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“Okay. I’m going to start with the palpation.”
His fingers are warm even through the latex and gentle as he palpates my abdomen. His touch makes my flesh quiver and my skin tingle. It feels too intimate to be my doctor’s hand.
“Everything is good. Now the internal exam.”
In a paradoxical moment, I remember with blinding clarity the last time we were in this position. John and I never had sex, but as teenagers we explored our bodies together. And the last time I was half naked with Johnny Raikes, we were in my bedroom, enjoying the added privacy of my parents being on a cruise. My sister was out, too, so we had the house all to ourselves.
We were both eighteen and still scared of sex, but excited enough to experiment. We didn’t go far, just kisses and caresses until we figured out what felt good for each other, unhurriedly, because we had all the time in the world. But it was a lie.
I don’t want that memory. I chase it away. The current situation couldn’t be more diametrically opposite to that afternoon many years ago. Stark differences include the fact that, at the time, we were in love—or so I thought—and couldn’t stop looking into each other’s eyes. While now, I hate him with all my being and have to do my best to pretend he isn’t here, that this isn’t happening. I can’t bear to stare at his soulful blue eyes because all they do is deceive.
I let loose a hysterical laugh in my head. I’m going to need years of therapy to get over what’s happening.
As John enters me with his fingers, I hate that the sensation isn’t as uncomfortable as it should be. Or how empty I feel once he removes them.
“No tender areas or unusual growths,” he says, an edge to his voice.
I don’t dare to look at him. I keep my eyes shut throughout the rest of the examination as an ultrasound wand replaces John’s fingers and he, in a mechanical tone, lists the dimensions of my uterus and the number of follicles growing in my ovaries.
“You can get dressed now,” he concludes, turning away from me.
I pull my coat down at the speed of light and master a slightly less clumsy descent from the stirrups.
With my lady parts finally covered, I just have time to peek at John as he removes his gloves and throws them in the medical waste bin by the ultrasound machine. I hate myself for looking straight at his ring finger. Even more for the internal sigh of relief that there’s no ring there.
Then I do a double take. There is no ring, but the tan line around his ring finger tells me there used to be one.
Is he divorced? Is that why he’s back in New York? Bad divorce? Or does he simply remove his wedding band when he comes to work and puts it back on when he goes home to his wife?
Just imagining him having a wife delivers a metaphorical kick to my gut that leaves me breathless for a heartbeat.
That’s when I notice he’s watching me. His face is expressionless, but not his eyes. They’re asking me something, but I don’t know what.
I take a step back and shake my head. “Are we done?”
“Yes, I’ll just put today’s results in your file, and then I’ll submit the form saying I can’t be your doctor in the future.”
I nod. I’d already forgotten about the form.
John shoots me one last unreadable look and heads for the door. Hand on the handle, he pauses. “Marissa.” He looks directly at me. “It was good to see you.”
My heart does a somersault and my cheeks heat up. I don’t reply.
“Take care,” he adds, and he’s gone. Leaving me breathless with questions and thoughts and a sense of loss I don’t need.
I wait for the door to close so I can put on my clothes. Exhausted, I sit on the desk chair. I hug my coat around me as a security blanket. And I cry.
6
JOHN
I exit the examination room experiencing the same symptoms a soldier must feel after being caught in a blast. There’s ringing in my ears, and I’m unable to focus on the corridor walls. I’m dazed, confused.
I don’t know what to make of the past half hour. I’m happy, I’m sad, and I’m appalled by my conduct. Despite my claim I’d be able to keep things professional, I’m not sure I did. Marissa wasn’t just another patient. She could never be.
The shock of seeing her is still ricocheting inside my brain.
How do I unpack sixteen years of silence? I should be exultant to have seen her again, thrilled that the girl I used to know has become an amazing woman. Marissa is still beautiful, with the same blade-to-the-heart seafoam green eyes and chestnut brown hair, even if now she keeps it longer and the soft waves are more styled. But she’s also smart; I’ve kept tabs on her stellar career through the family grapevine and yes, also with the occasional internet stalking. And courageous if the way she handled herself today in the most embarrassing situation is any indication of her character.
