“I, um, was at therapy, and I have to—”
He interrupts me with a firm voice, “Go ahead in, Callie. Take your shower. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I don’t need to be told three times. I give him a quick nod, walk past Mandy, use only my left hand as I carefully unzip my boots to leave them on the towel by the door, and head right up to my bathroom.
AFTER TWENTY MINUTES OF SCRUBBING and rinsing, I am through enough of my sterilization process to be able to think again. I stand still, directly under the showerhead and change the water temperature from burning to just hot. And I think. About the evening. About before my freak out. The movie. Our hands. Him.
What is he thinking now that he’s been exposed to even more of my insanity? Will he even contact me to continue treatment?
That’s his job, Callie.
But he doesn’t normally see patients like me.
I wonder if he treats all of his patients the same way he treats me…
The evening sessions. The hand holding. Stop it, Callie.
I shut off the water and get out of the shower to begin my night preparations right away. As I go through my checking routine, I silently pray that I have not contracted any diseases tonight. And then I pray again. And again.
Then I remember his words about my odds of truly catching a disease.
But that was only one disease. What about Hepatitis? Or SARS? And, really, what about HIV? What if someone put that gum there right before we sat in the theatre? And if that person had a sore in his mouth and got some blood in the gum? If my fingers have some miniscule cuts on them that I can’t quite see, I could easily have gotten HIV or even full-blown AIDS tonight.
I know that he said the virus can’t live very long outside of the body, but, really, where did that information come from? He could have been making it up just to calm—
My phone buzzes on my dresser.
I finish straightening the picture to the left of my bed and go over to check my phone.
A text. From him. Unknown Number.
Count. Open.
Callie—Please check your email. Right now.
Jeez. Right now?
I seem to have no self-control so I walk over to my computer and turn it on. I log into my account and click on the email from DA Blake.
Callie,
You are fine. Please do not spend your entire night thinking about a little piece of gum. Don’t let this incident take away your whole evening.
I am attaching a list of websites and medical documents that confirm the information I gave you tonight. I really want you to understand that I’m only giving you valid, well-researched facts. Hopefully, you won’t feel the need to seek out other websites and articles on your own; reading unfiltered details about diseases may be more harm than help to you. However, if you do feel you must do your own research, please know that I will be available to discuss any questions or concerns that arise. I know this is long (and probably boring), but I really want to help you find some personal value in my information. I’ll text you in the morning to set up tomorrow’s session. I hope you still want to come.
Good night,
Aiden
I read his email two more times, and it seems to have somewhat of a soothing effect on me. Much like his hand.
I get up from my chair to continue my routine, feeling a strange sense of calm. However, it’s unclear if that’s because of his words or because I know I’ll get to take another shower in about an hour.
After plowing through my routine, I’m back under a cascade of clean water by midnight. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.
When I feel sufficiently clean (for now), I apply my lotion and flip on the television.
Pizza around the world tonight.
As a petite chef with a heavy French accent describes her pizza making strategies, I write myself a note for tomorrow.
CAR
I’ve got to talk to Mandy about taking me to campus tomorrow morning. She was asleep when I went in to clean her room so I’ll have to catch her as soon as I wake up. I’m sure she won’t mind driving me.
I hope not since I already shot down my only other possibility. And made him sad. Again. {Damien Rice. “The Blower’s Daughter.”}
I grab my phone from my dresser and start a new message to Unknown Number.
Thanks for sending me your research. It does help to know that stuff, even if it takes me a while to convince myself to believe it. I will see you tomorrow for Day 2 of treatment. Good night.
One. Two. Three. Send.
Chapter 16
day two
ON TUESDAY MORNING, I WAKE up one minute before my alarm rings. My car pops right into my head so I bolt over to Mandy’s room. She is surprisingly awake, furiously typing a paper that must be due at her 10:30 a.m. class today. She doesn’t even look up as I stand in her doorway.
“Hey, Mandy. Sorry to interrupt, but do you mind driving me to campus today? My car is—”
“Already taken care of, Callie.” She looks up with a cheesy smile. “That hot doctor boyfriend of yours told me all about it so we picked up your car last night.”
She did? They did? He drove her back to my car while I was—
“He was all worried about you, Callie. First he was worried that you wouldn’t make it to campus in time. Then he was worried that you would be worried. So I just decided to help him.” She pauses, looks at me, and breaks out another toothy grin. “Believe me, it wasn’t that much of a sacrifice sitting in a leathery Lexus next to him in silence. You know, having nothing to do but stare at his muscles and that super intense look on his face while breathing him in. The man smells like the freaking pages of a fashion magazine, like one of those high-end cologne samples. Delicious.”
She winks at me this time as she smiles. “Good choice, Callie.”
“I-I’m not dat—”
“I know. I know. There’s nothing there, right? The late night appointments, trips in his fancy car, and terribly concerned looks on his face are all just part of your treatment package, right?” She rolls her eyes dramatically and then holds up a set of keys. My spare keys. She must have taken them from the kitchen drawer before leaving with him last night. She tosses them to me.
“Do you have another ‘session’ tonight?” Her voice is rather suggestive.
“Yes, well, I do, but I don’t know where or when yet.”
“I bet you’ll find out something soon,” she says before turning back to her laptop.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see.” She doesn’t turn back to me as she talks. Clearly, she won’t be saying any more about it.
After thanking her, saying goodbye, and leaving her room, I get to work on my routine right away. Can’t be late for my 11:00 a.m. class.
10:40 a.m. When I get into my car, I see it right away. Positioned carefully on top of my steering wheel is an envelope with my name on it. Taped to the envelope, a yellow rose.
I know that it’s from him. And that he obviously had some help from Mandy.
But where did he get the rose? When? And why did he remember that little bit of accidental information about my favorite flower? {The opening chords for Bette Midler’s “The Rose” begin to play.} I can’t wait any longer so I tear open the envelope.
Count. Unfold. Read.
Dear Callie,
I’m sorry our first session ended the way it did. Whether you realize it or not, we definitely made some progress. You entered a movie theatre for the first time in many, many years. You sat down in a theatre seat. And you made it through a pretty large portion of the movie (and let’s face it—Gone with the Wind is a LONG movie). Please start Day 2 by focusing on these accomplishments. I’ll contact you soon with more details for tonight.
-Aiden
My phone buzzes in my purse, my newly-filled tan leather purse.
This time I find the phone right away. Of course.
Text from Unknown Number.
Count. Open.
I’
ll meet you at your house after your night class. I know you often get out early so I’ll get to your house around 8:30 p.m. Don’t rush. If class runs long, I’ll just wait. We’ll be eating dinner…so save some calories for me. Have a good day.
My eye catches the time on the text. 10:46 a.m. Shit. Gotta get moving.
Throwing my phone back into my purse, I start my car and head to class. Unbelievably, I manage to arrive two minutes early. I pull out my phone to reply to his text so he knows that I haven’t chickened out. Yet.
Count. Reply.
I’ll be home tonight as soon as class ends.
Hmm...not done yet.
Thanks for the rose.
One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. OneTwoThree. Send.
DR. EMERY BEGINS CLASS A few minutes late. As usual. She reminds us that our first poetry portfolio is due next week. We are supposed to make a collection of our best poetry from each weekly assignment.
I clearly have a lot of work to do for my portfolio. I didn’t like a single poem from last week’s fruit bowl fiasco. My poems about an open field from the week before aren’t much better.
And this week’s subject…da da da duuuhhh…rainbows. Ugh. Dr. Emery starts prancing around the room as she hangs up different pictures of rainbows in various locations. It’s nauseating. Isn’t this supposed to be a graduate level class?
We have an hour and a half to ponder, reflect, and create, as Dr. Emery explains it.
“Begin now,” she says with her hands clasped by her chest and her eyes closed. An attempt at inspiration? “Follow your rainbow.” Oh dear God—did she really just say that?
Okay, rainbows… {Kermit the Frog asks a stream of questions as he sings “The Rainbow Connection.”} During the next hour and a half, at least half a dozen rainbow songs run through my head. They’ll probably stay there for a week.
I really do try to think about rainbows, but my mind keeps conjuring images of pots of gold and tiny little leprechauns dancing around. Soon, I’m thinking about the little leprechaun in the commercials for Lucky Charms, and before I know it, I’m trying to calculate the number of calories that would be in a big bowl of cereal.
Needless to say, I’m pretty hungry by the time class “sharing” begins. Luckily, there are enough volunteers to “share” and plenty of follow-up questions; I am able to avoid going up in front of the class with a growling stomach.
I leave class uninspired by the shared poems and unfortunately humming the theme from Reading Rainbow.
When I get to my car, I check my phone.
He wrote back.
Glad you liked the flower. No dirt. No thorns. Just to look at and smell. See you tonight.
Ugh. More evidence suggesting he really did memorize my email responses. Nonetheless, his text makes me smile as I put away my phone and head home for a few hours.
When I get home, I take the plastic water container off the stem of my yellow rose and put the flower in a vase on my dresser. I then repaint my nails and work on my paper for The Scarlet Letter. Some notes taken. Some articles highlighted. I have a snack as I work, saving seven hundred calories for tonight. Once again I don’t know what to wear for my late evening therapy session so I get dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved tee. Just in case, I throw a sweatshirt in my bag.
5:58 P.M. I’M BACK IN A classroom, ready to sit through another publisher presentation. Tonight’s speaker writes children’s books. Some of the books are cute, but I don’t really see the point. How is this presentation going to help me publish a piece of literary criticism?
The presenter spends a lot of time reading her books out loud to us. After taking questions, she dismisses us around 8:10 p.m. I bolt out of the classroom, wondering if he’ll already be at my house when I arrive.
He is. And it’s only 8:26 p.m. I pull in around his car, turn off my engine, count, and head toward him. He actually gives me a little smile as he stands at the passenger door waiting to let me in. I find myself smiling back as I thank him and slide into my seat.
As soon as he gets in the car, he looks right at me. “How are you tonight? Are you ready for this?”
Even though I don’t know what this is, I nod and tell him that I’m fine.
And we are off. To where, I don’t know. We pass campus buildings, apartments, restaurants, town shops, and so on. {Big Muppet day today. Kermit and Fozzie jump into “Movin’ Right Along.”}
He glances over at me, catching my eye and giving me a little smile. He’s probably afraid that I’m going to spontaneously freak out or something. I give him a small smile back to try to give him some reassurance.
He keeps looking over with that smile every three minutes or so. Almost as though he’s afraid I’m going to disappear—like that little boy version of him in the picture with his mom.
CALLIE! I scold myself. Somehow I always manage to bring up the painful subject of his mother. At least I didn’t do it out loud this time.
When he looks over the next time, I give him the most confident smile I can manage. Smile. Smile. Smile. No, Aiden, I wasn’t thinking about your mother. Smile. Smile. Smile. Please, oh please, don’t get that devastated look in your eyes. Smile. Smile. Smile.
He doesn’t. But he does continue his little looking and smiling routine like clockwork.
I almost feel like I’ve pulled one over on him. Finally, I’ve had a thought that he didn’t hear or predict in advance.
Twenty minutes pass in silence. Where exactly are we going for this dinner? {Kermit and Fozzie continue to sing.} When I notice that twenty-five minutes have now passed, my curiosity wins, and I interrupt the silence in the car.
I blurt out, “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t look over as he says, “Pittsburgh.”
“Pittsburgh?” I probably say it louder than I should.
“Well, Oakland, actually.” He sounds nervous. Perhaps because Oakland is busy, noisy, and far less than overwhelmingly clean…
I know these things. I spent plenty of time there when I was younger since it was only about twenty minutes from home. We ate dinner there once in a while, and I went to some campus events there when Melanie was in college. That was back when I had a tiny hint of a social life. Back when I had time for friends. Back when it was a little easier to get myself out of the house.
I push those thoughts aside and try to calm his nerves a little. “Oh, I used to go to Oakland quite a bit. When I was younger. Not in a long time though.” But why are we going there now? Why are we driving an entire hour just for dinner?
“I sort of assumed that, with your parents living so close by.”
I don’t remember telling him where my parents live. The information is probably somewhere on my patient ID card though. If he ever has to take a quiz on my contact information, I’m pretty sure he’ll get a perfect score. No problem.
“Maybe you’ve also been to the restaurant where I’m taking you,” he continues. “Dawson’s Grille.”
I love Dawson’s Grille, but I haven’t been there in ages. I tell him, “I’ve been there many times, sometimes with friends in high school and also with Melanie when she was in college.”
He looks over and smiles. “Good. I hope you like it there. It was the only place somewhat nearby where I could find nachos with melted cheese. Most places just use nacho cheese.”
So he really has memorized my emails.
It seemed like a strange but general therapy question when he asked me what I would eat if calories didn’t matter. Clearly it was more than that…seems to always be that way with him.
I tell him what I’m sure he’s already realized. “Those are the exact nachos I was talking about.”
“Good.” His smile gets bigger. He looks a little surprised, a little relieved, and more than a little proud of himself.
As he continues, concern joins the other emotions on his face. “So you are okay with going to a restaurant?”
“Well, yes, as long as stuff is clean. You know, the table, the dishes
, the waiter.”
“I hope, then, that all of that meets your expectations tonight.” He does? Isn’t this therapy supposed to be challenging?
“I don’t want to make tonight’s exercise any more difficult than it needs to be.” He pauses, glances at me warily, and continues quietly. “That gum really threw me last night. I would never—”
“Stop,” I interrupt. I know he didn’t arrange for that gum to be there or secretly know of its existence, and I don’t want him to try to apologize. In fact, I don’t want to talk or think about that gum at all. I’ve tried to avoid thinking about it all day.
“I just—” he tries again.
“Don’t,” I say firmly. “It wasn’t your fault. And I don’t want to talk about it. Not if you want me to make it through tonight anyway.”
He nods, giving in rather swiftly. He must really want me to get through my challenge tonight, whatever that is.
“What’s tonight’s challenge anyway?” I brave the question spinning through my mind.
“The nachos,” he says simply.
“What—is someone going to spit in them or something?”
“No. You are going to eat them. All of them.”
Shit. Seven hundred calories are not going to cover this. Not even close.
“Oh.”
“You like them, right?”
I love them. I just don’t love them adding pounds to my body.
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