Well, I could have said something other than what I said. I could have said anything besides what I said. I could have said something different from the last words I ever said to Scary Mary, words I haven’t dared let myself remember.
Because, after all, Mary wasn’t as important as whether I’d be back at the bottom of the fish barrel.
I think we all have a built-in defense mechanism, a protective shield that kicks in when we make stupid mistakes. Mine kicked in that morning like some fucking force field out of a bad science fiction movie, a gravitational pull that sucked me in and wouldn’t let go. I stood, leaving Mary bewildered and probably shattered forever on the tile floor, as if she had been some delicate crystal ornament teetering on the edge of a mantelpiece while spoiled children played around her, never caring what devastation a wild hand or a quick turn of the head might bring about. I stood and I walked away and I said to myself that I’d rather die than be her.
All of this is true. Except I said something far worse. And I didn’t say it to myself.
After that, Mary turned into a ghost of a girl, so none of us was surprised when Mary turned into exactly that.
I don’t mean a real ghost—I don’t believe in that shit. But one day in early December, Mary stopped coming to school. The next week during assembly, we found out why.
Someone said it was pneumonia. Someone else, cancer. Someone from the football team, coarse as always, spread around a story that Mary looked in the mirror one morning and died of fright. It being high school, all the someones went to her funeral—the principal handed out free passes.
This is what I remember about that day:
I sat in the back pew, all the way to the left, not really wanting to see Mary’s parents when they entered, definitely not wanting to approach the plain wooden coffin, slathered with varnish to make it look more expensive than it was. I studied my hands, the hymnal in the little rack, the kneeling bench that creaked when my foot absently rocked it up and down, up and down. I did everything I could to keep my mind off Mary’s body in that box as her five brothers carried it down the aisle, weeping like children.
Word made its way around our town, speculations about how she did it, whether it happened quickly or slowly, who found the body and where they found it. Bathtub? Garage? Basement?
By the spring term, when college acceptances began rolling in and the first daffodils replaced slush and snow, everyone had forgotten about the girl who wore the same moth-eaten sweater and the hand-me-down Thom McAns with soles as thin as early winter ice.
Almost everyone had forgotten.
SIXTY-THREE
When he’s finished, Alex removes the speculum with a swift pull, hurting me intentionally, leaving me open and slick with lubricant. I don’t have words for what I feel like.
“Get her cleaned up and get her out of here,” he says to the nurse. And then he leaves, not looking back at the broken woman on the table. He’s gotten in and gotten out, and the worst part is that this perfunctory business is his job.
Nurse Mender turns his attention to me. “All done, dear,” he says, wiping me clean with a gentle hand. He’s the good cop in this moment, tidying up the mess made by his bad-cop colleague.
While I lie here with chemicals inside me, already working to re-form my insides, Nurse Mender tells me what I can expect over the next few hours, days, weeks. My right hand clicks the pen twice.
“You may experience some cramps. Hopefully, it won’t be much worse than typical menstrual cramping. If it becomes debilitating, take one of these. Motrin.” He takes two prewritten prescriptions from his pocket and places the first on the table next to me while continuing with his list of side effects.
“Loss of appetite is normal.”
“I’ll live,” I say.
“This is important, though.” His eyes are calm and serious. “If you experience fever or elevated heartbeat at any time—even if it seems