Page 44 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

“Emily.” Mrs. Brickel’s voice was calm, soothing. “You need to get in touch with your mother. Immediately.”

“She’s—” Emily stopped herself. Her mother was at work. She was never to be disturbed unless it was important. “I c-can’t.”

“Tell your mother first,” Mrs. Brickel said. “I know you don’t believe me, but Esther will understand. You are her daughter. She will protect you.”

Emily looked down. Her hands were trembling. She’d sweated through the paper gown. Tears had glued the collar to her neck. They hadn’t done the blood test yet. Maybe this was all a horrible mistake. “Dr. Schroeder said six weeks, but it—I think it was a month ago. That’s four weeks. Not six weeks.”

“The clock starts from the date of your last period,” Mrs. Brickel said. “It’s not from the date of intercourse.”

Intercourse?

The weight of the word bowed Emily’s shoulders. There was no mistake. This terrible nightmare had only just begun. She’d had intercourse with someone and now she was pregnant.

“Emily. Get dressed. Go home. Call your mother.” Mrs. Brickel rubbed her back, coaxing her to move. “You will get through this, precious girl. It’s going to be so hard, but you will get through this.”

Emily could see tears in Mrs. Brickel’s eyes. She knew the woman was lying. But there was no other option than to say, “Okay.”

“Good. Let’s do the blood draw, okay?”

Emily stared at the cabinet over the sink as Mrs. Brickel gathered the supplies. She was quick and efficient, or maybe Emily was numb because she barely felt the needle go in, hardly noticed the Band-Aid being taped to the crook of her elbow.

“All right, that’s done.” Mrs. Brickel opened another drawer, but she was not offering the usual lollipop that was handed out to good patients. She placed a maxi-pad on the counter. “Put this on in case there’s any spotting.”

Emily waited for the door to close. She stared at the pad. Her heart was pounding inside her skull, but her body still felt numb. The hands that pulled up her pants, buttoned her blouse, were not her hands. When Emily slipped her feet into her penny loafers, she had no sense that she controlled her movements. Her muscles were working on their own—opening the door, walking down the hall, through the lobby, outside. The eyes that watered in the morning sun were not hers. The throat that worked to swallow back bile was someone else’s. The pulsing pain between her legs belonged to a stranger.

She stepped onto the sidewalk. Her mind reeled with nothingness. She imagined a carnival. The inner workings of her brain turned into a carousel. She saw the horses moving up and down—not the ice cream parlor or the beach chair rental place or the taffy machine standing dormant in the window as it waited for the tourists that would return in the summer. Emily’s eyes squinted out tears. The carousel rolled faster and faster. The world was spinning. Her vision blurred. Her brain finally, blissfully, turned itself off.

Emily blinked.

She looked around, surprised at her new surroundings.

She was sitting at the booth in the back of the diner. No one else was there, yet she was still hanging off the edge the way she always did when the clique took up residence.

How had she gotten here? Why did she ache between her legs? Why was she dripping with sweat?

Emily shrugged off her jacket. Her eyes focused on the milkshake on the table in front of her. The glass was empty. Even the spoon was licked clean. Emily had no memory of ordering it, let alone drinking it. How long had she been here?

The clock on the wall read 4:16.

Dr. Schroeder’s office had opened at eight this morning. Emily had been waiting outside when the doors opened.

Eight hours—lost.

She had missed school. Her art teacher was supposed to give her feedback on the drawing Emily had made of her grandmother. Then she had a chemistry test. Then band practice. Then she was supposed to meet Ricky in the locker room before PE so they could talk about—what?

Emily couldn’t remember.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

She looked around the table, seeing but not seeing. Ricky, then Blake, then Nardo, then Clay. Her friends. Her clique. One of them had done something to her. She was not intact. She was no longer a virgin. The way that Dr. Schroeder had looked at her was the way that everyone was going to look at her from now on.

“Emily?” Big Al stood over her. He looked impatient, like he had been trying to get her attention for a while. “You need to go home, girl.”

She couldn’t get sound to come out of her mouth.

“Now.”

His hand wrapped around her arm, but he wasn’t rough with her. He tugged until she got to her feet. He picked up her jacket and helped her into it. He looped her book-bag strap onto her shoulder. He handed Emily her purse.