The Virgin Cure (21 page)

“Fifteen.”

“Good.”

Discovering the ribbon I was wearing around my neck, she tugged at it, threatening to pull Mrs. Wentworth’s fan from under my garment.

I put my hand to my chest to keep the fan in place.

“Shh,” she said, “I only want to have a look.”

I gave in to her request, and allowed her to draw it out.

“What a lovely thing,” she said, turning the fan in her hand. “Where did you acquire it?”

“It was my mother’s,” I answered, praying she wouldn’t detect my lie.

“I see,” she said, as she let the fan drop. “Is she living?”

Not wanting to bring bad luck by saying Mama was dead when I didn’t know it to be true, I simply said, “She’s gone.”

“Please take off your kerchief,” Miss Everett said. “The doctor will need to check for nits.”

Pushing the calico scarf off my head, I felt the greasy slick of my short hair. It had grown since leaving Mrs. Wentworth’s, but was nowhere near being an acceptable length, especially for a whore.

Miss Everett let out a frustrated sigh. “You sold it, I suppose?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, stacking yet another lie, neat and close to the rest, like sticks bundled for burning.

There are many choices to be made in the daily life of a doctor’s work. When faced with the choice to participate in the care of the residents of 73 Houston Street, or to dismiss said inhabitants as unworthy of my consideration, I chose the former.

My intention was not, as some have outrageously assumed, an attempt to satisfy depraved desire or base instincts on my part. It was, quite simply, for the sake of the young women who lived there and for the benefit of science. I’ve logged many pages of case histories, noted many valuable observations while visiting there.

A quiet knock came at the door, followed by a woman’s voice. “May I enter?”

“Yes,” Miss Everett answered. “Come in.”

The doctor came in, carrying a large, black bag. It sank into the quilts when she placed it on one of the beds. I wondered if there was anything in it that might stop my belly from lurching.

“I’m Dr. Sadie,” she said, giving me a short nod as she took a bright red bar of soap from her bag.

Looking down at the floor, trying not to get sick, I replied, “I’m Moth.”

She was dressed in black from head to toe, the fabric of her dress expensive, the cut so fine I was sure it had been made just for her. The buttons down the back of her collar and at her sleeves were silver, each one made to look like a tiny rosebud. They pointed to wealth and good breeding, but her forthright attitude said she didn’t want anyone to make too much of it.

Untying the ribbon on her hat, she pulled it off to reveal dark brown hair, braided and pinned in a bun. After setting the hat on the edge of a washstand that was against the wall, she folded back the sleeves of her dress and went about washing her arms and hands in the basin. The smell of the soap was as harsh as tar.

When she’d finished, she came back to her bag and took out a crisp, clean apron. Pulling it over her head she tugged it into place and then tied the strings around her waist. “I’m sorry,” she said, apologizing before she’d even started. “I’ll try to make this easy.”

Miss Everett patted the edge of the bed closest to her and motioned for me to sit.

My legs, weak from nervousness, nearly buckled as I took my place. I wondered for a moment if I’d ever be able to stand again.

The doctor took a flat piece of silver from a chain at her waist. It looked something like Mrs. Wentworth’s letter opener, but with rounded edges instead of coming to a point. I pulled back when she came at me with it.

“I need to see inside your mouth,” she said, gesturing for me to open up, the tool still in her hand.

I did as she asked and she pressed the thing against my tongue and peered at my teeth, telling me to say “ah.” Then she removed the thing from my mouth and set it on the washbasin. Gently tugging at my eyelids she stared at my eyes. Spreading the hairs apart on my head, she checked for nits, Miss Everett hovering the entire time. Thankfully I’d been spared them.

Then she had me lie back on the bed so she could feel my arms and legs and all around my belly with her fingers. After that, she asked Miss Everett to leave.

The woman seemed disappointed by the doctor’s request, scowling at her all the way to the door. “I’ll be waiting right outside,” she said.

In a soft voice, Dr. Sadie explained, “I’m going to have to lift your undergarment now for an internal examination. I don’t mean to hurt you. Please spread your legs wide and do your best not to move.”

Feeling trapped and confused, I put my hand between my legs and held my knees tight together. As a child I’d held myself there in my sleep, one hand nestled, fingers cupped over the softest part of me so I’d feel safe. I’d thought nothing could harm me as long as I could feel the warmth of it, holding, holding, holding.

“Don’t,” I said, ready to run from the room. “I won’t let you.”

“All right,” the doctor said, pulling my skirt back down over my knees before sitting herself at the end of the bed. “How old are you?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.

“Fifteen.”

“How old?”

“Fourteen.”

Shaking her head she said, “You’re welcome to tell Miss Everett anything you like, but I ask that you not lie to me. I’m here to be of help, if you’ll allow it. Your proper age, please?”

I refused to answer.

She took a small book from her bag and began to write in it. “Have you any family?” she asked, pencil in hand.

“My father left when I was young.”

“And your mother?”

“She left too.”

“How long ago was that?”

“It’s been a while now.”

The pencil was in a pretty ivory holder, carved and spiralled around like a ribbon.

“Do you have regular courses?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Have you had your first blood?”

“No.”

“You’ve never lain down with a man? Never been put upon or seduced?”

“No.”

“You understand what that means, and what Miss Everett expects from you?”

The thought of being with a man was frightening. Though I’d seen her that once with Mr. Cowan, Mama had explained very little to me about how things should go, saying she thought it was best a girl get her start not knowing any better.

“Do you understand?” the doctor repeated.

“Yes.”

What I really knew was that, like the bracelet I’d stolen from Mrs. Wentworth, my virtue was a dangerous thing to keep, especially on the street. I’d never felt this more keenly than when Mr. Cowan had his hands on me, his breath greedy and hot against my cheek. It was inevitable that I should part with my innocence but at least under Miss Everett’s roof I hoped I might get the chance to give it up for a fair price.

Putting aside the book, the doctor said, “If you haven’t any other place to stay, there’s a girls’ lodging house over on St. Mark’s Place—”

“I know it,” I said.

“I’d be happy to help you get a spot there.”

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” I insisted.

The doctor sighed. “The nights are getting colder now and the beds there will be harder to come by. They serve hot meals every night and hold classes to teach reading, arithmetic and sewing.”

“I already know how to read and I’m staying here.”

She stared at me, her eyes moving back and forth across my face. “You had bruises around your eyes, not so long ago. Did someone hurt you?”

Like a Gypsy, like a witch, like Mama, she knew how to see things in a person that they’d just as soon forget. Turning away from her, I refused to answer any more of her questions. I stayed silent until she was gone.

In medicine, there is always the matter of practice before friendship. One tries to make oneself as human as possible.

I liked the girl the instant I met her. There was not a shred of nonsense about her (unlike so many girls her age). Even at her lowest, she knew who she was. In that way, we were more alike than different.