Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) (12 page)

My stomach rumbles.
{More and more “
Over the Rainbo—”
}

What if he shows up at—

Callie! Stop.
Why would he lie?

Because all you two do is lie to each other and not tell each other things, Callie.

Damn it. That’s true.

But please don’t let him be lying about this. No lying this time. Not this time. Please. Please. Please.

Still praying, I jump off of my bed to get ready for work and to do my leaving-the-house routine. Praying. Praying. Praying.

Please no lying. Please no lying. Please no lying.

I’M PROBABLY NOT SUPPOSED TO compare my life—or my therapy—to the Bible, but it’s like the Bible up in here today. For real.

Peter denied…rejected…refused Jesus three times in quick succession back when Jesus was about to die. Today, I have denied my therapy,
his
therapy requests…rejected therapy directions,
his
directions, three times.

EXHIBIT A

Before I went to work, I couldn’t possibly eat. I couldn’t risk throwing up at the writing center (and it’s good that I made such a responsible decision because I spent all three hours of work worrying that Judy was going to walk through the doors of the writing center with a tourniquet and a needle. If I had put food in my stomach, I would’ve easily thrown up all over my computer).

So…obviously, I didn’t eat any pancakes or any syrup this morning. Instead, I shoved two pancakes (and around two hundred calories) down the garbage disposal. Then I squirted a significant amount of syrup down there as well. After that, I cleaned my whole sink to make sure that there was no sticky residue left behind.

The first denial. Complete rejection. And cover up.

EXHIBIT B

After work, I went to the little campus store near the writing center. And I picked up a bottle of water (total price - $1.25…which is sort of ridiculous. For WATER. But, oh well). I went up to the counter. And I tried to smile at the female college student who scanned the bar code on my bottle. She smiled back. Then she told me my total price ($1.25).

And then…then I lied to her. I held out my baggie of money, held it open in front of her. I asked her to pull the money out of the bag for me since my hands were really sticky…since I had just eaten PANCAKES DRENCHED IN SYRUP.

She believed me. She even dropped my three quarters, my change, into my baggie so I wouldn’t get them sticky.

A mega awful hardcore despicable lie. The second denial of my therapy.

EXHIBIT C

I started to proof my pregnancy paper rough draft during work. I didn’t get anything done, though. Too busy watching for Judy.

So, after getting my water and going home, I locked, locked, locked up my house. After I was confident that Judy couldn’t somehow show up in my bedroom, I managed to do a read-through, a check-through, of my paper. So I should’ve been done then.

But I wasn’t. I found a loophole.

He asked me to
NOT check it three times before turning it in
.

So I didn’t read over it, or check it, three times.

I did it six times.

The final denial—just accomplished it a few minutes ago as I emailed my paper to Dr. Harper.

Now I’m just waiting for a cock to crow.

11:03 P.M.

I’m in bed. Wearing old old old silky pajamas.

But I’m not sleeping.

I’ve checked my closet and under my bed and behind my shower curtain nine times, looking for murderers (and for Judy).

I’ve picked off all of my nail polish. I’ve tried to make the television chef’s voice turn into white noise. It hasn’t worked. He keeps talking about gourmet course options for dinner parties. He won’t stop.

I’ve mentally run through tonight’s text messages three zagillionfatrillion times.

Him: How did therapy go today?

Me: Well.

Just
well.
Not
Well, it was pretty suckful
—which would’ve been a much more honest answer.

Him: I’ll get the box of materials from you tomorrow.

I figured he would. Figured he’d be checking up on me. So all of my lying and cheating and covering up was not done in vain.

Me: Okay.

Him: Speaking of tomorrow, are you free tomorrow night after class?

Me: Yeah.

Him: Let’s meet to discuss today’s assignments—and also so I can cook you dinner. I’ll pick you up and bring you to my house. Does this sound okay?

Me: Sure.

Him: All right. I’ll be waiting for you at your house after your class. Have a good night.

Me: Good night.

He never mentioned a specific therapy-related activity for tomorrow. Does that mean that we are going to try blood work again at his house?

Why else would we go to his house? I’ve never been there before. I don’t even know where it is. Why now?

UGH.
He says he wants to meet to talk about today’s therapy progress. When there really wasn’t any progress.

So I’m probably going to have to lie to him. In person. Face-to-face.

This blows.

Chapter 8

day four (but really day nine)

1:03 A.M.

In bed. NOT sleeping.

{Katy Perry. “
Wide Awake.
”}

2:03 A.M.

Still not sleeping. Thinking. Sweating.

{Up this hour—Elvis Presley with “
Judy.
”}

3:03 A.M.

Sticking to my sheets. Hair matted on my pillow. Heartbeat irregular.

{Green Day. “
Basket Case
.” Over and over and over.}

3:33 A.M.

{Taylor Swift takes over with “
Shake It Off
.”}

You can do this, Callie. You can do this. You can go to his house. You can handle whatever happens. Even if Judy—

{Lily Allen tears in with “
Never Gonna Happen
” and—}

And I’m gonna—

OhmyGod.

4:52 A.M.

Back in bed. Done throwing up. For now. Done showering. For now.

Still thanking God that I made it to the bathroom, to the toilet.

Still thinking. And sweating. Heart still pumping with odd, erratic beats.

Still don’t think I can do this.
I can’t do this. I can’t.

It was too much before. Before Judy. Before the tourniquet. Before the needle that may or may not actually have been one hundred percent disease free—because who would really know for sure? Maybe someone involved in packaging it pricked himself or herself accidentally. Or—maybe on purpose. Maybe because he or she has…or had…some awful disease and was mad and wanted to make other people suffer.

Oh my God.
And now those diseases, that person’s diseases, are just waiting to be injected into my arm when Judy—

Stomach turning. Back of throat starting to—

Running.

6:01 A.M.

Still in the shower. Another post throw up, post clean up shower.

What am I doing? Why am I allowing everything to get so out of control?

His eyes, his sad eyes, appear in my head. Blue. Tragic.

Why do you keep making me think about things that I shouldn’t be thinking about? Why do you keep making me throw up? Why do you keep trying to fix something that can’t be fixed? Why do you keep trying to fix me?

Why do I keep letting you try?

{“
Because I Love You (The Postman Song).
” Stevie B. sneaks in, singing. I almost can’t hear him over the shower water. Almost.}

9:20 A.M.

Morning routine finished. Dressed for the day. Back in bed. In a daze. So very tired. Still can’t stop thinking.

I don’t want to do this day. Not at all. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to go to class later. I don’t want to go to his house (where Judy might be). I don’t even want to get groceries. What if Judy—

But Judy shouldn’t be at the grocery store. Shouldn’t be. I mean, with health codes and sanitation rules and everything, that would just be ridiculous. Right?

Please let it be ridiculous. Please let it be ridiculous. Please let it be ridiculous.

Time to get out of bed. One. Tw—

Wait. She could still be at the grocery store. They could both be there. Judy and him. And they could take me somewhere else. Back to his office. Back to my house. To the hospital.

Nonononononononono.

I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

It only takes one person to drop the ball, one person to be irresponsible, and a needle is contaminated, diseased…even though it might look clean. It might come out of a sterile-looking package, but how did it get there? Who has touched that package?

Someone with MRSA? Swine Flu? Hepatitis? AI—

My brain pounds against my head.
{Miley Cyrus starts screaming “
Wrecking Ball
.”}
My face begins to burn. My hair suffocates my neck. The contents of my stomach lurch forward.

I quickly throw my feet—

What the hell?
My brain tells my feet to move, to push me off of the bed. But nothing happens. Nothing happens.

I don’t throw up. I just feel like I’m about to.

My head doesn’t explode. It just seems to be on the brink of doing so.

I can’t move. My body—it’s in some sort of hellish frozen purgatory.

Shut down and just about to burst.

Seconds and minutes crawl by. No release. No movement. I seem to be breathing at least. I must be breathing, right? Otherwise, I must be dying.

Or…or…or…

Is this it? Am I not even here anymore? Am I already gone? Am I already dea—

But I can see the blurry haze of my ceiling above me. Can’t I? Surely I wouldn’t be able to—

My eyes fall shut.

Darkness. Blackness.

All at once, my stomach stills. My head stops thumping.
{Miley stops screaming. All I hear is a hospital flatline.}

This really must be it.

I should try to call for help. But my mouth won’t move. And my throat is completely dry.

Mandy’s probably not here anyway. And it’s not like the neighbors are going to hear me. And my limbs won’t budge. I can’t possibly reach for my phone.

No options. No solutions. Nothing.
{Nothing but a dull flatline.}

Images float behind my closed eyes. Mom and Dad. Mandy and Mel and Jared. Josh and Doug and Abby. Even Jared’s girlfriend, Holly. All of them. All of them sitting around a table. A Sunday night dinner table. A full table. Filled with everything. Eating. Talking. Smiling. Laughing.

Happiness. Filled with happiness.

And—

And
he’s
there too.

He’s there too. Sitting right beside me. Holding my hand. Happy.

It’s perfect. All of these faces. My family.

My life. My world.

And he’s there too. He’s part of it too. My life. My world.

He’s there. He’s there. He’s there.

My body, a bundle of dead weight, presses into my mattress.

He’s there. He’s there. He’s there.

{As the flatline drones on, Roxette comes in too with “
It Must Have Been Love
.”}

Breathing—heavier and heavier. Heavier and heavier. Heav—

RINGING. LOUD, PIERCING RINGING.

My eyes flip open.

Darkness. So much darkness.

And ringing. So much ringing.

I fling my head to the side, looking at my dresser. My phone is all lit up. Vibrating. Ringing.

I jump out of bed to grab it.

And it’s
him
. Him. Him. Dr. Bl—

Aiden.

One. Two. Three. Answer.

“Hello.” My voice sounds funny. Throaty. Like I’ve been—

“Callie, are you ready?”

Ready?
“Um, ready?”

“For dinner.”

Dinner, righ—

“Your class must’ve been really short tonight. It’s only eight thirty.”

“Eight thirty? At night?” Still throaty. Not the right sound…doesn’t sound like my voice.

8:30. At night.
Oh my God
. I missed class. I’ve never missed class. Ever. How did I—

Wait. Wait. Wait. I’m sitting up in bed. Talking on the phone. Here.

I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m movi—

“Callie?” A little frantic. Worried.

{Roxette, singing by herself now, reminds me of my thoughts before dying. Or before just passing out, I guess.}
He was there. In my thoughts. In my final thoughts. In what I thought were my final thoughts anyway.

Part of my world. Part of—

“Callie? Should I come in to get you?” Really frantic now. Really—

I shouldn’t be worrying him. Hurting him. He’s going to start thinking about his Mom aga—

Quick decision. I run out of my dark room, into the lighted hallway, and down the stairs. I grab my purse and slip on the black pumps sitting on my shoe towel. I grab my keys from my purse and move out of the—

He’s on my doorstep. A bit of a mess. Big eyes. Hand running through his hair.