Page 41 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

OCTOBER 19, 1981

Emily sat on the exam table inside Dr. Schroeder’s office. She was shivering so hard in the paper gown that her teeth were chattering. Mrs. Brickel had made her take off all of her clothes, including her underwear, which had never happened before. Emily’s bare bottom absorbed the chill of the vinyl padding through the thin roll of white paper. Her feet were freezing. She felt nauseated, but she couldn’t tell if it was the same nausea that had sent her running out of Bible Study last night or the nausea that had made her leave the breakfast table this morning without being excused. One had to be from stress. The other had to be from the sickly-sweet odor of maple syrup, which had always made her queasy.

Right?

Because there was no way that Emily was pregnant. She wasn’t an idiot. She would know if she’d had sex because sex was a really big thing. You felt differently after it. You knew that things had irrevocably changed. Because they had. Sex made you a totally new person. You were really a woman then. Emily was still a teenager. She felt no different now than she’d been this time last year.

Also, girls missed their periods all the time. Ricky could never keep track of hers. Gerry Zimmerman had skipped months of periods because she was on some weird egg diet. And everybody knew Barbie Klein had played so much tennis and run so much track that her ovaries had shut down.

Emily silently told herself the same thing she’d said for the last two days while she waited for her pediatrician’s office to open: she had a stomach bug. She had the flu. She was just regular sick, not pregnant sick, because she had known Clay, Blake and Nardo for as long as she had known herself and there was no way any of them had done anything bad to her.

Right?

She tasted blood in her mouth. She’d accidentally bitten the inside of her lip.

Emily’s hand went to her stomach. She felt the contour of her belly. Was that how it always felt? She’d lain in bed last night rubbing her stomach like Jeannie’s bottle and felt nothing but the usual flatness. Was there always a slight bulge like this when she sat up? She straightened her shoulders. She pressed her hand to her tummy. The flesh curved into the palm of her hand.

The door opened, and Emily jumped as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Miss Vaughn.” Dr. Schroeder smelled of cigarettes and Old Spice. He was normally gruff, but now, he looked irked. “My nurse tells me you wouldn’t say why you’re here.”

Emily glanced at Mrs. Brickel, who was also Melody’s mother. Would she tell Melody that stupid Emily Vaughn had a stomach bug and thought she was pregnant even though she’d never had sex? Would Melody tell everyone at school?

“Miss Vaughn?” Dr. Schroeder looked at his watch. “You’re delaying the patients who bothered to schedule actual appointments this morning.”

Emily’s mouth was dry. She licked her lips. “I—”

Dr. Schroeder’s eyebrows narrowed. “You what?”

“I think—” Emily couldn’t say the foolish words. “I’ve been throwing up. Not much. I mean—I threw up yesterday. And then Saturday night. But I think—”

Mrs. Brickel made a shushing noise as she rubbed Emily’s back. “Slow down.”

Emily took a shallow breath. “I’ve never been with … I mean, I haven’t been with anyone. Not, like, married. So I don’t know why—”

“You don’t know why what?” Dr. Schroeder’s gruffness had turned into outright hostility. “Stop making excuses, young lady. When was your last period?”

Emily suddenly felt very warm. She had read the words burning with shame, but she had never experienced the sensation before. Her fingers and toes, her heart inside of her chest, her lungs, her bowels, even the hair on her head—every piece felt as if it had been set ablaze.

“I haven’t—” Her breath caught. She couldn’t look at him. “I’ve never been with—with a boy. I haven’t. Wouldn’t.”

He started yanking open drawers and cabinets, then slamming them shut. “Lie back on the table.”

Emily watched him toss items onto the counter. Surgical gloves. A tube of something. A headstrap with a small mirror on it. A metal instrument like a long duck’s bill that clattered against the laminate.

She felt Mrs. Brickel’s hand nudging her shoulder. Emily still couldn’t look at the woman as she leaned back against the pillow. Below, two strange-looking bars swung up into the air. They curved at the ends like large spoons. Emily’s heart lurched at the sight of them. This wasn’t happening. She was trapped in a horror movie.

“Move to the edge of the table.” Dr. Schroeder snapped on the gloves. Emily could see the hairs on the backs of his large hands take on the appearance of pelts under the vinyl. He grabbed her ankle.

Emily cried out.

“Don’t be a baby,” Dr. Schroeder barked. He grabbed her other ankle and yanked her down to the edge of the table. “Stop fighting.”

Mrs. Brickel’s hand was on Emily’s shoulder again, this time bracing her. She had known. Emily hadn’t said anything about why she was here, but Mrs. Brickel had told her to take off all of her clothes because she had seen the difference. She knew that Emily was no longer a child.

Who else could tell?

“Stop crying,” Dr. Schroeder ordered, his grip tightening on her ankles. “My other patients will hear you.”