“It is fine,” I said, meeting his eyes.
“It would be beneficial for me to?—”
“It’s fine,” I repeated.
The nurse gestured down the hallway, clearly expecting me to follow her alone. Raphael held my gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded once and sat back down.
“I will be here,” he said.
“I know.”
The words didn’t feel defensive. They felt . . . reassuring. I adjusted the crutches and followed the nurse down the hallway, aware of his eyes on my back until I turned the corner.
And despite everything, the injury, the paperwork, the marriage that still felt unreal, I carried one unexpected truth with me into that exam room. I didn’t feel alone. Not anymore.
The hallway to the exam rooms felt longer than it should. Too bright. Too clean. Too quiet in that artificial way that the clack of the crutches amplified. By the time I maneuvered into the small exam room and got myself onto the crinkly paper-covered table, I found myself wishing that I’d let Raphael come back.
Not because I couldn’t handle this. I could. I always could.
But doctors have a way of looking at you like you are a problem. Especially when you’re a bigger girl with a joint injury.I was not looking forward to being asked about my diet and being told to lose weight.
I adjusted my shorts higher on my thigh so the nurse could access my knee without having to ask. The nurse was brisk but not unkind. Blood pressure cuff. Temperature. Questions about allergies. Medication history. She continued tapping away. “Do you feel safe at home?”
The question caught me off guard. It always does, the way they slip it in like it’s just another checkbox.
Do you feel safe at home?I expected the word to snag somewhere in my throat. Instead, I pictured the bluff with the storm rolling in over the river, and the feel of the mattress beneath me last night. The way Raphael had stood in that waiting room, like he was personally prepared to dismantle the whole system if they mishandled my knee.
I surprised myself by smiling.
“Yes,” I said honestly. “I do.”
The nurse smiled back, satisfied, and finished her notes. When she left, I sat there alone for a minute, listening to the faint hum of the building.
I thought about how strange it was thathomehad shifted so quickly in my mind.
There was still Long Creek. Still Dad. Still my van, technically.
But there was also a stone house on a bluff now. And a man who had paced outside my door with crutches like he was preparing for battle.
The knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts. The doctor entered, and he pumped a squirt of hand sanitizer onto his hand. Rubbing it in, he sat down on the stool and looked at the computer screen. He was older, gray at the temples, glasses sliding slightly down his nose. He didn’t look up immediately.
Then, “Hello, I’m Dr. Olgesby. How are you doing today, Mrs. Renault?”
Is it weird that I like being called that? That’s weird, right?
“Besides this,” I said, gesturing to my swollen, discolored knee, “I’m right as rain.”
“So,” he said, “what happened?”
“Roller derby,” I answered.
There it was. The moment. I braced for it. Being told it was a dangerous sport, or being told I was too fat. Either way, I braced.
He looked up at me then. Really looked.
“How long ago?” he asked.
“Saturday night.”
