Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) (7 page)

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.

This is not a woman who spends her time sleeping around. Not someone who occupies herself by sharing needles with other people.

She probably does come into contact with a lot of sick people, though. Really sick people. Really—

But she probably doesn’t have their diseases, Callie. She probably doesn’t.

Please let her not have their diseases. Please. PLEASE.

She’s still smiling at me. Coming closer.

I can’t smile back. I close my eyes and pick at my nails and keep praying. Body sinking into my seat. Sweater sticking to the back of the chair. And also to the back of my body.

No diseases. No diseases. Please let her not have any diseases.

{Beyoncé
dances around in a cute little outfit, singing “
Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)
” as I pray.}

“Here you go.” His voice. He’s close. And he must be giving Judy something—something to use on me.

My blood pressure cuff. Or my stethoscope. Or—

Why can’t he just do this? Seriously? Why is having Judy here even—

“Calista, dear, I’m going to get started. Try to relax. Put your arms out on the arm rests.”

But I still have two more nails to pick off.
Ugh.

Probably for the best. I’ll probably need them later.

One. Two. Three.

Two perspiring sweater-covered arms on the arm rests of the chair. My chair. Eyes still closed.

“Callie, I’m giving Judy a brand new pair of gloves right now. Start your relaxation exercises. Try to release the tension.”

His voice sounds close. So close. He can’t be more than a step or two away. He—

The sound of latex gloves slapping against skin. Once. Twice.

{Beyoncé
keeps singing, moving all around.}

“Calista, honey, I’m going to roll up your sweater sleeve.”

Damn it
. I should’ve worn a t-shirt. A thin t-shirt.

But I didn’t know.

Okay…but she’s wearing gloves. And she really doesn’t look like she’s suffering from any diseases. But really, you can’t tell—can you? People can have secret diseases, and you’d have no idea just by looking at them. No wonder they are spread so eas—

She’s touching me. My left wrist.  Her glove is wrapped around it. The other glove is pulling up my sweater sleeve.

I keep my eyes squeezed shut.

She rolls up my sweater to a spot just a bit beyond my elbow. I guess she’ll push it up more as she puts the cuff on. So the cuff will be touching my skin.

But it’s okay. It’s my cuff.
My cuff. My cuff.

“Try to relax, dear.”

Oh.
I thought I was doing a pretty good job of appearing relaxed. Guess not.

I just nod my head, hopefully in her direction, to tell her that I’m trying.

Her glove, her cool, latexy glove, picks up my left arm and turns it over, getting ready to put the cuff and the little bell of the stethoscope on—

Wait.

Tight.

Tight pressure.

Something squeezing my arm. Something suffocating my arm just above my elbow.

I sit up straight in my chair. Eyes still shut. Still praying.

Let me get through this. Let me get through this. Let me—

A non-latexed hand moves on top of my right hand. Warm. Comfort—

A snapping noise.

She’s tying something around my arm. She’s—

OH MY GOD.

My eyes blast open just in time to see the tourniquet around my arm, to see the NEEDLE that she is about to put in my—

“NO.” Pushing my body against the back of the chair, I yank both of my arms from the arm rests and hold them tightly around my waist.

But the pressure on my arm doesn’t go—

Everything is—

Blurry. Dizzy. Spinning. Doubling.

{Beyoncé
begins dancing as though she’s on SUPER fast-forward.}

Two nurse Judys float in front of me.

Two of him, getting closer and cl—

“Callie. Callie.” Both of him. Two of him. Inches away from my face. All of his eyes looking into mine. His hands on my shoulders and his—

“Callie, are you okay?”

Neck struggling to hold itself up, not able to hold his gaze. Throat. Dry. Arm. Squeezed. So much squeezing.

Vision doubling and tripling and—

The needle...or needles? So close.

I have to get away from all of it. All of the pressure. All of the Judys. All of the needles.

The needles. How many are there? Are they clean? Are they new? How can anyone know for sure?

I have to get out of here.

I press down on my feet and push myself up with my arms. So much pressure on my arm. So much squeezing.

Move, Callie.

Body up. Up. Up.

He moves up with me, inches away, still holding my shoulders.

Blurry lights. Nothing coming into focus.

No air.

{Beyoncé
’s
words become all warped and distorted.}

“Callie, are you okay?” Low whispered words.