Checked Again (13 page)

The
second email is from Dr. Gabriel.
Ugh.
He first tells me that he has a
date tonight (of course). Then he tells me that he’s still going to make time
to stop by the writing center to talk to me about our upcoming trip.

Fabulous.

I
guess the trip is still on—even though I keep praying that the conference will
be canceled (or in the very least moved here to Pierce). I’ve got to step up my
praying. I only have three more days to get out of going on this trip. Maybe I
should do some rosaries or something.

For
now, I delete Dr. Gabriel’s message. I don’t need to respond—he didn’t ask me a
question…like about whether or not I’d actually like him to stop by the writing
center tonight…

I
hit refresh one more time on my screen, but no new messages show up. My inbox
is empty.
Ugh.

I
stare at the screen for a few more minutes before forcing myself to stand up. I
know I have to get my leaving-the-house checks going. Now.

I
DON’T GET VERY FAR into my leaving-the-house checks. I’m almost halfway through
my second round when the house phone rings. Reluctantly, I leave Mandy’s
partially checked room to answer (fortunately, Mandy has already left for
class—so she’s not going to mess up the work I’ve already done in her room as I
answer the phone).

I
get downstairs to the kitchen on the sixth ring, quickly taking the phone out
of its cradle and saying “Hello” as I turn to go back to Mandy’s room. I don’t
get very far.

“Hello.
This is Annie from Pierce Mental Health.”

I
stop right outside of the kitchen. Frozen.

She
goes on. “Dr. Blake has an opening tomorrow at four o’clock. He’d like to see
you for an appointment. Are you available?”

My
eyes blur as I stare at the wall in front of me.

When
did he ask Annie to make this call? Did he ask her before or after he got my
email (well…emails)? If it was before, will he really even want to see me now?
Did he forget to tell Annie not to call me? Is this a mistake? Should I—

“Ma’am?”

I
clear my throat and try to clear my head. “Oh, um, well, I—”

Annie
interrupts my wordy stream of nothing. “If you need to check your calendar,
that’s fine. This appointment time only opened up moments ago, and Dr. Blake
just now asked me to call—I’m sure he’ll be okay with holding the appointment
until you call back after checking your schedule.”

I
don’t need to check my schedule, Annie.
I know my schedule. He knows my
schedule.

And
if he
just
asked…he has to have already seen my emails (or at least the
dreadful first one), right?

But
he hasn’t written back or accepted my apology…unless this is his way of
accepting—

“Ma’am?”

I
clear my throat again. Then I make a fast decision. “I’m free. I’ll be there at
four.”

“Wonderful.
I’ll let Dr. Blake know right away. Thank you.”

We
hang up and I turn slowly back into the kitchen, gently returning the phone to
its cradle. My mind starts rounding up questions.

What
am I going to say to him? Is he going to be angry with me? Will he mention my
emails? Will he look at me?

What
should I wear?

Really,
Callie?

As
I begin to move out of the kitchen, my eyes catch the time on the microwave.
9:32 a.m.

Shit.
I’ve gotta
move.

I
complete one and a half more rounds of leaving-the-house checks and I’m out the
door, ready for class…or ready to sit for a few hours and obsess over Annie’s
call, my emails, and tomorrow’s appointment…

YEP.
THREE HOURS OF OBSESSIVE thoughts—that’s what I’m on target to accomplish here.
I’ve already spent the first two hours of Dr. Sumpter’s class just stuck in my
mind. Stuck thinking about
him
. Is he going to forgive me? Is he going
to write to me today?

Dr.
Sumpter is currently talking about our next book.
Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values
by Robert Pirsig.

I
could use a little Zen in my life, I think. I tried all of that meditating
stuff a few years ago, though. I didn’t do very well. Page four of my
meditation book had a little circular red spot on the top inside corner. I
could only assume that it was a spot of dried blood…that someone involved in
the publishing or packaging of the book had gotten a paper cut on his or her
finger and then touched my book and…

Well,
and clearly that person had AIDS. And Hepatitis.

And
I lost at least five nights of sleep over that incident. I still lose hours of
sleep when I think too much about that day, that book…

And
that is why I’m going to try to move on to a new thought right now.

Dr.
Sumpter continues to talk Zen, and I go back to thoughts about a certain pair
of blue eyes.

I
can’t believe I’m going back to that office, his office, in less than thirty
hours.

Talk
about thoughts that make me lose sleep…

The
end of class eventually arrives, and I gather my notebook and pen, ready to
rush home to once again check my email. I—

“Calista?”
Dr. Sumpter.

I
stand still right in front of my desk. Dr. Sumpter stands a few feet away.

“Yes,
Dr. Sumpter?”

“I
heard about your conference opportunity. You are quite fortunate to have Dr. Gabriel
in your corner.”

Blech.
I don’t want to
think about being in a corner with Dr. Gabriel and all of his diseases. Gross.

{Britney
Spears begins growling the words to
“Toxic
.
”
}

Dr.
Sumpter smiles, clearly not sensing the horrific vision I’m trying to keep out
of my head. “Have a great time at the conference. I’ll be looking forward to
reading your articles.”

I
can’t even think about my articles. I have to get through about thirty thousand
things before I can possibly get to the comparatively easy point of writing
articles that will be read by thousands of people.

I
have to make it through a plane ride. Through sitting right beside Dr. Gabriel.
Through a crowded, crazy, suffocating airport. Through a trip in some, as of
yet unknown, form of transportation that will assumedly take us to the hotel (
Ugh
—I’m
sure I’ll have to sit by Dr. Gabriel again in said mode of transportation).
Through entering a hotel room just brimming with disgustingness—with used and
reused glasses and sheets and towels and—

“Calista?”
Shit.
I focus my eyes back on Dr. Sumpter’s face, attempting a smile.

“Is
everything okay?”

Keep
smiling, Callie.
“Oh,
um, yes. I’m just tired, you know, with trying to get myself prepared for the
conference.”

Now
she smiles. “Oh, I understand. It always takes me forever to decide how to
manipulate my schedule to be able to attend as many of the high interest
conference presentations as possible.”

Clearly
she doesn’t understand what I’m talking about. Nonetheless, I smile and nod.
She then wishes me good luck for the conference (which I’ll need…but I’ll need
much more than she…or anyone…can wish me), and we say our goodbyes.

I
go home, spray my shoes, wash my hands, and head to my computer. I pray the
entire way up to my room…because I need him to contact me today. I need him to
somehow communicate with me today, before I go to my appointment tomorrow. I
need to know if he’s mad at me…if he’s miserable…or if somehow he has forgiven
me.

Let
there be an email from Dr. Blake. Let there be an email from him. Let there—

Unfortunately,
my inbox is empty. So I grab my purse to check my phone for a message…to check
for the three hundred million thousandth time today. No text messages, though.
I also have no new Words with Friends game alerts.

Melanie,
I’m sure, has been too busy with work to play today. And Tony hasn’t played at
all since our little meeting yesterday afternoon.

Seems
about right. About right for Tony. He got what he needed. No need to contact me
anymore, I’m sure.

The
third game I’m “playing” (but not really playing) catches my eye. Then, what
I’m sure is a stupid idea leaps into my head…and before I know it, my thumbs
are moving across my phone’s screen and I’m opening the game, his game. Seconds
later, I push letters together to form the word “quip.”

Now
all I have to do is submit the word…officially play my turn…officially initiate
communication…

Okay…

One.
Two. Three.

But
I already apologized…and he didn’t write back…and…he left me…alone and rather
unconscious in a hospital bed…and he didn’t tell me why…he didn’t tell me about
his mother’s suicide…or about the music in her head…

One.
Two. Three.

And
he lied to Mandy and said that I left him.

One.
Two. Three.

And—

Callie!

And
I was REALLY mean to him last night. I need to do this…I need to submit this
word…I need to initiate more communication…

Onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree.

I
close my eyes and allow my finger to submit my word.

And
now, I wait. For my phone to send me a game alert. For a new email to appear in
my inbox. For anything.

I
stare at my phone for a few minutes and then stare at my laptop screen, at my
empty inbox, for a few more minutes. Then I grab my nail polish and add a new
coat to my fingernails. While my nails dry, I engage in more staring…staring at
my silent phone…at my inactive inbox.

Then
I pick off all of my nail polish.

And
then I repeat the whole process. Twice.

{Otis
Redding comes in and begins to sing
“(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay
.
”
The whistling part of the song repeats over and over and over and over and over
and over and—}

AH.
Callie!

I
can’t just sit here and wait. What a ridiculous use of my time.

I
grab my Kindle and download
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
And I try to read, really I do, but I get nowhere. My eyes keep sneaking over
to my computer and my ears keep straining to hear a noise from my phone…a noise
that never comes.

Before
I know it, I’ve wasted seconds and minutes and hours, and it’s time to get
ready to leave for work. I put down my Kindle and get my thirty-three checks
moving.

IT’S
NOT VERY BUSY TONIGHT at the writing center. Brittany’s here. She’s been here
for the last hour or so. She hasn’t emailed me any requests yet, though.

Dr.
Gabriel’s not here yet.

{Cue
the Catholic chant response:
“
Thanks be to God.
”
}

So
far, I’ve checked my phone two times…every twenty-seven minutes (three times
three times three minutes). I get to check again in just a few minutes.

So
I have a few minutes to watch the clock. A few minutes to not pick at my
already scraped off nails. A few minutes to pray that Dr. Blake will play his
turn in our game.

I
spend the few minutes exactly as just outlined and then secretly (I hope) pull
out my phone. And there is a little one on my Words with Friends icon.

I
glance up at the students in front of me. All of them seem to be buried in
their computers. No one is looking at me.

I
lower my head. My right pointer finger races to press the Words with Friends
game icon.

Loading.
Loading. Loading.

It’s
my turn. It’s—

Wait.       

My
turn to play with Melanie.

Damn
it.

I
look at the game. She’s beating me by over one hundred points.

Damn
it again.

I
look at my letters for a few seconds and then close out of the program without
playing a word. I can’t think of anything that isn’t shit—shit as in crap—not
“shit” as in I have the letters to spell “shit.” I wonder if I did have the
letters to spell “shit” if that would even be an accepted word in Words wi—

A
new notification just appeared on my Words with Friends icon. It must be my
turn in another game…which means that maybe Tony decided to play even though he
already got his car keys and really has no need to communicate with me. Very
unlikely. Or else it might mean that Dr. Blake played, even though I was a
super mean bitch to him via email…and even though he doesn’t want to see me anymore
since I am too much like his late mother…more like his mother than he even
knows. Hmm…it’s probably even more unlikely that he has played.