I stand right inside the door, clutching my purse and waiting for him to talk. Just like in his office. Except he is standing right beside me here.
“Good. No one else came early. We should have a little time.”
Okay…
“Come with me, Calista.”
I force my legs to follow him…probably would have been easier if I weren’t wearing boots…
He stops when he reaches the midway point of the center section. Somehow, I get my body there beside him. He moves to the second seat in the row and then digs in his pocket for something. I stand frozen in the aisle.
I watch as he pulls out a pair of gloves and puts them on his hands. Once they are on, he looks over at me warily. I stare back, only able to focus on holding myself up.
“Now, Calista, I know that these gloves will not serve as protection from a needle. They will, however, help me to prove to you that there are no needles in this chair.” He pauses, searching my eyes for some sort of reaction.
I don’t have a reaction yet. I want to hear more.
He continues. “I am going to run my hands over this entire chair, over the back, the sides, and the cushion. After I do that, you will examine my hands. You’ll see that the gloves have no tears, no punctures, and no blood. And you’ll know that there are no needles to fear.”
“But—” I start to argue.
“I know you have other fears to deal with here. The fact that many others have sat in this chair. The germs. We will be using your relaxation techniques to tackle those.”
Right. I’m sure that will work out just fine. I don’t voice my reservations though. It’ll probably just make him sad again.
I’m sure he already knows about all of them anyway.
He’s still looking at me. “Ready, Calista?”
No.
I nod. And then I stand there as he begins to run his gloved hands over the chair. Very slowly, he runs his hands across every inch, every crevice. Making sure not to miss anything. As he smoothly covers, almost caresses, the top cushion one more time, he looks up at me.
Intense, agonized eyes.
He needs me to do this. I said I would at least try.
Holding my gaze, he rises and holds out his hands for inspection. My limbs are tense and there is a piercing ache in the side of my stomach. I realize I’m holding my breath.
But I’m not sure why. Because of the movie theatre? The seat? The looming inspection?
Or is it him? His burning eyes? His need?
One. Two. Three. I force myself to breathe and then drag my eyes down to his gloved hands. He moves them around, showing me every possible angle.
They’re clean. Immaculate. No holes. No blood.
No real surprise. I do realize my fears can be absurd. That doesn’t stop me from worrying that there is a needle in another seat though. Maybe in the seat behind me. Or maybe in the front row.
Or in his seat.
“Do you want me to check my seat too?”
How the hell does he do it? I manage to keep myself from asking it aloud, and I nod instead. He bends down and begins the slow checking process on his own chair. When he finishes, I again inspect his hands and nod to acknowledge that they are clean.
He turns his body away from me slightly as he pulls off the gloves. He motions for me to move aside and then walks to the trash can at the back of the theatre, talking the entire time.
“Okay, I realize that after I throw away these gloves, it would be best for us if I wash my hands.” Of course he knows that. “We can’t have you running away, though, so I’m not going to leave you in this theatre alone while I run to a bathroom. Me going into a public restroom and coming back to sit with you is something for another session anyway.”
I can’t even think about that.
He’s walking back toward me now, still talking. “So I’ve come prepared with a medical strength anti-bacterial wipe. Will this be acceptable?”
He holds up a package I actually recognize. That is a medical strength, insanely powerful wipe. Melanie brought two of these individually packaged wipes home from the hospital after she had Abby. She said that they were in a holder in her hospital room. I’ve been saving them for an extreme situation because they supposedly remove all kinds of germs, even ones from seriously infectious diseases.
I wonder where I could buy them. Maybe he’ll tell me.
Now probably isn’t the time for that. He’s waiting for an answer so I nod. Yet again.
He wipes off his hands, meticulously cleaning between his fingers, under his nails, everywhere. He then passes me again to throw out the used wipe.
When he returns, I know it’s time. To buy a few seconds, I ask him what movie we’ll be seeing.
His face looks apologetic. “Well, it’s classics night, so we’ll be seeing Gone with the Wind.” Before I even have the chance to tell him that I like Gone with the Wind, he spits out more words.
“It isn’t my first choice for a movie, but I wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be many people here. So I chose an off night, and I figured this classic showing would be less popular than the recent releases. But if you want to go to another movie, we can. I didn’t bring any more gloves or wipes with me, but I can go and—”
“I don’t want you to go. It’s fine. I really like this movie.” And there is no way in hell that I’m going to move to another theatre with new seats and another checking process.
He looks relieved. He also looks like he’s ready to begin the next part of our session.
As I mentally scramble for something else to say to prolong the next step, an older couple enters the theatre and begins heading down the aisle. Where we are.
This is it.
“We’d better sit,” he says lightly, nodding toward the couple and a group of women now entering at the back of the theatre.
I know.
One. Two. Three. Little by little, I move into our row, stopping when I am directly in front of my seat.
Now there is really nothing to do but sit…
One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothreeonetwo—
“Callie.” So soft. So concerned.
I have to do this.
Somehow I coerce my legs to bend. Somehow I press the top of my body down into a seated position.
And I’m sitting. Still in my coat. Clutching my chocolate brown purse. Breathing heavily. And sweating. Instinctively, I begin picking at the nails on my right hand.
“Stop.”
Stop? Stop the only thing that might keep me together? No. I don’t even look at him. I scrape the polish off of three fingers in record time.
And then I feel his skin on mine. His hand on top of my hand. And I’m lost. Lost to thinking. Lost to breathing.
My body is filled with tension, and I have no idea how to resume my breathing. But it feels amazing. {Chantal Kreviazuk is back with “Feels Like Home.”}
Simultaneously, my fingers part and his lace through mine. A little pile of fingers right there on my lap.
We sit like that in silence for I don’t know how long. And then—
“Callie? I guess we should talk about a few things now.”
Now? We’ve been holding hands for, I don’t know, maybe four minutes, and he wants to talk about it already? Unrea—
“Your worst case scenario, the odds of that happening, remember? We should go over all of that before the movie begins.”
Oh. Therapy. Right. Nod number 70,302. I shift my eyes from our hands up to his face. His warm, soothing eyes.
“Let’s start with the worst case scenario,” he continues cautiously. “Pretend you do feel a jab while you are sitting there, and—”
I feel my body stiffen all over, and I slide my eyes down toward the floor.
“Stay with me, Callie,” he whispers and tightens his hold on my hand. “Concentrate on the tension, on your breathing.”
/> Okay. Inhale. One. Two. Three. His hand over mine. His skin on my skin. Heat running through me. {“Feels Like Home” refrain—over and over and over.}
“Good. I can see the tension leaving you.”
He rubs his thumb back and forth over the top of my hand. {And over and over and over and over and over and—}
“All right, keep that focus as we construct your worst case scenario plan.”
I nod and watch his thumb continue its caress of my hand.
“Okay, so a needle does prick you and—”
Breathe, Callie. His hand. His thumb. {A special request for the DJ: Please start the song over again NOW.}
“What will you decide to do?”
Inhale. His warm hand. {Refrain back on repeat.} Exhale.
I can’t break my concentration to answer his question. I just shake my head to let him know.
“All right, it’s too much right now. Let’s not push it.”
I nod my head in appreciation. His thumb continues to stroke my hand.
“Let’s look at this the other way around. Let’s think about the incredible odds that your worst case scenario will not actually become reality. Can you do that?”
Another nod. I’ll try.
“Good. To start, we proved that your odds of sitting in a seat with a needle are much lower than you imagined them to be. Right?”
Nod.
“Okay, don’t freak out, but I have some information about your fears. A friend of mine, who happens to be a doctor, answered some general questions for me. Don’t worry—I didn’t tell him anything about you or your case to get this information. I want to tell you about some of it to give you some more accurate facts to hold in your mind. Before I do that, however, I want you to promise me that you won’t look anything up by yourself because you’ll risk reading something that might somehow escalate your fears.”
Nod again.
“Good. At any point when you come up with something you want to know, tell me. I will find out and give you information I feel you need, information that I think will help you.”
He pauses. “I’ll only give you true information. No lies. You are going to have to trust me, Callie.”
I do. Quick nod.
“All right, I’m just going to have to jump right in, then, because the previews are probably going to start soon.” Pause.
“I specifically asked about AIDS and the HIV virus.”
Just as my body begins to scrunch up with painful pressure, he shifts our hands so that his is now under mine and we are holding hands properly. Fingers intertwined completely. The back of his hand resting on my leg. {The song begins again automatically—no special request needed.}
The lights in the theatre dim, and a reminder to turn off all cell phones appears on the screen. He leans close to me, so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek, and whispers, “I’m going to have to go through this fast.”
Nod.
“One—I’m sure you’ve already heard that you can’t just contract HIV or AIDS by using a public bathroom, touching a doorknob, and so on. Whether you choose to believe that or not.”
He already knows I don’t believe that.
He goes on. “Two—if a person who is truly infected with AIDS or HIV does bleed and the blood ends up on a physical surface, the disease can only survive in that external blood for a very short period of time. Probably an hour at most, if that.”
I did not know that. He continues whispering as a new preview begins on the screen in front of us.
“So, if for some reason you—or another person, rather—were to accidentally touch a spot of blood, or to be pricked by a—”
As my body stiffens, he pauses and abbreviates.
“Well, anyway, what I’m saying is, the odds are good that any infectious germs that might have been there are already dead and gone.”
I will need time to think this over. Later, though, when his lips aren’t so close to my face.
He hasn’t moved. Well, except for his thumb, which is still rubbing my hand and making me a little lightheaded. I hear “Tara’s Theme” and assume that the movie is starting.
He whispers again, somehow even more quietly than before. To make up for that, he moves even closer to me, his mouth only a few inches from my ear. As he tells me that he has one more bit of information he thinks I can use, his breath tickles my ear and heat courses through my body. Almost a warm chill. If that is even possible.
Slowly, he settles back into his seat, saying that he’ll tell me the rest later and that he hopes the other information helps.
It does. Or it will. Later. When I’m somehow capable of thinking about anything but him. And his hand. And his lips.
I don’t think of much else during the movie. Scarlett professes her love for Ashley. He turns her down. He’s still holding my hand. Scarlett’s first husband dies and she dances with Rhett. Hands haven’t moved. Scarlett marries another man. He dies. Hands sweating a little but still together. Scarlett marries Rhett. I hope my leg isn’t sweating under his hand. Rhett whisks Scarlett up in his arms and carries her up the stairs. They—
My phone rings.
SHIT.
I have to find it. Stop the ringing. Stop ruining the movie for everyone.
I unceremoniously let go of his hand and immediately begin digging in my purse, quickly realizing that my phone is not in its normal spot. I frantically search every inch but have no luck so I begin ripping items out of my purse and dumping them on my lap. My wallet. My Band-Aids. Keys. Deoder—
I drop my purse on the floor just as my phone stops ringing.
DAMN IT.
Instinctively, I reach down to grab the top of my purse. But I bump heads with him. Because he has the same idea.
“Let me get it, Callie,” he whispers, our heads only inches apart.
I let him because I don’t even know what to do right now, and it seems a lot less scary to have him make some decisions.
As I try to sit back up in my seat without bumping into him again, I lose my balance and involuntarily grab the top of the seat in front of me.
Oh my God.
I am touching gum. Sticky, disgusting gum that some idiot put on the back of this chair. As I rip my right hand away from the chair, from the gum, I feel something like a dry heave. My body wants to throw up, but nothing comes out.
His questioning eyes look up at me at this point, and I merely nod to the chair in front of me. As he leans toward the chair to investigate, I look down and try to hold my right hand, my fingers, safely away from the rest of my body.
When I look back up, I see my purse suspended in front of me. He is holding it up for me so I can get my stuff without touching the purse.
I don’t argue. Holding my right hand awkwardly up in the air, I dig out the remaining items with my left hand, grabbing my bitch of a phone last.
My lap is now a display case for the contents of my purse. Again only using my left hand, I carefully shove everything into my coat pockets, which are now in danger of spilling over. He then moves my purse aside, assuming that I am finished.
I am. “I have to go,” I whisper, not looking at him or at my purse. I have to go home to my bathroom, my shower. Now.
“I know,” he says soothingly.
Ugh. Of course you do.
I stand up, and he follows suit immediately, stepping aside so I can walk first to the back of the theatre. I hear him follow me, but I don’t turn around. I don’t stop until I reach the lobby and hear him call my name.
I slowly turn around. I owe him that.
I’m sure my mouth drops open a bit. He is dangling my purse above the gigantic round trash can sitting by the concessions counter. His raised shoulders and eyebrows ask his question for him: Is this trash?
I nod firmly, once, and turn back around. Seconds later, he is in front of me holding open the door to the outside. I exit, and we walk silently side by side to his car. He opens my door for me before getting in the driver’s seat and sta
rting the car.
I vigilantly keep my upturned right hand steady on my lap. Fingers not touching anything. For quite awhile, we ride in silence. What is there to say? Session One: Failure.
“I’m taking you home.”
His voice is firm. Resolute. There is no point in arguing with him. Besides, arguing would mean opening my mouth and trying to talk, which would probably also mean crying.
Soon I realize that he’s already going in the direction of my house, and he never asked me for directions. I wonder if he really did memorize my emergency form. I also wonder what he expects me to do about my car. I try to work up the strength to ask.
I don’t have much success, but it doesn’t matter. As he pulls up by my house moments later, he answers my question as though I had spoken it aloud.
“I can come get you in the morning and drive you to your car.”
No way. How mortifying would that be? Like some screwed up psychological breakdown walk of shame.
Words splatter out of my mouth. “Mandy will do it.” I don’t know if Mandy has plans for the morning or if she’ll have time, but I’ll just figure something else out if she can’t.
His response is soft, softer than usual. “If that’s what you want.”
He sounds hurt. Almost rejected. Oh, God. He’s taking this personally somehow.
I don’t know what to do. I’m sure I’ve somehow reminded him of his mother again. Unbelievably, my urge to fix this, to fix him, is almost as strong as my desperation to run into my house, strip down, and take a scalding shower.
I scramble for a quick way to make him feel better as he opens my car door and walks me to the front door of my house. Without taking time to count or think, I look him straight in the eyes and simply say, “Sorry.”
He shakes his head, saying, “Don’t worry about it, Callie. You—”
And then the porch light turns on. The door opens and Mandy appears, dressed for bed.
“There you are, Callie. Do you know how late it is? I tried to call you.” Ugh.
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