Eleven Weeks (5 page)

“Now, Miss Allison, what can I do for you today?” The doctor removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes. I glance at the clock, ticking away on the wall. It’s three p.m.; he’s no doubt exhausted.

“I had potentially unprotected sexual intercourse and wish to be checked for STDs.” I hold my head up high. No nervous stuttering this time.

The doctor swallows. “Potentially unpro—”

“Why is everyone so hung up on the potential? I can’t remember, but I really don’t want any …” I swing my gaze back to the brochures on the wall. “… unpleasant
itches
, or diseases, or warts—oh my God, if I ever …” I shudder. Growing up the youngest in a family of seven has meant a lifetime of hearing dating-gone-wrong stories from my three older brothers and one older sister.

“Okay, so we’ll need to do a pap smear. Have you ever had one before?”

I shake my head, no.

“Great. I just need you to lie down on the bed over there, having removed the bottom half of your clothing, please.” The doctor turns his back to me and begins shuffling through papers on his desk. “There’s a robe you can use to cover yourself.”

“All—”

“Underwear included, yes.”

I shrug. I know it’s a stupid question, but I figured it was worth asking anyhow. Just in case I could be less naked.

I wriggle out of my shorts and underwear, tossing them on the floor underneath the bed. I then gingerly climb up and lie down, the plastic cover making a squelching sound underneath my sweaty skin. I stare up at the roof above me, the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles.

“Ready,” I sing out, hands clasped over my ribs.

“Good. I—”

I turn to look at the doctor. He swallows. “The robe, Miss.” He promptly turns back around to look at the wall.

I throw my head back. Of course. The robe. This doctor must be seriously doubting my ability to keep my clothes on.

I grab the green terry-towelling number and slide it under me, then wrap it around under my armpits, velcroing it shut.

“Are you done?” the doctor asks.

“Sure am.”

“Okay.” He walks toward me, plastic gloves covering his hands. He lifts up the robe—what is the big deal about, anyway, if he’s just going to go lifting it?—and grabs an instrument that looks disturbingly like a pair of tongs had sex with a pair of scissors, resulting in this odd monstrosity. I suck in a breath. He’s not going to …

“This may feel a little uncomfortable …”

Ouch!
Yep, he’s going to. I cringe. Uncomfortable, my ass. This feels like someone is stretching my private bits and then—ugh! Scraping something …

I clench my eyes shut tight, my teeth grinding together. If I make it out of this room alive, I will travel to every single high school in the area and preach the number one reason why you shouldn’t have unprotected sex. This cruel and unusual punishment is worse than listening to nails scraping down a chalkboard.

Actually? That. That’s exactly what this feels like.

“Just try to relax,” the doctor says, and it strikes me once more the injustice of it all. Here he is, sticking some horrible duck bill-shaped monstrosity in my lady bits, and I don’t even remember his name. Still, I don’t think he’d appreciate my ‘some guys take you to dinner and a movie’ joke, so I remain silent.

Finally, after what feels like ten minutes, the doctor tells me to shut my legs—no doubt a message he’s hoping I take home with me—and get dressed again. Five minutes later and I’m sitting back at the desk while he gathers a few more notes.

“And how many sexual partners have you had?” Doctor—quick check of his nametag—Higgins pushes his glasses back up his nose. I shift in my seat. Ugh. Did questions get any more embarrassing than this?

“Are you after a specific timeframe?” I wrinkle up my nose.
It’s worth a shot …

“Since you were first sexually active …” He consults his notes from earlier in my visit. That was before the ultimate insult the medical health profession paid to females, the
I’m going to stick some claws inside you, stretch you and scrape you
, also known as the pap smear. “… two years ago.”

“Three,” I mumble. Okay, so I’m not exactly a shrinking violet when it comes to the sexual relations department, but I’m certainly not a whore-bag, like some of the other chicks in school. And they were all when I was of legal age. Hell, compared to Boobs Becky, I’m basically Mother Teresa.

Dr Higgins sighs and scratches his balding head, then clasps his hands between his knees and leans forward to look at me, to really eyeball me in the way only disapproving adults can. My stomach once again tries to heave its way out of my throat, and I decide to only take the one pill at a time. I’m hungover enough as it is—surely adding nausea to the mix is a bad idea.

“You know, that’s quite a few for a person of your age.” The doctor raises his eyebrows. “It’s important to remember that sex is important, not just something you should be giving away at the drop of a hat. The rate of teen pregnancy in this area is—”

“I know, I know. And I’ll never do it again. I already got the morning-after pill from the pharmacist.” I nod.

Shame washes over my body again and I tilt my head back to stare at the ceiling.
Why, oh why, had I had that seventh shot?

“I’ll have your results for the STD tests back within the week. Call me between two and half past next Wednesday, and I’ll let you know if anything shows up.” Dr Higgins hands me a piece of paper his printer spat out with his name and phone number on it.

“Thanks.” I take it and stand to leave, grabbing my purse from the arm of the seat as I do so.

I make my way to the door and turn the handle.

“And Stacey?” Dr Higgins asks.

I spin around. “Yes, Doctor?”

“Be more careful next time.”

I
GET
home and pop pill number one in the car, dry-swallowing it and hating the feel as it forces its way down my throat. I put the cardboard box just under the seat to avoid any prying family eyes, making a mental note to come back for round two later. It won’t be safe from my nosy family inside.

“Hey, Mum,” I say as I walk into the kitchen. Immediately, the seductive aromas of vanilla and dark chocolate fight for my attention.
Mmm …

“Hi, dear.” Mum gives me a brief glance then continues stirring something on the stove. She dips a plump finger in and sucks it into her mouth, a satisfied smile appearing a second later. She gives a brisk nod and puts down her spoon.

“Whatcha making?” I ask, eying the mixture. It’s blond, with dots of chocolate-brown littered through it.
Choc-chip? Please not fruit cake …

“Nothing, dear.” Mum dusts her hands off on her apron.

“Not a … birthday cake?” I smile, knowing that’s exactly what it is. Every year, Mum makes us cakes.
Every year …

But the words are like bullets. Mum freezes in her tracks, her hands thrown in the air like mini grenades. “I forgot,” she says through gritted teeth.

She forgot? My eighteenth birthday, and she forgot? What could possibly be so important that she didn’t remember my—

“I’m so sorry, possum. It’s just that everything has been so busy these last few weeks, with work, and your sister’s promotion, and Steve’s marriage …”

My jaw drops. She really didn’t remember. But … it’s my
birthday,
my eighteenth, the one that’s supposed to mark my coming into adulthood. How did it just slip her mind? She’s my mother, for crying out loud.

I open and shut my mouth like I’m a goldfish. I don’t know what to say. Surely every parent is supposed to remember the anniversary of the day they gave birth! It would have been one helluva painful day; at the very least she should remember and celebrate that she’s not in labour anymore.

Then I look at her, and the apology on her face, printed in her eyes … it freaking sucks, but I can’t be angry with her. What’s it going to do? What will it achieve?

I make a silent vow to myself.
When I become a mum, I’m going to celebrate every milestone of my child’s life. Every. Single. One.

The thought gives me comfort. Enough to school my features before Mum accuses me of being a brat.

She walks forward and throws her arms around me. She smells of cinnamon, and small flour dust clouds tornado up in the air around us.

“We will get you a present.” Mum presses a quick kiss to the top of my forehead. “Now go clean your room. You know Shae wanted tonight to be special.”

Shae. How could I forget? The world’s most amazing sister, no doubt adding some routine to her act tonight, such as
completing her law degree as the youngest student in Australia
or
becoming the only female partner in the best law firm in the city
.

“I think she’s closer to buying a house,” Mum squeaks. “She might be moving out.”

I smile. I love Shae, I really do, and knowing she is happy is freaking awesome.

No, really.

It is.

Even if it hurts, just a little.

“We can make this a joint cake,” Mum says, spooning the mixture into a baking dish. “A Happy House-Buying Shae and Happy Birthday Stacey cake. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

I nod. “Sure does.”

Mum doesn’t respond, so I turn and walk upstairs. My feet feel like lead as they drag over the carpet. I reach my room and grab some clean clothes from my pink dresser—a hangover from when I was five—then walk into the bathroom. I need another shower.

Swish
.

Water steams out of the showerhead and I scald myself underneath it. I grab the loofah and start scrubbing, scrubbing till my skin feels almost raw. I want to be clean. I want to be so damn clean I am shiny.

Slut.

I scrape particularly hard over my nether regions, the harsh material rubbing my nipples till the skin breaks and red specks of blood rise to the surface.

Then, when I can clean no more, I turn the taps to closed. The water doesn’t stop running, though. It keeps leaking from my eyes.

After I’m dry, I drag myself to bed. I’m so exhausted. I feel it in my limbs, my eyes, and my brain. Everything is slow, sluggish, and foggy. I just want to sleep now, for a very long time. My eyes are closed before my head rests upon my pillow.

Happy birthday to me.