Checked Again (12 page)

I
spend most of the car ride giving (fake) answers to Mandy’s questions about my
meeting and also praying for Josh to put his other hand on the steering wheel
(my prayers don’t work this time).
{I bring back Carrie Underwood and
“Jesus,
Take the Wheel”
for backup. Still doesn’t work.}
Fortunately, we somehow
make it safely to Mom and Dad’s house, where we begin a rather standard Sunday
evening dinner.

I
get to meet Holly, Jared’s new girlfriend. And she seems just as amazing as she
did on her Facebook page. Can’t find anything wrong (this probably means that
Jared will soon find some way to accidentally screw things up with her).

While
we are eating, I have to endure a few questions about my pre-dinner meeting. I
attempt to answer the questions as vaguely and quickly as possible. My stomach
begins to jump around as I worry that someone will call me out on my lies, call
me out about seeing Tony.
{Yes, House of Pain’s
“Jump Around”
plays
as I sit at the table.}

My
jumpy stomach gets much worse after dinner when I’m in the kitchen washing my
hands, starting to overhear Dad and Mandy talking in the dining room.

After
the words “Dr. Blake” float into the kitchen, my ears are on full alert.
Unfortunately, it’s difficult to hear over the sound of the water streaming
from the kitchen faucet or above the noisy hum of the refrigerator. I only hear
some of the conversation. I hear enough, though.

Mandy
says the words “carried her in” and then “car” and “flip-flop”—not too hard to
figure out what she’s talking about.

Dad
says a stream of words that ends with “break up.” His voice goes up a little on
the word “up.” He’s asking a question.

I
leave the water faucet running, grab a towel, and move closer to the edge of
the kitchen, straining to hear how Mandy responds to him.

I’m
not prepared for what she says. I drop my towel on the ground as I hear her
sentence. Her response.
His
lie.

“He
told me that Callie needs a break from him. I guess she was the one who broke things
off.”

What.
The. Hell?

Chapter
10

even
more communication

SOMEHOW,
I MANAGE TO GET through the rest of my family evening without screaming…without
letting anyone know that I overheard Mandy and Dad’s conversation. After we say
our goodbyes and leave, I spend the entire car ride home trying to balance
listening to Mandy talk about an upcoming sorority 1980’s party, feeling guilty
about all of the lying and eavesdropping I’ve done this evening, wondering why
Dr. Blake lied to Mandy, and trying to calm my angry, frustrated stomach.

If
Mandy knows that all of this is going on in the seat beside her, she doesn’t
let on. She fills most of the car ride with talk of 1980’s bangs, obnoxious
earrings, and stirrup pants.
{Add Cyndi Lauper and
“Girls Just Want to
Have Fun”
to the jumble in my brain.}

As
soon as we arrive back home, Mandy heads for study hours at the library, and I
get an early start on my night routine. I work slowly through my tasks, going
over and over and over his possible reasons for lying.

Was
he just trying to look good in front of Mandy? Trying not to come off as the
guy who broke up with a girl who was unconscious in a hospital bed? Is he
trying to make me look good…like I’m not the pathetic, heartbroken one who was
left behind, but the one who let go? Is he delusional? Does he really not
remember how it happened?

Am
I
delusional? Did I say those words when I was unconscious? Did I break
it off with him and not know it?

Utterly
confused, I sit down at my computer to check my email.

DA
Blake has written. His email subject is “Questions.”
He
has questions?

One.
Two. Three. I try (unsuccessfully) to slow my furious stomach. One. Two. Three.
I try again. One. Two. Three. And again. No luck.

One.
Two. Three. Click. Open email.

1.)
Are you flying by yourself?

2.)
How many nights are you staying?

3.) I can come.
Really. I know that I ended things and made everything weird between us. But
still…this is going to be a difficult experience for you—I’ll be there if you
need me.

Well,
there it is. In writing. He ended things…and then he blatantly lied to Mandy.
He played the victim with Mandy. And now he wants to play the selfless hero
with me—giving up his time to assist an old patient, old significant other, old
everything. Quite the martyr.

The
pounding in my head…in my stomach…in my chest…is going off the charts. I can’t
even st—

Wait
.

Through
fuzzy, furious eyes, I see his email address pop up once more.

He
wrote again.

I
stare at the screen. I count three times. Then three more. Then three more.

Then
I click open his email. I blink a few times to unblur my eyes.

I
read.

Unbelievable. You
went to see Tony today? After what he put you through? After us?

Unbelievable?
{Katy Perry
begins to sing
“Roar
.
”
She fights to be heard over the ringing in
my ears.}

I
don’t count. I hit reply.

You
think me seeing Tony is unbelievable? Really? What about you leaving me…in a
hospital bed…unconscious? Isn’t that unbelievable? And how about you lying to
Mandy and pretending that I left you? And what about you sending all of these
emails and texts where you are inexplicably so concerned about me all of a
sudden?

I
think all of that trumps me seeing an ex-boyfriend. And how do you know about
that anyway? Are you having me followed or something? Some new creepy doctor
technique? Talk about unbelievable.

I
don’t count. I hit send.

Then
I stare at my laptop screen through blurry, blurry, blurry eyes. Wet eyes.

For
a moment, I contemplate responding again to put the rest out there…to tell him
that I know why he left…that I know that his mother committed suicide…that I
know why she did it. Oh, and also to tell him that music runs through my head
just as much as it probably ran through hers.

But
what would be the point in telling him? It doesn’t matter now.

I
don’t open up a new email. I don’t type anything. I don’t do anything at all.
{Oh,
except listen to Katy.}

I
sit there for…I don’t know…a really long while. By the time I scrape myself off
of the chair, complete my night routine, and get into bed, it’s 3:00 in the
morning. I crawl into bed, for once not wearing old pajamas…his pajamas. On the
television in front of me, a big man with a chef’s hat talks about foods that
make a person energetic.

What
about foods that make a person sleepy?

I
close my eyes and try to turn the chef’s voice into white noise…a white noise
that will drown out everything—thoughts about the conference, anger about
emails, worries about…well, an endless list of things.

Somehow…eventually…after
hours of thinking…it happens. The white noise takes over.

ABOUT
A SECOND AFTER I fall asleep (it feels like that anyway), I hear my name being
called over and over again. My eyes flip open as I try to convince myself that
my guest must not be one of the murderers…because the murderers shouldn’t know
my name…

And…Mandy
is looking down at me, hair swept into a messy ponytail…eyes angry.

“You
saw Tony last night?”

What?
How the hell does she—

“You
said you were meeting an old friend. A friend. Not Tony.”

I
sit up in bed, confused. So confused. “Did…did, um, Dr. Blake call you?”

Mandy’s
eyes begin to squint and she shakes her head. “What? You told him and not me?
Seriously?”

More
confusion. “Um, no. But he found out somehow.”

Mandy
rolls her eyes. “Well of course he found out.” Now she’s shoving her phone in
my still pillow-resting face.

I
see her Facebook news feed. And then I see…it. My name beside Tony’s name.
Beside our names, Dawson’s Grille. Tony must’ve posted this, tagged us, while
we were at the restaurant.

Oh.
Shit.

My
late night email scrolls through my head…all of those awful things that I said.

“Callie?”
Mandy is still staring at me angrily, waiting, I guess, for an explanation.

I
push her phone away from my face and sit up in my bed.

When
I don’t begin talking right away, Mandy starts again. “God, Callie. I thought
you were finally trying to connect with one of your old friends again. I took
it as a sign that you were getting better…or trying to get better at least.”
Her eyes aren’t as mad as they are sad now.

I
grab her non-phone-holding hand. And I speak. “I’m sorry, Mandy. Really. I feel
awful for lying to you. I just…Tony asked me to meet him to return some car
keys and I didn’t want to worry anyone or start any crazy gossip or whatever.”

I
tug her little body down beside me on the bed. “Everything was fine, Mandy. I
gave him the keys, and that was really it.”

The
anger is pretty much gone from her eyes now. Only sadness remains.

“I
am
trying to get better, Mandy.” I smile. “I’m just not ready to resume
socializing yet…unless, of course, it’s with you.”

Finally,
the corners of her mouth turn up into somewhat of a smile. “Okay…but you still
should’ve told me.”

“I
know. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll tell you if I ever decide to meet with Tony
again…which I won’t.”

Mandy
gives me a hug, and soon she’s off to finish a paper that must be due in a few
hours. After she goes, I plop my head back down on my pillow for a few minutes,
realizing that I need to send some sort of
I’m sorry for accusing you of
stalking
m
e email.

Seriously,
though, he deserved some of that email. He left me in a hospital bed. Then he
lied about it.

If
only I had focused on these two areas in the email…

Then
I might have no need to apologize now.

Ugh.

I
look at the clock, and it’s 5:15 a.m. My alarm is not going to go off for
another forty-five minutes. But I know that there is no chance that the young
guy steaming vegetables on the television is going to be able to lull me back
to sleep. Nothing will be able to do that. Not when I have such a big task on
my to-do list.

I
push back my warm bedspread and move myself over to my computer. I stare at the
screen and remove all of the nail polish from my fingers.

At
5:30 a.m., I finally open up a new message and type in DA Blake’s address.

Okay…here
goes.

One.
Two. Three.

I’m
sorry.

Hmm…but
what if he thinks I’m sorry about everything I wrote? Because I’m not…

Delete.
Delete. Delete.

Try
again.

One.
Two. Three.

I didn’t know Tony
put our meeting on Facebook. I’m sorry I accused you of stalking me.

That
looks…sounds…ridiculous. Even though that’s exactly what I accused him of…

I
probably shouldn’t send emails when I’m in pissed off mode. Perhaps I need some
sort of breathalyzer-type device on my computer to check if I’m rational enough
to be communicating with other people.

I
might be on to something…if everyone had a device like that, maybe—

Callie!
Focus.

I
click back over to my sent folder to reread the wording of my accusations. I
used the word “unbelievable” like two thousand times. And I was overly
sarcastic. AND I was a complete bitch.

And
I’m sure I put that miserable look back on his face.

{Damien
sings. And sings. And sings.}

I
went too far.

Way.
Too. Far.

Leaning
back into my chair, I try to pick off my nail polish again…but there is nothing
to pick off. I hug my arms around my waist and close my eyes. And then, a
memory montage begins—just like one always does during a pivotal moment in a
movie or television show.

Eyes
closed, I watch us, watch him. Sitting beside me in the movie theatre. Dancing
with me at the bar. Showing up at my front door. Eyes burning. Arms reaching
for me. Lips—

CALLIE!
Stop. Think.

Keeping
my eyes shut, I try to think of something to write to him. I don’t come up with
anything. Before I know it, another little movie begins in my brain. This film
only focuses on one scene, an imagined scene…an imagined view of him reading my
mean email…an imagined view of his eyes becoming completely miserable…all
because of me. Again.

I
have to fix this somehow. Now.

Eyes
open. Hands back on the keyboard.

One.
Two. Three.

Hmm…perhaps
my original apology email was the right one after all.

One.
Two. Three.

I
type the same words again.

I’m
sorry.

No
more words to write. Nothing to do but to hit send…

One.
Two. Three.

I
close my eyes and click the send button, sending him my email while at the same
time sending up a prayer for him to write back.

I
then stare at the laptop, at my inbox, for a long time. I click the refresh
button at the top of the screen a few times…every three minutes or so.

Nothing
happens, though. No new messages. No answered prayer.

He
probably isn’t even awake yet, Callie.
(In a surprisingly compassionate move,
my mind tries to comfort itself.)
Or maybe he’s getting dressed and ready
for the day…which is pretty much what you should be doing right now.

It’s
now 6:15 a.m., and I should’ve already started my morning routine.

I
guess the sooner I get it done, the sooner I can check my email again…

Onetwothree.
Stand. GO.

9:10
A.M. DONE.

Before
I start my leaving-the-house preparations, I sit back down at my computer.

I
have two messages, but neither of them is from him. The first message is about
a diet pill that supposedly will make me lose thirty pounds in thirty days. I
think I’ll pass on that—I always wonder what kinds of scary side effects go
along with those types of products. DELETE.