Checked Again (6 page)

No
text messages, though. Or emails.

And
now it’s time for my dinner…a slightly larger dinner than usual. (When I
weighed myself this morning, I was four pounds down…that means I eat dessert
tonight.)

I
eat and work at the same time, typing my poems for my poetry portfolio while
savoring each bite of the piece of ice cream cake I bought on the way home from
church. (I found a drive-through ice cream place—and the girl at the window put
on a fresh pair of gloves to fill my order. She did have to charge me for the
entire cake to give me just a slice…but, eh…I’m sure she and her teeny tiny
coworkers can each afford to eat a spoonful of the leftovers tonight.)

I
eat and type. Eat and type. Eat and type. All in all, my poems are pretty much
shit. I knocked out a few stupid stanzas about rainbows and fruit this
afternoon. Then I drove to an open field and just sat in my car, looking out and
trying to get inspired.

I
never really did.

But
I wrote anyway. A few poems about a field. I roll my eyes as I type in one of
them. It looks even worse than it did when I wrote it a few hours ago.

The Open Field

What was Julie Andrews
thinking exactly?

Running through itchy,
bug-infested hills

Just to sing a song or
two?

Getting grass-stained and
probably sweaty and sunburned all at once.

Not for me.

What if there is poison
lurking out there somewhere?

What if there is a storm…

or some crazy criminal
hiding out behind a tree?

What if I get lost and
stuck in the middle of nowhere?

What if…

What if I just stay
inside instead?

{Obviously,
Julie Andrews starts to sing
“The Sound of Music
.
”
}

And…typed.
Printed. DONE.

I
take a few last bites of my now sort of melty ice cream cake, immediately begin
to worry that I’ll somehow gain more than four pounds from it, and then begin
my routine and hope to burn off some calories.

9:05
A.M. MONDAY MORNING. BEFORE MY Literary Analysis II class, I make the phone
call that’s been weighing on my mind for at least a week; I call Dr. Grove’s
office (my hospital doctor’s office) to cancel my Wednesday appointment. I talk
to a rather questiony receptionist.
No—I can’t make it. Yes—something
important came up. I’m feeling fine, yep. Oh, of course I’ll be calling back to
reschedule…just as soon as I have my calendar for the next week ironed out.

I
hang up with that receptionist and then repeat the whole process with the lady
who answers the phone in Dr. Kiser’s office.
No, next Wednesday is just
not going to work for me. I’ll call to reschedule soon. Sure thing.

And…DONE.

Thirty-three
checks.

On
to class.

And
everything in class is rather normal. The students around me discuss
Wuthering
Heights
, and I pick my nails and pray not to be called upon. I seem to be
pretty safe today. Dr. Sumpter has given me a few closed-mouth, head tilted
down, pitying smiles. I doubt she’s going to call on me today—she wants me to
“relax and recover.” That’s what she said when she talked to me before class,
anyway. She also asked me about the reason for my hospital stint—I told her
simply that I had an allergy attack. No need to get into the whole belabored
story.

After
class, I eat a few hundred calories worth of lunch and begin my next reading
assignment. Tolstoy.
Anna Karenina.
One I haven’t read before.

I
don’t get many pages read before my phone begins to ring. And it’s
an
unknown number. Not Unknown Number.

It
only takes me a second after saying “hello” to regret answering the phone. It’s
Dr. Gabriel. He’s checking on me…and checking to see if I’m really up for a
work shift tonight. I assure him that I am. Nonetheless, he insists that he and
a colleague (a Dr. Harris) will be there at the writing center tonight…just in
case.

Awesome.
{The Pointer Sisters slide in with
“I’m So Excited
.
”
}

We
hang up. Then I read a little more, repaint my nails (I have a feeling I’m
going to need them tonight), and begin my leaving-the-house checks.

THE
WRITING CENTER IS CRAZY. Absolutely unreal. It’s almost impossible to tell
who’s here waiting to talk to Dr. Gabriel or Dr. Harris and who’s here for a
quiet place to type (something, by the way, that won’t be available tonight).

This
is supposed to be helpful to me?
Wow
. I hope Dr. Gabriel won’t be too
upset when I don’t send him a thank you note.

I
manage to make it to my spot without having to talk to anyone. I feel Dr.
Gabriel glance my way, but, fortunately, he’s in the middle of a conversation
with a girl I recognize from our Friday class.

After
logging on to my computer, I check for tickets. Somehow, I have none.
Unbelievable. Almost every seat in the little lab is taken. But no one needs
me.

I
pull out my Kindle to continue reading, but I don’t succeed in concentrating.
Instead, my mind goes back two weeks. And, sure—I was sick…and itchy…and
bluish…but, otherwise, my life was sort of coming together. And now—

Now
I am getting a ticket.

Computer
7. Brittany. I click on her request.

How
are you, Miss Royce?

Not
a request at all. I respond.

I’m feeling much better.
Thanks for asking…and for helping me two weeks ago. I really appreciate it.

As
I hit send, I look up and meet Brittany’s eyes with a smile. She smiles too,
and then we both get back to work…well, she does anyway. I get back to pretend
reading.

It’s
a slow night for me. Students come and go, but almost all of them show up to
see the two professors…and that means that the two professors (one of them in
particular) are quite busy and so cannot come over to talk to me.

{The
Pointer Sisters turn up their volume on
“I’m So Excited
.
”
It sounds
like they really mean it this time.}

Eventually,
I get a real ticket. Ian from Computer 3 wants me to proofread the rough draft
of his paper about the geologic time scale. Well, this will keep me busy. I
open up a navigation window online since I’ll probably have to look up
different words and concepts to even understand his paper. At least it gives me
something to do.

I
spend the next hour or so reading sentences, entering words into Google and
Dictionary.com, and typing notes. I’m only on page eight (of ten) when my
computer dings again.

I
click out of Google to check my new ticket. It’s from someone at Computer 20,
way in the back. No name is on the ticket.

Before
even reading this person’s request, I hit reply and type a reminder that I must
have a name for my writing center log.

Then
I look down at the request.

And,
well, I don’t need a name.

I
brought your driver’s license.

Chapter
5

more
communication

{DAMIEN.
DAMIEN.
DAMIEN.}

He’s
here. Only feet away.

My
ability to breathe goes away.

I
delete my premature response and give my eyes a quick lecture.
Do not move.
Do not look up. Do not look back. Focus on the computer.

Another
ding.

One.
Two. Three. Click.

But
that’s not why I’m here.

It’s
not?
My head starts to move upwa—

CALLIE!

I
push my eyes back to the computer before they can cause too much damage. I try
to start breathing again. I—

DING.

Count.

Count
again.

Count
once more.

Open.

I got a call from
Dr. Grove. Why did you cancel your appointment on Wednesday?

DAMN
IT.

Stop
knowing everything. Seriously—it’s ridiculous.

I
don’t know what to say. I don’t have a response for him. So I sit and remove my
nail polish.

And
my computer dings again.

Count.
Click.

This is serious. You
have to have a follow-up appointment. And if you don’t respond to me, I can
just come up there to talk to you in front of all of these students and those
professors who appear to be babysitting you.

Ugh.
I hit reply
quickly…because I don’t want Dr. Gabriel to see me doing non-work-related
business…but moreover, because I don’t know if I’m ready for face-to-face
interaction with
him
.

No—don’t
do that.

I
count and hit send. I wish I had more nail polish on or—

DING.
DING.

Two
tickets.

Shit
. The first one
is from Ian at Computer 3. He’s asking about the status of his paper.

I
write back to him immediately. I send him my notes for pages one through seven
and tell him that I’m still working on the rest.

My
second message is from No Name, Computer 20.

Count.
Open.

Dr. Spencer is in
New York again, but he has called several times for updates about you. He was
very concerned when I told him that you’ve canceled your follow-up appointment.
He wants me to do the follow-up if I can’t get you to go back to Dr. Grove.

Oh
my God.

My
body sinks into my chair, a pile of motionless weight. Snippets of moments blow
through me…him bringing out my brand new chair…listening to me breathe…checking
my pulse…

{Damien
Rice gets louder and louder.}

A
new ding breaks me out of the past.

Count.
Click.

Is
that what you want?

Is
that what
you
want?

I
can’t write that…but I also can’t think of anything else to type.

Another
ding. Count. Click.

I know that
everything is messed up…but I’m worried about you, Callie.

My
eyes rebel. They shoot up before I can even think to stop them.

Fortunately,
they don’t really see anything. Computer 20 is way in the back. All of the
faces back there are covered by computer screens.

I
breathe in with relieved disappointment.

Unfortunately,
I don’t look back down fast enough. Dr. Gabriel, who is sitting rather close to
Computer 20, catches my eye and gives me an over-the-top concerned look. Then
he stands and starts walking toward me.

Damn.
Damn. Damn.

I
look back down at my computer screen and pull up the geology-related paper I
still need to finish proofing. In no time, Dr. Gabriel is standing in front of
me, asking me how I’m holding up. I quickly assure him that I’m fine as I
simultaneously pray that he doesn’t come any closer.

My
prayers don’t work.

He
begins coming around to the area behind my desk. I start to scrunch further
back into my chair and hope that he doesn’t—

My
computer dings. A ticket from Computer 20.

Dr.
Gabriel stops moving, and I quickly spit out something about needing to get
back to proofreading.

It
works. He goes away, back to his line of waiting students.

Thank
God.

Now,
as for the ding from Computer 20…I count and click on his ticket. It’s blank.

Deep
breath. One. Two. Three. Click reply.

Thank
you.

One.
Two. Three. Send.

A
new ding comes seconds later.

Count.
Open.

Glad to help. I can
only assume that he is that Dr. Gabriel guy you told me about…arrogant…creepy
stare…stands way too close to you…

Of
course he figured that out. I think I only mentioned Dr. Gabriel in passing
during our ride to Pittsburgh. He, of course, memorized everything I said.

But
he helped me just now. So I count and reply simply.

Yes.
That was him.

Before
I can send my message, a new sort of noise fills the room. The beep of a pager.

I
personally only know one person in Pierce who carries a pager. So, while a
flutter of heads in the computer lab turn around to see where the noise is
coming from, I keep my eyes focused on my computer screen.

The
noise stops, and my computer dings again shortly after. Count. Open.

I have to head to
the hospital. But this conversation isn’t over. Dr. Grove has a pretty full
schedule (your Wednesday appointment has already been taken), but he has an
opening next Friday at noon. I’ve asked him to hold it open for you. If you
don’t call his office and accept this appointment, I’ll have Annie call you to
make one with me.

Before
my head gets too far lost in appointment memories again, I see him stand up out
of the corner of my eye.
{Damien’s refrain plays at a painfully slow pace.}
Without
checking in with me first, my eyes make their way over to him. And he’s staring
at me. With concern. With sorrow. With…with so much there that I can’t even
place it all. He doesn’t let go of my eyes as he begins to move—wait—toward me!

I
try to swallow back the growing lump in my throat, afraid that I won’t even be
able to speak if he tries to talk to me. When that doesn’t work, when my throat
doesn’t swallow, I attempt to blink my eyes for a moment of relief, a second of
clear thinking. That doesn’t work either.

His
eyes burn into mine as he gets closer and closer.
{Damien slows down even
more, almost singing in slow motion.}

A
cramp, an ache, sinks into my stomach as he makes his final three steps.

One.
Two. Three.

And
he’s here.

His
eyes are sad…terribly sad…just like the first time that I met him.

I’m
sure mine are pretty sad too.

He
opens his mouth as though to speak, but then he sighs and closes it again.
After a few seconds, he shakes his head slowly before lowering his eyes and
holding out his hand toward me.

Somehow,
I move my eyes from his. I look down and see my license between his fingers. One.
Two. Three.
I allow my own fingers to reach out to take my license,
carefully grabbing the top part of the plastic card, the portion furthest away
from his skin.

And
then our eyes find each other once more.
{Damien’s slow motion refrain
starts over.}
When he again inhales and tries to speak, no sound comes
out…but his lips mouth my name. And—

DING.
Another freaking ding.

He
nods his head toward my computer, moves his lips into an understanding,
closed-mouth smile…but not really a smile...and blinks away from me.

I
watch him turn and walk away. Gray pants. White dress shirt. He walks to the
door, turns around to give me one more glance, and goes.

I
take a minute to breathe in some much needed air before forcing myself to turn
back to my computer, back to my message from Ian at Computer 3, and back to my
life without him…