if one of my results was positive or—
But maybe you have something that he considers to be a minor disease. Maybe he thinks that some diseases aren’t that bad.
If that is how he thinks, he is wrong. Way wrong.
I stop in front of the door.
Please don’t let me have any diseases. Please don’t let me have any diseases. Please don’t let me have any diseases.
One. Two. Three.
I look through the peephole.
There he is. Standing on the other side of my door. Anxious eyes. Hand running through his hair.
Shit.
If he’s nervous, then something is wrong. Something is—
He rings the doorbell again. I watch him do it.
Okay, Callie. It’s time.
Rigidly, I step back from the peephole.
It’s time. It’s time. It’s time.
Mechanically, I move my hand to open the door.
The rest of me remains frozen. Unmoving. Not functioning. {Kelly Clarkson zooms in with “A Moment Like This.”}
Pull. Pull. Pull.
Open.
Him staring at me. Me staring at him. {Kelly singing to me.}
Two sets of nervous eyes.
No breathing. No mov—
He moves. His arm reaches into his leather jacket. Into a pocket on the inside. His left chest pocket.
My eyes stare at his pocket, at his hand, as he pulls out—
A little box. A necklace box. Just like the one that held my prescription three trillion years ago.
He holds the box out to me.
A lurch in my stomach. Prickles of sweat on my neck.
This is it. My results are here. My list of diseases is—
Wait.
If I really have some horrible disease, he wouldn’t be presenting my results in a pretty box, right? Right?
That would just be mean. Horrible. Sadistic. He wouldn’t do that.
My stomach calms down. My neck starts to cool off.
I look at it in my fingers. I start to open it. I wonder why he still looks so nerv—
O.H.M.Y.G.O.D.
No piece of paper in the box.
No test results.
Instead—a cloud of white cotton beneath a sparkly ring.
A diamond ring.
I freeze again. My eyes jump to his.
His eyes. Still nervous. But there’s more there. More in his eyes. They have warmth in them. Happiness in them. Love in them.
I hold his gaze.
My eyes. Surprised. Happy. Wet.
{Damien moves in, sing—}
“I know I’m supposed to get down on one knee, but if I do that, you’ll think my pants are dirty, and then I won’t be able to hold you if you say ‘yes.’”
He smiles. A nervous smile.
My stomach bounces around. My throat tightens. {Damien gets louder.}
My hands shake a little, holding the little box. The ring box.
The ring. My ring.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
So I nod my head instead, moving my face, causing the water in the corners of my eyes to run down my—
He grabs the box, the ring, from me. He takes my hand and slips the ring onto my finger. Then he pulls me in, in, in—into his arms.
{And Damien keeps on singing.}
THREE MINUTES LATER
Still in his arms. Wearing my ring. Engaged to—
“By the way, I got your blood test results back, and you have absolutely no diseases. Just like I keep telling you.”
I remain in his arms. Smiling. Shaking. Crying.
Best. Day. Ever.
THIRTY + THIRTY + THIRTY + THIRTY + THIRTY + THIRTY DAYS LATER
I’m getting ready for a nap. Wedding planning on top of PhD classes on top of OCD medication means exhaustion.
Good exhaustion. Busy exhaustion.
But still exhaustion.
TV on. Head on couch pillow.
Nap time.
THREE MONTHS LATER
Immaculate white dress. White tulle over my face. My arm linked with Dad’s.
Brand new white sandals walking down the aisle. Toward him. Me. Walking toward him.
There are people everywhere. Cameras flashing. Candles and ribbons and flowers and—
And I can’t focus on any of it.
All I can see is him.
He looks right back at me. Looking. Smiling.
Waiting.
A piano plays as I walk down the aisle. “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” I can barely hear it, though. {My head is too busy. Chantal Kreviazuk is singing “Feels Like Home” on top of The Beatles singing “The Long and Winding Road” on top of John Legend singing “All of Me” on top of Il Divo singing “Every Time I Look at You” on top of Billy Joel singing “To Make You Feel My Love” on top of Dami—}
We are here. At the front of the church.
I’m here. With him.
Ready to say I do.
Ready to become Mrs. Blake.
Ready to marry him.
THIRTY + THIRTY MINUTES LATER
Father Patrick smiles at me. At him. “You may now kiss the bride.”
He leans in to kiss me.
Lips on lips.
Him. And me.
Husband and wife.
THREE HOURS LATER
My head on his shoulder. His arms around me. Dancing our first dance as a married couple. Dancing to “I Have But One Heart,” the wedding song from The Godfather.
{And also to Damien’s “The Blower’s Daughter.” Um…obviously.}
THREE YEARS LATER
{Bruno Mars. “Just the Way You Are.”}
I’m in a hospital bed.
Voices are speaking all around me. Mandy’s voice. Melanie’s voice. Mom’s voice. Dad’s voice. Aiden’s voice.
His voice mainly.
I only hear snippets of his words, his sentences.
“Waited as long as she could to come in” and “Until the pain was too much” and “Tried to get her to come in sooner” and “Wouldn’t let them get near her with a needle” and “Refused all medication” and “Did really well.”
Just a blur of words. And a jumble of responses from my family members.
None of their words matter right now.
Nothing matters.
Nothing except the warm bundle in my arms. Wiggling. Moving his mouth. Staring at me with perfect little blue eyes.
Nothing. Else. Matters.
THREE + THREE + THREE MINUTES LATER
What the hell?
For nine months, I’ve been asked about drugs. Drugs and epidurals. Drugs and spinal blocks. Drugs and shots.
For nine months, I’ve been refusing drugs.
Because I didn’t want any needles anywhere near me during labor (or really at any time whatsoever). Because if I was given drugs through a needle, I would’ve just needed even more drugs to calm me the hell down about the needle.
However…HOWEVER, now—now a nurse is holding onto me, taking me to use the bathroom for the first time post labor.
And I’m walking and dripping blood EVERYWHERE. Dripping a trail of blood to the hospital bathroom…the bathroom that is supposed to be immaculate. Thoroughly clean. How I was told it would be.
Please let it be clean. Please let it be clean. Please let it be clean.
Please stop the dripping. Please stop the dripping. Please stop the dripping.
Please let someone clean this blood off of the floor. Please let someone clean this blood off of the floor. Please let someone clean this blood off of the floor.
I walk. And walk. And walk.
And drip and drip and drip.
And wonder and wonder and wonder—why the hell is no one offering me drugs now so I can get through this torture?
THREE + THREE MINUTES LATER
I’m back in my hospital bed. Holding my baby.
{Bruno keeps singing and singing and singing.}
The blood doesn’t matter so much right now.
THREE MONTHS LATER
Standing back in his office.
My husband’s office.
I just had a medication checkup (everything is going well) with Dr. Spencer, so now I’m in here just to say hello.
But he’s not in here yet. He had to go give some paperwork to Annie.
So I’m by myself. In his office. Standing in front of his desk. Staring at his bookcase.
Full shelves. A box of tissues. Important looking books standing beside each other. His framed degree.
On one of the shelves, a few pictures from Jared and Holly’s wedding. One of the whole family. Jared and Holly in the middle. Surrounding them, all of us. Mom and Dad. Mel, Doug, Abby, and Alyssa. Mandy and Jacob (Jacob—Mandy has been seeing him for over three years now, but Abby is still secretly calling him “the new Josh”). Aiden and me. One of his arms around me. The other arm cradling Michael. Tiny little Michael. A tiny little version of his father.
Beside that picture, one of the two of us dancing at the reception. Arms around each other. Smiling. Happy.
On a different shelf, the picture of him and his mother. His beautiful mother and tiny little him.
His mother and me. Both on the same bookcase. But on different shelves.
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
(BECAUSE, UNFORTUNATELY, IN THIS CRAZY, UNPREDICTABLE WORLD, NOT EVERYTHING HAPPENS IN THREES)
I’m nervous.
Not psychotic, sweaty, crazytown old Callie nervous, but nervous.
I stand in the wing of the Hammarsov Hall psychology department auditorium stage. I wait in the darkness, picking at my nails carefully—trying not to drop the notes that I have clutched in my left hand.
Dr. Lititz, the chair of the psychology department, walks to a podium on the stage, getting ready to address the audience.
An audience of ten people? Fifty? One hundred? I don’t know yet. I can’t see out that far.
&nb
sp; I know that some of the people from my graduate classes are out there. Some fellow students and professors. Unfortunately, I also know that Dr. Gabriel is sitting out there somewhere. He emailed to tell me that he wouldn’t miss it. Fortunately, he also said that he would be bringing a date. Maybe she, whoever she is, will keep him busy. Busy and away from me. Unfortunately, the wedding ring on my finger hasn’t succeeded in accomplishing that, in keeping him from trying to be near—
“Good evening, everyone.”
Shit. It’s time.
Dr. Lititz continues. “Our presenter tonight, Calista Blake, recently completed the Creative Writing PhD program here at Pierce. Her dissertation topic was recently brought to my attention by her advisor. This topic, a firsthand account of a battle with obsessive-compulsive disorder, should be of special interest to all of you. As psychology majors, you often learn of mental disorders through articles and textbooks. It is not often that you are handed a personal, genuine account of an experience with one of those disorders. It is even rarer that you get the opportunity to speak with the writer of such an account. That is what makes tonight’s presentation so noteworthy, so unique.”
He sounds like a tool. I hope he uses the word “share.”
Thank God I think I’ve finally convinced Aiden that he sounds like a douchebag when he talks like th—
“Now, I know that most of you have already read a copy of Calista’s story since it was provided to you last week. So you’ve probably come with many questions. Please hold all of these until the end of the presentation, when we will hold a question and answer session.” He pauses and gathers his notes from the podium. “And now, without further ado, let’s welcome our guest to the stage to share her story.”
YES. He said—
“Dr. Blake.” He nods over to me.
Right. Dr. Blake. Me.
I’ll never get used to being called that.
Here we go. One. Two. Three.
My feet start moving, navy heels clicking across the stage floor. Moving toward Dr. Lititz and the podium. Hoping my dress looks professional enough. That my hair isn’t frizzing up under the lights. That my makeup isn’t running.
Please let me get through this without saying anything stupid. Nothing stu—
I reach Dr. Lititz. He nods his head to me and steps aside to give me the podium.
He makes no attempt to shake my hand. Clearly he knows his psychology well.