Checked Again (28 page)

People
move around me, going in various directions. I veer from side to side, trying
to stay as far away as possible from each human obstacle I cross.

{The
theme song to Nintendo’s Super Mario Bros. accompanies my journey.}

Most
people pass without even looking at me. A few give me questioning looks, as
though they are judging my jagged path down the hall. I don’t care. I—

I
have an idea. I see an idea. I am only steps away from Conference Room G, the
location for my next session. If I head there now, I don’t have to brave the
hallways again.

Good
plan.

One.
Two. Three. Veer a little left. One. Two. Three. Veer further to the left so a
man walking this way with a briefcase doesn’t brush up against me. One. Two.
Three.

In
the conference room. The empty conference room.

Excellent.

I
grab my phone from my purse and immediately type the message I’ve wanted to
write for over two hours now.

I
hate Option #1.

Send.

Start
new message.

Do
I get a surprise hint?

My
phone buzzes as I send my message.

Open
text.

Okay. Treatment
Option #2—I can refer you to that doctor, Dr. Lyst, from Option #1, and I can
ask him to use the initial treatment plan I created for you.

No.
No. No.
Really no better than Option #1.

Before
I can hit reply, my phone buzzes again.

Open
text.

No replying until
after your next session. Think. Really think.

Ugh.
        

My
phone buzzes again.

Open
text.

Surprise hint—Your
surprise will begin after you turn in your article tonight.

Begin?
So it’s an event?

I
type my thoughts into a text.

Begin?
So it’s an event?

As
I hit send, I hear people talking right outside the conference room door.
They’ll be coming in at any second. I should—

My
phone buzzes again.

Quickly
check my message.

Only one hint,
Callie :) Time for your next session. Food at this one. You need to eat.

Ugh.
Again. I think
he knows my schedule better than I do. The Dr. Gabriel email that I forwarded
to him must’ve been pretty detailed.

Speaking
of Dr. Gabriel, he’s walking through the doorway right now…with the young
female professor. Jared would probably jokingly refer to her as Dr. Gabriel’s
lady friend. Or perhaps he’d come up with something more vulgar…like Dr.
Gabriel’s post-session workout…his extracurricular activity…his conference
bag…his seminar swag…something disgusting like that, I’m sure.

I
don’t care what she’s called, though. I’m grateful she exists.

I
move to find a seat far, far away from Dr. Gabriel and, um, whatever her name
is.

{Starland
Vocal Band breaks into the refrain of
“Afternoon Delight
.
”
}

3:30
P.M. END OF MY THIRD session—a three hour period where we were served lunch as
we listened to several lectures about studies of feminism in literature.

I
spent the session taking notes, eating half of a turkey sandwich and some
pretzels (approximately three hundred and fifty calories), and thinking…about
how much I hate Treatment Options #1 and #2, about my upcoming surprise…about
him.

My
next session is conveniently in this same room, so I don’t get up out of my
seat. I pull my phone out of my purse and—

“Calista.”

Great.
Dr. Gabriel.
Coming this way. Young professor clicking her heels behind him.

I
slide a (fake) smile onto my lips.

They
both stop a couple steps away from me. Dr. Gabriel opens his mouth to talk.

Please
don’t accidentally spit on me. Please don’t spit on me. Please don’t spit on
me.

“We
are planning to go to the seafood restaurant across the street for dinner.” He
looks back at his…whatever she is…for a second before turning back to me.
“Would you like to join us?”

Well…let’s
see. I hate seafood. And I’m not really a big fan of you. I do have friendly
feelings toward your professor friend, but that is only because she is keeping
you—

Dr.
Gabriel is staring at me.

I
quickly slide my fake smile back onto my lips. Then I lie. “Oh, I would love
to, but I need all the time I have to write tonight’s article.” A bigger fake
smile. “I want to make sure I capture everything we’ve experienced here.”

Stupid,
stupid sentence, Callie.
Really horrible. Would’ve only been worse if I had
somehow incorporated the word “shared.”

“Oh,
I totally understand.” The young professor, um, I think her name might be Kate,
speaks. A high pitched, chippy voice. “What an honor to get asked to write
those articles. I mean, I—”

She
keeps talking, moving a couple steps closer to me. I stop listening and start
praying.

Please
don’t accidentally spit on me. Please don’t spit on me. Please don’t spit on
me.

I’m
sure she’s already exchanged bodily fluids with Dr. Gabriel…sure she already
has a number of diseases now running through her.
Please don’t spit those
diseases out on me.

She
talks. And talks. And talks. People around us exit the conference room, eventually
leaving the three of us alone. She keeps talking.

I
hold my phone, wondering if I’m even going to get a second to send a text
during this break. And if I don’t, what will Dr. Blake think? Will he think
something is wrong and then get upset and then just decide to lea—

My
phone vibrates in my hand.

It’s
pretty loud. Loud enough that she, um, Kate, stops babbling.

I
glance down at my phone, see I have a text from Unknown Number, and then…then I
make an unethical, selfish decision.

One.
Two. Three.

I
talk. “Oh—it’s my father. Something must be going on at home—he wants me to
call as soon as I have the time.”

Please
don’t let anything bad happen to anyone. Please let nothing bad happen. Please.

“Oh,
of course.” Kate puts her hand on Dr. Gabriel’s arm. “We’ll get out of your
way.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Hope everything is okay.”

Me
too.

Dr.
Gabriel gives me, I guess, a concerned glance (it looks more like the glance of
a sexual predator), and then the happy couple leaves.

I
remain in my seat…feeling a little relieved, but more nervous. Oh, and guilty.
Really, really guilty.

I’m
sorry. I’m so sorry I said that. Please let everyone be okay…

My
phone buzzes again. I don’t look at it yet. More anti-family-hurting praying.

One.
Two. Three. Pray. One. Two. Three. Pray. One. Two. Three. Pray.

Okay.

I
inhale slowly and look back down at my phone. I now have two Unknown Number
messages.

First
message. Open.

No
comments about Option #2?

Yes.
I have a comment about Option #2. I’m not doing Option #2—that’s my comment.

Before
I tell him that, before I type anything, I check my second message.

If you want, I can
try to call Dr. Lyst this afternoon. Maybe he can even squeeze you in for an
appointment at some point next week.

NO
NO NO.

Reply.

No—I don’t want to
do Option #2. Please don’t call him or schedule anything.

Send
quickly. People have started to reenter the room. The next session will be
starting soon.

I
watch the various men and women filter in around me, filter into the seats
throughout the room, as I hold my phone. My phone doesn’t buzz. It doesn’t do
anything. So I pick at my nail polish and wait…wondering why he hasn’t replied
yet…wondering what he is thinking.

Pick
nail polish. Wonder. Pick. Wonder. Pick. Wonder.

I
wonder. I wonder…

I
wonder if I should just tell him that I won’t go see a new doctor…any new
doctor.

I
wonder if I should tell him that I want him to be my doctor…but not my
doctor…at the same time. That I want him to help me…to treat me…and…

And
that I also want him…that I want to be able to be with him.

That
I want all of this at the same time…that I want all of this to be possible
without him getting into trouble or looking bad in front of his colleagues or
losing his job or whatever would happen if he was caught sleeping with a patient.

Sleeping
with a patient. Sleeping with me.

My
mind travels in a new direction…one that has nothing to do with OCD and
treatment plans and doctors…

Well,
one doctor is involved, but he’s, well, kissing me. Touching me.

A
slow ache mov—

My
phone buzzes in my hand. One. Two. Three. I push myself out of my train of
thought…push his kisses away…push him off of me. For now.

One
new message. Him. Open.

Okay, well, that
leaves us with Option #3. I still need to give this option some thought,
though—I don’t know that doing this would be in your best interest (if you even
like this option). So…Treatment Option #3—I will help you get through the
treatment plan I created for you. We will conduct treatment sessions during
non-work hours (evenings and weekends). I will not be treating you as your
doctor, though. I will just be helping you as, well, as someone else. Something
else. What do you think?

For
once, I’m thrilled that he has found his way into my thoughts. For once, it’s
wonderful. I hit reply and type three letters.

YES.

My
phone buzzes just as I hit send.

Open
message.

Please think about
this option for a little. I’ll be thinking about it too. We’ll talk later.

I
feel my mouth widening into a smile. Then my fingers start moving across my
phone, creating a new message.

Too
late, Dr. Blake.

Send.

I
turn off my phone…because the session is just about to start…and because I
don’t want to give him the chance to contradict me…

5:45
P.M. LAST SESSION OF THE day over.

I’m
tired. And thirsty. And I need to go to the bathroom.

I’m
also anxious. Anxious to see him. Anxious to find out what my surprise is.
Anxious to see how he responded to my last text message.

As
I exit the conference room (once more leaving behind Dr. Gabriel, who is
currently standing with Kate, waiting in line to speak to the session
presenter), I pull my phone out of my purse. Before checking my messages, I
speed through the still rather empty hallway. At any second, conference doors
are going to start opening, unleashing hundreds of people into this area. I
don’t want to be around for that.

Not
at all. I move quickly. Past the front desk. Through the lobby. Moving moving
moving (and counting counting counting). When I get to the hallway beyond the
lobby, the first floor guest room hallway, I slow down. Not because I’ve
suddenly stopped caring about my avoidance of the hundreds of conference-goers
who are probably about three minutes behind me. Not because I’ve magically
stopped having the urge (no, um, need) to go to the bathroom. Not even because
I try to slow down. No. My legs do that all by themselves. Right after my eyes
see the body…the back of a body…standing about halfway down the hallway. Still
in dark jeans and a long-sleeved thermal tee. One arm by his side, hand in his
pocket. One hand up at his ear. On the phone.

Slowly,
I take some steps toward him. One. Two. Three.

If
I could just be another person, another girl, I could…I could just slide my
arms around his waist, wrap them around his stomach…pull him against me.
Breathe him—