Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) Read online

  And the cycle starts again. Again and again and again. {Elton John sings “Circle of Life,” and the baby Simba is lifted for all to see.}

  2:33 P.M. ON MY BED. WITH his box. {Again, Justin Tim—}

  CALLIE. You are running out of time. Open the freaking box.

  But do not think about what might be in the box.

  Onetwothree. Rip off tape. Deep breath. Lift flaps.

  Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothree.

  Look.

  Look at a piece of paper. A big piece of paper—with his handwriting scattered about all over it.

  Three Assignments

  Please don’t let this be too harsh. Don’t let it. Because if it is—

  CALLIE! Not. A. Lot. Of. Time. READ.

  Onetwothree.

  1.) Eat pancakes with syrup. At least some syrup. You decide how much or how little.

  Gross. Sticky gross.

  But it could be worse. Could have to do with…well, the thing that makes me throw up.

  Luckily, I don’t even have syrup. So I can’t do this one. Next.

  Onetwothree. Read.

  2.) Use cash to buy a bottle of water at the campus store beside the writing center. Bring me the change tomorrow.

  Cash? The stuff just carelessly passed around from person to person to person…carrying along with it snot and spit and germs and diseases and—

  Ew.

  I don’t have any cash either. Sorry, Dr. Blake.

  Moving on…onetwothree.

  3.) I talked to your Professional Writing Lab I professor, Dr. Harper,

  What? Freaking stalker. Ugh. Reading more…

  and he told me that you have the rough draft of a paper due tomorrow. I want you to make yourself NOT check it three times before turning it in.

  And hand it in with possible typos and grammatical errors? And get a B? Or worse? Not a chance, dude.

  What a sucky list of things I don’t plan on doing.

  Wait. There’s more. Dear God.

  Onetwothree. Read.

  I have a full schedule today, so I want you to try these three assignments on your own. Everything you will need is in this box.

  What?

  Okay, yes, the box is too heavy to just be holding this paper, his list of instructions, but…UGH. He’s really serious about me doing this stuff.

  I’m not ready to see what’s in the box. I’m not ready to see my assignment materials yet (or ever), so I don’t pick up his list of instructions. I don’t find out what’s underneath.

  I finish reading instead. Because there’s more. There is still more.

  Oh—I’ve also sent some of the articles that you wrote for the conference. I thought you might like to have some of the newspaper clippings.

  My articles. The ones published in multiple newspapers. Read by various people. I forgot about them again.

  I keep forgetting about them. My Dream Overlooked. Dream Forgotten. Forgotten over and over and over again.

  He didn’t forget, though. Or maybe he has used his mind-reading powers to tap into some secret far corner of my mind that I can’t even personally access. Maybe in that secret corner, I have time…energy…space…to be excited about my published work, or—

  Buzz. My phone buzzes on my dresser.

  I put my (his) box beside me on the bed so I can grab my phone.

  A text from Melanie. Open.

  Abby had so much fun yesterday. Thanks for watching her!

  Write back.

  No problem. How are you feeling?

  Send. Pick nails.

  Buzz. Open.

  Great. It’s nice to be back at work today.

  Reply.

  Just take it easy!

  Send. I really hope she isn’t going back into crazy Melanie-work-all-of-the-time-mode. And I hope that she doesn’t start bleeding again. Please don’t let her bleed again. Please don’t let her bleed ag—

  Buzz. Open.

  I will. Have a good day, Callie.

  P.S. I want to hear about your therapy soon :)

  Ugh. Therapy. That’s right.

  I type a quick goodbye message to Melanie and put my phone down. Then my eyes slide reluctantly back to the box on my bed.

  Time to see my materials. My stupid freaking materials.

  But first, I need to finish reading his instructions. I sit back on my bed and read.

  Have a good day, Callie. I’ll text you tonight after you get back from work.

  -Aiden

  He’s not going to text until after 7:00 p.m. I wonder if he really is THAT busy all day or if he just wants to see if I can do some of this stuff on my own. Or—

  Oh my God.

  Or, is it possible that this is a trick? What if he’s going to surprise me and show up somewhere today WITH JUDY?

  OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.

  I can’t think about this right now. Or I’m going to throw up again. And then I’ll never make it to work.

  Quick decision. Quick distraction.

  I tear his instruction letter out of the box and force my eyes to focus on the items beneath. {Judy Garland sings “Over the Rainbow” in my head.}

  Item number one. A small, brand new bottle of gooey, nasty syrup. A note is taped to it. His handwriting again.

  Microwaveable pancakes are in your freezer.

  Ugh. Back to the box.

  Next up…a plastic bag with two dollar bills in it.

  How many people have touched these dollars?

  Ugh again. Back to the box again.

  Finally, newspaper clippings. In plastic page protectors. Thank God. He somehow, of course, knows that I don’t like touching newspapers. Don’t like getting my hands all black.

  I pick up the plastic sheets. And I look at the clippings.

  My name. My words. Right here in print.

  Pretty cool. Something I fantasized about as a kid. Having my words published.

  But published correctly. And in order to publish something correctly, in order to get those words there, here in these newspapers, I read each and every one of them three meticulous times. Three.

  But he wants me to turn in a paper without three read-throughs.

  Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

  At least there shouldn’t be any blood work today. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be since he’s working all day.

  Unless that was a lie. Unless he’s actually going to show up somewhere with Judy and a needle.

  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 signif
icant 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…

&n
bsp; 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.”}