I tugged at a small twig lodged in my disheveled blonde hair as I continued to scan my likeness. Trails of tears had left lines going down my dirty cheeks and red speckles covered my skin. I searched for the woman I’d seen in the morning.
Was she under all this grime?
It was more than my reflection. I felt different inside.
Would that change?
I couldn’t describe the sensation as I looked closer at the purple swelling on my cheek. No wonder it had held Rett’s attention. Tenderly, I prodded the inflamed skin. Each point of pressure sent a dull diffusion of pain through my nervous system.
“Is this the first time you’ve seen yourself since being home?” Dr. Dustin asked.
My mind churned with her question.
Most remarkably, I wondered, am I home?
“Emma.” The doctor stepped closer. “We can do this away from the mirror if it would be easier.”
Swallowing new tears, I shook my head. “I’m okay.”
“You are, but it’s acceptable for you not to be.” She pulled out the small stool at the dressing table. “Come sit for a minute.”
My energy to disagree was spent. Mindlessly, I went to the chair and sat.
“I have names of people you can talk to.”
I shook my head again. “I’m just really tired.”
“I’m sure you are. Let’s get started. First, can you show me your hands?”
I lifted them in the air, turning them one way and the other. The first things I noticed were my wrists. It was as if someone had cut all the way around each one, as if leaving me with dried-blood bracelets. Next, I concentrated on my nails. The first night Rett came to get me for dinner I’d painted them a soft pink. Not only was the polish chipped, but many of my nails were broken, leaving a rough edge. My palms were also dirty, and near my thumbs the skin was sore.
Dr. Dustin spoke as she did her work. I liked listening although I couldn’t be sure of what she’d said. Whatever it was took my thoughts away, listening to her story, as she completed her tasks. First, she cleaned under each nail, meticulously placing the dirt and debris in a small bag. She even clipped the rough edges, saving the clippings. Next, she scraped some of the dried blood from my skin, not mine from my wrists and ankles but the droplets that had splattered over me. After removing Rett’s shirt, the doctor thoroughly inspected my skin, asking questions as she worked. She found small cuts near my nipples and a few under my chin.
It was her next request that made my hands tremble. I should have expected it, and yet there was no way to mentally prepare. Laying a plush towel on the floor, she asked me to lie down on my back. As I made my way to the floor, I knew this was why Rett requested a female doctor.
It wasn’t as if I had never had a gynecological exam before. It was the memory of the way I’d been tied to the chair that caused the new onslaught of tears as she completed her exam.
“Emma, I don’t see any signs of trauma. I would need to take samples for sperm or spermicidal substances. Do you believe you were raped?”
“No,” I answered honestly. “I remember them talking about wanting to.”
“I can do a rape kit if you want. It’s your decision.”
Struggling to hold back more tears, I replied, “I want this to be over.”
“I will only run a few tests to be sure there’s been no disease transmission.” When she was done, Dr. Dustin smiled and nodded. “Let’s turn on the shower. You’ll feel better.”
She was right. The water coming down was like no shower I’d ever taken. I could have stood under the multiple showerheads for days, allowing the warm liquid to wash over me. I washed my hair and added conditioner. Using a loofah and bodywash, I cleaned myself. Without Dr. Dustin’s prompting, I may have scrubbed away a layer or two of skin. When I brushed my teeth, the corners of my lips burned from the toothpaste. We decided it had been the gag that had caused them to split.
Over an hour after Dr. Dustin arrived, I was examined, cleaned, and my wrists, ankles, and multiple cuts were covered in medical creams and bandaged. Dr. Dustin started me on an antibiotic regimen to ward off infection. She prescribed some mild painkillers. Without x-rays, she believed that I had bruised but not broken ribs. There were multiple other areas of bruising including my cheek, which she assured me would heal. She said that if any of the pain worsened, I was to contact her, and she’d follow up with more tests.
I didn’t mention that my ability to contact her was contingent upon Rett. There were too many things going through my mind to contend with something as trivial as my phone. Funny, a day ago, not having a phone hadn’t seemed trivial.
When we opened the door to the bedroom suite, Rett was waiting. His chest was now covered with a soft navy-blue t-shirt. His dirty blue jeans from earlier were replaced with a new pair of blue jeans. And his wavy hair was combed back and still wet from his shower.
As the doctor and I entered, Rett stood, his stubbly jaw set and his intense dark stare searching, scanning me as if there were a message written on me that only he could see.
I pulled the soft white chenille robe tighter.