Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“What?” I burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous. I mean, George and I had been to a few formal fundraisers, but that was his thing, not mine. If I had a choice, I’d live in yoga pants and sneakers; you know that, Marsha. For God’s sake, I listen to Britney Spears and dance to hip-hop and R&B.”
“I know, hon, but that’s just the way you look, not the way you are,” Marsha says, taking out a small mirror to reapply her red lipstick. Swiping on a coat with a practiced hand, she puts away the mirror and the lipstick and says, “It’s a good thing, trust me. Take me, for instance. I could try to class it up all I want, but guys take one look at me and decide I’m easy. Doesn’t matter what I wear or how I act; they just see my hair, tits, and ass, and figure I put out.”
“That’s because you do put out,” Tonya points out with a grin.
Marsha huffs and flicks back her blond waves. “Yeah, but that’s neither here nor there. My point is, she”—she jerks her thumb at me—“couldn’t look easy if she tried. Any guy looking at her knows—he just knows—he’s going to have to work for it. Like dinners with parents and ring on the finger kind of work.”
“That’s not true,” I object. “I slept with George long before we got married.”
Andy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but how long were you dating before you slept with him?”
“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.