“It’s crucial for you to practice your relaxation at home and during your down time. This will help you to prepare for our sessions, but it will also help you with relaxation in general. It’s essential that we take care of you so you don’t become overly anxious or even more stressed out than you already are.”
We are going to take care of me? How does that work exactly?
As my heart starts climbing mountains considering the possibilities, he goes on. “We will have sessions Monday through Friday for two weeks and then on Monday and Tuesday of the third week. While we won’t formally work on the weekends, I will give you some tasks to work on by yourself. This weekend, for example, I have one area of concentration for you.”
I’m sure I’ll do a bang up job on that. If I could do these things on my own, I wouldn’t be here.
He comes around to the corner of his desk yet again to sit. “I’d like for you to write down all of the, um, sins you’d like to report at confession this week. Then, I’d like for you to wait until next week to go to confession. Keep the list so that you have it next week, adding anything else you’d like during the week. Do you think you can do that?”
Skip confession this week? I don’t know. He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer.
I shrug, quietly saying, “I’ll try.” An honest answer. I will try. But I’m not making any promises or anything.
“That’s all I am asking of you, Calista.”
His eyes are so serious. Determined. He really wants this to work, needs it to work. For a paper? To help his mother? I don’t know.
I don’t want to disappoint him. “I will try,” I whisper. Sincerely.
“Thank you,” he whispers back. And he keeps his eyes on mine for an endless moment before blinking away and moving back behind his desk.
Back to a business, doctor-like tone. “I will be in contact with you later this weekend to schedule a time for Monday. I’d rather not set up anything until later.” He pauses. “Gives you less time to worry about it.” Probably a good idea.
As we work together to lock my chair back in the closet, he asks me to email him my weekly class and work schedule. He then nods to my purse, and I move to take it off its hook, my hook, while he goes to open the door.
I follow him down the hall, through the door next to Annie, and out the main office door. As I get in my car and begin to drive off, I see him raise his hand in a slight wave. Quite a send-off from such a busy, important doctor.
Seconds later, I hear a ding from my phone. I wait until a red light to dig the phone out of my purse. Unknown Number.
Have fun at Girls’ Night, Calista. Relax. -Aiden
{Cue Damien Rice.}
Chapter 14
the weekend before
IT’S ALMOST 5:30 P.M. WHEN I get back home. Not a lot of time to prepare for tonight. After scrubbing my hands and before starting to clean the kitchen, I unpack my sweats and sneakers. Didn’t need them after all. My dress was just fine.
More than fine. His face appears in my head, flushed right after he brushed against my bare leg.
Why the blush? And why the text only minutes after our appointment?
I guess I should respond to that. I grab my phone and hit reply.
Thanks.
That’s all I have. What else can I say? Have a nice weekend? See you Monday? Doesn’t seem natural. I decide to just sign my name under the “Thanks,” and I push send quickly so I don’t have to think about it anymore.
Just as the little message asking if I want to add him as a contact appears, another text comes through.
You’re welcome, Callie.
Callie? What? Why would—
Shit.
I click back to my sent messages to see what I wrote to him.
Yep. Callie. I wrote “Callie.” Only my family members call me Callie.
Until now, I guess. {Here comes Carly Rae Jepsen with “Call Me Maybe.”}
Stop, Callie. Time for cleaning.
7:45 P.M. CLEANING DONE: KITCHEN, LIVING room, me.
Pajamas on.
Since I have fifteen minutes, I decide to start my little weekend assignment. Get it over with now. I write “Confession” at the top of a new sheet of paper. Number one on my list is Dr. Gabriel. I have to seek forgiveness about him every single week. I try to remember how many times I have wished he would just go into a coma or something over the last week.
For number two, I list the patients going in and out of Dr. Blake’s office building. I judged each one. As if I should be judging anyone when it comes to psychological issues.
Lastly (for now), I add a number three. Him. I keep hurting him. Keep causing that painful look on his face... Somehow I need to—
“Aunt Callie?”
Abby’s here, outside my bedroom door. I put down my pen and go with her to the living room. It’s time for Girls’ Night.
Melanie and Mandy already have their first margaritas in their hands. Abby and I join Melanie on the couch while Mandy gets the DVD ready.
“What are we watching tonight?” I ask Abby as I pull a blanket over both of us.
“Enchanted,” she exclaims. I smile and hug her closer to me. She gets so excited about her movie choices. I get excited too. Since Abby gets to pick what we watch every other week, I only have to pick once a month at the most. That means I only have to worry about disappointing others one time every six weeks.
Well, once every six weeks when it comes to movie choices. Somehow I seem to cause a lot of other disappointment during the course of a month.
I think of Mandy’s texts and phone calls, invitations to go out, each one met with a negative response from me. I think of Dr. Gabriel. For only a second. I have a hard time even worrying about that—he’s so creepy.
And I think of him. Those miserable eyes. {Damien Rice again!} What is he doing tonight? All alone in his house. Still working?
I remember that I need to email him my schedule for the week when Abby asks if we can make popcorn. I’ll have to email him later. Melanie and Mandy would ask all kinds of questions if I left to do it now anyway.
I take Abby to the kitchen and put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. While we wait for it to finish popping, Abby tells me about her first grade class. She sounds pretty happy about school. I hope it stays that way.
As we head back out to the living room and start the movie, I begin to remember my own life as a six-year-old.
Catholic school. Long brown curls. Plaid uniform. Already nervous all of the time.
I remember picking at the skin around my fingernails during religion class. Going to bed every night only after Mom put lotion and then socks on my dry, cracked, already over-washed hands. Not sleeping much. Thinking about the sins my teacher warned about in class. Contemplating hell and eternity. Crawling into bed with Mom. Eventually creating a makeshift bed on the living room floor right beside the television.
No cooking shows back then. Old sitcoms worked almost as well, providing my six-year-old body with about a quarter of the sleep it actually needed.
Abby snuggles closer to me on the couch, and I run my hand over her soft blonde curls. I know that we laugh at her OCD moments, but I really hope they remain just that. Little moments every once in awhile.
Not taking over her entire existence.
She nudges me as Amy Adams wanders through New York in a puffy wedding dress.
“Isn’t her dress beautiful, Aunt Callie?” I smile and nod. It is beautiful. Well, it was before she started to walk through the filthy New York streets.
Abby isn’t finished adoring the dress. She turns a bit on the couch so she can see Mandy. “Do you want to wear a dress like that when you marry Josh, Aunt Amanda?”
Melanie catches my eye, and neither of us attempts to hold back our laughter.
Mandy’s stunned expression doesn’t help matters. As she spits out partial sentences about being young, about the long distance, about not knowing if Josh is “the one,” all items of little imp
ortance to Abby, Melanie starts the song.
Mandy’s song. Barry Manilow’s “Mandy.” We’ve been singing it to her for years any time she does something clumsy or asks a ridiculous question or is left speechless—like tonight.
Abby and I join in for the refrain, and Mandy throws a pillow at us, hitting Melanie on the head. Abby and I raise our hands in the air melodramatically, and Melanie jumps off the couch to prepare for the big finish.
We are interrupted by Mandy’s cell phone. I’m sure it’s Josh. Unbelievable timing.
Mandy answers her phone and stands to go to her room, rolling her eyes and flashing us a smile before leaving. Melanie decides it’s probably a good time to give Abby a bath so I head up to my room to send my email.
It doesn’t take me long to type out my schedule. I attach it to the email and type “schedule” as the subject. Then I sign the email. Calista. Not Callie.
One. Two. Three. Send.
As I reply to another email from Dad about next week’s shopping trip, a new message appears in my inbox.
DA Blake.
One. Two. Three. Open.
Thanks, Callie.
Callie. Guess all further attempts at formality will be futile.
I wonder once again what he is doing tonight. No little boy running around his house because he is that little boy. Was that little boy. With his OCD mom.
No wife. No girlfriend. Presumably.
Unfortunately, there is no more time for me to think about him right now. I can hear Amy Adams singing again in the living room.
I go back out, have my one margarita, and talk a little with my sisters (not too much though—Abby gets annoyed when we talk through the “good” parts). Mandy talks about her plans for next weekend. She’ll be driving into Pittsburgh to stay with Josh at his dorm room in Oakland. Since she’ll only be about twenty minutes away from Mom and Dad’s house, she and Josh will meet us there for Mom’s birthday dinner next Sunday.
We talk about Mom’s birthday and also about this Sunday’s family dinner. Two Sundays in a row—doesn’t happen often. I’m glad I’ll get to see so much of my parents, but the thought of all of us making that hour drive two weekends in a row makes me a little nervous. Like we are just tempting fate to put one of us in a car accident.
After Mandy reviews the plans she and Josh have made, Melanie looks at me warily as she begins to speak.
“I didn’t tell you guys yet,” she begins slowly. “Doug has a work assignment in Ohio at the end of next week. The meeting place is only about half an hour away from his parents’ house.” She pauses. “We decided last night that we’ll go up together on Thursday afternoon and make a long weekend out of it. His parents will love the time with Abby, and I’m sure I can get some work done in the car.”
She’s looking at me, quite obviously gauging my reaction.
Mandy will be gone. Now she’ll be gone too. I won’t be able to make the twenty minute drive to her house if I can’t take it here by myself or if I have to run from the murderers.
I hurriedly tell Melanie not to worry. I was already planning on staying here by myself. She still looks concerned, but we are all distracted by Abby, who begins babbling about all the things she wants to bring to see “Gram” and “Pap.”
Melanie looks at me, clearly wanting to say more. I already know what she is worried about. Sunday. The trip. Mom’s birthday dinner. She knows I hate driving long distances by myself. I’ve only driven from here to my parents’ house once by myself. And I hated it.
But it only makes sense for her to leave from Ohio and drive straight to the birthday dinner, and Melanie doesn’t need to spend her time worrying. I will figure something out.
After piecing together a small, reassuring (I hope) smile for Melanie, I tell Abby how lucky she is that she gets to see both sets of her grandparents in one weekend. Abby continues talking about even more stuff that she wants to bring. I am glad she is here tonight. An adorable little tornado of distractions dancing around the living room, practicing ballet moves to show Gram and Grandma, discussing what she’ll eat, what she’ll wear…
{Kelly Clarkson begins “Beautiful Disaster.”} Now she’s asking Melanie what she’ll do about missing school on Friday. Mel’s trying to convince her that missing one day of first grade won’t mess up her educational future. {And now her slow, soulful refrain.}
Sorrowful, grief-stricken eyes on a mesmerizing, rugged face spring into my mind. This song is about him. {Repeat ref—}
Melanie attempts to change the subject, but she doesn’t take the heat off of me. “So, how was your late night therapy date, Callie?”
Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, I remind her, “Not a date, Mel.”
“Sure. Doctors always keep those hours open for therapy sessions.”
Mandy chimes in, “Wait? What? When was this?”
Melanie explains what she knows—she called late in the evening, and I was still with him.
Mandy teases, “Oh, I see, you turn me down for Thirsty Thursday every week, but he asks you out once and you jump right in his car.”
I roll my eyes at her. No point in actually explaining. Besides, what would I even say?
Fortunately, sweet little Abby saves me once again, shushing their giggles so she can hear “the best part.” That quiets them, but it doesn’t stop them from shooting each other suggestive looks.
The movie ends soon after that, thankfully, and everyone looks pretty tired. Mandy wishes everyone a good night and then heads to her room so Abby can have the loveseat. I give Abby a hug, say my own good nights, and head up to my room.
11:15 p.m. Night preparations.
2:25 a.m. TV on. Foie Gras tonight. I don’t even know what that is. Doesn’t matter—I’m exhausted. Bed.
I DREAM ABOUT HIM AGAIN. Same dream. For most of the night, we are jousting. Jousting and falling. Jousting and falling. Jousting and falling. Together. Over and over.
I’m kind of surprised my limbs aren’t sore when I wake up—how could all of that physical dream activity not take any toll on my body?
I wonder if I should ask for forgiveness for all of that fighting when I go to confession. And then I remember that I’m not going to confession today. Well, I’m not supposed to go today. We’ll see…
I finish my morning routine around 11:00 a.m. and then spend most of the afternoon working on my Crime and Punishment paper. As I write, I remember mean thoughts I’ve had throughout the week, things I would normally confess. I do as I’m told and write each thought, each sin, neatly on my confession list.
I remember the girl behind me in writing lab. I thought-called her a bitch several times in class. My thoughts were also less than positive about students in the writing center who came too close to my desk.
As the afternoon goes on and my confession list grows, I start to worry more and more about 4:00 p.m. How can I save this entire list for next week? Some of these thoughts happen on a weekly basis. Like irritation with Dr. Gabriel. And with people at the grocery store and freshmen at the writing center. If I wait until next week to confess, will I be forgiven for both weeks of the same sin? Will I need to tell Father Patrick that some of these sins happened two weeks in a row?
I try to write my paper. I try to concentrate on Raskolnikov’s struggles throughout the book, but I really can’t stop thinking about my own struggles with missing confession.
3:00 p.m. I begin my leaving-the-house routine, just as I do every Saturday. Just in case I have to go.
3:45 p.m. I finish. I sit in the kitchen with my notebook and try to focus on my paper.
4:00 p.m. I’m still sitting at the table with my notebook, but I’ve written nothing during the last fifteen minutes. Tension begins to build in my stomach. Just like he said it would. Like he knew it would.
4:03 p.m. I decide to try my relaxation exercises. In the heat of the moment, I can’t seem to remember anything. When to inhale. How long to keep the area tense. How to even begin to release some of the te
nsion.
I give up and pick off all of my nail polish in under two minutes.
Now what? I have to do something. I pull my confession list out of my pocket and read it aloud. Hoping that maybe it will count somehow. Maybe I’ll be forgiven.
I read it aloud again. And again. The tension is still there. So I read it three more times. And say the Hail Mary twelve times.
Still tense. Maybe even worse than before.
This doesn’t count. I know it. If I go a week without forgiveness, what will happen? What if I don’t make it until next week? What if I die before then? A car crash? A freak earthquake? Dead with an overflowing conscience.
My mind starts to conjure up the same images of hell that kept me awake at night as a six-year-old. Still just as powerful eighteen years later.
No more. I grab my purse and I’m outside in record time. Door shut and locked. Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist. Locked.
On my way.
I PULL INTO THE PARKING lot at St. Anne’s at 4:46 p.m. Fourteen minutes to go.
Two people are ahead of me in line when I get in the church. 4:52 p.m. Father Patrick welcomes me into the confessional. He looks surprised by my tardiness but says nothing. He’s probably not supposed to keep tabs on who goes to confession and when.
I confess everything without glancing at my list. Father Patrick gives me a penance of three recitations of The Lord’s Prayer.
After repeating the prayer twelve times in a church pew, I leave.
Just as I open my car door, I hear a buzz in my purse. My phone silently vibrating, telling me I have a new text message. I get into the car and grab the phone.
Unknown Number.
Ugh.
One. Two. Three. Open.
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