I’m guided by my new companion, the counselor, through a set of frosted glass doors down a hallway narrower than the first. We pass several unoccupied exam rooms and I catch glimpses of medical trays and exam tables covered in paper sheaths before we round a corner and arrive at a bank of lockers.
“Here’s your locker, dear. You’ll need to choose a combination. I suggest making it something familiar and easy to remember, like the last four digits of your phone number. Put all your belongings inside and change into this.” She hands me a paper gown and a fleece blanket—seafoam green. Smiling, her lips part and a crooked tooth reveals itself in kind offering.
The changing room’s fluorescent light hums overhead, a depressing melody. I undress, balling my jeans and shirt together before stuffing them into my backpack. Unfolding the powder-blue garment, I slip it on and glance in the mirror, my sullen expression framed by lank hair. I look frail. Frightened. The silhouette of my breasts, hips, my womanly form, masked by the shapelessness of this paper shift. Stripped of the articles typically denoting adulthood, I appear childlike. Alarmingly so.
“Have a seat, dear.” Another nurse, this one dressed in violet, motions toward a cushioned exam chair. Tapping the inner crook of my arm, she praises me on the visibility of my veins before inserting the needle in a fluid motion. We chat idly about the weather; how unseasonably cold the winter has been, and about my upcoming midterms. A man in a physician’s coat and spectacles enters and introduces himself as the doctor performing my procedure. He smiles reassuringly and instructs me to count down from ten.
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .” his smile my parting vision as I slip from consciousness, forgetting his presence and my surroundings as the narcotics take effect. Trailing off, I descend and drift just beyond, to a place where there is no resonance of new beginnings, only the sound of prying latex between my thighs and the gentle suctioning of some unseen device. A moment later I sense the nurse at my side squeezing my arm. She leads me to another room and eases me into a chair instructing me to rest. I submit, fading in and out, in and out, before being woken by a different nurse—her features darker than the ones before, but with the same kind eyes and gentle manner that makes them blend together.
The cab ride home is a silent one. The driver makes no effort at idle chitchat, instead casting furtive glances every few seconds into the rearview mirror. The nurse with the darker features provided my home address as she guided me into the passenger seat, squeezing my wrist reassuringly and telling me to take care. And now, it is just me. Just me and this stranger and the road unfurling ahead; bridging the sudden, derisive divide between what was and now isn’t.
My mind drifts back to the counselor’s office. Leaning toward me, kindness written across her face, she said, “There is no reason to be afraid or ashamed. It’ll be over soon and you’ll be on the path toward recovery. Many women recuperate very quickly.”
She leaned in further. “Many women carry on just fine after.”
I lower my head and the cab driver flicks on the radio in time to my unspoken cue. The tears well, then spill—streaming freely down my face. Finally, I let them come.
