Checked Again by Jennifer Jamelli Page B

the little box that
says that my message has been sent.
    Well,
I think it says that. I can’t really see the screen anymore. I can only see a
pair of dark…miserable…blue eyes. I imagine him opening my curt, blunt email. I
imagine his face falling and—
    Before
I start to feel too guilty about my response, I remind myself that he probably
won’t care that I said no—he was probably only asking to be doctor-like.
    Quickly
blinking my eyes away from the computer, I begin my morning program of events.
     
     
    THE
REST OF MY DAY is pretty full. Confession. Lots and lots and lots of working
with Anna Karenina . Printing my paper. Checking my email. Worrying about
having to see Tony. Worrying about going to the conference. Worrying about not
having any new emails…
    When
I eventually start my night routine, I don’t get very much done. I am
interrupted three different times as different family members call to talk
about the conference. As I try to convince each one of them (Mom, Melanie, and
Jared) that I’m not worried about going, I briefly wonder if they have a new
form for these conference phone calls—a special Callie is being forced to
travel and stay in public accommodations -type form…
    Somehow,
I end each of these phone calls…somehow I manage to finish my night routine,
even though I keep pausing to answer the phone and to check my empty inbox…and
somehow I end up in bed once again dressed in old pajamas.
     
     
    SUNDAY
MORNING. I WAIT UNTIL after I get home from church to do the task I’ve been
trying to avoid. I dig into the way back corner of my closet, past a bunch of
dresses organized by color and neat rows of shoes, to find the brown
rectangular box that hasn’t come out for air in years…that wasn’t ever supposed
to see the light of another day.
    {Maroon
5 jumps in with the refrain of “Daylight” but not without a fight
from Damien Rice, who has been singing to me all morning.}
    I
take the box over to my bed, where I sit down and shake my head. I can’t
believe I’m doing this.
    I
lift the cover of the box. And then it’s all here, right in front of me—the
remnants of my relationship with Tony.
    {Maroon
5…and Damien Rice…continue to sing.}
    And,
really, as I look at it all now, it seems sort of silly that I kept all of this
stuff. Seriously, what was I thinking?
    As
I start to lift the items out of the box one by one, I remember what I was
thinking. I remember packing this box years and years ago. And I remember a
blurry mix of tears and mascara…barely even seeing my hands as they placed each
item in the box—letters, pressed flowers, a mix CD of Tony’s favorite music, my
copy of our prom picture, birthday cards, a little stuffed bear, a comb and
contact lens case that he accidentally left in my dorm room when he rushed out
after breaking up with me, and…there it is…his spare set of car keys. Keys that
he only gave me because he accidentally locked his keys in his car during his
first visit to Pierce and then had to wait forever for a local company to
unlock the car…and then got really pissed…and then vowed that such a thing
wouldn’t happen again.
    I
pick up the keys and remember how he made me promise not to lose them before he
handed them to me. Like I was an irresponsible child.
    Dickhead
of the century…that was him.
    Yeah,
but you’ve agreed to see that dickhead in a few hours, Callie.
    I
make a quick decision. An important decision. I pick up my old box of Tony
stuff, run it downstairs, and throw it in the trash. I don’t need any of that
stuff anymore.
    Feeling
pretty proud of myself, I go back upstairs. I get my phone from my purse to see
if Mandy texted me while I was at church. She was supposed to text me this
morning to give me a leaving time for today. I turn my phone on and find three
messages waiting for me. A Words with Friends message from Tony. A text message
from Mandy. And a text message from Unknown Number.
    Even
though my now jumpy stomach