“Ma’am?”
I clear my throat again. Then I make a fast decision. “I’m free. I’ll be there at four.”
“Wonderful. I’ll let Dr. Blake know right away. Thank you.”
We hang up and I turn slowly back into the kitchen, gently returning the phone to its cradle. My mind starts rounding up questions.
What am I going to say to him? Is he going to be angry with me? Will he mention my emails? Will he look at me?
What should I wear?
Really, Callie?
As I begin to move out of the kitchen, my eyes catch the time on the microwave. 9:32 a.m.
Shit. I’ve gotta move.
I complete one and a half more rounds of leaving-the-house checks and I’m out the door, ready for class…or ready to sit for a few hours and obsess over Annie’s call, my emails, and tomorrow’s appointment…
YEP. THREE HOURS OF OBSESSIVE thoughts—that’s what I’m on target to accomplish here. I’ve already spent the first two hours of Dr. Sumpter’s class just stuck in my mind. Stuck thinking about him. Is he going to forgive me? Is he going to write to me today?
Dr. Sumpter is currently talking about our next book. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values by Robert Pirsig.
I could use a little Zen in my life, I think. I tried all of that meditating stuff a few years ago, though. I didn’t do very well. Page four of my meditation book had a little circular red spot on the top inside corner. I could only assume that it was a spot of dried blood…that someone involved in the publishing or packaging of the book had gotten a paper cut on his or her finger and then touched my book and…
Well, and clearly that person had AIDS. And Hepatitis.
And I lost at least five nights of sleep over that incident. I still lose hours of sleep when I think too much about that day, that book…
And that is why I’m going to try to move on to a new thought right now.
Dr. Sumpter continues to talk Zen, and I go back to thoughts about a certain pair of blue eyes.
I can’t believe I’m going back to that office, his office, in less than thirty hours.
Talk about thoughts that make me lose sleep…
The end of class eventually arrives, and I gather my notebook and pen, ready to rush home to once again check my email. I—
“Calista?” Dr. Sumpter.
I stand still right in front of my desk. Dr. Sumpter stands a few feet away.
“Yes, Dr. Sumpter?”
“I heard about your conference opportunity. You are quite fortunate to have Dr. Gabriel in your corner.”
Blech. I don’t want to think about being in a corner with Dr. Gabriel and all of his diseases. Gross.
{Britney Spears begins growling the words to “Toxic.”}
Dr. Sumpter smiles, clearly not sensing the horrific vision I’m trying to keep out of my head. “Have a great time at the conference. I’ll be looking forward to reading your articles.”
I can’t even think about my articles. I have to get through about thirty thousand things before I can possibly get to the comparatively easy point of writing articles that will be read by thousands of people.
I have to make it through a plane ride. Through sitting right beside Dr. Gabriel. Through a crowded, crazy, suffocating airport. Through a trip in some, as of yet unknown, form of transportation that will assumedly take us to the hotel (Ugh—I’m sure I’ll have to sit by Dr. Gabriel again in said mode of transportation). Through entering a hotel room just brimming with disgustingness—with used and reused glasses and sheets and towels and—
“Calista?” Shit. I focus my eyes back on Dr. Sumpter’s face, attempting a smile.
“Is everything okay?”
Keep smiling, Callie. “Oh, um, yes. I’m just tired, you know, with trying to get myself prepared for the conference.”
Now she smiles. “Oh, I understand. It always takes me forever to decide how to manipulate my schedule to be able to attend as many of the high interest conference presentations as possible.”
Clearly she doesn’t understand what I’m talking about. Nonetheless, I smile and nod. She then wishes me good luck for the conference (which I’ll need…but I’ll need much more than she…or anyone…can wish me), and we say our goodbyes.
I go home, spray my shoes, wash my hands, and head to my computer. I pray the entire way up to my room…because I need him to contact me today. I need him to somehow communicate with me today, before I go to my appointment tomorrow. I need to know if he’s mad at me…if he’s miserable…or if somehow he has forgiven me.
Let there be an email from Dr. Blake. Let there be an email from him. Let there—
Unfortunately, my inbox is empty. So I grab my purse to check my phone for a message…to check for the three hundred million thousandth time today. No text messages, though. I also have no new Words with Friends game alerts.
Melanie, I’m sure, has been too busy with work to play today. And Tony hasn’t played at all since our little meeting yesterday afternoon.
Seems about right. About right for Tony. He got what he needed. No need to contact me anymore, I’m sure.
The third game I’m “playing” (but not really playing) catches my eye. Then, what I’m sure is a stupid idea leaps into my head…and before I know it, my thumbs are moving across my phone’s screen and I’m opening the game, his game. Seconds later, I push letters together to form the word “quip.”
Now all I have to do is submit the word…officially play my turn…officially initiate communication…
Okay…
One. Two. Three.
But I already apologized…and he didn’t write back…and…he left me…alone and rather unconscious in a hospital bed…and he didn’t tell me why…he didn’t tell me about his mother’s suicide…or about the music in her head…
One. Two. Three.
And he lied to Mandy and said that I left him.
One. Two. Three.
And—
Callie!
And I was REALLY mean to him last night. I need to do this…I need to submit this word…I need to initiate more communication…
Onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree.
I close my eyes and allow my finger to submit my word.
And now, I wait. For my phone to send me a game alert. For a new email to appear in my inbox. For anything.
I stare at my phone for a few minutes and then stare at my laptop screen, at my empty inbox, for a few more minutes. Then I grab my nail polish and add a new coat to my fingernails. While my nails dry, I engage in more staring…staring at my silent phone…at my inactive inbox.
Then I pick off all of my nail polish.
And then I repeat the whole process. Twice.
{Otis Redding comes in and begins to sing “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay.” The whistling part of the song repeats over and over and over and over and over and over and—}
AH. Callie!
I can’t just sit here and wait. What a ridiculous use of my time.
I grab my Kindle and download Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. And I try to read, really I do, but I get nowhere. My eyes keep sneaking over to my computer and my ears keep straining to hear a noise from my phone…a noise that never comes.
Before I know it, I’ve wasted seconds and minutes and hours, and it’s time to get ready to leave for work. I put down my Kindle and get my thirty-three checks moving.
IT’S NOT VERY BUSY TONIGHT at the writing center. Brittany’s here. She’s been here for the last hour or so. She hasn’t emailed me any requests yet, though.
Dr. Gabriel’s not here yet.
{Cue the Catholic chant response: “Thanks be to God.”}
So far, I’ve checked my phone two times…every twenty-seven minutes (three times three times three minutes). I get to check again in just a few minutes.
So I have a few minutes to watch the clock. A few minutes to not pick at my already scraped off nails. A few minutes to pray tha
t Dr. Blake will play his turn in our game.
I spend the few minutes exactly as just outlined and then secretly (I hope) pull out my phone. And there is a little one on my Words with Friends icon.
I glance up at the students in front of me. All of them seem to be buried in their computers. No one is looking at me.
I lower my head. My right pointer finger races to press the Words with Friends game icon.
Loading. Loading. Loading.
It’s my turn. It’s—
Wait.
My turn to play with Melanie.
Damn it.
I look at the game. She’s beating me by over one hundred points.
Damn it again.
I look at my letters for a few seconds and then close out of the program without playing a word. I can’t think of anything that isn’t shit—shit as in crap—not “shit” as in I have the letters to spell “shit.” I wonder if I did have the letters to spell “shit” if that would even be an accepted word in Words wi—
A new notification just appeared on my Words with Friends icon. It must be my turn in another game…which means that maybe Tony decided to play even though he already got his car keys and really has no need to communicate with me. Very unlikely. Or else it might mean that Dr. Blake played, even though I was a super mean bitch to him via email…and even though he doesn’t want to see me anymore since I am too much like his late mother…more like his mother than he even knows. Hmm…it’s probably even more unlikely that he has played.
Perhaps a stranger has started a game with me—that would probably make the most—
CALLIE!
I tear my eyes from the little screen on my phone for a moment to take a quick glance around the computer lab. Everyone still seems to be working. Still no one looking at me.
Head back down. Eyes back down on the screen. Back on the Words with Friends icon.
One. Two. Three.
My fingers push on the little icon.
Loading. Loading. Loading.
And…he played.
Not Tony.
Him.
He took a turn. With me.
That has to mean that he at least forgives me a little. It has to.
I tell myself that a few more times as I count to three and click on the game.
And…
And…Oh my God.
Sad.
He played the word “sad.” Sad as in unhappy. Incredibly unhappy. Miserable.
Just like him.
Did he do that on purpose? Surely he could’ve thought of a bigger word, one worth many more points…I mean, he’s a doctor—his vocabulary is pretty sophisticated, I’m sure.
So it had to be on purpose. It had to.
But—
“Calista?” A masculine, slutty masculine, voice.
Shit. How the hell did I not hear him come in?
I quickly close out of the Words with Friends app on my phone and slowly look up—right into the eyes of Dr. Gabriel.
I clear my throat and try to produce a smile (an I’m being friendly, but I still don’t want to sleep with you and get all of your diseases kind of smile). “Um, hello, Dr. Gabriel.”
“Hello, Calista.” He smiles back. Then he moves to grab a nearby lab chair, which he’ll no doubt drag over to the spot right beside my chair.
UUUGGGHHH. I watch him do just that. I try to move my chair a little to the right, a little away from him, as he sits down next to me, but I don’t get very far away from him. I’ll never be far enough away from him…
He starts talking right away. “I’m sure you are getting pretty anxious to know the details of our trip.”
Anxious is a good word choice.
“I think I have everything ironed out and ready to go.” He pulls an envelope from his upper jacket pocket and begins to remove some folded up paperwork. “I can go through all of the details with you now so you—”
He keeps talking, but I try to tune him out.
Please don’t. Please don’t sit here, right beside me, and talk about public transportation and hotel rooms and crowded—
DING.
My computer dings. Thank God.
I give Dr. Gabriel a face meant to express that I have to check my computer. I try to make it look like I’m upset about our conversation being interrupted…like I’ve actually been listening to him…like I really want to hear more…
I’m not sure that my face conveys all of this properly, though. Dr. Gabriel does stop talking…but then he gives me a sort of smug, slimy smile…like he has read my face completely incorrectly…like he thinks I’m trying to tell him that I really want to jump on top of him right now but am too embarrassed to say it…
Disgusting.
I turn back to my computer and my ticket from…
Brittany at Computer 7.
This girl really is some sort of lifesaver. I’m kind of starting to think that she is pretty amazing.
I click on her request. She has sent me an entire paper to proofread. This will take me quite a bit of time. And it’s already after 6:00 p.m. I’ve got to get started right away if I want to get it done before I leave.
Thank you, Brittany. Thank you. Thank you.
I throw my head over my shoulder briefly to talk to Dr. Gabriel. “I just got a request for a whole paper proofread. I really have to get started.” I turn back to my computer screen as I finish speaking…hoping to further enforce the fact that I’m really quite busy.
I hear a quiet crinkling of paper. Dr. Gabriel must be folding his conference papers back into his envelope. Excellent.
He starts to loudly whisper to the back of my head. I silently pray that he doesn’t accidentally spit in my hair. “Oh, of course. I understand. I have a date tonight, but I can call you later…or email you with—”
“Yes.” I cut him off and look back over my shoulder again quickly. “Please email me all of the details. That would be great.”
Before he can argue or say more about wanting to call me, I give him a So sorry—I’m busy kind of smile (NOT an I want to give you head right now kind of smile) and turn back to my computer screen. I stare at the screen, pretending to read Brittany’s paper, and I listen as he stands up.
“Um, okay, Calista. That will be fine. I’ll email you as soon as I get home.”
Once more, I make my head turn toward him. “Great. Thanks.”
I turn my head back around. My ears listen carefully to the sound of him dragging his chair back to its original spot…and then to the sound of his footsteps as he heads toward the main door. After I hear the door open and shut, I take a moment to scold myself for not hearing those noises earlier—earlier, when Dr. Gabriel came in.
Earlier, when I was busy checking my phone…when I was busy obsessing over the word “sad.”
Speaking of the word—
No! Callie! Brittany’s paper. Now.
Brittany keeps saving my life. The least I can do for her is check her spelling and grammar in a timely fashion.
I do my best to focus on Brittany’s paper for the rest of my shift. I even stay about a half hour late to finish proofing.
When I get home, I sit on my bed, paint (and pick) and repaint my nails, and think about the word “sad” for a long time. A really long time.
I am impatiently waiting for a fresh coat of nail polish to dry when Mandy shows up at my bedroom door.
“Hey, Callie.” She puts a smile on her face, but it looks forced. “Can I run something by you?”
Uh oh. These are not Mandy’s words. I know that. She’s clearly reading from a Melanie script. But why? And about what? Tony?
Looks like I’m about to find out. Mandy, in a fitted t-shirt and yoga pants, walks toward me and plops down on the corner of my bed.
My eyes start to roll, but I stop them. I don’t want to upset her. This…whatever this is, probably isn’t her fault. Melanie’s behind it. Maybe Mom too.
Sinking my head further into the fluffy pillows behind me, I try to put a patient
, open look on my face. Then I pick at my freshly painted (and now dry—Thank God) nails and wait.
Mandy throws another fake smile on her mouth. “Callie, I’ve gotten permission from my professors to miss my classes at the end of this week.”
Oh. This isn’t about Tony.
She pushes on. “I also have cleared my weekend plans, so—”
“No.” I cut her off. “No, Mandy. You aren’t coming to my conference with me.”
“But I—”
I shake my head as I raise myself to a fully upright position. “Not a chance.”
“But—”
“No, Mandy.” I slide over to sit beside her on the corner of my bed as I talk. “You aren’t missing classes or sorority events for me.”
“But I—”
“And you aren’t getting on a plane, going on an unnecessary trip just to babysit me.”
Mandy doesn’t try to cut me off with words this time. She just tilts her head and raises her eyebrows in frustration.
I continue. “And I can’t let you babysit me anyway. How horrible would that look? No one would take me—or my conference articles—seriously…”
Mandy just stares at me in the silence that falls between us. Her face is sad. Confused. Unsure.
Mine probably looks the same.
Eventually, she breaks the silence, using a voice only just above a whisper, “How? How, Callie? How are you going to get on a plane and go to a hotel and—”
I shake my head to cut her off, to cut off her little list of nightmares.
“I don’t know yet, Mandy. But I’ll figure it out.” I attempt a smile, trying to make her feel better…also hoping to ensure that her report of this conversation (to Melanie? To Mom? To both?) isn’t too terrible…
Leaning over to the corner of the bed, I give her a hug.
“Don’t you have study hours or something tonight?”
She breaks our hug to look at me and nod.
“You should go then.” I smile. “I have a lot of school work to do anyway.”
And I also have some Words with Friends word selection-obsessing to do…
“You sure?”
I give her another smile, this time paired with a nod. “Be careful going to study hours.”
“I will.”
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