Checked Again (25 page)

Next
out of the big brown box is a packaged comforter. Big. Fluffy. White. He
carefully arranges it on the bed. Then he starts pulling pillows out of
packages and—

And
Dr. Gabriel stops talking. I seize my opportunity to end our conversation. I
start talking before he can begin again. “Well, I hope you have a really nice
dinner. I guess I should get to work if I’m going to have my first article in
before ten tonight.”

Still
staring at the pillow arranging going on in front of me, at the back of the
pillow arranger, I pause and wait for Dr. Gabriel’s response, praying that
he’ll let me go.

Miraculously,
he does. “Okay, then. Call or come up and see me later if you get lonely. I’m
in room 2725.”

Even
though there is not a chance of me calling or visiting him tonight, I say, “Uh
huh” and then “Goodbye” quickly.

In
the second between our phone call ending and me putting my phone back into my
purse, there is a knock on the door behind me.

Please
don’t let it be Dr. Gabriel. Please let him not be here. Please let him not
know where my room is.

Before
I can move, Dr. Blake turns toward me. He picks up the large brown box and then
heads this way…toward the door? Closer and closer and closer. He catches my
eyes for less than a second before he passes me, mumbling something about it
being time for dinner.

I
should be happy about that. About dinner. My stomach has been ready to eat for
about twenty-four hours now. I’m not happy, though. Because when he just looked
at me, for only a second, I saw his eyes—and he’s miserable again.

But
why? What has changed?

I
turn toward him and watch as he opens the door, hands the (empty? I think)
brown box to the uniformed server standing in the hallway, signs a receipt, and
pushes a food cart into the room. He then thanks the server and closes the door
before turning around. He doesn’t even look at me as he pushes the food cart
past me, directly over to the little bar in the corner of the room.

What
happened?

I
replay my conversation with Dr. Gabriel through my mind, wondering if I said
something upsetting. But I really didn’t say much at all…

I
watch him as he stops the cart right beside the bar. He looks back in my direction.
Well, almost in my direction. His eyes don’t quite meet mine. It’s like he’s
looking at the air directly above my head.

What
is going on?

I
study his face. Crinkled forehead. Tense jaw. Pained eyes. He—

He
mumbles again. Quietly. Terribly quietly. Still not looking directly at me.
“I’ve already had everything in this room sanitized. The bar, the desk, the
floor, the door handles. Everything. Now the bed is ready, too. So, it’s, um,
okay to use the furniture. And it’s okay to come over here to eat, if you’re
ready.” He turns his head, his body, toward the bar. Then he begins to uncover
the dishes on the food tray.

Okay…I
have no idea what’s going on. But I should probably start moving over there.
Over to him. Now.

One.
Two. Three.

I
don’t move. I watch as he carries two dishes over to the bar. I don’t really
see the dishes, though. I see his lower arms…the skin exposed by his rolled up
sleeves.

I
see tension. Tense, rigid skin.

My
feet don’t move.

He
goes back over to the food cart and picks up two glasses of water. He places
them on the bar.

Tense
and rigid. Tense and rigid. Tense and rigid.

His
back still to me, he mumbles once more. “Ready?”

Okay.

One.
Two. Three.

He
sits down on a barstool, still without looking back at me.

One.
Two. Three.

He
just sits. No movement.

One.
Two. Three.

Move,
Callie.

Somehow,
my feet move, taking me to a barstool, to the seat just beside him…beside all
of that despair. I place my purse on top of the bar beside me and climb onto
the stool. Then I look straight down at the salad sitting in front of me and
the packet of fat free dressing sitting beside it. Around three hundred and ten
calories total.

My
stomach begins to gurgle, begging me to pick up my fork.

I
can’t yet, though.

Without
moving my head, I slide my eyes over to him…to see what he is doing.

Nothing.
He’s doing nothing. Not eating. Not moving.

Talk,
Callie. Talk.

One.
Two. Three. I push out a “thank you,” a scratchy, quiet “thank you.” He nods.
But he doesn’t look at me. He picks up his fork and begins to eat his food. A
large steak and fries.

Frustrated,
speechless, and, well, hungry, I look away and start to eat as well.

Forks
and knives clink against dishes. Our mouths make quiet chewing noises. Our food
slowly disappears. We don’t talk.
{A Great Big World and Christina A. come
back in with
“Say Something
.
”
They sing the entire song at least
six times. They—}

Out
of the corner of my eye, I see him put his fork down beside his plate. I try to
see more.

There
is nothing to see, though. He doesn’t move. He—

He
clears his throat. Then deep, almost inaudible words start coming out of him.
“I can’t. It can’t—”

He
breaks off and there is silence. I don’t move. I freeze, looking down, still
holding my fork. My chest tightens. My throat refuses to swallow.
{A Great
Big World and Christina sing their refrain. Again.}

“It
can’t always be this way. I can’t be everywhere. Things can’t always be fixed,
and—” He breaks off again. In the silence, my mind flips back to the
hospital—to me, all but unconscious, listening to him say goodbye.

Is
he doing it again? Is he leaving again?

The
tightness in my chest spreads to my shoulders…my neck…my cheeks.

Don’t
do this again. Please don’t do this again. Please don’t. I can’t handle—

{A
Great Big World and Christina get loud. Blaringly loud. So—}

He
inhales. “I tried to do this. To fix everything. Before.” His voice gets soft,
really soft. “With Mom.”

Oh—

He
clears his throat. But he doesn’t go on. I stare at my half-eaten salad. At the
fork still clenched in my hand.

Another
throat clearing. Another inhale. “Doing things like I’m, like I’m doing for
you…taking away OCD triggers…trying to create a perfect, clean environment—I
did all of this before. And then some. For Mom. It didn’t work. It didn’t make
her better.”

He
pauses again. I hear him swallow. Hard. He—

He
gets up, off of the barstool. My head moves as he moves, and I watch as he
walks a few steps away from the bar. A few steps away from me. Then he stops,
keeping his back to me. His body remains rigid. Tense. Miserable.

He
speaks. Quietly. But quickly. “I’m not always going to be able to do this. I
can’t guarantee that there will always be sanitized bathrooms, and new bedding,
and fresh out of the package medical instruments, and—”

He
stops.
{Lorde slips in with
“Royals
.
”
}
I watch the back of
his head shake back and forth. He starts again. Slowly now. “I can’t protect
you from everything.”

I
know that.
I nod my head. I don’t know why, though. He can’t see it. If I—

“But
even if I could, it wouldn’t make you better.” He says it so quietly. He’s
obviously thinking about his mom. Dwelling on those horrible little details
about her that he hasn’t told me about yet.

Well…maybe
he doesn’t plan to ever tell me. It’s not like—

Callie!
Stop. Talk to him. Make him feel better.

One.
Two. Three. I take a quick breath in and open my mouth. “I—” I shut my mouth. I
don’t know what to say. I can’t—

Think,
Callie. You have—

“Callie.”
He starts talking again. “You have to get help.”

Talk,
Callie. Talk.

My
body starts moving off of my stool before my mind realizes what it’s doing. My
feet move me right up behind him, behind his back, and—

And
I know I need to talk…to say something to make this better. To make him feel
better. To take his mind off of his mother. His mother who—

CALLIE.

One.
Two. Three. My mouth opens. Whispers of words begin to come out. “I will get
help, Dr. Bl—”

“I
don’t want to be your doctor.” He flings his body around as he cuts me off
loudly, emphatic—

Now
he’s facing me. His eyes stare straight into mine. Three inches of air linger
between us.

I
freeze.

His
eyes are full of complication. Full of sadness. Frustration.

Desire.

My
stomach tightens. Aches.

I.
Cannot. Keep. Up. With. His. Emotions.

I.
Also. Cannot. Breathe.

His
lips open in a whisper. “I can’t be your doctor, Callie.”

He
stares at me. He looks—he looks like a lot of things. Like he can’t decide what
he is going to do next. Like he might scream…or like he might cry…or like he
might kiss—

He
shakes his head, shakes his eyes away from mine and walks away from me, over to
the bed.

I
don’t move. Or inhale.

I
wait.

He
doesn’t want to be my doctor. He can’t be my doctor. Does that mean—

He
shakes his dark head once again. He’s turning back around. Coming back toward
me. His fiery eyes. His lips. His cologne. All coming back toward—

He
passes me.
What the—

He
walks right past me and heads over to the bar. I watch as he picks up our
plates, our utensils…everything, and puts it all back on the food cart.

Then
he stops. He freezes. His back to me once again, he speaks.

“I
have to go.”

My
legs go numb. So do my arms. A pang hits my stomach.

He
’
s leaving
again. He’s leaving me again. He’s leaving me alone. {Damien st—}

He
turns around again and begins to push the food cart. He pushes it right past
me, heading toward the door.

I
can’t believe that this is—

“I
have to let you work now if you are going to get your article turned in on
time.”

Oh.
He’s—he’s not leaving. He’s not going to—

Now
at the door, he speaks again as he shoves his shoes back on his feet. Back
still to me. “Okay. I’ll be back later.” With that, he opens the door and
pushes the food cart out into the hallway.

The
door clicks shut.

I
stand. And stand. And stand.  

Several
counts of three later, I convince my legs to take me over to the bar to grab my
purse. I walk over to the bed and sit down on top of the brand new
comforter…the brand new sheets…the brand new everything.
{Lorde sings. And
sings. And sings.}
A brand new place to sleep. That he made for me.
{Lorde
gets louder.}
But he won’t always be able to do things like this for me.

Because
he wants me to get help. But he doesn’t want to be my doctor.

What
does he want, though?

I
think back to the words he wrote when we were on the plane…the fact that he
----
worries about me. But what does that—

CALLIE.
WORK. Article. Due. Soon.

I
pull my netbook and his yellow notebook out of my purse. I sit down on the bed.
And I get to work. Sort of. I type a few sentences. Then I take a few minutes
to wonder where he is right now…what he’s doing while I’m working (or am
supposed to be working) on my article. Then I type a little more. Then I try to
determine when he’ll come back…what he’ll say…what he’ll do. And then I type
some more. Then I think about the closet and him and us and—

Type.
Type. Type.
Him. Him. Him.
Type. Type. Type.
Him. Him. Him.
Type.
Type. Type.
Him. Him. Him.

Type.
Him.
Type.
Him.
Type.
Him.

Eventually,
at 9:10 p.m. (so says the clock on my netbook), I finish my article.

Proofread.
Proofread. Proofread.

9:58
p.m. Send email and article to Dr. Hause.

Done.
Close netbook. Sit on bed. Wish I had nail polish on my nails. Hope Mandy
packed nail polish in my travel bag. Wonder where my travel bag even is.

Wonder
where he is. Wonder what—

Someone
is knocking on the door.
Please don’t let it be Dr. Gabriel. Please don’t
let him know where my room is. Please don’t let anyone tell him.