Checked Again (Checked Series) Read online

  Checked Again

  Jennifer Jamelli

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any likeness to actual people (living or dead) or events is entirely coincidental.

  Checked Again. Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Jamelli.

  Edited by Kaylene Osborn. Cover design by Ravven.

  Printed by CreateSpace.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any capacity without written permission.

  ISBN-13: 978-1499733822

  ISBN-10: 1499733828

  Dedication…again (um, if I don’t repeat it three times, it won’t count…)

  Without these people, I never would have been able to

  write this book…

  1.) Max and Derek

  2.) My family

  3.) The creators of Zoloft

  Chapter 1

  two days later

  {IN MY HEAD RADIO, DIO sings the refrain of “Rainbow in the Dark.”}

  Rainbow of Recovery

  Red carnations and other flowers on my windowsill.

  No yellow roses, but that makes sense because only one person has ever bothered to ask me about my favorite flowers…and he isn’t talking to me because I’m as insane as his mother was.

  That upsets me more than the fact that I have pink splotches all over my still swollen face.

  But I’m trying not to think about him, so I’m wearing brand new green pajamas instead of one of the still folded, him-smelling pairs at home on my hamper.

  And I’m currently covered up by the purple bedspread I slept under as a child since my family has moved me from my house to my parents’ house to make sure I don’t scrub myself away or something.

  So I’m sitting on my old bed, staring at the orange leaves on the tree I used to think murderers hid in when I was little.

  I guess it might look like I’m watching for blue skies ahead, but that would be futile.

  Hmm…probably gonna have to tweak that a bit for class. Might be a tad less inspirational than Dr. Emery prefers.

  New paper.

  Rainbow of Recovery

  Red carnations on my windowsill

  Yellow roses

  Pink swollen face

  Green pajamas

  Purple childhood bedspread

  Orange leaves outside

  Blue skies ahead

  Perfect. Done. Ready for my stupid poetry portfolio. Should blend in with all of the suckful poems the other students normally “share” in class.

  Notebook closed. Enough for now.

  Almost noon. I have to at least pretend to fall asleep before Mom comes in with another six thousand calories of sorry your crazy pills gave you an allergy attack comfort food.

  TV on. Gordon Ramsay and a Hell’s Kitchen marathon. Mmm…hot and angry white noise for an entire afternoon. Doesn’t get much better. Well…unless you have a live person holding you in his arms as he whispers recipes while you drift off to sleep.

  But I don’t. And I won’t.

  Sleep.

  6:00 P.M. EYES OPEN. WOW. A six hour nap. Maybe my body really does need this week of recovery. Or maybe I’m just exhausted from my routine schedule at my parents’ house. Or…perhaps I just have no real reason to be awake. No purpose…

  {Evanescence fades in with “Bring Me to Life.”}

  No purpose but to write stupid poems, read, and sit. Sit and stare. At the television. At the tree outside. At all of the flowers sitting on my windowsill. Well…almost all of them. I try not to look at the basket of lilies, the arrangement from Dr. Gabriel…the one with the card that I’m pretty sure he wrote himself…and if he wrote the card, that means he touched the card…which means he has essentially sent me his germs.

  I keep hoping that his little basket of diseases will die so that Mom will then throw it out…throw the basket out, the lilies out, the little open card just sitting amongst the flowers out out OUT.

  Dear Calista,

  So sorry to hear about your hospital visit. Anything you need is just a phone call away. Transportation, help with gathering school work, company—you name it. You know how to reach me.

  -Elijah Gabriel

  Elijah Gabriel—quite a holy-sounding name for such a sleaze.

  Unfortunately, his flowers look just as alive as do the classic arrangement from Melanie and the carnations posing as smiley faces from Mandy. Hmm…maybe I should try to feed his flowers some of my leftover medicine.

  Oh…but I don’t have any leftover medicine. After I left the hospital, I noticed that my remaining pills were no longer in my purse. I don’t know who took them, but I suspect it was Mom…especially since I overheard her whispering frantically to Melanie during one of my last days in the hospital…saying something about a certain doctor’s disappearance…worrying about me doing something drastic and crazy…

  She hasn’t said anything to me, but it’s pretty obvious that she’s put me on some sort of unofficial suicide watch…a watch that comes with almost round the clock pseudo-wardens in my room.

  This is totally unnecessary. When I was in elementary school, I remember hearing someone say that those who commit suicide will probably go straight to hell. I don’t know if this was just an assumption…or a story…or some sort of superstition. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been sufficiently warned…sufficiently terrorized by the thought of suicide. This suicide watch is pointless.

  I can vaguely hear the doorbell ringing. Must be time for the changing of the guards. Nothing fancy, I’m sure. Mom is probably telling one of my sisters that I’m still alive but practically starving (since I slept through my 6,000-calorie lunch). I’m sure Mandy or Melanie (whoever is scheduled next to watch me) is promising to try to feed me a good dinner. Mom is most likely reviewing all of the contents of the fridge (condiments and salad dressings included) as she gathers her purse and her clipboard for tonight’s neighborhood watch meeting. Yes, my mother spends an hour every week trying to get one step ahead of the murderers. Tonight, she is just dropping off some notes and coming back home, though. I did tell her that she should stay for the whole meeting…and that she should stop being so concerned about me…but she wouldn’t hear of it. I’m really starting to worry about her…to worry about her worrying about me. It can’t be good for her. It can’t—

  I hear the front door close. Guard change completed. Like I said, not too fancy. Not quite as sophisticated as the shift changes in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

  And now in charge is…Mandy. I can hear her pointy heels clicking up the stairs. Has to be her. Melanie hasn’t worn heels since…well…before Abby? Since shortly after she became a partner at her firm? Since—

  No time to do the math now. Mandy has arrived. She walks straight in since my door is open. It’s always open. I guess it’s virtually impossible to stab yourself with a butter knife or to jump out of the bedroom window when the door is ajar.

  “Hey, Callie.”

  Mandy looks beautiful. Short red dress. High makeup—heavy eyeliner, thick lashes, and glossy lips. Ready for Thirsty Thursday.

  Wait. She’s still going to Thirsty Thursday tonight? She’s driving back home tonight? In the dark? By herself? I can’t stand all of these extra trips back and forth to Pittsburgh just because—

  “Chill, Callie.” Mandy is now standing right beside my bed. Reading my mind. “I’m not going home tonight. I’m going out with Josh later. Here. In Pittsburgh.”

  “Oh. Great. Whatever works.” I try to sound casual, not overly concerned.

  The look on Mandy’s face tells me that she’s not buying my supposed to be flippant remar
k. She seems to be quite aware of the fact that “whatever” never really works for me. She doesn’t verbally call me out on it, though. Instead, she begins acting as Mom’s puppet.

  “Hey—I’m gonna go grab us some food. What are you in the mood for?”

  Well played, Mandy.

  Casual…conversational…two sisters just grabbing a bite. Not gonna work, though.

  “I’m really not hungry, Mandy.”

  “Sorry,” I add as I see her scrunchy, frustrated eyebrows. She’s not cut out for this warden stuff.

  She pushes on, though. “Well, how about I just bring up a few things? Maybe you’ll, um, get hungry soon.” She trips a little on her words before clumsily adding, “I’m starving, and I know you haven’t eaten in—”

  “Okay. That’s fine. Just bring up some stuff.” She’s just going to keep trying if I don’t agree. And she looks so discouraged already.

  “Really? Okay.” Relief washes over her perfectly made-up face as she stands up and heads out of my bedroom.

  She leaves the door open. Of course.

  I do a little nail picking. {And a little more listening to Evanescence.} Less than three minutes later, heels are clicking back up the wooden stairs.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I’m sure she’s leaving little tiny circle imprints on the stairs. Dad will be PISSED. Or he would be pissed...normally. And normally, Mandy would’ve taken the time to remove her shoes before stepping past the foyer, before stepping on any portion of the hardwood floors—just like we had to do when we were in high school. I guess normal rules aren’t applying right now with this whole suicide watch and warden thing.

  At least Dad will know it wasn’t me. When he sees those tiny little indentations, he should easily remember that I’ve only been wearing the black pair of Isotoner slippers Mom gave me. And he should also recall that I’ve been under strict orders to pretty much stay in bed all week—for what that’s worth.

  {David Bowie—in hot, tight pants—steps in with “Rebel Rebel.”}

  Mandy’s back. She’s now at my old desk, sorting through a tray full of rolls, salami, turkey, white American cheese, yellow American cheese, tomatoes, oregano, etc. Stuff to make hoagies. Hoagies like we used to make on snow days when we were kids.

  She’s pulling out all the stops. Maybe she really is secretly cut out for this warden crap. Her sneaky thoughtfulness is pretty effective.

  “Okay. Salami, three pieces of white American cheese, two tomatoes, and some oregano…right?” She’s already starting to fix a sandwich for me.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Well, it was right. That is how I used to eat my hoagies. Back before I realized that each piece of cheese adds almost one hundred calories to my meal.

  “Here, Callie.” She hands me “my” hoagie and gets to work on her own. Making hoagies in her tight red dress. Like she works in some sort of upscale deli.

  She works quickly. I’m guessing I have about forty-five seconds until she starts nonchalantly checking to see if I’m eating. She’s now adding her cheese. One. Two. Three. Four slices. Dear God. How does this girl manage to fit in her teeny tiny clothes? She’s gotta be at least five pounds lighter than me, and I haven’t put four pieces of cheese (or even three) on a sandwich for almost a decade.

  About six more seconds…

  She’s done with her hoagie creation. It’s huge. I don’t think she’s going to be able to open her mouth wide enough to eat it.

  Three seconds. Two. One. Here it comes.

  “C’mon, Callie. Take a bite. Eat.”

  This feels more than vaguely familiar…feels like nachos and—

  STOP.

  And warm hands on mine and—

  CALLIE!

  Mandy is staring at me. Confused. Concerned. Hopeful?

  Oh—the eating thing. If I don’t have anything, her report for Mom will look dreadful. And then Mandy will be upset…and then she might be demoted from a shift supervisor warden to—well, I don’t even know what.

  Okay, Mandy. One bite. For you.

  Pick up hoagie. Raise to mouth. One. Two. Three. Strategic bite—not too large that I am taking in more than one hundred calories…not too small that I’ll risk Mandy not getting credit for it.

  She looks relieved again…for now.

  Okay…time for a distraction. I swallow my bite so I can talk. “So…you’ve been visiting Josh a lot recently. How are you managing to stay with him while still maintaining your ‘Daddy’s little chaste girl’ image?” I tease her, casually (I hope) putting down my hoagie. {David Bowie continues to sing.}

  “Well,” Mandy starts as she slides onto the foot of my bed, holding her mammoth sandwich. She crosses her feet and pulls her dress further down, further down her thighs. Can’t be comfortable. She continues. “Josh’s school has a branch of” (insert three Greek letters said very quickly—didn’t quite catch them), “and they are really close with the girls in my sorority, so I just pretend that I’m staying with them.”

  She pretends to stay with random girls who probably sleep with random guys all over Pittsburgh…guys that probably carry various super-scary diseases. I’m glad she just pretends to stay with them. I’d rather her stay in the same house…and same room…and same bed…as Josh, where they can keep exchanging the exact same germs as they have been since high school. With no other germs or people in the mix. Has to be the next best thing to chastity.

  Mandy is now eating (somehow managing to get her gigantic sandwich in her mouth) and talking about her plans for tonight, telling me that, of course, I would be welcome to come if I wasn’t pretty much confined to my bed. This discussion doesn’t seem to be as much of a formality as usual. Mandy’s hinting around at the fact that I did indeed go out with her (sort of) a couple weeks ago.

  I know what she’s doing. She wants to talk about him. She wants me to bring him up.

  Not going to happen. What would I even say?

  Luckily, I don’t have to worry about responding right now. I hear Mom downstairs. Another shift change is upon us.

  “Callie, can’t you just take one more bite? So Mom doesn’t think I’m completely worthless?” She’s pouting a little.

  Ugh.

  “Okay.” I give in and take another small bite—about the same amount of calories as the last one.

  “Thanks, Callie.” Mandy gets up from the bed, puts her empty (already?) plate on the tray, and comes over to give me a hug. “Want a drink?” she offers, arms still around the top half of my seated body.

  I ask her for some water, and she clicks back down the stairs to get it. When she returns, her clicks are accompanied by Mom’s slippered shuffles.

  Mandy settles back on my bed. Mom feels my forehead to check for a fever or…well, I don’t know. An allergic reaction? Suicidal thoughts? She then sits on the rocking chair beside my old dresser. As we talk for the next hour or so—about Mom’s latest neighborhood watch ideas, about Mandy’s upcoming Steelers tickets, about “resting and needing to eat well to recover”—Mom writes tomorrow’s lesson plans. I feel really bad that she has taken off all week. It takes her forever to write enough lesson plans each night to ensure that her little first graders are kept busy for a substitute. I’m sure it’d be a lot easier to just go in and teach. Every time I tell her to do just that, she brushes me off, though.

  I can’t say I’m really upset, however. It is nice to have her company…and it’s nice just to know she’s around (and practically certified in watching for the murderers) while I’m resting during the day. The only times I’m not glad she’s home are times like, well, right now, as she is starting a new (and unwelcome) conversation.

  “So, honey, Mrs. Lennox was at the meeting tonight. She thinks David can fit in a house call tomorrow so you can talk.”

  Damn it. That means she’s already set up a specific time for him to show up. Ugh. Don’t get me wrong—Dr. Lennox is very nice. He’s lived next door since, well, since always, and he is forever smiley and patient. A litt
le goofy too. When I used to trick-or-treat with my sisters and Jared, I remember Dr. Lennox always dressing up like the current “cool” cartoon character. Elmo. One of the Teletubbies. Barney. Probably took him a few office sessions to pay for each new elaborate costume. We always liked seeing his costumes when we were little. And we only made fun of them (behind his back) a little when we were older.

  I wonder if he still dresses up. He could be Olaf from Frozen or a—

  “Callie?” Mom interrupts my thoughts. “What do you think? Around 2:00 tomorrow afternoon?”

  Hmm…I plan on being in the middle of a nap at 2:00 tomorrow afternoon. How about…not at all? If only I could find a tactful way to tell her that I’m not that comfortable having therapy with a man who has known me since before I could walk, who talks to my mother on the phone weekly, oh, and who dresses up like life-sized cartoons. You would think that her just knowing all of that would be enough.

  “He can come right up here to your room to talk—just like last time.” Mom continues obliviously. “Nothing formal.”

  Great. Sounds glorious. Just like last time.

  Mom isn’t really waiting for a response. She’s back to shuffling through some Teacher Edition textbooks.

  I glance over at Mandy, and she gives me a small, pitying smile. No teeth. Just mouth scrunched up a little. She gets it. She gets that I don’t want to see Dr. Lennox…she gets why I don’t want to see Dr. Lennox. She also gets that there’s no point in saying anything about it. Mom would just get upset.

  As I move my gaze back over to Mom, I check the circular princess clock (a childhood gift—a lame one. I don’t even remember who it was from) hanging on the wall. 9:30 p.m.

  Eyes back to Mandy. “Hey, Mandy. It’s getting late. Shouldn’t you get going?”

  She shrugs. “Well, whatever is fine. Since I’m not going back to Pierce for class tomorrow, I have plenty of time to see Josh and, uh, my sorority friends.”

  “Yeah—but it’s getting late. You should start out before drunk drivers start clogging up the roads.”