Checked by Jennifer Jamelli

him. The stethoscope buds are in his ears. The blood pressure cuff is unrolled, waiting for my arm.
    One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three.
    I lift my arm and slide it over to rest in the open cuff. Meticulously, he wraps the cuff around my arm. His quick fingers touch only the cuff. I hear the connection of Velcro as he secures it in place.
    I hold my right arm up stiffly, trying to take all of the weight out of his hands. Struggling to keep my body balanced, I hug my purse with my left arm.
    He notices. “Calista, do you want me to stop?” Gentle. Soothing.
    No. I shake my head.
    “Okay. You can place your arm back on the arm rest.”
    As I lower my arm, I notice that it is shaking a little. It knows what is coming next just as well as I do.
    He takes the little bell of his stethoscope and slides it under the cuff, in the middle of my upturned arm. It’s cold. It’s smooth. It’s…the only thing that is touching me. Somehow he has arranged his fingers so that they firmly grasp the bell but don’t touch me at all. Did he practice this?
    He looks up, right to my eyes, as he begins squeezing the bulb that in turn starts the squeezing of my arm. His eyes are questioning, concerned, and reassuring all at the same time. {Chantal Kreviazuk’s voice begins a slow, sweet rendition of “Feels Like Home.” } Still squeezing the bulb. Still holding onto my eyes with his.
    The look in his eyes takes me back to nights in my parents’ house. Every time I had a nightmare, I would get out of bed and head directly for my parents’ bedroom where I would stand right beside Mom, crying as she slept peacefully. She’d open her eyes, see me, and give me that same look. Now his look. Dad gave me the same look the day he first took the training wheels off of my bike, the day he first let me try to keep myself up. That look. Endless patience. Unconditional concern.
    “One-twenty over eighty. Perfectly normal.” He sounds relieved.
    He gingerly removes the bell of the stethoscope and then the blood pressure cuff from my arm. As carefully as he put them on. After moving to his desk to put down the blood pressure monitor, he pushes his chair to face mine. Our knees are facing each other. Close, very close, but not touching.
    “Okay, Calista. Now I’d like to listen to your heart.”
    It’s been years since I’ve been to a doctor, but I remember well what this entails. I count and slowly nod my head.
    Warily, he lifts his right arm and places the bell of his stethoscope on the left side of my chest. Again, his middle and index fingers hold the top of the bell securely while the other fingers are strategically placed away from my body.
    Once he has the bell positioned, he slides his eyes up to mine. He exerts a tiny bit of pressure on the little bell and listens, not once removing his eyes from mine. {And now, finally, the refrain of “Feels Like Home.” }
    It feels like more than that. But I’m not ready to think about that just yet.
    I try to ignore the scorching heat tiptoeing throughout my body. I feel a power ballad starting up in my head. I try to ignore that too. His penetrating eyes aren’t really helping.
    I really hope he isn’t using his special mind-reading powers right now. I also hope that my heart isn’t really beating as fast as I think it is.
    It must not be. He pulls the bell away, simply saying, “Sounds good.” Before I can relax and rejoice a little over the end of my fake doctor’s appointment, he continues.
    “Now, one last thing.” What? There are no other instruments left to use.
    I wait. He pushes back his chair and spins it around to place the stethoscope on his desk. He doesn’t pick up anything else. His hands are empty as he turns back to face me.
    With a guarded look in his eyes, he reluctantly speaks. “The last thing I need to do is check your pulse.”
    I know my eyes widen. There was no mention of this before I agreed to our non-appointment.
    He starts spitting out words. “Calista, this