Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  This is not a woman who spends her time sleeping around. Not someone who occupies herself by sharing needles with other people.

  She probably does come into contact with a lot of sick people, though. Really sick people. Really—

  But she probably doesn’t have their diseases, Callie. She probably doesn’t.

  Please let her not have their diseases. Please. PLEASE.

  She’s still smiling at me. Coming closer.

  I can’t smile back. I close my eyes and pick at my nails and keep praying. Body sinking into my seat. Sweater sticking to the back of the chair. And also to the back of my body.

  No diseases. No diseases. Please let her not have any diseases.

  {Beyoncé dances around in a cute little outfit, singing “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)” as I pray.}

  “Here you go.” His voice. He’s close. And he must be giving Judy something—something to use on me.

  My blood pressure cuff. Or my stethoscope. Or—

  Why can’t he just do this? Seriously? Why is having Judy here even—

  “Calista, dear, I’m going to get started. Try to relax. Put your arms out on the arm rests.”

  But I still have two more nails to pick off. Ugh.

  Probably for the best. I’ll probably need them later.

  One. Two. Three.

  Two perspiring sweater-covered arms on the arm rests of the chair. My chair. Eyes still closed.

  “Callie, I’m giving Judy a brand new pair of gloves right now. Start your relaxation exercises. Try to release the tension.”

  His voice sounds close. So close. He can’t be more than a step or two away. He—

  The sound of latex gloves slapping against skin. Once. Twice.

  {Beyoncé keeps singing, moving all around.}

  “Calista, honey, I’m going to roll up your sweater sleeve.”

  Damn it. I should’ve worn a t-shirt. A thin t-shirt.

  But I didn’t know.

  Okay…but she’s wearing gloves. And she really doesn’t look like she’s suffering from any diseases. But really, you can’t tell—can you? People can have secret diseases, and you’d have no idea just by looking at them. No wonder they are spread so eas—

  She’s touching me. My left wrist. Her glove is wrapped around it. The other glove is pulling up my sweater sleeve.

  I keep my eyes squeezed shut.

  She rolls up my sweater to a spot just a bit beyond my elbow. I guess she’ll push it up more as she puts the cuff on. So the cuff will be touching my skin.

  But it’s okay. It’s my cuff. My cuff. My cuff.

  “Try to relax, dear.”

  Oh. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of appearing relaxed. Guess not.

  I just nod my head, hopefully in her direction, to tell her that I’m trying.

  Her glove, her cool, latexy glove, picks up my left arm and turns it over, getting ready to put the cuff and the little bell of the stethoscope on—

  Wait.

  Tight.

  Tight pressure.

  Something squeezing my arm. Something suffocating my arm just above my elbow.

  I sit up straight in my chair. Eyes still shut. Still praying.

  Let me get through this. Let me get through this. Let me—

  A non-latexed hand moves on top of my right hand. Warm. Comfort—

  A snapping noise.

  She’s tying something around my arm. She’s—

  OH MY GOD.

  My eyes blast open just in time to see the tourniquet around my arm, to see the NEEDLE that she is about to put in my—

  “NO.” Pushing my body against the back of the chair, I yank both of my arms from the arm rests and hold them tightly around my waist.

  But the pressure on my arm doesn’t go—

  Everything is—

  Blurry. Dizzy. Spinning. Doubling.

  {Beyoncé begins dancing as though she’s on SUPER fast-forward.}

  Two nurse Judys float in front of me.

  Two of him, getting closer and cl—

  “Callie. Callie.” Both of him. Two of him. Inches away from my face. All of his eyes looking into mine. His hands on my shoulders and his—

  “Callie, are you okay?”

  Neck struggling to hold itself up, not able to hold his gaze. Throat. Dry. Arm. Squeezed. So much squeezing.

  Vision doubling and tripling and—

  The needle...or needles? So close.

  I have to get away from all of it. All of the pressure. All of the Judys. All of the needles.

  The needles. How many are there? Are they clean? Are they new? How can anyone know for sure?

  I have to get out of here.

  I press down on my feet and push myself up with my arms. So much pressure on my arm. So much squeezing.

  Move, Callie.

  Body up. Up. Up.

  He moves up with me, inches away, still holding my shoulders.

  Blurry lights. Nothing coming into focus.

  No air.

  {Beyoncé’s words become all warped and distorted.}

  “Callie, are you okay?” Low whispered words.

  Can’t respond.

  No breathing. Sweater stuck to my back.

  “Stay with me, Callie. Stay with me.”

  Eyes closing. Neck rolling downward.

  {Sam Smith takes over with “St—”}

  My knees weaken, popping out and—

  AMMONIA. UNDER MY NOSE.

  Arms squeezing around me. His arms.

  My face mashed against a shirt, a chest. His shirt. His chest.

  {Sam Smith.}

  My arms dangling. Free. The band, the tourniquet thing—gone.

  Legs. Not doing anything functional. Not holding me up.

  He is holding me up. He is holding me. He—

  “Callie? Callie? Are you with me?”

  I’m with you. I’m with you. I’m with you.

  “Callie?”

  I force out some sort of affirmative noise, my mouth moving against his chest. The warmth of his—

  “Okay. We are going to try to get you into your chair.” He whispers. “I’m going to lean you back, but I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

  He’s got me.

  My body starts moving backwards, downwards, but my face stays on his chest. His arms keep squeezing.

  “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Callie.”

  Back. Back. Back. Ba—

  I land in my seat. Gently.

  His chest pulls away from my cheek. His arms stop holding me.

  But he doesn’t go far. He leans down and catches my gaze before kneeling right in front of my chair. Right in front of me. On the dirt—

  “I promise that I’ll switch pants and wash these ones as soon as we get out of here.” He grabs my hands and…and smiles.

  And…and I know he’s in my head again. And I know that gets annoying. But still, it’s nice that he knows. Understands.

  {Sam Smith gets louder and loud—}

  “Honey, you relax for now.” Judy. Judy is talking from somewhere nearby.

  I forgot about Judy’s presence. Her existence.

  “Relax, honey. You just let me know when you are ready for me to try again.”

  WHAT?

  My back pushes my whole body forward, ready to leap out of the—

  “Hold on.” Him. He gently squeezes my hands and starts to press me back into the chair.

  I try to push him away. But I can’t get up. Out.

  My mouth flies open. “No. I’m not—”

  “Callie, no…no, you’re not.” He puts his hands on my cheeks, forcing me to look at him. “You aren’t trying again right now.”

  His eyes. Warm. Reassuring. His hands. Same.

  Okay. Okay. Okay.

  My eyes fall closed in relief. In exhaustion.

  They aren’t going to make me try again. Judy is not going to tie that thing around my arm again or—

  OR.

  OR do other thin
gs that I don’t want to think about. So—

  Still holding my cheeks, he speaks again. “Judy, we will try again soon. But not now. Definitely not now. Thanks—”

  He keeps saying words to her, to Judy, to the person who wants to put a needle under my—

  NO. Do not think about it. Do not think about it. Do not think about it.

  Think about his hands. On your cheeks.

  On you.

  But he just said “soon.” When is “soon”? And where is “soon”? Will Judy be coming here again or—

  Well, if she’s coming here again, I’m never coming here again. Because I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I—

  “Callie? Callie?” His hands press into my cheeks, shaking my head slightly. “Callie?”

  One. Two. Three.

  Eyes open.

  His eyes. Right here. Concern and relief all swirled together.

  “Let’s get you home so you can take a shower before class.”

  I nod. Okay. Sounds good. Okay.

  His hands fall from my cheeks as he stands up in front of me.

  “All right. I want you to get up slowly.” He extends his arms, his hands, so they hang in front of him. “And I want you to hold on to me.”

  My hands reach for his and he—

  He smiles. Big smile. “I’ll keep my dirty knees away from you.”

  He pulls me up to a standing position, a standing position extremely close to his standing position. My body starts to weaken for an entirely differ—

  He whispers. So quietly. “For now.”

  My cheeks start to flush. I know they do. I—

  “I’m ready now.” The nurse. Judy. I forgot about her. Again.

  My eyes flicker away from him, over to Judy. She’s coming out of the bathroom, a bag in her hand.

  I wonder if that’s where she put the nee—

  “Let’s get your purse. Walk slowly.”

  He lets go of my left hand and tugs my right hand toward the area behind his desk, toward my purse hook.

  My feet move naturally. My knees, legs, moving better than I thought they would. I grab my purse, and we head out of his office, my hand in his. And Judy a couple of steps behind us.

  Just me with my doctor, not doctor…um…boyfriend, not boyfriend, and our nurse, the woman who just tried to stick a—

  Callie!

  We move together out of his office, down the twisty hallway, through the waiting room, to the parking lot, and finally into his car. Well, Judy doesn’t get into his car.

  Thank God.

  She and her needle bag get into—of course—the little red, BLOOD-colored car that I saw earlier.

  Talk about foreshadowing.

  {Sam Smith fades out. Snow Patrol plunges in with “Chasing Cars.”}

  His car. It’s silent. Naturally.

  {Keep singing to me, Snow Patrol. Otherwise, the silence might just drive me crazy. Ironic, huh?}

  He drives back toward my house, down familiar roads once more. I thi—

  “This is for you.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and holds it out for me.

  “What is it?” I ask as I take the paper from his fingers…and as I pray that it’s not, I don’t know, a lab slip to go get blood work done on my own at the hospital or, um, an e-ticket for a flight to another out-of-town conference or, ah, a note that says “I know about the music” or—

  “It’s a copy of my results, my blood work results.”

  Oh.

  I unfold the paper in my hands, knowing that no—

  “Everything’s fine. All of the tests were negative.” He pauses. Then starts again. “All of these results were from weeks ago, so if you want me to get it all done again this—”

  “No.” I look over at him, shaking my head. “I trust you. You don’t have anything.”

  He glances over at me for a second before returning his eyes to the road. “You don’t have anything either, Callie.”

  My shoulders shrug. My head turns to look out of my passenger side window. My mind, it begins to spin through a list of diseases that I’ve probably acquired over the years. Malaria. Ebola. Tuberculosis. AIDS. A bunch of other diseases that I can’t even name. All acquired in various ways. People spitting while talking to me. Being near Tony. Sitting through my last summer haircut. Standing too close to some of Mandy’s sorority sis—

  “I want—no, I need you to try to believe that, Callie. You have to be willing to believe that you are fine, willing to believe that you really aren’t contracting new diseases on a daily basis. Otherwise…”

  He pauses and drives. Silent now.

  I finish for him. Quietly. “Otherwise, the therapy won’t work.”

  “No. It won’t.”

  My head stares straight ahead, pointed now toward the front window. My eyes, however, sneak a sideways glance at him.

  He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the road. Head and eyes. Probably thinking about how I’m screwing up his therapy. How I’m completely ruining it. Or—

  Or maybe he’s thinking about my test results. Maybe he wants me to have them before we, well, do anything else together.

  That’s fair. He did it for me. I have his results. Clean results.

  Maybe he’s afraid that mine won’t be so clean. Maybe he’s afraid that I’ll give him some horrible disease that will kill him and then kill me. Maybe—

  {A full orchestra. Tchaikovsky’s “Romeo and Juliet.”}

  Maybe I really do have a serious dis—

  “Callie?” His head moves to look my way for a second. I see it out of the corner of my eye. “Stop worrying. We’ll figure this out and try the blood work again at some other time.”

  I don’t want to try it at some other time. Not at all.

  Can’t they just test my spit or my tears or something? If that would work, I’d probably get myself tested every single—

  “I just really want you to believe that you are okay. I think believing that will remove a great burden from you.”

  He turns into my driveway. {The orchestra plays on.}

  The car stops. He gets out to open my door, taking my hand as I step out of the car. Just like he is taking me home after a date. If people go for blood work on dates…

  I didn’t actually get blood work done today, though. But I have to at some—

  Callie! Stop thinking about it.

  But “some other time” could be any—

  Callie!

  Soon. He told Judy that it will be—

  “Thanks for driving me home.” I make my mouth, my out loud words, interrupt my mind.

  {Ed Sheeran cuts in with “Thinking Out Loud.” But I’m not speaking my thoughts. I’m speaking to try to stop myself from thinking. That isn’t—}

  “No problem, Callie.” As we take the final steps to my door, he squeezes my hand. Squeezes a warm tingly feeling from my hand to my—

  “And so you know…” He stops and turns toward me on my doorstep.

  Eyes on eyes. Hand still squeezing. Tingly feeling. Still.

  “I’m not worried about your blood test results.” He pauses, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Heatedly. “Or waiting on them.”

  So he’s reading my mind again, or my mind from like three minutes ago anyway. But he’s doing it in a hot way. So it’s hard to get mad.

  He starts to lean in. In. In.

  {Ed Sheeran gets louder.}

  His lips sweep across mine ever so slightly. Ever so not enough. He pulls back and looks at me, still holding my fingers in his.

  “I wish that you didn’t have class. And that I didn’t have work.”

  “Me too,” I whisper.

  I also wish I weren’t bleeding. {THANK GOD I’m not blurting my thoughts out loud like you are, Ed Sheeran. Because, seriously—}

  A phone rings. My phone rings. He lets go of my hand so I can reach into my purse to see who is—

  It’s Melanie.

  “It’s Melanie.”

  {Well, o
kay, maybe we’re a little on the same page, Ed.}

  “You take it. I’ve got to get to work anyway, and you have to get ready for class. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  A smile. Another brush of his lips, this time on my cheek. Another tingle running through me.

  And he heads to his car. As I watch him go, I answer my call. “Hey, Mel. How are you feeling today?”

  “Much better. But Doug still insists that I rest today.”

  “Good. You need to rest.”

  His car pulls away. I open my front door and slip my shoes off on my shoe towel as Melanie tells me the Abby plan for today.

  “Okay, well, Mandy will watch Abby until you get back from class. She’ll feed her lunch, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Sounds good, Mel.” I head to the kitchen to wash my hands.

  “I feel like I’m forgetting something. What else should I send along with her? What—”

  “Stop worrying, Melanie.” I cradle the phone with my neck and shoulder and begin soaping up my hands. “You are supposed to be calm, remember?” Soap. Soap. Soap.

  “I know. It’s just—”

  “Stop, Mel. Everything will be fine.” Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. “Relax and watch a movie or play Words with Friends or something.” That is how people relax…from what I’ve been told…

  “I will. But first I want to know how your after-hours therapy is going.” Teasing. Lots of teasing in her voice.

  Rinse. Rinse. Rinse. “It’s fine, Mel. I’m not better yet, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She laughs.

  “That’s not what I’m asking. I just want to know if you’ve told Dr. Blake that you are in love with him yet.”

  “Melanie!” Dry. Dry. Dry.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” She laughs again. “I just thought that maybe you had since your therapy appointments seem to be, um, somewhat like high school make out sessions.”

  So clearly Mandy has talked to Melanie recently. About me. About us. About last night.

  Last night…in his arms. Close to—

  “Seriously, though, you should tell him, Callie. He obviously feels the same way about you.”

  Obviously? He hasn’t said anything about it. He hasn’t—

  “Callie? Are you there?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “I take it you don’t want to talk about your, as Mandy calls it, ‘burning passion’ for the hot doctor.”