Twisted (18 page)

in. And Delores charges to the rescue. “That’s enough. Thank you,

Doctor Frankenstein—we’ve got it from here.”

he’s offended. “I need to give the patient accurate instructions.

If tissue is left inside the uterus it could lead to sepsis, and possibly death. She may need a D&C to prevent infection.”

My voice is weak. “What’s . . . what’s a D&C?”

It sounds familiar. I’m sure at some point in my life I’ve learned the definition, but I just can’t remember.

“Vacuum extraction.”

Images pop into my head with his words, and I gag.

he continues, “A suction hose is inserted into the cervix—”

“Jesus Christ, would you stop talking!” Dee Dee shouts. “Can’t

you see she’s upset? Were you in the fucking bathroom when they

taught bedside manner in medical school?”

“Excuse me, miss, I don’t know who you think you are, but I

won’t be spoken to—”

her finger points at the curtained doorway like the snap of a

soldier’s salute. “Get. Out. She’ll make an appointment with her

regular doctor. We’re done with you.”

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A slight breeze blows past me, and I’m not sure if it’s the

doctor. Because my eyes refuse to focus, and my mind is reeling.

Trying so hard to grasp this latest turn of events . . . and failing miserably.

Delores puts her hand on my arm and my head turns toward

her, surprised.

Like I forgot she was there.

“Kate? We’re gonna get you dressed now, okay? I’m going to

take you home.”

I nod my head numbly. It feels like I’m not even here—like an

out-of-body experience. Or a nightmare. Because there’s no way

this can really be happening.

After everything . . . it’s just not possible that this is how it all ends.

Delores dresses me, like I’m a child. Then she helps me off the

table. And together we make our way to the car.

Back in my room, Delores sits at the foot of my bed and my mother

tucks the covers in around me. her eyes shine with unfallen tears.

But not mine. Mine are as dry as the Sahara.

Barren.

My mom brushes my hair back and picks lint off the bed-

sheets. “You want something to eat, honey?”

her voice is a little desperate, grasping for some action that

will somehow make this better. I shake my head without a word.

Because all the chicken soup in the world isn’t going to help me.

Not this time.

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She kisses my forehead and leaves the room, closing the door

behind her. And Delores and I sit. Silently.

I should feel . . . relieved. I mean, just a short while ago, I

thought this was what I wanted, right? Out of my hands.

Problem solved.

But the only thing I feel is . . . regret. Remorse. It fills

my lungs and chokes me with every breath I take. Because

deep down, under all the fear and the shock and uncertainty, I

wanted this baby. I loved this perfect little piece of Drew and

me. So much.

I just didn’t realize it in time.

Too little, too late. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

All clichés—and all so fucking true. Then a thought comes to me,

and I throw the covers back and jump out of bed. I open my draw-

ers and dig through them, searching fruitlessly.

Then I drop to my knees at the closet and drag out the duffel

bag I brought from New York. And I rummage through it, like a

widow who’s lost her wedding ring.

“Katie?”

And then I find it. The tiny T-shirt I bought that night. The

one I was going to give to Drew—to announce the big news.

I stare at it and I feel the tears come. I trace my fingers over the letters: FUTURE YANKEES PITChER. And in my head I see that little

boy again. My sweet little boy.

Ours
.

The one with his father’s eyes and irresistible smile. The one

that will never be. I bring the shirt to my face and inhale. And I swear to God it smells like baby powder.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My shoulders shake and a monsoon

pours down from my eyes. My breaths come in gasps, and I clutch

the shirt against me—the way a toddler does with his favorite

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stuffed animal. “Please . . . I didn’t mean it. I was just scared . . . I wasn’t going to . . .”

I’m not sure who I’m talking to—myself, or my baby, or maybe

even God. I just need to say the words, so they’ll be out there and real. So the universe will know that this was never how I wanted

things to be.

Delores rubs my back, letting me know she’s there. That she’s

behind me, like always. I turn to her. And with my head against her chest, I cry my heart out.

“Oh God, Dee. Please . . .”

“I know, Kate. I know.”

There are tears in her voice too. Because that’s how real friends

are—they share your pain. Your agony is theirs, even if it’s not in equal measure.

“It’s okay . . . it’s gonna be okay,” she tries.

I shake my head. “No. It’s not. It’ll never be okay again.”

Delores’s arms wrap around me tight, trying so hard to hold

me together.

“
Why
? I don’t understand. Why did this happen? Drew and I

are . . . and now the baby . . . and it was all for nothing.
Nothing
.”

I told you I’d be asking why again, remember?

Delores smooths my hair down. And her voice is calm. “I don’t

know why, Katie. I wish I could tell you . . . but . . . I just don’t know.”

We stay like that for a while. And eventually, the tears die

down. I make my way back to the bed and Delores sits beside me.

I look at the little shirt again and shake my head. “It hurts so much.

I never knew anything could feel this bad.”

“Is there anything you want me to do, Kate?”

My eyes leak quietly. And my voice is frail. “I want Drew. I

want him here.”

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If the world was like it’s supposed to be, he’d be here. And he’d

be just as devastated as I am. he’d try to hide it, but I’d know. he would climb into this bed with me, and he’d hold me and I would

feel safe, and loved . . . and forgiven.

And he’d tell me that this just wasn’t the right time. But that

if I want a baby, he’ll give me a dozen. Drew is really big with the overkill.

And then he’d kiss me. And it would be gentle and sweet. And

then he’d say something silly like, “Just think of all the fun we’ll have making them.” And I’d smile. And it would hurt a tiny bit

less.

Just because he was with me.

Delores nods and reaches for the phone. But my hand covers

hers—stopping her. her eyes look at me with understanding, like

she already knows what I’m thinking. And she probably does.

“he’ll come, Kate. You know he’ll come.”

I shake my head. “You weren’t there, Delores. he was . . .

vicious. I’ve never seen him so angry. It was like . . . like he thought I was picking the baby over him. Like I’d betrayed him.”

I close my eyes against the memory. “he’ll be happy. he’ll be

glad the baby’s gone . . . and then I’ll hate him.”

And even after everything that’s happened—I’m just not ready

to hate Drew Evans.

Delores sighs. And her hand moves away from the phone. “I

think you’re wrong. I’ll be first in line to point out what an idiot Drew can be, but . . . I can’t imagine him ever being happy about

something that’s hurt you. Not like this.”

I don’t answer her, because the door to my bedroom opens.

And Billy walks in. he looks tired, his face is somber, and I know my mother’s told him.

“You okay?”

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I shake my head.

“Yeah. I figured as much.” he sits down in the beanbag chair

and rubs his eyes. “This is just . . . totally FUBAR. And when really fucked-up things happen? All you can do is get fucked up right

along with it.”

That’s when I notice the bag he brought with him. It’s super-

market brown, and bulging.

he picks it up and dumps some of the contents out. There’s

a few bags of weed, a carton of Marlboro reds, and two bottles of

tequila. I stare at the honey-colored liquid. And I think of Mexican music, and warm skin, and midnight whispers with Drew.

I love you, Kate.

I look away. “I can’t drink tequila.”

Like Mary Poppins with her bottomless bag, Billy reaches back

in and takes out a bottle of Grey Goose.

And I nod slowly. “Vodka works.”

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Have you ever licked the floor of the men’s room at Yankee

Stadium? Neither have I. But now I know just what it tastes

like.

Yep—we’re hung over. It’s hell. Forget the drones; if the army

could unleash this feeling? There’d be world peace for all.

I’m in the office of my mother’s gynecologist. Billy and Delores

came along for moral support. See us there? Lined up in the chairs, like three delinquents waiting outside the principal’s office. Delores is wearing sunglasses even though we’re inside, reading a pamphlet about the new female Viagra. Billy’s asleep, mouth open, head

tilted up and resting against the wall behind us. My mother’s here too, flipping through a magazine without reading any of the words.

And I just sit, trying too hard not to look at those pictures of

newborn babies covering the walls.

Billy lets out a snot-sucking snore, and Delores jabs him in the

ribs with her elbow. he wakes up sputtering, “Monkey ball banana

blitz!”

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We all look at him questioningly.

And he realizes where he is. “Sorry. Nightmare.” Then he lays

his head back against the wall again, eyes closed. “I feel like gassy stool.” Delores and I nod in unison. And Billy solemnly swears,

“I’m never drinking again. I’m going legit.”

his cousin scoffs, “heard that before.”

“I mean it this time. No more alcohol for me. From here on

out, it’s weed only.”

Yeah. That makes sense.

Since we’re waiting anyway, let’s take a moment to reflect on

one of the most sacred womanly rites of passage: the gynecological exam. It’s completely bizarre.

See, our whole young lives, we girls are told to stay pure. Keep

our legs crossed, our knees locked. And then we turn eighteen.

And we have to go to an office and meet a doctor who, based on

statistics, will be a middle-aged man. And then we have to strip

bare—completely naked. And let him feel us up. And finger us.
A
total frigging stranger
.

Oh—and then there’s the best part: the conversation. Yep, he

talks to you during the exam.
How’s school? Sure is rainy out today,
isn’t it? Is your mother doing well?
All in the effort to distract you from that fact that he’s wrist deep in your vagina.

Can you say awkward?

And don’t any of you men out there try and cry me a river

about the horrors of your prostate exam. Doesn’t compare. One

little finger up the ass can actually be rather pleasant. At least you don’t have to put your legs up in a contraption that originated as a medieval torture device. Women definitely got the raw end of the

deal on this one.

A nurse in blue scrubs calls my name. My mother and I stand

up and walk into the first exam room on the left.

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I take my clothes off and put on the pink plastic robe, opening

in the front, of course.

The better to see you with, Little Red Riding hood.

I sit on the table, the paper liner crunching beneath me. My

mother stands to the side, rubbing my arm supportively. And in

walks the doctor.

Take a look. White beard. Chubby cheeks. Round glasses.

Give him a red hat, and he could totally ride that last float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I have to go to third base with Santa Claus? Are you kidding me?

Christmas will never be the same.

“hello, Katherine. I’m Dr. Witherspoon. Your mother’s regu-

lar physician, Joan Bordello, is on vacation—”

Of course she is
.

“—and I’m filling in for her.” he looks down at the file in

his hand. “Judging by the date of your last menstrual cycle, you’re almost six weeks into your first trimester?”

I nod.

“And you’ve had some bleeding and cramping?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you describe the blood for me, please? The color? Were

there any clots?”

My voice is raspy. “It started out brownish-pink. Like the first

day of my period. On the way to the hospital there was a gush . . .

of bright-red blood . . . and then . . . it turned brown again. I

didn’t . . . I don’t think there were any clots.”

he nods his head, and his eyes are kind. “I’ve read the emer-

gency room physician’s report, but I’d like to take a look myself. Is that all right, Katherine?”

I force a smile. “Okay. And you can call me Kate—everyone

does.”

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