Checked

by Jamelli, Jennifer

  CALISTAROYCE: No. I still have to convince myself of that on bad days.

  CALISTAROYCE: But I couldn’t force myself to go to a doctor’s office. I couldn’t let someone stick a needle into me. Too many what ifs.

  DABLAKE: What ifs?

  CALISTAROYCE: What if the needle was dirty? What if the person who sat in the chair before me had a serious disease? What if the person bled on my chair?

  CALISTAROYCE: What if I ended up getting a disease during the test? What if the test came back positive?

  CALISTAROYCE: To name a few…

  DABLAKE: Gotcha.

  DABLAKE: So you were already pretty convinced that you weren’t pregnant by that appointment in February?

  CALISTAROYCE: Yeah. And I knew what I was (or wasn’t) eating. I figured I was somehow causing what was happening to me.

  DABLAKE: But you got better? You…it…started again?

  CALISTAROYCE: It did. After a few months of eating some fat again, my whole cycle returned to normal. No permanent damages, thank God.

  DABLAKE: Good.

  DABLAKE: Callie?

  CALISTAROYCE: I’m here. Just looking at your lame Facebook page.

  DABLAKE: Lame? How so?

  CALISTAROYCE: It’s empty. You don’t even have one picture posted.

  DABLAKE: Oh—like yours is any better?

  CALISTAROYCE: I at least have a picture up.

  DABLAKE: Yeah, one. And you must be, what, thirteen in it?

  CALISTAROYCE: Probably…

  I really should change that picture. It’s the one Mandy put up when she set up my account. Us as kids.

  As my stomach groans yet again, I glance at the clock. 2:20 a.m. I should probably get some sleep soon. {Jimmy Buffett exits, and Kelis comes in with “Milkshake.”}

  DABLAKE: Is there anything else you want to cover tonight?

  CALISTAROYCE: Not that I can think of.

  DABLAKE: I have one other question then.

  CALISTAROYCE: All right…

  DABLAKE: Am I clean or dirty?

  CALISTAROYCE: You are pretty clean.

  DABLAKE: Clean enough to maybe dance with you tomorrow?

  My breath catches just like it did the first time I read it.

  CALISTAROYCE: We are going dancing tomorrow?

  DABLAKE: You’ll see…but am I clean enough?

  CALISTAROYCE: Yes, I think so.

  DABLAKE: Good.

  DABLAKE: Then I’ll let you go to bed. We’re going to have a late night tomorrow.

  CALISTAROYCE: Okay…

  DABLAKE: Good night, Callie.

  CALISTAROYCE: Good night.

  I put the copy of our chat on my nightstand before settling into bed. As I lie down, I try my best to sleep, but I am distracted by the cartwheels my stomach is making. I’m pretty sure they have nothing to do with hunger this time.

  Chapter 18

  day four

  WHEN MY ALARM RINGS AT 6:00 on Thursday morning, another dream about him is cut short. In this one, we jousted for a while but then eventually the jousting turned into dancing.

  I don’t think I need to consult a dream reader about it.

  6:10 a.m. My phone buzzes just after I sit down with a 250-calorie bowl of cereal.

  Him. Already.

  Day 4 Assignment 1: Try to postpone your grocery trip for a few hours. Mix things up and go later in the day. Think you can handle that?

  Ugh.

  Count. Reply.

  I’ll try…

  Buzz. Open.

  Good. More later.

  Why does he have to mess with my grocery shopping? Especially now that I have my timing down to a science. Especially after my little fast yesterday worked and brought my weight back to normal…

  I finish my cereal and begin my morning procedures. All of them.

  Melanie calls around 7:30 a.m. She’s leaving for Ohio in a few hours. Checking to see if I’m going to be okay. I say I will be. She doesn’t believe me. Pretty standard. She tries to change the subject. Probably so she can jump back into it in full force later.

  She talks for a bit about Mom’s present and my shopping trip with Dad. Then she wants to know when Mandy is leaving. I’m not really sure. Sometime tomorrow, I guess. I’m sure this is somehow part of her build-up back into the “okay” discussion.

  Yep. She’s back into it full swing, telling me that I should just go with Mandy to Pittsburgh and then have Mom and Dad get me so I can spend the weekend with them. And then she or Mandy can drive me home, and—

  This plan is clearly premeditated.

  “Melanie, I have work to do this weekend. A big paper and a poetry portfolio. And I haven’t even gotten Mom’s gift yet.”

  “But you can—”

  “No, Mel. I’m going to stay here. I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “All right…if you’re sure.”

  That is code for she’ll have Mandy try to convince me to agree to the plan later. But I don’t call her on it.

  “I’m sure, Mel. Have a fun trip and be safe. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  “Okay. See you then. Bye, Callie.”

  We hang up. I’m sure she is already dialing Mandy’s number. Too bad Mandy has an 8:00 a.m. class and her phone is probably on silent…

  I finish my routine a little after 9:00 a.m. and then spend approximately twenty minutes picking at my nails and wishing I could go to the grocery store. If I go later, there will be people everywhere. Workers will probably be stocking shelves. Aisles will be crowded. Lines will be long. The parking lot wi—

  No, Callie. You are going to wait. At least try to wait.

  Or…I probably have enough food to last a little while. I could just go at 9:45 a.m. on Tuesday before class. I’m sure it will be pretty much like 9:45 a.m. on Thursdays. At least it will be better than going over the weekend when everyone has plenty of time and money from new paychecks to spend. And it will definitely be better than going later today.

  Committed to my plan, I settle down to work for a little before my shopping trip with Dad. I pay some bills. Try to write some poems about fields and rainbows.

  My phone buzzes around 10:30 a.m. Unknown Number.

  Did you wait to go?

  Count. Reply.

  Yes, I am waiting.

  One. Two. Three. Send.

  Back to writing stupid poems.

  {Billy Joel’s “Honesty” chastises me quietly.}

  I don’t know how I’m going to get a good grade on this poetry portfolio. I currently have a total of zero acceptable poems.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Him.

  Therapy tonight after class. I’ll wait for you at your house just like Tuesday. Take your time.

  Reply.

  Sounds good.

  Send.

  Reply again.

  Are we dancing?

  Send quickly.

  Buzz.

  Maybe…

  Smiling at the phone, I put it on my dresser and go back to work.

  I GET TO THE MALL at 3:00 p.m. and find Dad before I even get to our meeting spot. He’s examining an iPad like he’s never seen anything like it before. He probably hasn’t. This gift shopping for Mom is the only shopping he ever does. It’s normally quick and always at this little local Pierce Mall.

  “Hey, Cal,” he says as he gives me a hug.

  “Hi, Dad. Thanks for driving to meet me.”

  “No problem. Thanks for your help. Have you ever seen one of these iPads before?”

  “Yes, Dad. They are kind of a big thing right now.”

  “Oh. Do you think your mother would like one?”

  “Um. Sure, I guess she could use it on trips and to chat with Abby and stuff.”

  His face is blank. “Well, all right. Let’s get it then if you think she’ll like it.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Ten minutes later, he has purchased an iPad, added a protection plan, and found a gift bag. Already freed from entering a mall until mid-December.
>
  As we sit down for a late lunch, I reassure him that she will really like the iPad. She will, but she’ll love the homemade card he’ll make to go with it even better. She always does.

  We talk about my classes, about Abby, about Jared’s new girlfriend, and so on. He dances around the therapy subject, but I don’t “share” any information. Not ready yet.

  After he gets on the road, I make a quick run back to the mall where I pick up a sparkly iPad case, a protective cover, and an iTunes gift card.

  Birthday gifts: check.

  I only have a little time at home before class so I begin to pick out an outfit for this evening. I settle for jeans and a fitted scoop neck tee. Simple. Versatile. {Michael Bublé steps up to an old fashioned microphone to sing “Sway.”} I waste a little more time writing crappy poetry and then start my leaving routine around 5:00 p.m.

  Thirty-three checks done once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Out the door.

  TONIGHT’S PRESENTER PUBLISHES PHOTOGRAPHS APPARENTLY.

  Seriously? I know all that stuff about a picture telling a story and everything, but really? Seems like my professor has run out of ideas…or maybe out of volunteers…

  We begin watching a slideshow of pictures, stopping on every photo so Mr. Photographer can “share” his experience of getting each one published. Despite my original misgivings about the published material itself, the presentation is pretty interesting. After the slideshow ends, our presenter gives us a few pretty decent publishing tips, holds a very short question and answer session, and then lets us go.

  As I walk to my car, I check my cell phone. It’s only 7:45 p.m. I wonder if he’ll already be waiting for me at my house. It is pretty early. And Mandy won’t be there to let him in or anything so he’d just have to sit in the car and—

  Well, I assume Mandy won’t be there since it’s Thursday night. But she hasn’t sent me a text invite. Maybe she’s taking off this week to pack for her trip tomorrow.

  I turn into my driveway around 8:00 p.m. He’s already there. I park, turn off the car, and sit for a few counts of three. {Faith Hill picks a suitable time to serenade me with “Breathe.”} And another few counts. The last time that I saw him, he kissed my hand. That was before he knew my whole non-sex history though.

  A hand, his hand, is knocking on my window. Guess my counts are up.

  I slowly push open my car door, and he takes a step to the side. Before I can even get one foot on the driveway, his open hand appears before me. I take it, letting him help pull me out of the car to a standing position only inches away from him.

  “Hi.” He’s all twinkly eyes and flashy smile when he says it. Wow. The best mood I’ve seen on him. Before I can say anything back, he continues, losing a little bit of the razzle-dazzle on his face.

  “What was wrong back there? In your car.”

  I look down. “Oh, I, um, was worried about Mandy,” I improvise, noting that her car isn’t in its spot. Where is she? Now I really am kind of concerned. She didn’t text or call. Very unlike h—

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t heard from her tonight, and normally on Thursdays she—”

  “—texts you to go out for drinks even though she knows you’ll say no.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I know where she is.”

  My head swings up. “You do?”

  “Yes, because we are meeting her there.”

  Oh. Right. The dancing. Going out to a bar—one of the items on my “dirty” list. Surprisingly, I feel some disappointment rise inside of me, and I have to quickly pound it down.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Sure.” I recover in a second, pushing away the image of the two of us slow dancing at a quiet, private restaurant. That wouldn’t make sense, I realize, as we walk with linked hands to his car. He’s not trying to cure me of a debilitating fear of immaculate, exclusive restaurants.

  Too bad.

  The trip to the uptown bar is fast. Silent as usual. When we get out of the car, he takes my hand to lead me inside. I’m sure Mandy will just love seeing this.

  Please don’t embarrass me. Please don’t embarrass me. Please don’t embarrass me, I mentally plead with her.

  We are stopped by someone who I assume is the bouncer. I feel pretty out of my league, having never really done the whole going to an uptown bar thing before.

  “Relax, Callie, and get your ID out.”

  I do as I’m told and reluctantly give my ID to the sweaty bouncer who runs it through some scanning machine. I guess that’s how things are done at a college bar…a way to check that college students aren’t lying or doing something stupid. A tradition much like the health center’s pregnancy test custom…

  I really wish he didn’t have to touch my ID. I really wish he wasn’t so sweaty…

  “It’s okay, Callie. Release the tension and remember your relaxation techniques.” I try to focus on my breath as I watch him take my ID and shove it into his own pocket.

  “I’ll give it back to you after an hour or so,” he says to answer the question on my face.

  Oh. After an hour—when all potential (and imaginary) disease germs on it have died. Good call.

  We get into the main part of the bar, and it’s not quite as crowded as it is in my scary visions (pick any scene from Coyote Ugly), but there are still way too many people.

  My hand secure in his, I follow him through tables, past dancers, and around waiters, and I pray that I don’t bump into any bodies or objects on the way. He seems to know exactly where he is going. He does. We end up at a table in the back corner where Mandy and some of her sorority sisters are seated. Hillary, the redhead who spent a night throwing up in our downstairs bathroom about a year ago, sees us first.

  “Callie!” she screeches as she stands. “It’s been too long.”

  Please don’t hug me. Please don’t hug me. Please don’t—

  In a super smooth maneuver, my hand is dropped and an arm circles around my waist. His warm, strong arm. {An unidentifiable voice sings the opening of Gershwin’s “Someone to Watch over Me.”} It does the trick. Hillary is distracted by the gesture, and she quickly nudges Mandy. Hug averted.

  Mandy’s eyes linger for only a moment at his hand around my waist, and she quickly welcomes us over, showing us two empty seats. We walk over, and he releases me to pull out my chair. Actually, he pulls out both chairs and quickly inspects the seats and backs. {The song continues, louder now.}

  “Your chair, my lady,” he says with a silly smile, gesturing for me to sit.

  Adorable.

  We both sit down and I nod my hellos to the girls around the table. Most of them are looking to my left, at him. Vultures. I look over at him. He doesn’t acknowledge their looks. Because he is looking at me.

  A waitress shows up almost right away to take our order. She stands only inches behind us, so close that I think I can feel her breath on my neck. I hope she doesn’t accidentally spit while she’s talking.

  “She’ll have a margarita, and I’d like a Jack and coke, please,” he says before I can even think about what to order. “Wait—Callie, do you want salt?” He looks at me intently.

  I nod and mouth a thank you before he turns to the waitress to tell her. {And even louder.} Mandy’s sorority sisters have about three different conversations going on among the six of them. I can hear all of them and none of them at the same time. It’s kind of nice—not unlike my cooking show white noise.

  My margarita arrives in a fancy (and clean) glass, and he leans over to whisper in my ear.

  “Try to enjoy your drink, Callie. You can even go over your one drink limit tonight, if you want…”

  His breath feels like…I don’t know. There isn’t a word good enough.

  I guess he takes my silence as resistance. He goes on.

  “It will be fine either way. You aren’t driving. You have no one you need to take care of tonight.” He grabs my hand on my lap. “An
d I’m here to take care of you.”

  That. Sounds. Perfect.

  I squeeze his hand and nod. And then I take a sip of my drink with my other hand. We sit like that for a while, silent amidst all the chatter at the table.

  Eventually, he leans over again, whispering, “How is the bar experience so far? You okay?”

  I nod. Oh so close to his mouth.

  This bar is much better than I expected. I have breathing room. A clean seat. No one touching me.