Checked (19 page)

-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.

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s time for you to splurge a little on your eating. Your fourteen hundred calories a day have just become another routine, another obsessive way to have control. I want you to realize that taking a night off from counting every now and then won’t be the end of the world.”

{Two female voices initiate the opening dialogue of
“Baby Got Back.”
}

“Are you okay?” He shoots a concerned glance my way.

I nod but probably not very convincingly. I can’t remember the last time I went even slightly over my calorie count. This will be way over.

“Do you want to turn around?”

Oh, God. I’ve already put the sadness back in his voice, and dinner hasn’t even begun.

“No, I want to try,” I blurt out. I do want to try. I’m just not sure that I can do it.

He looks at least somewhat placated. Placated enough to continue driving.
{Sir Mix-a-Lot’s turn.}

Before I know it, we are in Oakland.

It’s been so long since I’ve been here. As we get out of the car and start walking the city streets, I can’t help but remember a time long ago on these very streets when a passerby spit and the spit hit my leg. Unbelievable. I lost at least a week of my life in the aftershocks of that one.

I try to push the thought from my mind, but it doesn’t work. Luckily, we have just arrived at Dawson’s Grille. He grabs my hand as he navigates through the crowd to our table. I hold my breath during the entire journey. Because the area is hot and sweaty. Because there are people swarming all around me.

Because he is holding my hand.

Fortunately, our table is in the downstairs area of the restaurant. There are only a handful of tables down here, and only one of them is already occupied. He selects the farthest spot from the other people. After methodically examining the table and chairs, he motions for me to sit. Our table is spotlessly clean. My seat also passes my personal inspection.

We naturally drop hands as we sit, and my hand feels suddenly empty. The bubbly waitress gives us menus, but I already know what I’ll be having. What I’ll be trying to have.

“So…what is good?” he asks after the waitress takes our drink orders and leaves us to look at the menus.

“I’ve only ever had the nachos here.”

“Seriously?” He looks up at me.

“Yep. The first time I came here, a high school friend ordered them. Nachos with melted cheese and tomatoes. They sounded delicious so I ordered them too. And our love story began.” I smile up at him. His returning smile is boyish, almost carefree.

Wow. {Back to you, Damien Rice.}

Our waitress comes back to take our order. He nods for me to go first so I order my favorite nachos for the first time in years. He also orders the nachos but with every topping imaginable.

The waitress leaves to place our order of around ten million calories.

“When was the last time you were here?”

I remember exactly. “Christmas break during my freshman year of college.”

“That long ago?”

About six years. “Yep.”

“Why?” he asks as he takes a sip of his soda.

Where do I begin? “It’s a bit complicated.”

“Psychologists kind of expect that.”

True. I’m sure he’s going to wrench this all out of me at some point. And then probably memorize it.
Just get it over with, Callie.

One. Two. Three. GO.

“It was a, um, rough night the last time I was here.”

He nods, encouraging me to go on.

“As I said, I was home for Christmas break. And I was out with my then boyfriend.” As I pause to drink, I notice a shocked look on his face. I can’t really blame him. It was so long ago, and I haven’t dated anyone since…that relationship seems pretty surreal to me too.