Free Checked Again by Jennifer Jamelli Page A

is anything but silent. A new worry pops into my mind
every few seconds. Every few steps he takes.
    What
diseases are on my foot? Step. Step. Step. How am I going to drive home? Step. Step. Step. What if I’m getting heavy? Step. Step. Step. What
was in that puddle? Step. Step. Step. What if someone trips over my left
behind flip-flop? What if it’s a child…or a pregnant woman…and something
horrible happens and it will be my fault and—
    Please
don’t let someone trip and get hurt. Please don’t let someone trip and get
hurt. Please don’t—
    He
has stopped…stopped in front of his car…well, actually on the passenger side of
it.
    I
open my mouth to protest, but he is already leaning down, maneuvering his arm
under my legs to open the door.
    In
a rather quick motion, he pulls the door wide open and gently places me in the
leathery passenger seat.
    I
start praying again. Please don’t let me throw up in here. Please don’t let
me throw up all over his immaculate car. Please, no throwing up. I continue
to repeat my prayers over and over, focusing on praying so as not to focus on
my naked foot, my naked…dirty…diseased—
    Stop,
Callie. Keep praying.
    {Céline
Dion and Andrea Bocelli join me as they begin “The Prayer . ” Their prayers are a little more universal, a little more big picture-oriented
than mine. Oh, and some of theirs are in Italian.}
    As
I continue to pray, I notice that obnoxious silence fills the car. As usual. Of
course.
    We
don’t talk to each other, we don’t touch each other, we don’t look at each
other. Not at all.
    When
he pulls into my driveway, he turns off the car, gets out, and comes around to
open my door. Still without a word, he leans in and scoops me back up into his
arms. His arms…his skin…my neck…together. My head gravitates toward his
shoulder, toward his warmth, but I stop it just in time, bending forward and
awkwardly digging in my purse for my house keys.
    Turns
out I don’t need them. The front door to my house opens before we even make it
to the little porch entrance area. Mandy’s home. Probably just for an after
work “check-in” for Mom. I hope she doesn’t report this…
    Mandy
starts to say something about me being late, but she cuts herself off pretty
quickly. No one speaks after that. Mandy steps back against the door to let him
through. He carries me into the house.
    I
catch Mandy’s eyes as I pass her. They are wider than I’ve ever seen them. I’m
sure they somehow are getting wider now, though. But I can’t see them. Because
he is carrying me up the stairs.
    And
I’m grateful and irritated and resigned all at once. Grateful that he is helping
me. Irritated that he’s somehow managing to again sweep in and save me from
myself. Resigned to the fact that I have to go along with this. I have to let
him do this. Otherwise, I’ll have to walk through the house with my disgusting,
diseased foot…and then I’ll have to buy thousands of dollars of new carpet
tomorrow. So it’s probably best to just let this one go…to just let him help
this time.
    He
carries me directly to my bathroom. He bends down to place me on the bath mat
just outside of my shower.
    And
then we are face-to-face once more.
    Sad
eyes on sad eyes. Pain burning into pain.
    For
a second, a second only, my foot problem seems silly, and my mind focuses
instead on the problem standing right in front of me. For a second, I’m every
other girl. For just a second, my biggest issue seems to be him…us…fixing all
of this sadness.
    Then,
my foot…the puddle…the diseases—everything just breaks back in, filling my
mind. {Alanis Morissette begins the haunting “Uninvited . ” }
    As
he looks into my eyes, he must see this change in me. From every other girl
to…me.
    “I’m
going to go,” he mumbles, ripping his eyes away from me. “Leave your clothes
down there when you take your shower.” He nods down to the mat below my feet.
“I’ll send Mandy up to throw them out