Free Checked by Jennifer Jamelli

Calista.”
    Okay. Not really sure where this is going. Silence. Again. Since I’ve gotten pretty good at determining the placement and direction of his voice, I risk a glance up.
    He is sitting in his desk chair facing his bookcase. Perhaps I should look into getting a freaking degree in voice location.
    I keep my head up. He seems to be staring at the picture of his son and wife or whatever she is.
    He still isn’t talking. Am I supposed to have some sort of intelligent response for him? I don’t. So I keep standing. When he asked me for five minutes, I don’t think he remembered to add in all of his moments of silence. It feels like each one is at least five minutes.
    He sighs a long sigh. I lower my head again, just in case he decides to turn around. {A power ballad is brewing; Bonnie Tyler steps up to begin “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” } Nothing. Quiet. {Verse one. Verse two. Verse thr—}
    He speaks.
    “I have to keep you as my patient.”
    Huh? He has brought me here to tell me that Dr. Spencer won’t be returning for a while? Annie could have told me on the phone.
    “Calista?”
    He wants a response. I try quickly, too quickly, to give him one that will free us both from this awkwardness. I even look up as I talk.
    “No. Oh. No. You don’t have to worry about that,” I stammer to the back of his dark head. “Annie didn’t say that Dr. Spencer would be gone so long, but really, it’s fine. And I am just going to call Dr. Lennox and be referred elsewhere and then everything—”
    “Dr. Spencer will be back tomorrow.” He cuts off my super-sized sentence.
    Oh.
    “Let me rephrase this.” He continues our face-to-back conversation. “I need you to let me treat you. I need to help you.”
    He feels guilty. I’m sort of glad he feels guilty, but letting him dwell on it won’t get me out of here any faster. And it won’t change what happened. I cut in before he can say any more words.
    “Really, it’s fine. You don’t need to worry about the purse thing. I get it. You didn’t know I’d be there. You didn’t do it on purpose. You don’t owe me anything.” I look back down at my purse. If I could just make myself move, now would probably be a good time to go. Before he even turns around. {Refrain.}
    I’m too late. He starts to speak, and his voice is a fraction louder than it was before. I know he has turned around.
    “This doesn’t have anything to do with the purse, Calista.”
    Sure. I keep my head down. Quiet. He is looking at me now. I feel him.
    “I have come up with a unique twelve day program of immersion treatment for you. If you commit to this, we’ll take a major step in helping you. After twelve days, you won’t be suddenly cured, but I think you will experience some marked improvements.”
    Ah. There it is. His motive. Some experimental research—grounds for a brand new fancy article.
    “I know Dr. Lennox sent you to this office to seek medication,” he continues, “but if you begin taking medicine it won’t start to take effect for quite some time. Perhaps this treatment will give you earlier and more natural relief.” Yeah, and perhaps it will get you a sizable paycheck. Or another presenter spot in one of my classes. No, thank you.
    “Our research doesn’t have to be put into an article. Or a textbook.” Of course he knows what I am thinking even now.
    “If you don’t want me to, I won’t tell anyone about this. You won’t have to sign any information release forms, and we’ll follow only your personal doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. Your terms.” His voice is intense but sincere. I know his eyes haven’t left the top of my head.
    I realize I’ve started to pick at my nail polish. I consider stopping, but really, what is the point? He already knows about my crazy. And about every thought that flickers through my brain.
    “Calista. Please trust me on this. No one has to know.” Quieter now. “I won’t embarrass you.”
    Again. Shouldn’t he