“A few months,” I say, frowning. “But I was just eighteen, and—”
“See? A few months,” Tonya says, elbowing Marsha. “And how long do you make them wait?”
Marsha chuckles. “At least a few hours.”
“Well, there you go,” Andy says. “And you wonder why those jerks never call you again. My mom always said, ‘The fastest way to lose a guy is to sleep with him.’ Sara’s got it right: act cool and distant, so when you so much as smile at a guy, he falls all over himself.”
“Oh, please.” I busy myself with the remnants of my breakfast. “It’s the twenty-first century. I think men know better than to—”
“Nope,” Marsha says cheerfully. “They don’t. If something comes easy, they don’t value it as much. I know that, and I’m okay with being a good-time girl. Most of the time, I don’t want those jerks to call me, and the couple of times that I do…” She sighs. “Well, it’s just not meant to be, I guess. In any case, life’s too short to waste it being something other than what you are. By the time you get to be my age, you figure that out.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” Tonya stuffs the last of her bagel into her mouth. “Tell us more, Oh Wise Old One.”
“Shut up,” Marsha grumbles, throwing a balled-up napkin at her. It hits Andy, who immediately retaliates with a napkin projectile of her own, and I duck, laughing, as the breakfast devolves into a full-on napkin fight.
It’s not until I’m walking out of the cafeteria, still chuckling over what happened, that I realize the nurses didn’t just lighten my mood and distract me from thoughts of Peter.
They also gave me an idea.
* * *
My on-call shift doesn’t end until late evening, but I still go to the clinic afterward. It’s open twenty-four hours, and they always need me. On my end, I want to delay going home for as long as I can. The idea brewing in my mind makes my stomach cramp, and the last thing I want is to face my stalker.
As usual, they’re glad to see me at the clinic. Despite the late hour, the waiting room is packed with women of all ages, many accompanied by crying children. In addition to providing OB-GYN services to low-income women, the clinic staff often treat their children for minor illnesses—something the patients, and nearby ER departments, greatly appreciate.
“Busy night?” I ask Lydia, the middle-aged receptionist, and she nods, looking harried. She’s one of the only two salaried staff members at the clinic; everyone else, including all the doctors and nurses, are volunteers like me. It makes for an unpredictable schedule but enables the clinic to provide pro bono care to the community while operating solely on donations.
“Here,” Lydia says, thrusting the sign-in sheet into my hand. “Start with the five names on the bottom.”
I take the sheet and go to the little room that functions as my office/exam room. Putting my things down, I wash my hands, splash some cold water on my face, and step out into the waiting room to call in the first patient.
My first three patients end up being easy—one needs birth control, another wants to get tested for STDs, a third needs a pregnancy confirmation—but the fourth one, a pretty seventeen-year-old named Monica Jackson, complains of prolonged period bleeding. When I examine her, I find vaginal tearing and other signs of sexual trauma, and when I ask her about it, she breaks down crying and admits that her stepfather assaulted her.
I calm her down, collect a rape kit, treat her injuries, and give her the phone number of a women’s shelter where she can stay if she feels unsafe at home. I also suggest she contact the police, but she’s adamant about not filing charges.
“My mother would kill me,” she says, her brown eyes red-rimmed and hopeless. “She says he’s a good provider, and we’re lucky to have him. He’s got priors, so if I say anything, he’ll get put away, and we’ll end up on the street again. I don’t give a fuck—I’d sooner turn tricks in an alley than live with that asshole—but my brother’s only five, and he’ll end up in a foster home. Right now, I take care of him when my mother can’t, and I don’t want him taken away from me.”
She starts crying again, and I squeeze her small hand, my heart aching at her plight. Though the paperwork Monica filled out says she’s seventeen, with her petite build and baby-round cheeks, she looks barely old enough to be in high school. I often see girls like her come through here, and it shatters me each time, knowing there’s only so much I can do to help. If she were on her own, it would be easy to extract her from this situation, but with the little brother in the mix, the best I can do is call Child Services, and that might lead to the very thing my patient dreads: having her brother in foster care without her.