Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) Read online

And we listen to…nothing. Stupid freaking nothing.

  {The Goo Goo Dolls at least sing to me. “Feel the Silence.”}

  I only have two fingers left to scrape off when I remember that my nails are blue, that I must be leaving little pieces of blue all over his immaculate (other than the diseases under my feet) car.

  Shit.

  So not only did I cause this whole awful situation by being overly confident after getting my haircut and manicure and messing around and being dumb and bumping into the stupid table, but now I’m selfishly destroying his car when he has only been trying to help me.

  And I can’t stop.

  My fingers keep working. Keep scraping. Keep bouncing his hand up and down on top of mine.

  Second to last finger. Done.

  Last finger. Done.

  Now what should I—

  His hand squeezes both of mine. Hard.

  He’s trying so hard.

  Being so patient. So understanding. So accommodating. He—

  Wait a minute.

  I turn to look at him. “We didn’t pay. We have to go back.”

  Oh my God. In my idiotic meltdown state, I managed to leave without paying. In my hysteria, I committed a crime.

  What the hell? What’s next? Am I gonna start kidnapping people or selling—

  He squeezes my hands. Again. Hard. Again. “I took care of it, Callie. I’m going right back after I drop you off at your house.”

  Oh…right. He did talk to one of the girls, one of the stylists, as we were—

  “Unless you need me to stay with you. I can call and give my credit—”

  “No.”

  His faces flinches a little as I say it. His hand stops squeezing.

  I look down, away from him. Because I don’t want to see him looking hurt. But I also don’t want to change my response. Can’t change my response.

  I need to take a shower. I need to do my night routine. And then take another shower. And I need to be alone. And he knows—

  His hand starts squeezing again. “You didn’t get any diseases tonight, Callie.”

  He doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know whose germs were in that—

  “Remember the whole hour thing, how most diseases die in an hour.”

  But we don’t know who was in for a manicure right before—

  “And, Callie, the nail polish remover is strong. The chemicals in it would most likely kill anything else that happened to get into the bottle. If anything else even got into the bottle.”

  He’s probably right. Probably. But still…strange things happen. Odds are beaten—in the bad way. Why wouldn’t—

  We are here. Back at my house. He stops the car and comes around to get me.

  Then the déjà vu begins.

  We’ve done this all before. And it all begins again.

  Him carrying me into my house. Depositing me on a towel in my bathroom. Saying goodbye to each other…him probably thinking about his mother and me feeling bad for making him think about his mother but feeling too messed up to make the situation better. Him leaving, saying that he’ll text later. Me having Mandy get rid of my new trash…nylons and two rather new copper heels, a pouf, and a towel. Doing my routine. Showering again. Putting on days-old skimpy silk pajamas. Turning on some show where some person is cooking some dish that I’ll never try to make myself. Reading a reassuring, disease-discounting text from him over and over and over. Trying to sleep. {Listening to Damien.}

  Chapter 5

  day two…or seven

  BUZZ.

  My eyes open to complete darkness.

  The middle of the night. A text in the middle of the night.

  My feet fling themselves out of my bed.

  Melanie must have started blee—

  It’s not Melanie.

  Unknown Number. One text. At…4:00 in the morning!

  One. Two. Three. Open.

  If you are still sure about going on with Day Two, I’m picking you up at 8:00 a.m. for an early therapy session before your first class. Please write back to let me know you received this message. I want to give you enough time for your morning…stuff.

  UGH. UGH. UGH.

  I know that I texted him last night and agreed…probably stupidly agreed…to going on with therapy. But this soon? What kind of therapy happens this early in the morning?

  Please don’t let it be another manicure. Or breakfast with a person who has syphilis. Or breakfast with syrup. Or—

  Buzz.

  One. Two. Three. Open.

  Callie?

  Ugh.

  One. Two. Three. Reply.

  Got it. I’ll be ready.

  One. Two. Three. Send.

  Send my lie. Because I’ll never really be ready for this therapy stuff.

  But I agreed to these weird hour therapy sessions…

  So here we go. Morning routine. Super early. GO.

  Thermostat: 70 degrees. Stove: off. Door: locked. Blinds: opened. Alarm: off (because I’m already up—at 4:00 in the morning!) Teeth: brushed. Pictures: straightened (yawning and straightening, yawning and straightening, yawning and straightening). Living Room: cleaned (more yawning). Floor: swept (I wish I could take a nap on the floor...or maybe on the couch). Refrigerator: sorted (so tired). Dishes: washed (Don’t fall asleep while washing dishes—you’ll break a plate or something and then have to clean up pieces of glass, and then you’ll accidentally cut yourself and you’ll just be so tired that you’ll fall asleep on the kitchen floor in a pile of your own blood). Kitchen Floor: scrubbed (no blood on the floor—Thank God). Doorknobs: wiped. Laundry: started (Focus, Callie. If you accidentally put a dark in with a white, you’ll mess up everything. Everything). Prayers: said (Please help me stay awake. Please help me stay awake. Please help me stay awake). Bathroom: sanitized. Bathroom Floor: steam-mopped. Shower: taken (That helped. I’m more awake now. I probably should’ve showered before I started my routine). Body: cleaned, shaved, lotioned, and weighed. Hair: dried and styled. Clothes: on.

  Morning routine done. Moving right along. Time for my leaving-the-house routine.

  7:45 A.M. DONE.

  Waiting on the stairs. Holding my purse. Ready to go.

  And worried.

  What are we doing at this hour in the morning? What if we don’t get finished in time for me to go to class?

  I can’t miss class. I’ve already missed so much with my little hospital stint and the stupid conference. If I miss more, I’m probably going to fail out of school and end up never getting a job.

  Not gonna work.

  So we have to end in time for me to get to class. AND in time for me to take another shower, because I’m on a different schedule today.

  The Bleeding Schedule. My least favorite schedule.

  I sort of missed it last month since I was in a coma or whatever in the hospital while I was bleeding. I didn’t really ask questions when the nurses and my mother told me about it. I didn’t…don’t even want to know the embarrassing ways that they handled cleaning me and padding me up. It’s too repulsive to even think about.

  Just like the bleeding itself. Repulsive.

  And the water retention. Awful.

  The whole thing. Annoying. Inconvenient. Dirty.

  So The Bleeding Schedule requires a lot of additional showers and baths…and a lot of extra body lotion to try to soothe my irritated, dried out skin after all of the extra bathing time.

  Very time consuming, this schedule.

  And very disgusting, this bleeding.

  Better me than Melanie, though. And from her texts last night, it sounds like her bleeding is over. Thank God. Doug still wants her to rest, though, so I still get Abby today after—

  Knocking. Light knocking at my door. He’s here.

  Well, or else Mandy has invited guests over while she’s sound asleep. Or the murderers have decided to throw me off by knocking on the—

  CALLIE. STOP.

  One. Two. Three. I head to the door.

  Peephole
check. Him. Smiling first thing in the morning him.

  And that would be awesome…if it weren’t for the therapy-related words and directions that, I’m sure, are about to come out of him. Ugh.

  I open the door. Accepting my fate.

  White dress shirt. No tie. Open collar.

  “Hi.” He greets me, his mouth still smiling. His eyes are only smiling a little, though. They’re worried. He’s worried.

  He leans in toward me. Quickly. Nervously. His lips brush my cheek, warm my cheek, for a second only. Quick and nervous.

  As he pulls back, I force my mouth open. “What’s going on? What are we doing this early in the morning?”

  He nods his head, closes his eyes, and says, “You’ll see.”

  Why did he close his eyes? What—

  “Come on, Callie.” His eyes are back open now.

  Open and anxious. Open and anxious. Open and anxious.

  His hand reaches out for mine. His warm fingers surround mine.

  One. Two. Three. I let him pull me out of the house. Out of the house and into some new (early) therapy session. I pull the door shut behind me. He takes my keys. And he locks the door.

  Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist.

  Here. We. Go.

  NERVOUS CAR RIDE. NO TOUCHING. No talking.

  Silence. {Except for Roger Wood’s “Here We Go” song for the Steelers.}

  He drives down familiar roads. Makes familiar turns.

  I shouldn’t have worn a sweater. It’s sticking to me. Stuck with sweat.

  Another familiar turn.

  I know where we are going. To his office. We are on the way to his office.

  How can that be THAT bad? Eyebrows scrunched while he’s driving bad? Sitting in the seat beside me but not touching me or talking to me bad?

  He must be overreacting. Really, if he needs to take my blood pressure or my pulse or something again, I should be okay. I mean, he’s touched me a lot more than—

  The parking lot is in front of us, the empty—except for one little red car—parking lot. He turns in.

  His face has lost a shade or two of color. What the hell? He parks and jets out of the car, walking around to open my door.

  I step right out, stand right up in front of him. I look into his eyes. And I try to make him feel better. “Hey, where’s your game face? You are freaking me out.” I smile.

  He doesn’t smile back. His eyes sort of glaze over, and he doesn’t meet my gaze.

  He does breathe in and begin to talk, though. “Callie, even though we are only on Day Two of your new therapy regimen, we are technically on the seventh day of your original program. So your therapy is going to get more difficult. Significantly more difficult.”

  Okay…so we aren’t just doing the medical exam again.

  But, still, we are going into his office again. How bad can it be? I’ll have my own chair, my own purse hook, and plenty of space—

  Wait.

  Unless I won’t have space. Unless he’s putting me with other patients. Other patients with diseases.

  My eyes fall away from his averted gaze, from his eyes that can’t seem to look at me. My feet struggle to hold me up, to keep me still.

  Other patients. They’ll all be here soon. One of them is probably waiting for us in that red car on the other side of the lot. The rest will be here soon. That has to be it. I’m going to have to meet with them. Talk to them about their diseases.

  Touch them.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

  Pressure in my stomach. Shaking in my legs. My sweater sticking to me, suffocating me.

  I can’t do this. I can’t. I—

  I look back at him. “I don’t want to be put with your other patients.”

  His eyes flicker over to mine. And he starts shaking his head. Still nervous. Really nervous. “Callie—you aren’t meeting with other patients. Nor will you ever meet with other patients at this office. That would be completely un—”

  I don’t have to meet with other patients. I don’t have to sit with them. Or talk to them. Or touch them. Or worry about them touching me…or spitting on me.

  A wave of cool air, refreshing air, rushes over my body.

  Okay. Okay. Okay.

  I can do this then. I can go to his office.

  I can make him feel better. Well, I can try…

  I take a sideways step and walk around him, past him, toward the front door of his office building.

  “Let’s do this.” I call back to him, but I don’t turn around. I keep walking toward the door, the door I’m hoping he is going to open for me. If he follows me. If he—

  He does.

  I hear his feet move behind me.

  Without talking, without catching my eyes, he takes a key from his pocket. He twists it in the lock, pulls on the door handle, and waits for me to enter the waiting room.

  I step in. Some light shines in through the windows. I see the blue clustered chairs. Annie’s desk.

  Otherwise, it’s empty. Because the office doesn’t open until 9:00 a.m. Because he hasn’t invited other patients to come early. THANK GOD.

  He walks in front of me and opens the brown door right next to Annie’s desk. I follow.

  I keep following him, twisting and turning—{The Beatles come back in with “The Long and Winding Road.”}—through the hallway with him.

  Him. Tense.

  Even his walk is tense. Stiff. So anxious.

  He opens his office door, and I head in and wait as he pulls my chair out of his closet.

  Purse on hook. Body on chair. Eyes. Watching him pace. And pace. And pace.

  Pacing. Pacing. Pacing.

  Making me sort of dizzy.

  I look away from him. Up at the ceiling. And I wait.

  {And listen to Blood, Sweat & Tears. “Spinning Wheel.”}

  {And listen to it again.}

  {And—}

  He starts to speak. “Today’s session is really important. Because if we want this therapy to succeed, we need you to try to understand, to try to trust that you are going to be okay. To be open to the idea that you really are okay. That’s crucial.”

  He continues pacing, not looking at me.

  Okay…are we going to do some, like, team building trust activities? Like I’ll fall backward and trust that he’ll catch me?

  I wouldn’t want to fall down on his carpet, where so many patients have walked. But he won’t let me fall. I know that. So I’m not getting all bent out of—

  “But this isn’t going to be easy. Not at all. This is something that would’ve—” He pauses. Stops talking. Stops pacing.

  And he looks at me.

  Then his voice gets really quiet. “—would’ve driven my mother over the edge.”

  Oh my God. His mother. I’ve somehow made him think of her again.

  He starts pacing again.

  OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.

  It won’t be long before he starts thinking about the music in her—

  “Stop pacing.” Words. Exploding from my mouth. “Let’s just get started.”

  He stops moving again. And he looks at me again. With surprise. Concern. Relief. Fear. All at once.

  Quiet. Low. “Are you sure? Because I—”

  “I’m sure.” I’m not really sure. Of course. But I am sure that I don’t want him to keep thinking about his mother in this situation, whatever this situation is…or in any situation, especially one that involves music playing in my—or her—head.

  {“Spinning Wheel” continues. Spinning and spinning and spinning.}

  He doesn’t look convinced. Nonetheless, he breaks our eye contact and starts walking toward—

  Toward his office bathroom. Probably to wash his hands. Just like before. Just the way I do it.

  Okay. Okay. Okay. Just washing his hands. That’s fine.

  He opens the bathroom door and walks in. Just like last time.

  All right. So this will definitely involve touching. Doesn’t sound bad at—
>
  Wait. He’s coming out of the bathroom now, and—

  And he’s not alone.

  A maybe sixty-some-year-old woman walks out behind him.

  What the—

  “Callie, this is Judy.”

  Judy. Judy is wearing green scrubs. Which means that Judy is somehow involved in the medical field. Which means—well, I don’t know what that means. But I’m sure that I’m not going to like it.

  Is he going to have her do a medical exam? Why can’t he just do—

  “Callie? Callie?”

  My eyes start to focus at the sound of his voice. And I realize that I’ve been staring at Judy. Rudely, I’m sure.

  I hope I haven’t upset her. She looks nice. Like a grandmother, maybe. She has a wedding ring on—she probably has been married for like forty years. I highly doubt that she has any diseases, well, contagious diseases. She might have, I don’t know, like, bouts of vertigo or bad ankles or something, but that’s okay. If she absolutely has to check my blood pressure or pulse, I think I can handle it. It won’t be much worse than last night when Sherry was cutting—

  “Callie?”

  Oh. Still staring. Still being rude. Damn it.

  I make my eyes look away from Judy. I look at him again.

  Crazy nervous him.

  I move my lips into a thin little smile. To tell him that it’s okay. That I can handle this. That maybe I’m not as messed up as he thinks.

  He doesn’t smile back.

  He does open his mouth to speak, however. “This really is necessary, Callie.”

  You already said that earlier, Dr. Blake.

  I nod. Because I can do this.

  She’ll wear gloves. I know she will. And, really…she probably doesn’t have any diseases.

  Please let her be clean. Please let her be clean. Please let her be clean.

  One. Two. Three.

  Mouth open. “I’m ready.”

  Surprise. Confusion. Anxiety. All in his eyes.

  Then he slides his gaze over to Judy. Quiet. “All right, Judy. It’s okay to get started now. It’s all right.”

  All right. Okay. All right. Okay. All right. Okay.

  He…he heads over to his closet.

  Judy—green-scrubbed and white-sneakered—starts toward me. Cross necklace around her neck. Wedding ring and anniversary band on her left hand. Smile on her face.