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“I don’t know. I think so? I’m not really thinking about it. There’s too much going on.”
Dr. Fisher wrote something in her notes. “Lie back and we’ll start the exam. My hands are pretty cold—sorry.”
She was silent as she worked, pressing on my ribs, palpating my stomach. She listened to me breathe, her stethoscope, which was even colder than her hands, pressed against me. I hated going to the doctor. I’d never liked it, but I didn’t want any extra scrutiny after being kidnapped. All these questions and everyone fussing over me was starting to drive me nuts—we had a murderer on the loose. Who the hell needed a palpated abdomen?
“I think we should do a full gynecological exam and a pap today, okay?”
I sat up a little. “Why?”
Dr. Fisher arranged the stethoscope around her neck. “Because I want to make sure everything’s okay. I examined you when you got home, but I need to be thorough.”
“Fine. Bu
t I really do need to get going.” My voice sounded tiny.
“It’ll just take a minute.”
She started the examination, and I forced myself to think about something else, something pleasant, anything but Jim Pace and poor Fiona and the girls. I racked my brain until I thought of the perfect distraction: Lauren’s wedding. She wanted to hold off picking a date, but I hoped she’d change her mind. In the interim, I continued to dress-shop for her—even though she’d made me cancel all the appointments I’d made with bridal salons.
Not that I was going to let a little thing like that stop me.
Still, as Dr. Fisher examined me, I pictured the strapless lace gown I’d picked out for Lauren. My sister would kill it in that dress. I just had to convince her to try it on…
“I’m just going to insert the speculum,” Dr. Fisher said.
“Oh, joy.” I winced as I felt the cold metal inside me, but she was mercifully quick.
Her back was to me as she cleaned up. “Hannah, is there anything you want to tell me?”
“N-no.” My chest squeezed. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything looks fine.” Her voice was soothing. “But we never went into detail about what happened while you were held captive. There was never any evidence of trauma, but I’ve been practicing medicine for three decades, and I can tell when something is off. Hannah, were you sexually assaulted?”
“No one raped me.” I wanted to scrunch my eyes shut, but I forced myself to relax my face.
“There are other types of sexual assault.”
“I told you—I’m fine.”
“Are you having any difficulty—trouble sleeping, anxiety, anything like that?”
“Wes said I’ve had a couple of nightmares, but I don’t remember them.”
Dr. Fisher came back to the table and patted my arm. “If there’s anything you want to tell me, now is the perfect time. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a person you have a professional relationship with than it is to talk to your family.”
Jesus, is this some sort of conspiracy?
“I’m fine, really.” I sat up and grabbed my clothes.
“Are you having any symptoms of depression or panic? Any heart racing? Jumpiness?”
“No, no, and no,” I said, trying to keep from sounding snippy and failing. “But I appreciate you being thorough.”
Dr. Fisher pursed her lips and handed me several handouts. I glanced at them briefly: Anxiety, Depression, and PTSD – Symptoms and Treatment.
“Gee, thanks, but I don’t need these. What happened to me wasn’t that traumatic.”
“You were kidnapped, beaten, and drugged by strangers. They didn’t feed you, and you were dehydrated. They almost shot you.” Dr. Fisher held her clipboard against her chest. “Don’t minimize what you went through. It was most certainly traumatic. And now there’s what happened to your friend. If it were me, I’d take something or talk to someone. There’s no shame in it.”
