52
BEFORE
Not even a week after the Knights asked me what I wanted, Ms. Delphine announces once breakfast has ended that she and I are going to an appointment. Imagine my shock when she takes me to see a doctor who handles woman issues. When Ms. Delphine explains to me what a gynecologist does and where in my body the gynecologist will look, I consider running.
No one has seen any private part of me since Monsieur forced me to change in front of him. I am in a state of near hyperventilation until, in the waiting room, Ms. Delphine places a warm hand on mine.
“Please, darling,” she whispers. “We have to do this. We have to make sure you are well.”
“I am well,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Well in there,” she enunciates.
What if I’m not? Will they throw me back into the water like a fish too small to keep?
I sit so rigidly my lower back hurts from the strain. The whole time, Ms. Delphine keeps her hand on my arm to either soothe me or prevent me from leaving. I’m not sure which. I do not need a doctor to tell me my insides are ruined. I knew it the moment Paul’s men raped me.
The nurse calls me. Ms. Delphine stands, making me do the same. I loathe doing this. I do not want to again feel vulnerable, but I trust Ms. Delphine’s decisions. The room the nurse leads us into has a small bed that goes up and down, sits up and back. There are metal attachments at the end, which I learn are stirrups. They are nothing like the ones used with horses. The nurse is pleasant enough and asks me questions I cannot answer because I can’t remember.
“When was your last menses?”
I do not know.
“When did you first have your menses?”
I cannot remember. Since the village and the Compound and Robach, things have been different, down there—inside.
“Are you sexually active?”
If my look could kill, there would be one less nurse.
“Were you sexually active before . . .” She trails off. There is no soft way to ask if I was a virgin before I was raped.
At any rate, I was a virgin.
“She would have only been fourteen.”
The nurse clears her throat, sounding nearly as uncomfortable as I feel. “I’m sorry for the questions. It’s just we have to ask about your sexual history, even at that age.”
Ms. Delphine is offended on my behalf, and I sneak a look to see she is glaring at the nurse. “Let’s move on, shall we? These questions are irrelevant. What is important is now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The nurse asks me to remove my clothing and don the paper robe.
She leaves us alone. Ms. Delphine tries to avert her eyes when I turn my back on her so I can undress. I worry about what the doctor will say about me, because I will not be able to bear her pity. When we return home and she tells Mr. Noble and Elin what she has heard, they will pity me too.
The doctor is not only a woman but the same color as me. She is older, maybe sixty, with big round glasses and a comforting smile. I relax a bit. Her hands are warm and soft, and she does not talk down to me or make assumptions.
“May I?” she asks before touching me.
She will never know how grateful I am that she asked first. I nod, sneaking a look at Ms. Delphine, who earlier refused to leave when the nurse suggested that she wait outside during the examination.
“She is my daughter,” Ms. Delphine told her. “You’re mad if you think I’m leaving her.”
My entire chest expanded so much I was afraid it would explode.
The doctor tells me what she is doing every step of the way. She shows me the speculum before she puts it in. Despite my effort to keep quiet, I cry out from the pain, from memories of my defilement by those men. Down there, the doctor makes sounds I cannot discern to be good or bad.
“Nurse, let’s have an ultrasound.”
Once the technician completes the ultrasound exam, the doctor says regretfully, “Just as I feared.” The monitor is swirls of gray, black, and white. I do not know what I look at, but she begins to explain. “This”—she points at the screen, tracing a web of what looks like white bands in a sea of black and gray—“is what I was worried about. It’s scar tissue, a result of extensive traumatic injury. Untreated scar tissue hardens, which it’s done now. Scarring can come from tears in the vagina from forceful entry or could be from untreated sexually transmitted diseases.”
“Does she—？” Ms. Delphine chokes out.
The doctor looks at me with compassion. “We’ve tested for all of it, and the results will come soon. I’ve put a rush on them. To me, this scarring looks like a result of forced entry.”