Much later, as I turn on the television and climb into bed, I try to stop thinking about the email so I can get some sleep. It doesn’t work. I am able to move past his interpretation of “respect,” but I can’t stop thinking about his last sentence. If you need to respond to the prompts in sets of two, or five, or whatever, that is fine. A teeny tiny dab of ointment after his monstrous bite of an email.
First the tissues, now the counting. This harshly blunt man somehow seems to have an uncanny knowledge of the way my mind works. Well—almost. He did say sets of two or five. He didn’t mention three.
Thoughts run through my mind for quite some time. Almost a full course meal is prepared on television before I finally drift off. The last thing I remember hearing has something to do with preparing a workspace to make pumpkin cheesecake.
Chapter 4
lists
FRIDAY MORNING. AS I WAKE up, I have the odd sensation that I’m about to set off on an unprecedented suicide mission. I know I cannot wait until night preparations to see if he has sent me a list so I decide to check my email now.
As I open my laptop and click on the little email icon, I can’t really decide whether or not I want a list to be in my inbox. I’ll probably waste a lot of time thinking about it either way.
My inbox appears on the screen. DA Blake has written. The subject line says, “First List.” I wonder how many more lists he will send.
Guess I better attack the first list before I worry about future ones. I spend a few minutes picking at my nail polish and then take the plunge. One. Two. Three.
CLICK.
Calista,
Here is your first list of topics. Remember, give me your initial reactions and feelings. Do not overthink this.
1.) Dirty
2.) Family
3.) Television
4.) Church
5.) Dating
The email is signed the same way as the last one. “Respectfully.” Yuck.
Okay. The list is not terrible. Especially since I’ve been granted permission to only answer three items for now. Don’t have to touch number five just yet.
It’s funny. Now that I’ve opened the email, I realize that I can’t NOT respond to it right away. It has somehow become a to-do list in itself, and to-do lists must be completed swiftly and efficiently (as Mandy says when she is making fun of me). I warily recognize that I will just have to move promptly to my morning preparation routine AFTER the list is completed.
One. Two. Three. I type.
1.) Dirty
Public bathrooms
Needles
Syrup
Public transportation
Hotels
People
Gas pumps
Hospitals/Doctors’ offices
Movie theatres
Bars
Doorknobs
Spit, blood (all solids/liquids coming from a human, animal, or bug)
I consider mentioning mouse droppings specifically, but I don’t want to get too writery on him.
2.) Family
Mom and Dad
Two sisters (Amanda and Melanie)
One brother (Jared)
Enough? I guess so. I wouldn’t want to overthink this…
3.) Television
I don’t watch much television. I guess I mainly watch shows on the food station before I go to bed.
Okay. I scrutinize my email for grammatical errors or typos. None. Do I sign it? Hmm…
I smile as I sign the email.
Respectfully,
Calista
Might as well give him a little competition for douchebag of the year.
One. Two. Three. Send.
Laptop closed. Morning procedures commence. Leaving-the-house procedures follow immediately.
NOON. COLLEGE WRITING 101 BEGINS. Dr. Gabriel is discussing the use of foreshadowing and figurative language in narrative writing. Pretty basic stuff, but I don’t think the three muscular freshmen in the back row are really getting it. Or perhaps they don’t care.
Yes, that’s it, I decide as I see that they are actually texting during Dr. Gabriel’s lecture. It looks like they are even texting each other. I’m sure their lack of attention will be really awesome for me when I’m the one up front talking.
Class drags on a bit. I take a few notes on Dr. Gabriel’s teaching style. Each time he makes what he must feel is an interesting point, he looks at me out of the corner of his eye to see if I’m paying attention or perhaps realizing what a literary genius I turned down. Gross. When I see you I don’t see a genius, Dr. Gabriel. I see a living, walking STD.
I try to keep my head down as much as possible. I spend some time wondering what I should do differently to hold the students’ interest. I pick at my nail polish. I think about my email. Did I do my “assignment” correctly this time or is there already a mean email in my inbox? Maybe he won’t even respond until Monday. It is Friday afternoon, after all.
I wonder if I can quickly check my email on my cell phone. The students are working silently on their narratives, and Dr. Gabriel is sitting and writing at the table in the front of the room. Really, I have nothing to do right now.
My purse is hanging on the back of my chair. I begin to reach for it, but that is as far as I get into my devious plan. At that moment, Dr. Gabriel’s little timer goes off, signaling the end of the writing portion of the class. {And now a quick appearance from Ke$ha with “Tik Tok.”}
“Time to share our narratives,” Dr. Gabriel says. I listen to the first few writing samples and make comments when Dr. Gabriel asks me for them. Yes, he asks me for comments even though he hasn’t ever told the students who I am.
I get rather stuck when one student uses a sentence beginning with, “I seen a girl.” SAW SAW SAW! Or “have seen” perhaps? That drives me freaking crazy.
I, of course, don’t mention that when Dr. Gabriel asks me for my commentary. Instead, I praise the young girl for her foreshadowing techniques. I don’t want to humiliate her in front of the whole class. She would probably go home and cry and then maybe start cutting this class, which might lead to her dropping out of school…and then what? She would end up a self-conscious woman struggling to make ends meet in this poor economy all because a creeper in the class (me) couldn’t keep her (my) mouth shut. No, thank you.
Who knows? Maybe she’ll come to the writing center sometime where I can privately help her with her irritating verb usage.
Eight more students read their narratives before it is 3:00 p.m. and class ends. I guess the rest will go next Friday.
I hurry out of the room so I don’t end up walking out with Dr. Gabriel. I head home. After spraying my shoes and washing my hands quickly, I go up to my room. My hands are not even one hundred percent dry when I open my laptop. DA Blake has written me two emails. The man who wouldn’t even look at me two days ago has now sent me two emails within an hour.
Count and click. First email open.
Calista,
Nice work—very succinct. I have just a couple of follow-up questions for you.
2.) Family
How often do you see your family?
Do they know about your OCD?
3.) Television
I enjoy watching food shows myself. You don’t cook though, do you?
-Dr. Blake
How does he know I don’t cook? I can’t even convince my mother that I’m not watching cooking shows in the hopes of being some big sort of chef. I swear she buys me a new cookbook every Christmas.
I hit reply.
Dr. Blake,
I see my parents and my brother a couple of times a month. I live with my sister, Amanda, and I see my other sister, Melanie, every Friday night for Girls’ Night. Yes, they all know.
No, I don’t cook at all.
-Calista
I force myself not to ask how he knows about my cooking. It would probably inspire a whole new list of questions.
One. Two. Three. Send.
One. Two. Three.
Click. Second email.
Calista,
Here is your second list.
1.) Church
2.) Dating
3.) Weight and food
-Dr. Blake
Geez. So many personal questions. Like he mixed up his OCD “standard” topics with a questionnaire for speed dating.
I hit reply quickly. This will have to be fast. Girls’ Night starts at 8:00 this evening, and I need to get everything ready. Here goes.
Dr. Blake,
1.) Church
Every Sunday
Catholic
Confession on Saturdays
2.) Dating
No one currently.
3.) Weight and food
I step on my bathroom scale every morning.
I eat 1,400 calories a day.
I sign my name. Short and to the point, just like he asked. If he needs more personal specifics to work his doctor magic, he’ll have to tell me.
Laptop closed. I head to the kitchen to get things in order for tonight, and the answering machine light is blinking. I’m momentarily shocked that I missed seeing the flashing light when I rushed to my room to check my email.
I press the “PLAY” button.
“Hello. This is Annie from Pierce Mental Health. This message is for Miss Calista Royce. Unfortunately, Dr. Spencer will not be back from New York for your appointment at two fifteen next Wednesday. Dr. Spencer has spoken to Dr. Lennox, and they’ve both decided that you should spend one more session under the care of Dr. Blake. Dr. Blake has confirmed that he will be here for your appointment on Wednesday. See you then!”
Thanks, Annie. Good to know in advance, I guess. Now I can get a whole five and a half days of worrying in. Awesome.
It is just one more week, though, and he is being nice now…even respectful. I smile at the thought.
As I prepare to mop the kitchen floor, I wonder whether he’ll actually look in my general direction during our next appointment. {A solo spotlight shines on Phil Collins as he begins his “Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now).”} Kitchen floor: mopped. Pictures: straightened. Living room: swept. {The refrain repeats again and again.} Mirrors: cleaned. Blinds: dusted. Shower: in progress. {And again.} Legs: shaved. Hair: shampooed and conditioned. {And again and again and again…} Thoughts: running rampant.
The counting in “sets of two, or five, or whatever,” the tissues for the door—anyone who has read one article about OCD could have guessed.
I thought that the cooking channel was my own unique piece of crazy though…
Chapter 5
girls’ night
OUT OF THE SHOWER. MANDY’S home. I hear her moving around in the kitchen, probably preparing tonight’s margaritas. Melanie will want one when she arrives.
I get dressed in shorts and a big Kelly Kapowski-style off-the-shoulder t-shirt. When I get out to the living room, Melanie is already sitting on the couch in button-down flannel pajamas. She says hello as she hurriedly moves her margarita from the bare glass table to a coaster.
“I saw that,” I say with a smile.
“Just practicing for when you are all fixed.”
“I’ll bet those drink rings will still piss me off even when I’m ‘fixed.’” I smile again and join her on the cushiony couch.
“Who is getting fixed?” Mandy comes into the living room and heads right to the DVD player. “Callie? Does this mean she’ll be having more than one margarita tonight?”
“Not fixed yet, Mandy,” I say as I join her by a bag of DVDs. “What are our choices for tonight?”
Mandy grabs the bag of DVDs before I can even see the title of one.
This week’s choices are…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Friends Season 5, Friends Season 8, or Friends Season 9.” She holds up three DVDs, fanning them out in her right hand.
Before Melanie or I can begin to voice an opinion, she continues.
“I know I don’t get a vote here since it is my week to select our three options, but…” She plucks out Season 9 with her left hand and holds it up by her face, pouting her lips.
“Cheater,” Melanie scolds while nodding her head and agreeing to the choice. I quickly offer my own agreement. It’s sometimes such a relief when one of us has some sort of watching preference; otherwise, we sometimes waste up to an hour trying to decide which DVD we are probably going to talk the entire way through anyway.
Mandy smiles and randomly puts Disc 2 in the player as Melanie and I spread out a blanket to share on the couch. We start talking before the characters even jump in the fountain during the opening credits.
Melanie tells us about Abby’s dance lessons and Doug’s attempts to make dinner on the nights she’s been working late. As she finishes a story about a burned batch of macaroni and cheese, I think about how nice it is to see her so relaxed. I bet she won’t be able to keep her eyes open very long tonight.
When we decide to stop and switch to Disc 3 of Friends, Mandy goes to the kitchen to refill Melanie’s drink. She comes back with a margarita for me too—my one drink for the evening. She also brings out some pretzels and Doritos.
I sip my drink as Mandy whines about a science project she is expected to do.
“I actually have to study windmills. Where am I even going to find some?” She bites into a pretzel as she groans. “What is a future art teacher supposed to do with all this stupid windmill information anyway? It’s taking up room in my brain that should be devoted to something else.”
“Like what—all the fruit you spend hours drawing?” I tease. She knows I love her artwork, but she also knows that I find still life paintings of food incredibly boring…and also somewhat tempting when I’ve already had my calories for the day. We currently have four paintings of food up in our house—one in the kitchen, two in Mandy’s room, and one in the hallway.
At least they’re not pictures of birds. {A nice big welcome back to The Beatles with “The Long and Winding Road.”} Perhaps I should check my email again.
“So when is your next shrink appointment, Callie?” Melanie asks, somehow following my train of thought.
“Next Wednesday. Two fifteen.”
“When do they give you the magic pills?” Mandy chimes in from the loveseat.
“I don’t know. They want to know pretty much everything about me before they’ll give me any medication.”
“They?” Mandy asks.
“She has a real doctor and a busy surrogate doctor right now,” Melanie answers before I can even start to explain the situation. Much simpler the way she puts it, I’m sure.
Before either of them have a chance to ask more questions, Monica starts singing “Delta Dawn” on the television.
We all know our conversation is going to have to be put on hold for now.
Initially, we begin singing in unison, taking care to stay in pace with Monica. That only lasts for a few seconds though. I continue to sing the melody while Mandy quickly creates a descant and Melanie hums harmonic notes. Poor Monica can’t even be heard anymore. That’s probably for the best, though, because I don’t think we are even singing the same version as she is.
We all stand. Mandy takes the straw out of her margarita and uses it as the world’s smallest microphone. Melanie grabs a fake flower from the arrangement on the end table and pushes it behind my ear, without missing a note.
By the time we get to our big finish, Monica has been done singing for at least a minute and a half. Melanie and I plop back down on the couch, but Mandy announces that it’s time for her to call Josh. She grabs her cell phone and heads upstairs to her room.
“How long will this call last?” Melanie asks in a nauseated voice.
“At least forty-five minutes. Be nice,” I tease. “She could be sleeping around with all the other college sophomores on campus.” And then I’d have to move out. I have a hard enough time when she has friends over who may or may not be sleeping with multiple guys. Just the thought of her sorority sisters makes me want to stop everything a
nd disinfect the living room. Thank God I have my own bathroom…
“I’m not saying anything. They’ve been pulling off this long distance thing much longer than I would’ve bet on.” Yeah—much better than I did. Is she thinking that too? She reaches over to me and takes the fake white rose out of my hair.
“If I have forty-five minutes, I’m going to take my shower now.” She stands up and puts the rose back in its vase before walking to the hall bathroom.
As I straighten up the living room, rearranging the throw pillows and taking my empty margarita glass to the kitchen, I decide that now is probably a good time to check my email. So, after washing my glass, drying it, and putting it back in the cupboard, I head upstairs. I can hear Mandy giggling across the hall as I step into my room and gently shut the door.
Laptop open. One email from DA Blake.
The subject line reads, “Follow-up Question.” Count. Click.
Calista,
3.) 1,400. Every single day?
Checked Page 3