Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) (29 page)

His voice mainly.

I only hear snippets of his words, his sentences.

“Waited as long as she could to come in” and “Until the pain was too much” and “Tried to get her to come in sooner” and “Wouldn’t let them get near her with a needle” and “Refused all medication” and “Did really well.”

Just a blur of words. And a jumble of responses from my family members.

None of their words matter right now.

Nothing matters.

Nothing except the warm bundle in my arms. Wiggling. Moving his mouth. Staring at me with perfect little blue eyes.

Nothing. Else. Matters.

THREE + THREE + THREE MINUTES LATER

What the hell?

For nine months, I’ve been asked about drugs. Drugs and epidurals. Drugs and spinal blocks. Drugs and shots.

For nine months, I’ve been refusing drugs.

Because I didn’t want any needles anywhere near me during labor (or really at any time whatsoever). Because if I was given drugs through a needle, I would’ve just needed even more drugs to calm me the hell down about the needle.

However…HOWEVER, now—now a nurse is holding onto me, taking me to use the bathroom for the first time post labor.

And I’m walking and dripping blood EVERYWHERE. Dripping a trail of blood to the hospital bathroom…the bathroom that is supposed to be immaculate. Thoroughly clean. How I was told it would be.

Please let it be clean. Please let it be clean. Please let it be clean.

Please stop the dripping. Please stop the dripping. Please stop the dripping.

Please let someone clean this blood off of the floor. Please let someone clean this blood off of the floor. Please let someone clean this blood off of the floor.

I walk. And walk. And walk.

And drip and drip and drip.

And wonder and wonder and wonder—why the hell is no one offering me drugs now so I can get through this torture?

THREE + THREE MINUTES LATER

I’m back in my hospital bed. Holding my baby.

{Bruno keeps singing and singing and singing.}

The blood doesn’t matter so much right now.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Standing back in his office.

My husband’s office.

I just had a medication checkup (everything is going well) with Dr. Spencer, so now I’m in here just to say hello.

But he’s not in here yet. He had to go give some paperwork to Annie.

So I’m by myself. In his office. Standing in front of his desk. Staring at his bookcase.

Full shelves. A box of tissues. Important looking books standing beside each other. His framed degree.

On one of the shelves, a few pictures from Jared and Holly’s wedding. One of the whole family. Jared and Holly in the middle. Surrounding them, all of us. Mom and Dad. Mel, Doug, Abby, and Alyssa. Mandy and Jacob (Jacob—Mandy has been seeing him for over three years now, but Abby is still secretly calling him “the new Josh”). Aiden and me. One of his arms around me. The other arm cradling Michael. Tiny little Michael. A tiny little version of his father.

Beside that picture, one of the two of us dancing at the reception. Arms around each other. Smiling. Happy.

On a different shelf, the picture of him and his mother. His beautiful mother and tiny little him.

His mother and me. Both on the same bookcase. But on different shelves.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

(BECAUSE, UNFORTUNATELY, IN THIS CRAZY, UNPREDICTABLE WORLD, NOT EVERYTHING HAPPENS IN THREES)

I’m nervous.

Not psychotic, sweaty, crazytown old Callie nervous, but nervous.

I stand in the wing of the Hammarsov Hall psychology department auditorium stage. I wait in the darkness, picking at my nails carefully—trying not to drop the notes that I have clutched in my left hand.

 Dr. Lititz, the chair of the psychology department, walks to a podium on the stage, getting ready to address the audience.

An audience of ten people? Fifty? One hundred? I don’t know yet. I can’t see out that far.

I know that some of the people from my graduate classes are out there. Some fellow students and professors. Unfortunately, I also know that Dr. Gabriel is sitting out there somewhere. He emailed to tell me that he wouldn’t miss it. Fortunately, he also said that he would be bringing a date. Maybe she, whoever she is, will keep him busy. Busy and away from me. Unfortunately, the wedding ring on my finger hasn’t succeeded in accomplishing that, in keeping him from trying to be near—

 “Good evening, everyone.”

Shit.
It’s time.

Dr. Lititz continues. “Our presenter tonight, Calista Blake, recently completed the Creative Writing PhD program here at Pierce. Her dissertation topic was recently brought to my attention by her advisor. This topic, a firsthand account of a battle with obsessive-compulsive disorder, should be of special interest to all of you. As psychology majors, you often learn of mental disorders through articles and textbooks. It is not often that you are handed a personal, genuine account of an experience with one of those disorders. It is even rarer that you get the opportunity to speak with the writer of such an account. That is what makes tonight’s presentation so noteworthy, so unique.”

He sounds like a tool. I hope he uses the word “share.”

Thank God I think I’ve finally convinced Aiden that he sounds like a douchebag when he talks like th—

“Now, I know that most of you have already read a copy of Calista’s story since it was provided to you last week. So you’ve probably come with many questions. Please hold all of these until the end of the presentation, when we will hold a question and answer session.” He pauses and gathers his notes from the podium. “And now, without further ado, let’s welcome our guest to the stage to share her story.”

YES. He said—

“Dr. Blake.” He nods over to me.

Right. Dr. Blake. Me.

I’ll never get used to being called that.

Here we go. One. Two. Three.

My feet start moving, navy heels clicking across the stage floor. Moving toward Dr. Lititz and the podium. Hoping my dress looks professional enough. That my hair isn’t frizzing up under the lights. That my makeup isn’t running.

Please let me get through this without saying anything stupid. Nothing stu—

I reach Dr. Lititz. He nods his head to me and steps aside to give me the podium.

He makes no attempt to shake my hand. Clearly he knows his psychology well.

But he seems rather clean. I could’ve shaken his—

Callie.

An audience is in front of you. NOW.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

I place my note cards on the podium as Dr. Lititz exits the stage. As he leaves me alone.

Alone with a bunch of people watching me. Clapping for me before I even start. Because they liked my story? Because I have OCD? Because they want to welcome me? Because they think their applause will make me less nervous about presenting? I don’t know.

My eyes recklessly look up from the podium and out into the audience.

{The Doors slide in with “
People Are Strange
.” Singing to all of these people. All of these strangers.}

I look around. Lots of people. I don’t know how many. I can’t see them all. Lots of professor-looking people. Lots of student-looking people. Young-looking students. Young faces. Undergraduate young faces. Like the faces I used to see twice a week in the writing center. Like that Brittany girl. I wonder what ever happened to—

My gaze lands on the front left row of the auditorium. Many familiar faces there. Mom and Dad. Mandy and Jacob. Jared and Holly. Melanie and Doug. No Alyssa, of course. She’s with a babysitter. Abby is with the babysitter too, even though she wanted to come. Her psychologist didn’t want her to come. She doesn’t think she’s ready to hear my whole story. She thinks Abby might adopt some of my worries or routines if she hears about them in detail. Pretty smart psychologist, I think.

Speaking of psychologists…

He’s here. Aiden’s here. Sitting beside Doug. In the aisle seat.

Smiling. Nodding. Mouthing, “You can do this.”

I smile back before continuing to scan the audience. Because it wouldn’t look very professional to just be staring at my husband. My husband, who says I can do this.

And I can do this. I can. It can’t be that different from teaching a class, which I’ve been doing here and there for years—which I’ll be doing all of the time starting next year.

But this is different. There are so many people, so many more people out ther—

The clapping stops.

Go, Callie.

Notes out. Smile painted on my face. Looking out into the audience. Trying to look natural.

“Thanks for coming here tonight. And thanks for reading my manuscript.”

My voice sounds surprisingly confident. Must have something to do with the faces in the front row to my left. The smiles. The nods.

I keep going, alternating looking out across the audience and consulting my note cards.

“This manuscript, this account of my experiences, my failures, my successes…my life, might seem like a road to recovery story. But I’m not sure that is the best name for it. Because I’m still on that road to recovery. I’m pretty sure I’ll always be on that road. My therapy and medication didn’t all of a sudden flip a switch, all of a sudden cure me. My obsessive-compulsive symptoms and tendencies are still a big part of my life.

“Even though, yes, my routines are shorter than they used to be, I still do them daily. They changed a little when I moved to my new house to accommodate new sinks, new air vents, etc., but they still happen every day. I’m pretty sure they always will. On top of that, I still count to three, I still have a constant stream of music in my head, and I still despise blood work. I still wash my hands quite a bit, and I’m still very likely to throw out a purse, a pair of shoes, or anything else that has become dirty. I’m also still terrified of catching a disease.

“When it comes to diseases, my OCD is ever-evolving. Every time a new flu or general virus is in the news, I can’t help adding it to my list of diseases to fear. So new fears, extreme fears, keep coming.

“I also have a new routine. Now that I’m a mother, checking on my son has become a routine in itself. Checking his room for fire hazards, checking his closet for murderers, checking to make sure that he is breathing—I do this routine many times every night. Every time I hear a noise, or think I’ve heard a noise over his baby monitor, I get out of bed, go to his room, and do this routine. It’s pretty exhausting.

“Also exhausting? Editing and proofing my dissertation. I can’t even tell you how many times I checked and rechecked that manuscript before submitting it. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”

{Ludacris blasts in with “
Act a Fool
.”}

“Interestingly enough, the proofing of my dissertation almost drove me over the edge, but the writing of it actually helped me immensely.

“This PhD program in general has helped me with some of my obsessive-compulsive symptoms. I’ve been so busy studying, teaching classes, and writing that some things have had to be adjusted. I’ve had to make some changes to open up more of my time.

“Within the last couple of years, I managed to make a rather significant change to my routines. I’ve moved certain cleaning tasks out of my daily routines and instead into a new, special Saturday routine. Dusting, mopping, and heavy cleaning now take place on Saturdays. Initially, I didn’t move vacuuming to the Saturday routine, but when my son came along, I had to because my early morning vacuuming sessions were waking him up and interrupting my routine altogether.

 “Other changes have also been necessary. Because of my son, my busy schedule, and, honestly, because my priest told me that he thought it would be okay, I’ve stopped going to confession every single Saturday. Also, believe it or not, in emergency situations when I’ve been on campus all day, I’ve had to very carefully and extremely selectively use public bathrooms—not without a great deal of cringing and a lot of nail picking, though.”

{Ludacris keeps rapping, driving around now.}

“But enough about my life now. You are here to learn about my life then. Then. Then, when I was at the height of my condition, the lowest point of my obsessive-compulsive disorder.

“I’ll take questions soon, but first I’m going to read a small excerpt from the beginning of my manuscript.”

I pause for a moment and switch my note cards, switch to the next portion of my presentation.

I give a quick look over to the front left row. Smiles and nods and encouraging faces.

His face. Aiden’s face. His eyes. Full of calm. Full of happy.

Full of love.

I blink a smile at him and look back out to the center of the audience.

Here goes.

“My story begins with some key people. A redheaded receptionist. A terribly busy doctor. And a quiet psychologist.”

{And you, Damien. Yes, you too.}

Snippets of Callie’s Head Radio

(only the songs mentioned by Callie)

1.)“It’s Now or Never” by Elvis Presley (Gold, Schroeder, di Capua/1960)

2.)“Take Me to Church” by Hozier (Hozier-Byrne/2013)

3.)“Father Figure” by George Michael (Michael/1988)

4.)“The Blower’s Daughter” by Damien Rice (Rice/2001)

5.)“O Holy Night” (Adam and Cappeau/1847)

6.)“So Emotional” by Whitney Houston (Steinberg and Kelly/1987)

7.)“Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley (Burton, Callaway, Reverberi, and Reverberi/2006)

8.)“Dream On” by Aerosmith (Tyler/1973)

9.)“Again” by Janet Jackson (Jackson, Harris III, and Lewis/1993)

10.)“All of Me” by John Legend (Gad and Stephens/2013)