Page 34 of Deliverance

Although that notion goes against my own philosophy. It’s hard to pretend that hell doesn’t exist. Because that’s the only word that can adequately describe my marriage.

The rattle of the door handle snaps me out of my daze, and the same nurse who came out to grab the pregnant woman earlier emerges from the back. Then it’s my name that’s called next.

My feeling of inadequacy is pushed aside as immense fear courses through me, and I’m not even sure what I’m scared of. Sometimes, I think this terror that hits me without a warning is residual. An aftershock of my rocky years with Rhys.

Taking a deep breath, I rise to my feet and follow the nurse down the narrow hallway and into an empty exam room, where she takes my vitals and asks me the same questions I’m asked during each appointment.

Any pain, bleeding, cramping, weight changes?

My answers are always the same too.

No.Not for a while anyway. Not since these visits became semi-annual instead of quarterly.

“The doctor will be with you shortly,” the nurse says with a smile once she’s done and exits the room.

I wait alone and in silence, but only for a handful of moments until a soft rapping on the door announces Dr. Gibbs’ arrival. She’s a slip of a person in her late forties. Two oval clips hold her short, unruly curls away from her forehead. A pair of Versace glasses are mounted atop her small nose.

“Ms. Kadence. Nice to see you again.” She rolls a padded stool over to the monitor screwed into the wall and settles herself down on it. “How are you doing?”

I try to keep my voice neutral. “Fine.” I am, though. This is not a lie. “It's nice to see you too.”

“Good to hear.” Dr. Gibbs gives me an evaluating stare that lingers on my face. “You look great.” She pushes her glasses farther up her nose and assaults the keyboard. “Let’s take a look at your labs.”

As expected, they’re in order, and I’m wondering why these follow-up visits can’t be done over the phone unless there’s a need to see me in person because something’s really wrong with me.

Fucking defective bitch! Can’t even do what you were made for.

I swallow down the memories attempting to break to the surface and concentrate on what the doctor is saying.

She spins the stool to face me. “Do you still have nightmares?”

“Sometimes.”

“Let’s refill the Temazepam then.”

I don’t tell her that I don’t need the medication. The pills were making me so groggy and weird that I couldn’t work. They don’t seem to get along with my muse, so I’d rather see nightmares than not be able to create what pays my bills.

“Have you thought about contraception?”

She brought it up once before and I was in no condition to even think about sex back then.

“No.”

“Still not interested?”

“Not really.” I shake my head, wishing to move on to a different subject.

“Drew.” Dr. Gibbs pauses, perhaps to allow me to get ready for what’s about to come out of her mouth. “You’re a beautiful young woman. I know what you’ve gone through is horrible, but you shouldn’t swear off relationships or men…or even women, if you want to explore, of course. Intimacy can be very rewarding.”

“I’m not swearing off anything. I just haven’t met anyone worth my time.” Now that’s a lie. I’m definitely not interested in having a partner anytime soon. Or ever.

Solitude won’t give you a black eye or break your ribs.

“Would you like me to put in a referral for you with Dr. Cardoso?”

She reminds me of a helicopter parent rather than a gynecologist, which isn’t a bad thing. Having someone remotely human taking your hard-earned money while inspecting your insides beats having someone with a horrible bedside manner, but a bill from a shrink is the last thing I need to add to my plate right now. Besides, what can a person—even with a med school diploma—who’s never been married to Rhys Jacoby tell me that I haven’t already read in an issue ofCosmo?

“Not at this time,” I tell Dr. Gibbs politely.

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