“Oh, Dr. Blake. I have one other thing I’d like to know.” Thank you! Sorry I called you a bitch.
I can’t hear what they are talking about, but I hear the low hum of his voice as he is responding to her. They are right in front of the room. By the desk. The one with my purse on it.
No time to think about that now. Time to go, Callie.
Once again grabbing only the top cover, I shove my notebook under my arm and then yank my purse strap off the back of the chair, leaving the copy of his study on my desk. Standing up quickly, I keep my eyes down and start moving straight to the door at my left. I should be out the door in one slow count of three.
Slow doesn’t seem right in this situation though. I opt for three quick counts. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetw—SLAM. I run into the guy in front of me. And my notebook falls out from under my arm and bangs on the floor. Of course. Stupid freaking notebook.
I quickly apologize to the guy in front of me, and he continues on his way after telling me not to worry about it.
Sure, like that will happen.
As I turn and bend to retrieve my notebook yet again, his eyes somehow manage to find mine once more. My cheeks heat up, and I freeze, crouched down, left hand about to secure the top cover of my notebook. His eyes are as disconsolate as they were the first time he looked at me in his office. A blue tragedy.
{Back to Damien Ri—} No, Callie. He humiliates me and then expects me to lose myself in his sorrow? Unreal.
I find the strength to close my eyes and lower my head. I scrape my notebook off the floor, turn around, and leave.
Onetwothree. OUT. Out the classroom door. Six more fast counts of three and I’m out the main door of the building. Out into a downpour of rain. Of course. Because my world is just that awesome.
I don’t take the time to worry about my hair, my shoes, or my purse. I can’t afford to. I bolt to the parking lot, not stopping to breathe until I’m safely in my car.
In the driver’s seat, I breathe. I let my head fall back onto the headrest. And breathe.
Quiet. Car on. Time to go home. I survived.
I think.
Chapter 10
cancellation
HOME. QUIET. AFTER TEARING OUT my notes, I throw my notebook in the trash can and thoroughly wash my hands. I start night preparations right away, already planning to skip the “check email” part. I convince myself that Dr. Gabriel probably wouldn’t have sent me an email about Friday’s class this early in the week. And if Mom or Melanie emailed, it’s probably nothing urgent. They’d call or text if it was.
I do take the time to write myself a reminder on a sticky note.
Call Annie. Cancel 2:15 p.m. appointment.
I’ll reschedule once Dr. Spencer returns from New York. Or maybe I’ll find a new doctor, a new practice. Or maybe I’ll just be done with this therapy thing altogether.
{Damien Rice is back.} Teeth: brushed. Pictures: straightened. Clothes for tomorrow: out. Mandy’s room: clean. Nails: painted. {I can’t fight his song out of my head.} Laundry: away. House: dusted. Kitchen: scrubbed. Bathroom: sanitized.
As I’m about to get in the shower, my phone makes a vibrating beeping sound. The text message alert. Probably Mandy. She is still not home.
Yep.
Grabbing some ice cream with my class project group. Home in an hour.
Reply.
I’ll probably be in bed by then. Have fun. Careful driving! Night.
To the shower. I let the hot water run over my hair and down my sore neck. I don’t think I have ever held my head down for that long—not even back in second grade at Catholic school while the teacher was showing us how to kneel in our pews, fold our hands, bow our heads, and pray in correct form. It seemed like forever back then, but I bet we were only positioned like that for about fifteen minutes.
I move my dripping head first to one side and then to the other, stretching out my neck. I feel better. Not great, but better.
I wash and shave and lotion myself. Air dry. Put on pajamas. Turn on the TV. Some sort of cake baking competition is going on tonight. An oven timer goes off on the television just as my phone starts vibrating again.
I don’t recognize the number. My phone doesn’t either as it’s labeled “Unknown Number.” One. Two. Three. Open.
Calista, please check your email tonight. I’m sure you are still awake. -Aiden Blake.
Did he memorize my patient contact form? Does he carry it with him at all times? Unbelievable.
One. Two. Three. Delete.
Bed. I try to concentrate on the sounds of the cake competition, but the noise isn’t turning into a calm, peaceful blur like usual. Instead, it sounds like a few loud bakers trying to make the most elaborate cakes. Unreal. I spend the next hour trying to force their voices to blend into a dull, unimportant melody.
Nope. Not working. I reluctantly throw back my comforter and get out of my soft, immaculate bed. And I start my night preparations again.
Thermostat: still at 70 degrees. Stove: still off. Doors: still locked. Blinds: still closed. Alarm: still set to go off at the right time.
As I’m brushing my teeth again, I hear my phone buzz once more. I walk out of the bathroom into my adjoined bedroom, mouth full of toothpaste.
Unknown Number. Ugh.
One. Two. Three. Open.
Calista—come to your appointment tomorrow. I need to talk to you. Please don’t cancel.
Of course he knows I’m going to cancel. He probably knew before I did.
{Roberta Flack begins a soft, soulful rendition of “Killing Me Softly with His Song.”} Damn it. He knows freaking everything. He probably even knows what grade I’ll get on my next paper, how many children I’ll have, what I’ll be wearing tomorrow…
I go back to the bathroom to rinse out my mouth before making sure that the pictures in my room are still straight and checking to see that my clothes are still set out properly on my chair.
Quick decision. I hastily rip the black knee-length skirt and red boat neck top off the chair and rush to my closet where I grab a short, simple black dress and a pair of black stiletto pumps. Then I hang up my old outfit and return to the chair with my new one. I smooth out the black dress so it sits neatly over the chair’s back and then switch the black Mary Janes on the floor with my black stilettos. There. Get out of my head.
After I put the Mary Janes back in place in my closet, I head to Mandy’s room. Not as clean as I left it. Mandy’s sprawled out in bed, sound asleep. The clothes she must have worn to class are on the floor beside her bed and her third dresser drawer is open.
It only takes me a minute to put her clothes in the hamper, shut the dresser drawer, and pull her pink blanket up over her. I then leave her room, wondering when she got home. I’m surprised I didn’t hear the door open.
Perhaps I shouldn’t keep the TV volume so loud when I go to bed. Maybe I’m just making it easier for the murderers to swoop right in while I’m sleeping.
Back to my room to repaint my nails. I ceremoniously walk right past my laptop as I again skip the email step in my routine and go right on to look at my already folded laundry. I then dust, scrub, and sanitize before hopping back in the shower.
It’s almost 3:00 in the morning when I am finally back in my pajamas. Just as I am climbing into bed, my phone buzzes. Does he actually know that I’m still up?
One. Two. Three. Open text.
Please, Calista.
{Roberta Flack keeps singing her refrain. Repeating and repeating.} I put the phone back down on my dresser, and I put myself back in bed.
At some point, hours later I’m sure, the voices on the television finally morph into my soft, soothing lullaby, and I fall asleep.
MY ALARM RINGS ALL TOO soon. Wednesday morning. {Roberta Flack transforms completely into Lauryn Hill. Same song but in hip-hop now.}
My cell phone is ringing. Now he’s calling me? It’s only 7:30 in the morning! Give me a second to breathe.
It’s not h
im. I answer.
“Hey, Melanie.”
“Morning, Callie. Quick story for you.”
I smile. “An Abby story?”
“What other stories do I have time to observe these days? Yep, Abby.”
I listen. I love Abby stories. Her views on life are pretty hilarious. Her more recent funny comments have involved school mishaps. Some stories we call OCD moments because Abby does have some obsessive-compulsive tendencies. When she does something that reminds Melanie of me, Melanie calls. My favorite call came a few years ago when Mel heard Abby screaming in the bathtub. Melanie ran to the bathroom and found Abby lining up all of her toy ducks on the bath ledge. Melanie asked her what was wrong, and Abby said that she needed to go to the potty. Melanie told her to get out and go. But Abby resumed her screaming, saying she couldn’t go until all the ducks were lined up. Melanie told her that the ducks could wait and that she should stop and go to the potty. To this Abby exclaimed, “Mommy, you just don’t understand.”
Priceless. The girl literally had to get her ducks in a row before she could go to the potty.
Today’s story isn’t duck or OCD-related however.
“I picked Abby up from daycare yesterday, and her face was streaked with blue paint. I asked her if she had fun, but she must’ve seen me examining her blue face. She hurried to reassure me, saying, ‘It just happened while I was painting, Mommy. I’m not turning into a Smurf.’”
I laugh. Hilarious.
“I love it, Mel. That is adorable.”
“Just thought I’d try to start your day with a smile before your big appointment.”
I ignore the appointment reference.
“You definitely did. Thanks, Mel. Give Abby a kiss for me. She’s coming with you on Friday, right?”
“Oh, yes. She’s already packed her bag.”
“Awesome. I’ll see you both then.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up. I’m so glad Melanie brings Abby to Girls’ Night every other week. I wish I could spend even more time with her.
Phone back on dresser. Time to start the day. And almost time for my cancellation phone call.
The office probably won’t be open until at least 9:00 a.m. so I grab a 200-calorie breakfast bar and start plugging away at my morning routine.
10:30 a.m. I’m getting my supplies (dish soap and window cleaner) ready to clean my bathroom, and my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number…again.
Count. Open.
Five minutes? Can you give me that? After that, I can send your paperwork directly over to Spencer’s office. Really. Please.
UGHHH. I know I’m going to give in. He doesn’t need to beat himself up this much over the purse. He didn’t do it on purpose. I know.
Besides, he seems to already have plenty of things to make him sad. {There go those Soggy Bottom Boys with “Man of Constant Sorrow.”} He pissed me off, but I don’t need to add to his troubles—whatever they are. With my luck, something bad will happen to him, and I’ll read about it in the paper. A car crash. A fall. A house fire. Something. I don’t want to feel responsible for that. None of that.
I hit reply.
Fine.
Count. Send.
Another beep from my phone. A new message appears on the screen.
Would you like to add this number to your contact list?
No. Click. Phone down.
FINISHING MORNING PREPARATIONS. FOR ONCE, I’m glad I have to do such a long, structured routine. Keeps my mind almost busy enough to not obsess about 2:15 p.m.
Almost.
12:45 p.m. Done. I stare at the text of Crime and Punishment for a half hour. I read none of it.
1:15 p.m. Preparations to leave the house. Thirty-three checks. Bathroom shower: water off. Bathroom sink: water off. Hair dryer: unplugged. Hair straightener: unplugged. Bathroom counter: empty. Mirror: clean. Toilet: not running. Air vent: uncovered. Light: off. Bedroom floor: clean. Air vents: uncovered. Bed: made. TV: off. Light: off. Mandy’s room: clean…ish. Air vents: uncovered (at least). Light: off. Hallway light: off. Thermostat: 70 degrees. Laundry closet light: off. Laundry closet: closed. Hallway bathroom sink: water off. Toilet: not running. Air vent: uncovered. Light: off. Kitchen sink: water off. Stove: off. Refrigerator door: shut. Air vents: uncovered. Light: off. Living room floor: clean. Air vents: uncovered. Light: off.
Repeat.
Repeat again.
Out the door. Door locked. Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist. Locked. And I’m off. Just like that.
2:14 p.m. I discreetly (I think) use my own clump of tissues to open the main door to his office building, catching the door with my foot and hastily discarding the tissues in the outside trash can. I begin to move past the blue waiting room chairs to check in with Annie. Before either of us can say anything to the other, however, the brown door to her left opens. We both freeze as we hear a deep, quiet voice.
“Miss Royce.”
Annie looks shocked. {Cue Michael Jackson singing out her name in “Smooth Criminal.”} I’m sure my face looks much the same.
One. Two. Three. I allow my eyes to move from Annie’s face to his. Our eyes are all knotted together before I even have the chance to inhale.
Annie interrupts. “Oh, Dr. Blake. Is there something you need me to do? Miss Royce just arrived, and I was just about to lead her—”
She rambles on. It seems that Dr. Blake doesn’t make a habit out of escorting patients to his office. He looks at Annie briefly, saying, “I don’t need you for anything right now, Annie.” He pauses. Even quieter voice now. “I might need you to transfer some records later.
“Miss Royce, if you’ll follow me back…”
He has put his back against the door so I can walk right by. Annie is staring at me. Gotta move. I hug my purse close to the side of my body and instruct my black heels to start moving. I don’t look up as I pass him; I’m too busy mentally scrunching up all of my limbs and praying that I don’t accidentally brush against him.
Made it. I stop in the hallway, wait for him to shut the door and then lead the way down his ridiculously long hallway. {Michael Jackson’s song begins to morph into a reprise from The Beatles with—}
NO! Concentrate, Callie.
Grey pants today. Dark purple dress shirt. He walks slowly but with large strides. I match his pace. Two small steps for every large masculine stride.
One. Two. Three. Turn. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. Twist. One. Two— We are here. He twists the silver bar handle and again leans back on the door to let me through.
One. Two. Three. Body scrunch. In. Standing in the same place as before—just far enough inside that the door won’t graze my body as it closes. If someone closes it.
He does. Then he walks around me to his gigantic desk.
Silence. Again. Didn’t we do this already? I can’t believe I’m standing here again. Looking down at my purse. Again.
“Thanks for coming.”
I nod. I don’t even know if he can see it. Recalling his history of time actually spent looking at me, I decide he probably can’t.
I don’t say anything. I wait.
Still waiting.
“I haven’t had a patient like you in a very long time, Calista.”
Okay. Not really sure where this is going. Silence. Again. Since I’ve gotten pretty good at determining the placement and direction of his voice, I risk a glance up.
He is sitting in his desk chair facing his bookcase. Perhaps I should look into getting a freaking degree in voice location.
I keep my head up. He seems to be staring at the picture of his son and wife or whatever she is.
He still isn’t talking. Am I supposed to have some sort of intelligent response for him? I don’t. So I keep standing. When he asked me for five minutes, I don’t think he remembered to add in all of his moments of silence. It feels like each one is at least five minutes.
He sighs a long sigh. I lower my head again, just in case he decides to turn around. {A pow
er ballad is brewing; Bonnie Tyler steps up to begin “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”} Nothing. Quiet. {Verse one. Verse two. Verse thr—}
He speaks.
“I have to keep you as my patient.”
Huh? He has brought me here to tell me that Dr. Spencer won’t be returning for a while? Annie could have told me on the phone.
“Calista?”
He wants a response. I try quickly, too quickly, to give him one that will free us both from this awkwardness. I even look up as I talk.
“No. Oh. No. You don’t have to worry about that,” I stammer to the back of his dark head. “Annie didn’t say that Dr. Spencer would be gone so long, but really, it’s fine. And I am just going to call Dr. Lennox and be referred elsewhere and then everything—”
“Dr. Spencer will be back tomorrow.” He cuts off my super-sized sentence.
Oh.
“Let me rephrase this.” He continues our face-to-back conversation. “I need you to let me treat you. I need to help you.”
He feels guilty. I’m sort of glad he feels guilty, but letting him dwell on it won’t get me out of here any faster. And it won’t change what happened. I cut in before he can say any more words.
“Really, it’s fine. You don’t need to worry about the purse thing. I get it. You didn’t know I’d be there. You didn’t do it on purpose. You don’t owe me anything.” I look back down at my purse. If I could just make myself move, now would probably be a good time to go. Before he even turns around. {Refrain.}
Checked Page 6