I’m too late. He starts to speak, and his voice is a fraction louder than it was before. I know he has turned around.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the purse, Calista.”
Sure. I keep my head down. Quiet. He is looking at me now. I feel him.
“I have come up with a unique twelve day program of immersion treatment for you. If you commit to this, we’ll take a major step in helping you. After twelve days, you won’t be suddenly cured, but I think you will experience some marked improvements.”
Ah. There it is. His motive. Some experimental research—grounds for a brand new fancy article.
“I know Dr. Lennox sent you to this office to seek medication,” he continues, “but if you begin taking medicine it won’t start to take effect for quite some time. Perhaps this treatment will give you earlier and more natural relief.” Yeah, and perhaps it will get you a sizable paycheck. Or another presenter spot in one of my classes. No, thank you.
“Our research doesn’t have to be put into an article. Or a textbook.” Of course he knows what I am thinking even now.
“If you don’t want me to, I won’t tell anyone about this. You won’t have to sign any information release forms, and we’ll follow only your personal doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. Your terms.” His voice is intense but sincere. I know his eyes haven’t left the top of my head.
I realize I’ve started to pick at my nail polish. I consider stopping, but really, what is the point? He already knows about my crazy. And about every thought that flickers through my brain.
“Calista. Please trust me on this. No one has to know.” Quieter now. “I won’t embarrass you.”
Again. Shouldn’t he have said “again” at the end of that sentence?
“I spend most of my time here in this office. The other doctors and Annie won’t even ask about your treatment. They know all about confidentiality agreements.” He pauses. “And I live completely alone. My closest relative, Uncle Dan, lives over two hours away. So I’m not going to go home and spill your secrets to anyone.” Another pause.
“I know I embarrassed you before. I won’t do it again. Your information will go nowhere if that is what you want.”
“And where would it go otherwise?” My own voice stuns me. My curiosity must have unfrozen my lips. Luckily, it didn’t also raise my head…or ask the real questions I can’t stop thinking. How do you know I just watch cooking shows for background noise? Why are you so sad? Why did you keep my purse? If you live alone, who are the people in that picture?
He replies rather quickly (for him), seemingly grateful for my first bit of participation in this discussion.
“I would only ever share our program, our findings, if you wanted me to do so. And then, I would only do it if I felt the information would lend help to other OCD patients like you or to other doctors willing to try experimental treatments.”
Oh. He has every possible base covered. Of course. That was probably easy for him though, what with his crazy super mind-reading powers.
“Calista.” So quiet. “Look at me.” Almost a whisper.
He knows. He knows I’ll say yes if I look at him. If I see whatever expression he’s chosen to manipulate me.
“I don’t want to look at you,” I mutter bluntly, verging on angrily.
“Why not? Because you want to say yes?”
DAMN IT.
I thrust up my head and meet his gaze with all of the frustration I can express without exploding my eyes.
“How do you keep doing that?”
“I don’t understand.” His blue eyes look surprised, confused.
“You don’t understand?” I push on without giving myself time to question or regret the words. “Right. That would be a first. You know everything. You see everything. It’s like you’ve read some all-inclusive tell-all journal that I’ve never even written.”
He stares at me, mouth slightly open.
I can’t stop.
“Or maybe you foresee that I’ll eventually take the time to write all of this down, and you just haven’t told me yet. Please, Dr. Blake, tell me what I’ll do next. Amaze me with—”
Oh my God.
His eyes are miserable, devastated. Just like the first time I was in this office. But it’s worse. Much worse. I did this.
“I-I’m sorry.” As I say the words, I feel a transformation in my eyes, my face. From harsh anger to sorrowful regret in an instant.
It doesn’t change the look on his face. I’m too late. He’s staring past me now. His seated posture is perfect, professional. His large hands sit on the desk in front of him. Still. Rigid. Shoulders tensed. I watch the movement in his throat as he swallows at an excruciatingly slow pace.
I have to fix this. Now. And then I have to get out of here.
“Look, I’ll do your study or experiment thing. You can do whatever you want with my information. Just email me or have Annie call me to set it up.”
He is still staring past me. Can he even hear what I am saying? I can’t just leave him like this. But what else can I say? He hasn’t moved a gazillionth of an inch. His troubled eyes are in some sort of trance. Wide open. Seeing nothing. Nothing here in this room anyway.
BEEEEEP. The phone on his desk breaks through our silence. His eyes blink quickly, and he turns his head to listen to his message.
“Dr. Blake, your three fifteen has arrived.” Annie. Thank you, Annie.
He verbalizes my thoughts yet again as he pushes a button. “Thank you, Annie.”
I’ve got to go. While he’s lucid. I mumble, “I…um…I’ll just wait for your call or, um, email or…whenever you are ready to begin…” Good enough, I think. But he’s still looking at the phone. Damn it. Look at me. Acknowledge that you hear me. Blink. Or cough. Or nod. Do something so I can leave and not feel worse than I do already.
He doesn’t look up but instead begins to spin around in his chair. Seriously? He turns back rather quickly. He has the tissues again. Oh. I’ve spent years trying not to use tissues on doorknobs in front of people. Now I’ll be doing it for the third time in one week.
As I step forward, he keeps his eyes lowered. Just like the last time we did this little dance. I gently pull out each tissue. One at a time. One. Two. Three.
“Thank you, Dr. Blake,” I mumble, standing right in front of him. And he doesn’t move. Or talk. So I turn and go out his door, down the bird-infested hall, out the brown door, past Annie and presumably his “three fifteen” patient, out the main entrance, by the trash can where I deposit my tissues (his tissues), and into my car.
And I breathe for a little.
Chapter 11
the aftermath
I DRIVE STRAIGHT TO THE writing center. If I drive home, I would have to prepare to leave again before driving to work and would probably be late so instead I use the extra time to catch up with Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment.
Quiet night at the writing center. Brittany’s not even here. I get through most of my book during my shift.
When I get home, I mix a salad and microwave some instant soup for dinner. Around four hundred calories total. I begin my night preparations, knowing that I won’t skip the “check email” step tonight.
10:30 p.m. When I finally sit down at my laptop, five new messages show up.
He wrote. One. Two. Three. Open.
Calista,
Please come to your appointment tomorrow. I’m sorry.
-Dr. Blake
Oh. He hasn’t written. That is from last night. Now it’s twenty-four hours later, and I’m the one who should be sending an apology message. But I don’t. I apologized. He ignored me. I delete his message. If only it was so easy to get his tortured look out of my mind.
I press on. Two pieces of junk mail. One about erectile dysfunction. The other about penis enlargement. Awesome job, once again, email filter.
The next email is from my dad.
Hey Cal,
You know your mother’s birthday is comi
ng up. Do you have any time to shop with me next week? See you at dinner on Sunday.
Love,
Dad
I smile to myself as I reply. These emails come from him like clockwork when a holiday or anniversary approaches. I write him back to check his plans for next Thursday and then get to my email from Dr. Gabriel.
Ugh. Just a copy of the university’s grading policy. “In case you need it when you start teaching in November,” he says.
As though I don’t already know the university’s grading policy. As though I wasn’t just a student in his class last fall. Please stop emailing me. The email ends with his signature comment about having a date with a new girl tonight. I get it, creepshow. You are spreading diseases all over campus. Stop reminding me, please.
No count necessary. DELETE.
I hit “check email” once more. Just in case. Nothing. {Schoolgirl-style Britney Spears begins “…Baby One More Time.”} I close my laptop and head to the laundry closet. Maybe he’ll write tomorrow. Or perhaps Annie will call with an appointment time.
Or maybe nothing will happen. Maybe he changed his mind.
Time for dusting. I grab my duster from the shelf above the washer. {On to the desperate refrain. And repeat. And rep—} My cell phone is ringing. It’s almost 11:00 p.m. He didn’t give up.
I pick up the phone. It’s not him.
“Hey, Melanie.”
“Callie—I know it’s late. I had a really busy night, but I’m out of the office now, and I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. How did it go today?”
She wants to know how the appointment went. Get behind me in line.
“Well, I don’t really know, Mel,” I start out. “It’s still early yet. I think I’m going to be starting some intense immersion treatment.”
“Wow. Is that like touching dirty things and then not washing your hands?” I feel my body convulse a bit at her words.
I decide not to tell her that I only agreed to the therapy as an apology. Might sound ridiculous. “Well, uh, I think there’s more to it than that. I don’t really want to think about it just yet.”
“I understand,” Melanie blurts out before smoothly changing the subject. Her new subject is Mandy. “What is Mandy up to tonight?”
“I think she is on the phone with Josh. Making plans for next weekend.” I pick up my duster and get to work on my dresser as we talk. It is already pretty late, after all.
Melanie has that motherly, worried ring in her voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us, Callie? We could do a whole sleepover weekend thing. Abby would love it if we did makeovers and junk food and all that girl stuff.”
“We’ll see how things go, Mel. I really do need to be able to stay here on my own. I can’t still be bringing a sleeping bag to your house when I’m fifty.” I finish dusting my room and take the duster out to the living room.
“Well, we’ll just see how you feel at the end of next week, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Mel.”
“All right—I’ve got to get to bed. That alarm will be going off in a blink.”
“I know what you mean. Okay—see you Friday night.”
“Good night, Callie.”
“Night, Mel.”
I finish dusting, scrubbing, and sanitizing. Time to get clean. Shower. Apply body lotion. Dress for bed. Check email…one last time. Nothing. Television on. Filled pasta dishes tonight. Heavy food to be thinking about so late at night. Luckily, I don’t have to listen for long. Last night’s lack of sleep has rewarded me tonight…I’m exhausted. I drift off just as the manicotti is being put in the oven.
I DREAM ABOUT HIM. WE are jousting in some inflatable game type thing, like the ones rented for freshman orientation activities every year. We are standing on four-foot blow up round stands, both wearing ridiculous, gigantic masks as if we might be severely injured by our inflatable swords. The mask covers his face so I can only see those miserable eyes. When a whistle blows, we try to knock each other off the stands. I’m terrible at the activity. I almost knock myself off of my own stand a few times. He seems pretty steady on his stand, but he isn’t getting anywhere in our match either.
After a few minutes of a very lame battle, I lose my balance yet again and start to fall. As I go down, I reach out and grab his arm. He loses his balance and we both plummet to the cushy game surface below.
That’s it. The dream ends and then starts all over again.
And then again after that. I even dream in threes.
When my alarm finally rings, I don’t feel very rested. But I know I have to get moving if I want to beat the grocery-getting crowd.
Before I can start my routine, I know I have to check my email. No new messages. I briefly consider writing to him, but then realize that I have nothing to say. Hey…I just dreamt about you all night—thought you might like to know. Oh, and P.S.—are you still mad at me? Yeah. Awesome idea, Callie. I close my laptop and get moving.
9:45 a.m. Grocery shopping. No major drama beyond my normal blueberry fat-free yogurt being completely out of stock. I decide to try another brand even though each cup is ten calories more than usual.
I leave the parking lot with no trouble. 9:45 a.m. it is from now on…
Home. As I’m soaping up my hands, I hear my phone buzz. A text message. I get through the hand-washing process as fast as I can. My hands are almost dry when I reach into my purse for the phone.
Not him. Still.
It’s from Mandy. The Thirsty Thursday invite. I quickly type my reply.
Thanks but not tonight. Have a good time. Careful!
Send. No other texts. {Damien Rice comes rushing back in with “The Blower’s Daughter.”} I spend my afternoon finishing Crime and Punishment and taking notes for my paper. {It plays over and over and over and over and over and over.}
5:00 p.m. Leaving routine.
5:43 p.m. Check email. Nothing. {The song begins again.}
5:58 p.m. In my seat, ready for another presentation. I pull out my fresh notebook to jot down more ideas for my paper, but I cannot concentrate. He stood only a few feet in front of me in this very room. Only forty-eight hours ago. {And again and again and again.}
Class begins. Tonight’s speaker is a young woman. Late twenties. Early thirties at most. Long, pin straight hair. Acrylic French manicure. Fitted black suit. Probably a size two. She writes for a celebrity magazine. In a sugary voice, she tells us how she researches her stories (pretty much by stalking people, it seems) while I manage to remove all of the polish from my nails.
She moves around the front of the room as she talks, heel clicks accompanying her presentation. We are given some time to examine a few of her latest articles. Pregnancy. Affairs. Shopping splurges. Arrests. As I skim the pages and half listen to the Q&A session, I can’t help but wonder how many of these articles are actually true. Probably not a good question to bring up.
Finally, it sounds like she is wrapping up her presentation. Wishing us luck. Giving us contact information. Yep, sounds like an ending.
8:35 p.m. Class is over. Only twenty-five minutes early. Still better than ending at the scheduled time, I guess. I gather my stuff and head out. No mishaps this time.
It is one of those fall nights outside. Slightly chilly sweatshirt weather. Leaves blowing around. I take a slow walk to my car, breathing in the new season and letting my step match the beat in my head radio. {The owner of the beat is Lady Gaga with “Paparazzi.”}
I hear a rustle of leaves behind me. A classmate in a hurry to get to the parking lot, I’m sure. I slow my step and move to the grass on the side of the walkway.
Hasn’t passed me yet. I can’t slow down much more without completely stopping.
“Calista.” Quiet. Low.
Him.
Chapter 12
immersion eve
I STOP. {LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, Mr. Damien Rice.}
“Calista.”
I can hear him breathing behind me now. I try to look back out of th
e corner of my eye, but I can only see my own dark ponytail. Gotta turn around. This is awkward—even more awkward than it usually is when we are in the same space. If that is even possible.
Inhale. One. Two. Three. Exhale. Turn. He is two steps away from me. Lit by a dim walkway light. Dark pants. Hands in his front pockets. Light dress shirt with the collar open and no tie. Mouth—serious. Eyes—haven’t made it there yet.
“Are you ready to begin?”
What? My eyes accidentally meet his as my head snaps up. “Um, what?”
“Your twelve days?” His eyes aren’t sad. They are almost calm. Almost.
Maybe the lighting is just bad.
I clear my throat. “Um, now?” So articulate, Callie. I’m sure this university won’t regret giving you a degree for a mastery of the English language.
“Why not now?” He slides his eyes away from me momentarily. “Unless you have plans.” Well, I do have a hot date with my stove, my laundry, and my alarm clock, but they’ll all be waiting for me when I get home.
He hasn’t looked back at me yet. He’s looking past me, and some of the calmness in his eyes has seemed to disappear. I decide to go along with his plan before his eyes get any worse.
“No. I don’t have plans.”
He blinks back over to me. His eyes have a new expression. Relief? Anticipation? I’m not sure. “So you’ll come with me?”
Sure. What the hell? I’ll go with this mega-intense, super sad stalker guy who waits for me for God knows how long outside of my class. At 9:00 at night. Good plan there, Callie. I try to reassure myself that there aren’t too many doctors slash ax murderers out there. I really don’t think he is a Hannibal Lecter-type exception to that. I take my chances.
Checked Page 7