She said it wasn’t me fainting or Elias catching me that attracted her attention, but how the kids around us started freaking out and saying things like, “Oh, my god!” and “What’s happening to her?”
By the time Amanda got a view of the situation, Elias was gently laying me down on the floor, cradling my head in his hand so it wouldn’t bang on the tile.
You have to admit, that’s a pretty sweet detail. I replayed the image over and over in my head during the next few months. It always made me feel better.
Amanda also confirmed that I hadn’t gone into convulsions or drooled. So I was super lucky.
Or else Amanda was a good enough friend that she knew to lie about it.
Amanda was definitely the kind of person who, even if she didn’t agree with you, would still help you out. Since I still wasn’t ready to give in and pretend I’d been pregnant, we came up with a plan where she’d go to Planned Parenthood with me. I would make sure I didn’t have brain cancer or whatever—if they could even tell you that. Probably, they would force me to take a pregnancy test, but Amanda would be the witness that I had resisted mightily and spread it around at school when the test came back officially negative.
*
Amanda and I had this thing we did when we weren’t sure about a decision that we were trying to make. It was a more sophisticated version of the Magic Eight Ball. We called it iPod Tarot.
The way we played it was, we would get a music player, and we set it to play all the songs, but in shuffle mode. Then we asked it a question, pressed play and took the next song that came on randomly as the answer. It didn’t always work, but more often than not, it was frighteningly accurate.
Since I was unsure about PP, we got out Amanda’s iPod and asked it if we should go, and the song it played was “Yes.” So we assumed we didn’t even have to listen to the lyrics or try to figure them out like we sometimes did, because we thought it was pretty clear what the answer was.
In retrospect, I realize we definitely should’ve listened to the lyrics. If we had, we might’ve come up with a completely different conclusion.
12
Even if iPod Tarot said yes, though, I still wasn’t all that excited about going to PP. As encouragement, I kept trying to convince myself that Elias cared about me being pregnant, the way he’d seemed to care that afternoon on the way to Mrs. C’s.
I imagined him overhearing some people telling each other that I’d really never been pregnant. I pictured a pensive look coming over his face, the thoughtful glint in his eye when he heard that apparently my blood pressure had just momentarily plummeted, or whatever. I wondered if, when he found out the truth, he’d feel bad for that weird look he gave me in the hall.
*
And yet, I never managed to talk to the real Elias in school that week, not even to thank him for catching me when I fainted. I did linger for about thirty seconds near his locker when he was getting stuff out of it the next day. That alone was hard for me to do. Lingering may be a key social skill, but it always made me feel panicky.
In order to give myself courage, I tried focusing—in a non-obvious way, mind you—on how fabulously tall he was.
This seemed to work. When he finished in his locker, I actually stepped up to say something to him. I had it all planned out. I was going to say, “I suppose you catch fainting girls all the time.” I was going to try to deliver it in a casual, witty manner, although given my nerves, I don’t think it would’ve come off.
I’ll never know, though, because before I got a word out, he turned the other way, not even glancing in my direction. I couldn’t begin to stammer out a sound, but, frustrated, inside my mind, I thought, Hey, don’t walk away!
The extra-strange thing was, he paused then. I remember, because I got caught up for a moment in the comforting stretch of his shoulders, and the fit of his jeans, which distracted me from the task at hand. But then he cocked his head, as if listening. It almost seemed as if he were going to turn back around. I could just see that graceful edge of his cheek from the side.
Afterward, I reassured myself that probably he’d just imagined that he’d forgotten something in his locker for a second and then realized that he hadn’t. To a paranoid person like me, though, at the time it felt like I might’ve accidentally whispered, “Hey, don’t walk away,” out loud, and then I really started to panic. Especially because in my mind I’d said it pretty bitchily.
If I hadn’t been frozen in fear, I think I would’ve turned and sprinted off. But then he moved away, without turning around, and I was finally able to exhale before I started turning blue.
After that, I wasn’t up for trying to talk to him. And he didn’t act any different than he had before.
13
Planned Parenthood, when Amanda and I arrived there a few days later, seemed somehow more real than real. Some of it you could’ve predicted. The same ancient linoleum and acoustic ceiling tiles that they had at school, the same bad fluorescent lights. Dingy chairs with the finish rubbed off the wooden arms and stained pink upholstery that had once had flecks of blue in it. Bad pastel-colored art prints with Southwest pottery images.
But then there were details you couldn’t have imagined. Like the fact that the door that went back to the examining rooms was locked, and you had to be buzzed in to get back there. Also, when you leaned a little bit over the counter, you could see that the receptionist had taped up pictures of her newborn baby daughter. Somehow, that just didn’t seem appropriate.
The other weird thing about being at Planned Parenthood was that you kind of knew why everyone was there. And it was hard not to look at the people in the waiting room in a different way.
The thing was, they were all having sex. You’ve got to figure that they were either there to get birth control, or because they didn’t use birth control when they should have. Which meant that they were actually having or planning on having sex.
Even this pudgy girl in a faded black Madonna t-shirt who looked like she was maybe thirteen, if that, who was there with a woman who might’ve been her grandmother. They both looked like they’d come in from one of the ranches outside of town. It was disturbing to think about, but apparently even the girl was having sex. Once again, I was the odd person out.
Of course, I didn’t give them my real name or phone number or anything. I couldn’t leave an official record of being there because of the whole complication with my mom. So I made stuff up and mixed up the numbers.
While we were waiting, I sat and looked at the different things that were pinned to the wall, like the piece of paper telling you to show your Medicare card and so forth.
One of the posters showed a picture of a guy’s face close up. He was the kind of guy I guess most people would say is really good-looking, as good-looking as Troy. He had stubble, like he was all sexy, or whatever. On the top of the poster, the words said, “He was the perfect guy…” And then on the bottom, it said, “…Until you were two weeks late.”
I had a pretty good laugh about that. Sure, I had problems. But at least having been jilted wasn’t one of them.
*
Eventually the woman came out and called my not-real name. She weighed me (okay, so I’d gained a few pounds) and took my blood pressure (yeah, it was low).
Then I had to pee in a cup, even though I told them there was no point. They wouldn’t listen to me any more than anyone else, so once I felt like I’d made enough of an effort at resisting, I finally gave in. I knew it would save me in the end.
When I gave the sample, I wiped with those pre-moistened foil-wrapped towelettes first, from front to back, just the way they tell you to on the sign that’s posted over the toilet. I followed the steps in order. I was paranoid about doing it wrong.
Then the woman showed us into the examining room and gave me the whole spiel about taking off my clothes and putting on the paper gown and the drape. She emphasized that I needed to remove my underwear. Duh!
I sat on the edge of the tab
le with the paper bunched around me, feeling stupid. Amanda sat in a chair that was nearby and read the STD brochures in funny voices to make me laugh. It wasn’t hard. I was so nervous, I think I would’ve laughed at almost anything.
*
Finally the nurse came in. She was black, with a short ’fro and dark skin. She seemed very tired, like she’d been doing her job for a long time. I was betting she didn’t get to tell people that they weren’t pregnant very often. I was glad that she’d at least get to say it to me.
She said hello and took us both in with a glance that lasted less than a second. She set her clipboard down.
“Well,” she said, “I’m guessing you already know the results of your test.” I did. I was relieved.
Then she continued, “You are most definitely pregnant.”
14
At that point, I started fixating on her nametag, which said “Gabrielle Malaika, R.N.” For some reason, I was particularly fascinated by the dots after the R and the N.
But I did manage to find my voice. “There’s some mistake,” I said. “I know I’m not pregnant.”
The nurse looked even wearier, if that were possible. I think it was an effort for her not to roll her eyes.
“So what are you doing here getting the test?” she wanted to know.
“Well,” I replied, “my school nurse…” I trailed off. I didn’t see how that was going to help me.
But what she’d said gave me hope. Maybe they assumed everyone who came in was pregnant. Maybe they almost always were. Maybe, to save money, they didn’t actually do the tests.
I tried again, struggling to sound reasonable, though it came off more like pleading. “Is there any chance my test was mixed up with someone else’s?”
She shook her head. “You’re the only pregnancy test we’ve done since lunch.” This news kind of shocked me.
“Really?” I said. What was that pudgy girl here for, anyway?
“Yes,” the nurse replied, pointedly, and looking at me like she was annoyed. “We provide many different health services here for women.”
Amanda piped up, “What about a false positive?” Thank God for Amanda. I knew about false positives, but at that moment I couldn’t have remembered what they were called to save my life. I was hoping it would make us seem less like stupid high school kids.
Gabrielle shook her head again. “Very rarely, if we do a test too early, we get a false negative, but there’s no such thing as a false positive.” She consulted the clipboard. “And definitely not with you. You’re swimming in hCG.”
“What about a hormone imbalance?” I knew I was grasping. But my mom was sure everything was due to hormone imbalances.
“The only thing that makes this hormone is a placenta. Unless you’re on fertility drugs? Or being treated for cancer?”
“No.” I barely managed to choke it out. I had the feeling that I was going to break down and start crying from frustration. I was trying to keep it together, hoping I wouldn’t fall apart right away.
“The thing is,” my voice was quiet and kind of shaky, “I haven’t ever had sex.” Then, in case she was thinking along the same lines as Mrs. C, I added, “I haven’t fooled around at all. Not even kissed anybody.”
Gabrielle sighed. You could see her whole body soften. She sat down on the stool with the wheels on the bottom and pulled it up close to where I was sitting. She looked up at me. Her face was sad.
“Oh, sweetie.” She paused. “I’m so sorry. We see this in here every once in a while. Maybe you think you’ve never had intercourse, but sometimes, girls are at parties, and there are these drugs, like rohypnol—”
“I haven’t been roofied.” I sniffed and blinked. “I don’t go to parties. I can’t hold my alcohol.” This was true. When my mom had moved to the monastery, she’d left me alone with a large and varied liquor cabinet. Amanda and I had experimented more than once, and I always ended up crashed out on the couch in a near coma within a half hour. I had a hard enough time with people while I was awake. I wasn’t going to pass out around them on purpose.
“Well,” her voice was even gentler now, “other things happen. If it’s something traumatic, your mind will block it out. For perfectly good reason. Probably, after we get done with the pelvic exam, you should make an appointment to talk to a counselor.”
She pulled back and gestured towards the end of the table where there were these metal things sticking out. “Now, put your feet in the stirrups and we’ll have you lie down so we can gauge the size of your uterus. That will tell us how far along you are.”
Hope sprang back up inside me. I’d never had a pelvic exam, and I was dreading it. But at least I thought that she’d be able to tell that I wasn’t pregnant, and we could get the whole thing over with.
She helped me put my feet in the stirrups and got me to scoot my bottom way farther down than you would think a person would have to. I lay down. I’m not that modest, but still, it’s unnerving to have what my mom would call your “yoni” in someone else’s face.
When Gabrielle started snapping on her plastic gloves, Amanda came over and stood next to me and held my hand. She gave me a sympathetic look. I was glad she was there. I was shaking and tears were silently running down my face from the nerves.
“I’m going to put my finger on your outer lips.” Gabrielle started to narrate her every move. “This shouldn’t hurt.” The clamp thingy was being warmed up under a hot lamp. I was trying not to look at it. Fortunately, Gabrielle’s hands weren’t that cold. I didn’t even flinch.
And then she paused for a couple of seconds. Enough so that me and Amanda looked down at her. She seemed perplexed. When she saw us looking, though, she changed her expression.
“I’m just going to touch some tissue in between the lips,” she continued. “This part may be very sensitive.” I was about to think Duh! again to myself when I almost jumped off the table. It didn’t hurt, but sensitive didn’t even begin to cover it.
“I’m sorry,” she continued, “but I need to closely examine this tissue.” So I clenched my teeth, and we made it through. “Do you get periods?” she asked, looking at my chart.
“Yes,” I replied. “I just don’t keep very good track of them.”
“And you use tampons?” I was afraid I knew where she was going.
“Uh, no,” I admitted. “I tried, but I couldn’t get them in. It hurt too much.” I had tried more than once. And I had followed all the suggestions on this website. Thin tampons, lubricating jelly, correct angle of insertion.
I’d even tried getting drunk once in case my reaction was due to frigidity, and I needed to loosen up. Even that hadn’t worked. So I continued to endure the humiliation of having to sit on the bench next to the pool every once in a while when we had swimming in PE.
This was my dreaded, horrible secret. This was why I’d never been to a gynecologist. Why I was worried about having sex. I suspected there was something seriously wrong with me.
“It’s okay,” Gabrielle reassured, as if she could read my mind. “Nothing is wrong with you. But I do need to go get the doctor.” I knew she was trying to make me feel better, but somehow, those two sentences didn’t really seem like they belonged together.
*
The doctor was a skinny geezer who looked even more exhausted than Gabrielle. His accent was from Texas or somewhere.
“Well, now then, what do we have here?” he asked, sitting on the stool between my legs and putting on the gloves. He went through the whole thing, just like Gabrielle had. I tried to hold still. Gabrielle was hovering over his shoulder.
“I was thinking it was imperforate,” she was speaking in a low voice, “but she gets her menses, and I’m fairly sure I saw some perforation.” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Young lady,” commented the doctor, poking while I winced. “You have got a hymen made of steel.” I understood that slightly better. I was pretty sure he didn’t mean it literally, though.
“What he means,” explained Gabrielle, “is that your hymen is thicker than usual, and it doesn’t have an opening in it, the way most do. That’s why you can’t get a tampon in. It only has a few tiny holes that are hard to see, where the blood comes out. It’s unusual, but it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”
Then she frowned and spoke low again, just to the doctor. “The problem is, she’s tested positive for hCG.”
He blustered in response, snapping off his gloves and tossing them in the biohazard disposal.
“That’s a lot of hooey. Check her again.”
15
For a moment there, it was like the clouds over the desert had parted and you could see the rays of light streaking down between them. Finally, I thought, someone is getting the picture. I had been starting to feel a little crazy there.
Amanda rubbed my back while I sat on the table and waited for the results of the second test. I imagined that we were going to have some good laughs later. I even felt bad for Gabrielle for being wrong this one time.
*
But when they came back in, Gabrielle and the doctor both had very serious, uncomfortable looks on their faces. My stomach started sinking.
Apparently, Gabrielle had been picked to explain the situation to me. “I’m sorry, but this test came back positive too. We need to examine you further.” She looked at the floor. “The problem is, we can’t do a pelvic exam with your hymen in place. We’d like to do a simple procedure to remove it.”
The room was spinning. I looked down at the random pattern of the blue tile, trying to clear my head. “H-h-how…?” I managed to stammer.
Gabrielle tried to reply like it was a procedure they did all the time. “We just need to make a simple incision with a scalpel.”
Amanda sucked her breath in really fast. She must’ve been trying not to gasp.
Gabrielle continued, “We can use a local anesthetic. It shouldn’t hurt—”