“Okay, Calista. Now I’d like to listen to your heart.”
It’s been years since I’ve been to a doctor, but I remember well what this entails. I count and slowly nod my head.
Warily, he lifts his right arm and places the bell of his stethoscope on the left side of my chest. Again, his middle and index fingers hold the top of the bell securely while the other fingers are strategically placed away from my body.
Once he has the bell positioned, he slides his eyes up to mine. He exerts a tiny bit of pressure on the little bell and listens, not once removing his eyes from mine. {And now, finally, the refrain of “Feels Like Home.”}
It feels like more than that. But I’m not ready to think about that just yet.
I try to ignore the scorching heat tiptoeing throughout my body. I feel a power ballad starting up in my head. I try to ignore that too. His penetrating eyes aren’t really helping.
I really hope he isn’t using his special mind-reading powers right now. I also hope that my heart isn’t really beating as fast as I think it is.
It must not be. He pulls the bell away, simply saying, “Sounds good.” Before I can relax and rejoice a little over the end of my fake doctor’s appointment, he continues.
“Now, one last thing.” What? There are no other instruments left to use.
I wait. He pushes back his chair and spins it around to place the stethoscope on his desk. He doesn’t pick up anything else. His hands are empty as he turns back to face me.
With a guarded look in his eyes, he reluctantly speaks. “The last thing I need to do is check your pulse.”
I know my eyes widen. There was no mention of this before I agreed to our non-appointment.
He starts spitting out words. “Calista, this really is the last check we need to do. Then we can get started and put this behind us.” He takes a breath and then continues. “Would you like me to wash my hands again? Or find some gloves?”
No. His hands are already clean. Gloves aren’t really necessary. They’d be nice if they would somehow prevent or dilute the response I fear my body will have. But I don’t think that really has anything to do with my OCD.
He looks at me. All concerned and waiting for my response.
Shaking my head, I say, “No. It’s fine, I think.”
“All right,” he murmurs. Not very confident. He just stares at me nervously. I nod again to reassure him. To reassure me.
“I am going to use these two fingers,” he says as he holds up his right middle and pointer fingers, “and I’m going to place them right on the underside of your wrist.”
I nod again, hoping that he’ll stop staring at me. He does but only for a moment to place his fingers on my wrist. As his fingers connect with my skin, the heat that has been slowly spreading through me floods my entire body. The pieces of songs streaming through my head are moving so quickly that I cannot place even one of them.
I feel my body sway a little, and my head falls back on the chair. And then he breaks me out of the moment. He jerks his fingers from my wrist.
“Calista, I’m sorry. It was too much.”
He doesn’t get it. He thinks he’s hurting me. I can’t speak yet.
In his desperation to make it better, he grabs my wrist and clutches it, calling my name again and again. Before the tsunami can reclaim much speed throughout me, he lets go, shocked. His eyes give away tremendous remorse. He thinks he has made two major mistakes. In quick succession. The premeditated pulse check and then the spontaneous wrist grab. Such transgressions. I imagine him telling a priest about them in confession, and I feel a smile creep onto my face.
But I stop. I can’t smile now, not when he looks like this.
Or maybe…maybe a smile will be just the thing he needs. Something new for us.
Keeping my eyes on his, I allow a soft smile to break out on my face. He looks surprised but not better. I need to do more…to fumble for the right combination of words.
Through my smile, some words do spill out. “We did it. Am I cleared now for treatment, Doctor?”
My words snap him out of his guilt. He blinks and moves right back into business mode. “Um, yes. I was able to get your pulse, and everything seems fine. You are ready to begin the treatment plan. It is, ah, getting late, though, so perhaps we can meet to tackle the next step tomorrow afternoon.”
He gets up from his chair while he awaits my answer. As he pushes his chair back to its spot behind his desk, I formulate a response.
“Sure. Tomorrow’s fine. What is my next step?”
I don’t really want to know, but I want to keep him talking. I guess I ask it as part of my silent apology for getting all weird during the pulse reading. Very similar to the fact that I’m doing this whole therapy thing primarily as a penance for upsetting him with my curiosity.
“Yoga-type relaxation,” he answers, interrupting my own conscience examination. I must look confused because he continues. “We need to familiarize you with some meditative concepts of yoga so that you are prepared to encounter some scary situations.”
“So I am going to what?” I blurt out. “Break into Downward Facing Dog when I think I touched something dirty? Wouldn’t I look a little less ridiculous just washing my hands for an hour?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but wait, is he smiling?
Well, that is new. And rather adorable, some loud corner of my mind informs me. Shut it.
The smile hasn’t completely left his face as he says, “No, you’ll learn some yoga relaxation techniques, not positions. You’ll see. Tomorrow.”
I simply nod my head for the three-millionth time.
“Let’s lock up your chair.”
“Oh. Okay, great.”
I stand up, still holding my purse, and he grabs the back of the chair so he can push it to his closet. As he puts the chair away, I briefly wonder if he is serious about it being my chair. How would I know if he is lying? Perhaps I should break into his office during one of his sessions with another patient. I could distract Annie and run down the hallway without anyone noticing.
Just as the Mission: Impossible theme song gets started in my head, he interrupts.
“This chair really will be just for you, Calista.”
So his mind reading isn’t limited to OCD tendencies; he can predict criminal intentions as well.
He goes on as he moves back to his desk. “The same goes for these medical instruments. I’ll box them up and keep them locked in my closet. Just in case we need to use them again.” He places the box of instruments in his closet and then locks the closet door. Just like he said he would.
“You are going to have to trust me a little, Calista. Or else this won’t work.” I know he’s right. Whether or not it’ll ever happen, I can’t say, but I know it would be best. I give him my signature nod.
“Ready to go?” He is standing by the office door.
“Mmmhmmm,” I murmur before walking past him as he holds the door open yet again. No touching. He gets me through the other two office doors in the same fashion and goes back to turn out the lights after I am already safely outside.
It’s darker outside now and much chillier. It would be nice to have a sweatshirt. That would have complicated my “appointment,” though. It’s difficult to imagine having to take off a layer of clothing while holding on to my purse and then having nowhere to put the sweatshirt and having to hold it too. I decide to be grateful I didn’t bring a sweatshirt. As for the cold? I can just suck it up.
He locks the main office door, and we walk to his car. As he is opening the passenger door for me, my cell phone rings. I grab it from my purse after I slide into my seat. It’s Melanie.
“Hey, Mel. What’s going on?”
As Melanie starts questioning me about birthday presents for Mom, he gets into the driver’s seat and starts the car. He looks over at me and gives me a face that seems to be asking if it’s okay to start moving. I nod and give him a little smile. Which he returns. And it really is adora
ble.
Shit. Melanie must’ve just asked me a question. She seems to be waiting for my response.
“Um, Mel, I missed that. I must have bad reception right now.”
“Oh, well, I just wanted to see if Dad called you about getting his present for—wait, you have bad reception? Where are you?”
Shit. Shit. Shit. I glance over, and he appears to be trying to ignore my conversation. Perhaps that would be a bit easier if the car wasn’t so deathly silent.
“Um, I am on my way back to campus to pick up my car. I’ll be home soon.”
“Wait—don’t tell me Mandy finally got you out for a Thirsty Thursday. I never thought that day would come.”
“Well, it hasn’t. I was doing this, ah, therapy thing.”
“At 10:30 at night? That sounds more like a date.”
“No…um…just some prep work for that immersion thing I was telling you about.”
I glance over at him. His face shows no reaction to my words even though he obviously hears them. This guy’s gotta get an iPod or some CDs or something.
Melanie isn’t done with her inquiry. “So you are going to go through with this immersion therapy. Do you think you can handle it?”
“Well, I’m going to try,” I answer honestly. Before she can think up any more questions, I come up with one for her. “What are you up to tonight?” Okay, so I came up with a pathetic question. It still works. Melanie begins lamenting about her latest case and about the fact that she keeps losing evenings with Abby.
“So you are driving home now?” She knows I hate it when she calls when she is driving. If she crashes, it would essentially be my fault.
“I am. I just thought I’d catch you quickly about Mom’s gifts.”
“Well, okay, I will take care of picking those up. Maybe we’ll get to talk about some ideas tomorrow night.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“All right, you just drive now. And be careful.”
“I will. Good night, Callie.”
“Night.”
He glances over at me as I put my phone back in my purse. “Your sister?” he asks and then looks back at the road.
“Yep—that was Melanie.”
“Not the one that you live with?”
“Right, that’s Mandy. She’s out tonight. Thirsty Thursday every week.”
“And you don’t go with her.”
He didn’t even put that in question format. Do I have to answer?
I don’t get the chance. He goes on. “Why not?”
Where do I begin? “Drunk idiots. Sweaty bodies. Accidental brushing and touching. Disgusting bathrooms. Sticky floors and tables.”
He nods. And then changes the subject. “You’ll see both of your sisters tomorrow night, right?”
“Yep, every Friday.”
“What time do you want to meet tomorrow then?”
As I tell him about my schedule for tomorrow, we pull into the campus parking lot, right next to my car. It feels like forever since we were last here.
Still sitting in the car, we decide to meet at 4:00 p.m. so I’ll have some time after my TA class to grab some lunch before I drive to his office. With our plans settled, he comes around to my side of the car to open my door. When I stand up out of the car, we are face to face, only inches apart.
Our eyes find each other. Everything’s quiet.
Eventually, he speaks. “Thank you, Calista.”
He has no reason to thank me. He is giving up his time to fix me.
“No. I am the one who should be thanking you, Dr. Blake.”
He shakes his head as soon as the word “doctor” comes out of me.
“Aiden,” he says softly.
“Aiden,” I repeat.
“Until tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod. Of course. He steps aside, and I get into my car. He stands and watches as I back out of my spot. I give him an awkward little wave and then go home.
10:50 p.m. Night preparations.
1:52 a.m. Bed.
Chapter 13
breathing
I WAKE UP NOT RESTED at all. Some people would say that they tossed and turned all night, but that would not be accurate for me. I am a side sleeper, and I remained on my left side for hours. Most of my body didn’t move even a centimeter throughout the night. The only exception was my eyes—they opened and closed all night long. Every time they closed, I saw him. His blue, serious eyes. Watching me.
I couldn’t sleep with him watching me. So I’d open my eyes and stare at my alarm clock on the nightstand. And think about him watching me.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t fall asleep thinking about him watching me. Or with my eyes open. So I’d shut them again, and see him again, and force them back open again. And so on…
So no, I don’t feel rested this morning. But I drag myself out of bed anyway. Can’t be late for class or it will give Dr. Gabriel an excuse to talk to me. No, thank you.
When I get to the end of my morning routine, I wonder what I should wear for my afternoon therapy session. Yoga relaxation—does that require special exercise clothing? Mandy would probably know, but asking her means opening myself up to a wide assortment of uncomfortable questions. I decide to pack a bag with sweatpants, a t-shirt, and sneakers just in case the short blue dress I’m wearing to class won’t work.
I leave my bag in the car when I get to campus. As I walk into class, Dr. Gabriel corners me right away. Fantastic. He runs down his game plan for the morning’s class, as if it makes much of a difference for what I’ll be doing. No matter how he arranges it, I’ll be sitting and avoiding eye contact with him. Regardless of this, I humor him and listen to his plans, nodding to show my (fake) appreciation for his lesson scheduling abilities while simultaneously praying that he doesn’t touch me as he makes erratic hand gestures to illustrate his ideas.
I get out of our little pre-class conference unscathed. Untouched. Thank God. I take my seat and class begins. {And now Jeff Buckley, a guitar, and “Hallelujah.”} Dr. Gabriel is talking to the students, now explaining to them the same game plan he mentioned in our little chat. I’m sure the students are finding it as brilliant as I did.
The students who didn’t get to read their narratives last week start presenting. More attempts at using foreshadowing and figurative language. Dr. Gabriel doesn’t ask me for my thoughts as he gives his commentary for each presenter. He seems to be trying to move things along quickly so he can start teaching the lesson. Fine with me. The less interaction I have with him, the more comfortable I am.
His lecture begins. Persuasive writing tips today. The students don’t care. The same ones from last week are texting again. The blonde in the front row is sleeping. In the front row! She’s not even trying to pretend that she is awake. Dr. Gabriel doesn’t really look at the students as he lectures anyway. He does this strange thing where he focuses his eyes toward the pictures on the back wall of the room. Just like we were taught to do in my ninth grade public speaking class to help with nerves. Is he nervous? Or is he just trying to avoid having to acknowledge the disinterested looks on his students’ faces? Either way, I’m sure the kids do great impersonations of him outside of the classroom.
Dr. Gabriel starts his timer for the individual work portion of class. I use the time to work on my Crime and Punishment paper. Last night’s surprise therapy session put me behind.
I can’t believe I’ll be back in another therapy session in just over two hours. Back with him. {Quick record change—Buckley right back to Damien Rice.}
Callie, focus. Paper. Due. Monday.
I do focus on my paper over the next hour. Sort of. As the clock gets closer and closer to the end of class, closer and closer to my appointment, my stomach gets more and more nervous. I try to shift in my chair to relax, but every time I move, Dr. Gabriel glances over at me like he thinks I’m trying to get his attention. I try to keep still so he stops. Luckily, my stomach’s skips and tumbles don’t make noises that he can hear.
/> Once his timer rings, Dr. Gabriel walks around to check the students’ progress. He decides to give them until the end of class to write. I use the time to work on my paper, to look at the clock, to pick off my nail polish, and to worry about 4:00 p.m.
At 3:00 p.m. sharp, I duck out of the classroom as a student corners Dr. Gabriel with questions about his paper. Thank you, pimply freshman boy.
I don’t have time to go home so I drive right to his office. After eating a 110-calorie granola bar, I pretend to continue writing my paper. Really, I just watch the clock and try not to notice the other patients going in and out of the office. My attempts don’t work. I notice each and every one. The Pierce football fan (so says his t-shirt) who screeches into the parking lot at 3:31 p.m. and runs to the main entrance doors. The crying brunette who uses the tissues in her left hand to wipe her eyes as she opens the office door with her bare right hand. The petite blonde who exits moments later talking on her cell phone. I watch them all. 3:55 p.m. As I prepare to get out of my car, the main office door opens again.
It’s him.
White dress shirt with a royal blue tie today. Eyes searching the lot. Looking around…for me?
Yes. He catches my eye as I get out of the car and then waits patiently while I lock the car and pull on the door handle to ensure that it’s locked. One. Two. Three. I walk toward him, toward the main door that he is now holding open for me, thanking him as I walk past him and into the waiting room. He immediately moves ahead of me to open the next door, the brown door next to Annie’s desk. He completely ignores the surprised look Annie gives him. I give her a tiny smile as she turns her stunned eyes to me.
And we are off. Down the endless, twisting hall, past the birds, and into his office yet again. He goes right to the closet where he unlocks the door and pulls out my chair. After moving it to the same place as last night, I sit, again clutching my purse on my lap. Without saying a word, he points to a hook on the wall to the left of his desk. A new hook. For me. For my purse. He doesn’t even have to tell me.
Mumbling “thank you,” I hang the purse on the hook, my hook, and return to my chair. Another “my” in this office, I think, as I watch him go over to the bathroom and wash his hands. My way. Well, his mom’s way too, I guess. {Let’s pause to welcome back Mr. Frank Sinatra, now with “My Way.”}
Checked Page 9