Checked Again (22 page)

Still.
He left.

Pen
down. I write a “Y” after all.

You
don’t have to do that. You are already going well above and beyond what a
normal doctor would do to help a patient.

I
read what I wrote. It looks…sounds…stupid. Formal.

But
he left. He left. He left.

I
close the notebook. I sneak a glance at Dr. Gabriel. His eyes are closed. He’s
breathing heavily. It’s time.

One.
Two. Three. I push the notebook back through the space on the side of my seat,
wondering how he’ll respond to my formal tone, my dinner invitation rejection.

He
takes the notebook.

A
second later, I hear a quiet, quiet sigh behind me. A slow exhale. Was I
supposed to hear it? I don’t know.           

I
lean back in my seat and try to calmly wait for his response. I’m not calm,
though.

I
wait. And wait and wait.
Is he not going to write back? Did he leave?
Wishing
I had some nail polish on my fingernails, I wait some more. Dr. Gabriel starts
to snore. It’s loud. And repulsive. No projectile drooling, though.
Thank
God.

I
try to listen for noises behind me. I don’t hear anything, though. Anything
except Dr. Gabriel’s loud ass breathing. I can’t believe he is being so loud.
Seriously, how is it possible that he is just as obnoxious asleep as he is—

Oh
my God.
His snoring head starts to droop over on his headrest—moving closer and closer
to me.

Closer
and closer and closer. His head, his snores, his overly-kissed mouth.

I
move my head, my body, further and further away from him, squishing myself into
the left part of my seat…right by the window…the window of the plane…the plane
that I’m riding in right now. That—

Stop
thinking about the plane, Callie. Think of a solution.

{Chamillionaire
starts his refrain again.}

Concentrate,
Callie.

Okay…I
could push him, push his shoulder and move him away. But then I would have to
touch him. And I wouldn’t be able to wash my hands afterward…unless I go to
the, I’m sure, disgusting bathroom on the—

Do
not think about that, Callie. {Chamillionaire gets louder and—}

Focus.
Focus. FOCUS.

Dr.
Gabriel’s head is now hanging mid-air. Soon, he’s going to fall over and—

Oh
my God.
The plane is shaking. It’s shaking. Bumping. Probably about to—

My
throat dries up. My ability to breathe slows and then stops altogether.

This
is it. This is how I’m going to—

{Chamillionaire.
Refrain again. Super loud.} This is how it is going to happen. This is how I’m
going to die. Right here. Stuck in an airplane with a human collection of
diseases about to land on my shoulder.

I
squeeze my burning eyes shut and lean my head back on my headrest. Tears—

My
eyes spring open as I hear…I feel…a huge jolt beside me. Dr. Gabriel’s chair
violently jerks as though someone behind him punched or kicked the back of it.
Dr. Gabriel’s head springs up momentarily, but his eyes remain closed. Then his
head falls back onto his headrest, his face pointed away from me.

Thank
G—

The
plane grinds up and down again.

I
sit up straight in my seat. Entire body rigid. I still can’t breathe. And now I
can’t swallow. I can’t—

Out
of the corner of my eye, I see it.

A
hand appears in the little space between the window and my seat. An upturned
hand. His hand.
{Damien. Very loud.}

I
can’t.

I
shouldn’t.

I—

The
plane jerks up and down once more.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t
take this. I can’t take this. I can’t take this. I—

I
can’t help it. I do it. I move my hand toward his. Quickly. Onetwothree.

Contact.

Familiar
contact. Achingly familiar contact.

His
fingers interlace with mine and his thumb starts moving back and forth over the
top of my hand. And even though I still can’t breathe…or swallow…or function, a
slow warmth runs through my fingers, up my arm, and, well, right to everywhere
else.

Someone
gets over the loudspeaker to tell us to remain in our seats, to encourage us to
put our seatbelts on. My seatbelt is already on. Still on. I don’t see how it
is going to save—

He
squeezes my hand. Over and over. Squeezing fuzzy heat throughout my stiff,
tense limbs. My breathing resumes, but it’s shaky…inconsistent. I push myself
into the back of my chair, trying to calculate how close his head, his body,
must be to the back of my seat.

It
has to be close. He has to be close.
{The end of
Enchanted
plays in
my mind. Amy Adams and Patrick Dempsey dance to Jon McLaughlin’s
“So Close
.
”
}

I
don’t know how long I sit like that. Tense but warm. My head on my headrest, my
body pressed up against the back of my chair. Holding his hand. Praying for the
plane to start gliding smoothly again. Praying that we don’t die here.
Realizing that if we die here at least he’s with—

A
dinging from overhead knocks me out of my thoughts. I quickly realize that the
plane has stopped shaking.
Thank you, God.
I feel a wave of relief…but I
still feel tense…a different kind of tense, though. Tense and warm and tense
and warm and tense and warm.
{Damien takes over again. Amy Adams and Patrick
Dempsey now dance to his song.}

The
voice over the loudspeaker continues to talk, saying that it’s okay to move
around again, that everything should be smooth from now on, that blah blah blah
blah blah blah.

I
don’t hear the rest.

{I
just hear Damien.}

I—

Shit.
Dr. Gabriel
starts to stir. Loudly. He mumbles some indistinguishable phrases as his head
moves back and forth erratically.

Simultaneously,
our hands…my hand and his, release and pull apart. His hand, his warmth,
leaves…returns to the seat behind me. And I’m left with Dr. Gabriel, who’s
looking over at me sleepily.
I look down at my purse, hoping he looks
away from me. I wonder how that notebook is ever going to make its way to the
space beside me again—how I’m ever going to get to see his response.

If
he even writes a response, Callie. You turned him down. He probably won’t write
back.

Well,
I’m never going to know for sure, unless Dr. Gabriel falls back asleep or—

Or…unless
his flight attendant somehow just reappears. As she just has. Tight outfit.
Short skirt. Long legs. Back in my sideways line of vision.

A
new sigh of relief starts to—

WAIT.
That’s not the same flight attendant. This one has red hair and the other one
had, well, I didn’t look at her closely, but I’m sure her hair was brown or
blonde or a mix of the two. Definitely not bright red. What the hell is he
doing?

I
try to listen to what he is saying…something about being relieved that she
didn’t fall or anything during the turbulence. Like he knows her. Like he’s
ever seen her before this flight, before this very moment. Like he cares about
what happens to her.

This
is how he gets girls…really? Girls fall for—

The
redhead giggles and tosses her hair a little…well, more than a little. She’s
totally falling for this…whatever he is doing to try to…I don’t know…sleep with
her in the plane’s bathroom?

Now
he’s asking to know her name. She giggles again and says that her name is—

I
feel a nudge on my arm. I slide my hand slowly across my purse and grab the
notebook that is now beside me.

He
wrote back. He wrote back. He wrote back.

One.
Two. Three.

I
open the cover of the notebook. I immediately see that there are even more
squiggly lines in the margins of the page now. A lot more. His squiggles.

My
eyes wander down to the last words I wrote. My dinner rejection. Then my gaze
falls further, down to his handwriting.

I’m
not here as your doctor, Callie. I’m here because I
----
worry about you.

He
----
worries about me?

What
is
----
? What
was
----
?

I
turn the paper over to the other side to see if I can make out whatever word is
scratched out, whatever word was once part of my message. I can’t tell, though.

Trying
to push my frustration aside, I read his message again. He’s not here as my
doctor. So he’s here as…something else. Someone else. Someone who is worried
about me.
----
worried about me.

What
am I supposed to write back to that? Thank you? I’m worried about me too?

Instead
of writing anything, well, any words, I add to our mess of squiggles in the
page margins. Squiggle. Squiggle. Squiggle. No idea what to write. Squiggle.
Squiggle. Squiggle. Squiggle. Squiggle. Squ—

The
intercom dings again. Dr. Gabriel and the redhead stop talking about, well,
something that involved a lot of giggling, to listen. Then the redhead slips
away from Dr. Gabriel, away from my sideways line of vision, probably because,
from what is being said over the loudspeaker, we are about to land.

I
swallow. Hard.

If
something goes wrong while we are going down, the plane will fall faster than
it’s supposed to…it will slam into the ground instead of gliding smoothly, and
then it will probably catch on fire and—

A
new feeling on the back of my arm. Not a nudge. A firm grip. A grasp right
above my bent elbow.

His
thumb and finger squeeze tightly, clutching the white material of my sweater.
My skin under my sweater grows warm. Hot. Burning.

The
plane starts to descend.
He’s holding my arm. He has me.
The plane gets
lower. I hold my breath. Close my eyes. I try to concentrate…not on the plane.
His
hand. His hand. His hand.
The plane gets lower. Still not breathing.
His
grip. His grip. His grip.
The plane gets lower and lower and lower.
He
has me. He has me. He has me. {Bruce Springsteen begins to sing
“Secret
Garden (Jerry Maguire Version)”
in my already overcrowded mind.}

I
feel a slight bump and my eyes spring open.
Oh my God. What is happening?
What—

Wait.
We are gliding now, moving along. As though we are on a runway. As though we
have safely reached the ground.

I
think we’ve landed.

Thank
God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.

My
body almost starts to relax. Almost. It’s impossible to relax…or to even really
think about relaxing, while he’s clutching my arm. It’s hard to—

“Let’s
get moving, Calista.” As soon as Dr. Gabriel starts to speak, the hand,
his
hand, disappears from my arm.

I
just nod in the general direction of Dr. Gabriel, still not able to relax…now
starting to wonder how this is all going to work out…how Dr. Blake can be here,
can go to the conference, without Dr. Gabriel knowing…

The
plane slows down to a stopped position and Dr. Gabriel stands and moves out to
the aisle. He gets my travel bag down and then flings it over his shoulder.

I
don’t protest. I don’t want to touch it right now anyway. Not with all of his
germs on it.

Dr.
Gabriel grabs his belongings next, and then he stands looking at me, waiting
for me to stand up.

But
when I stand up, my eyes are going to find
his
. I’m not going to be able
to help it. I know it. I’m—

Dr.
Gabriel coughs impatiently.

Okay.
One. Two. Three.

I
unclip my seatbelt. Then I put the yellow-covered notebook in my purse. I’m
obviously not going to give it back right now. Not in front of Dr. Gabriel.
Besides, I haven’t written back yet. Or even thought of an acceptable response.
I—

CALLIE.
Stand!

Dr.
Gabriel is still waiting. His body faces mine, but his eyes are now wandering a
little…probably looking for his flight attendants.

Okay.
One. Two. Three.

I
slowly push my body up. My head immediately begins to twist back, back to the
seat behind me. I move up a little. I see the top of his head, his dark hair.
Up more. I see his forehead, scrunched up in concern. Up more. I see his eyes.
{Damien.}
Blue, blue eyes. Staring right at me. Full of concern. Anxiety. Worry.

Full
of something else too. Something more.