My Life After Now - By Jessica Verdi Page 0,43

sex?”

“I guess…”

“I see here that you believe you contracted HIV from engaging in unprotected sexual intercourse,” he said, gesturing to the file. “That was very irresponsible behavior, Lucy.”

Was he for real? He was actually reprimanding me?

Listen, I wanted to say. I don’t need your judgment, okay? I have enough to deal with without you contributing. So can we just get on with this so I can get out of here?

But I couldn’t form the words. Dr. Jackson viewed me as a child, and somehow, under his contemptuous gaze, I had regressed to one. I was frightened and shy, and it was all I could do to answer his questions and count the seconds until the end of the visit.

Dr. Jackson waited for me to respond, but when I didn’t he just shrugged, as if he decided I wasn’t worth his little lecture. He had a whole office full of people to treat; I was just another number to him.

He stuck his head out the door and called for the nurse to join us. I felt incrementally better that I didn’t have to be alone in the room with him while he was doing the physical, but I hated every second of that exam nonetheless.

He poked and prodded me all over, not even bothering to apologize for his cold hands or icy stethoscope. He had no grace whatsoever as he jammed the little light into my ears, felt for swollen glands in my neck, and pressed under my ribs to check the size of my liver and spleen.

And it got even worse, when he did the breast exam and felt for lymph nodes in my pelvic area. I did not want this man touching me in those places. It wasn’t that he was being inappropriate; it was more that he obviously didn’t view me as a person—let alone a scared person with actual feelings. He saw me as just another scientific specimen, there for his own experimenting. I squeezed my eyes shut, cringing the entire time.

“You can get dressed now,” I heard him say. I opened my eyes to find the nurse exiting the room and Dr. Jackson back at his stool, scribbling away.

I hesitated. Wasn’t he going to leave so I could dress in privacy?

Apparently not.

So I put my clothes on as quickly and discreetly as I could, facing away from him and keeping the gown on until my clothes were safely back on my body.

“All right, I’m going to send you down to the lab,” Dr. Jackson said. “They will draw blood and run the CBC, T-cell subset, and RNA viral load tests. I’ll need to see you back here in one week. You can make the appointment on your way out.” He crossed to the door. “Any questions?”

Um, yes. What’s a CBC, T-cell subset, and RNA viral load test? What did you find when you examined me? Why are you such a dick?

“No, no questions,” I said.

• • •

My dads were right where I had left them. They jumped out of their seats as soon as they saw me. But I didn’t go over to them.

As my physical proximity to Dr. Jackson distanced, the more my courage and anger returned. I marched straight over to the front desk, jaw clenched. My dads followed wordlessly, sensing something was up.

The lady looked up. “The doctor would like to see you back here in one week. How does next Saturday at eleven a.m. sound?”

“Horrible,” I said.

Papa put a hand on my shoulder. “Lucy, I know this is hard for you—”

I spun around and glared at him. “You don’t know what it was like in there. I’m never going back to that doctor again.” I didn’t bother to whisper; the whole waiting room was watching and listening. This must have been far more interesting than whatever was on CNN right now. I turned back to the lady behind the desk. “Do you have any other doctors here?”

She swallowed. “Yes, we have one other physician specializing in…your particular department.” She whispered that last part, though I didn’t really see the point. It was clear from Dr. Jackson’s air of absolute boredom that people came here for one reason only.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Dr. Vandoren.”

“Yes, I’d like an appointment with him, please,” I stated firmly.

“Her,” the lady corrected.

“Even better,” I said.

Before I could leave that god-awful medical building, I had to get my blood drawn. I watched in a trance as it was siphoned from the tiny vein in my arm, through the clear