Chapter 11 Amara #2
She takes a new glove, dips two fingers in lubricant, and inserts them inside me, pressing hard against the wall. With her other hand, she palpates my lower stomach, feeling for lumps or tenderness. Her fingers are thick, the glove texture rougher than I expect.
She withdraws, removes the gloves, and tosses them in a red plastic bin.
“You can sit up,” she says, already turning away to type notes into the laptop on the tray.
I pull my knees together, sit up, try not to flinch at the raw ache between my legs. My face burns, but my hands are steady.
She finishes her notes, then comes back and hands me a tissue. “There may be some residue,” she says, gesturing to my thighs.
I take the tissue and wipe between my legs. The lubricant is clear and sticky, and I feel like a specimen, a thing to be cleaned and put away.
She hands me a thin paper gown. “Keep this on for now. The doctor will be in shortly to complete the testing and the panel.”
The word doctor lands differently. I thought she was the doctor. I thought this was the worst of it.
But it isn’t.
She leaves the enclosure, pulling the curtain behind her. I sit on the edge of the table, clutching the gown to my chest, waiting.
The silence is complete.
I try to focus on the facts, the little things that don’t matter but give my brain something to chew on.
The texture of the paper under my hands. The hum of the fluorescent bulb. The smell of bleach, everywhere, like a second skin.
The curtain stirs. A man enters. He’s old, at least sixty, with a bald head and wire glasses. He wears a white coat over green scrubs, and his hands are already gloved. He doesn’t introduce himself, just scans the chart on the clipboard, then glances up at me.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Amara thank you for your cooperation.”
I nod. My mouth is too dry to answer.
He holds the chart, sits on a stool, and wheels himself to the foot of the table. “Let’s review the markers before we begin the ultrasound.”
“Height, five foot six. Weight, one fifty. Blood pressure, stable. No prior surgeries, no birth control, no STDs. Menarche at twelve, cycles every twenty-eight days, no complications. Family history: one maternal miscarriage, no known genetic disorders.”
He flips to a new page. “Partner: Roth, Julian Elliot. No contraindications. Highest compatibility in the cohort. Both lines clear for the full protocol.”
He turns his attention to me, but his gaze is clinical. I am an object, a specimen, a checklist.
He wheels his stool closer, then snaps his gloves on.
“Lie back, I am going to complete the examination now. Just relax,” he says, without looking at my face.
I swallow the lump in my throat and lay back. He pushes my feet back into the stirrups.
He pushes my knees apart even wider, then peers at my labia. I feel the cold air, the tremor in my thighs.
He takes a long cotton swab and parts my lips with his gloved fingers.
The swab is cold, rough; he swipes it along the opening of my vagina, then inside, twisting as he collects his sample.
He slides it out and sets it in a tray, then repeats the process with two more swabs, each time probing deeper.
The nurse returns, standing at the side of the bed, watching with cold eyes.
He narrates as he goes. “Collecting for PCR. HPV. STD.” His tone is bored, impersonal.
The nurse jots notes on her clipboard, then looks up and says, “She has very fine epithelial tissue. Fertility will be excellent.”
The doctor grunts. “Good, good. The Board has a special interest in this pairing.”
I want to sink into the table, disappear. I fix my gaze on a crack in the ceiling tile, follow its jagged path from one corner to the next.
The nurse murmurs, “Cervix is healthy. Os is closed. No visible abnormalities.”
The doctor chuckles, “Perfect breeding stock.”
He looks down at my vagina with a wistful sigh before turning his attention to his notes. He speaks to the nurse again, voice low. “They’ll want the follicular count.”
The nurse nods, grabbing another tray with a mobile ultrasound machine on it. then turns to me. “Relax your stomach.”
She picks up a cold plastic probe, coats it in gel, and slides it along my pubic bone. The pressure is intense, but she’s fast, tracing a path from left to right, pressing down at intervals.
She watches the small screen, then records numbers.
“Sixteen follicles, left ovary. Eleven, right. No cysts, no adhesions.”
The doctor nods. “Outstanding.”
I try to count the seconds until they finish, but I lose my place every time the nurse annotates something, or the doctor speaks.
He pulls off his gloves, drops them in the trash.
The nurse wipes between my legs with a cool towel, then tucks the paper gown back over my lap.
“You can sit up now,” she says.
I do, clutching the gown to my chest. My hands are slick with sweat.
The doctor looks at me, the first time he’s met my eyes since I walked in.
“You did very well,” he says. “You’ll make an excellent mother. The Board will be pleased.”
I want to spit in his face, but my mouth is dry.
He stands, writes a note on the chart, and leaves the room.
The nurse looks at me and tells me I can get dressed in my clothes.
I want to kick to scream, to stab her with a pencil, but I don’t.
I just nod, then stagger to the small bench against the wall, where the nurse has left my clothes in a tidy folded stack.
My hands reach for them, but my fingers feel wrong, too long and clumsy.
I slip on my underwear and bra, then the skirt, but my hands shake so violently that I can’t manage the buttons on my blouse.
I jab at the top one, miss, try again, fumble it through.
The second button slips from my grip, then the third, until I am stabbing blindly at the holes, the whole world reduced to cotton and plastic and the useless flesh of my own hands.
Tears hover, threatening to fall, but they don’t. I refuse to let them. Instead, I clench my jaw, grind my teeth together so hard I feel the bone creak.
When my blouse is fastened, I reach for my jacket, slide it over my shoulders, try to smooth my hair into something that looks like control. My arms keep trembling. I tuck them close to my sides and press my knees together.
When I walk, I wobble. My left knee nearly gives out, but I catch myself on the wall, steadying against the cold cement.
The escort is back, walking towards me.
He sees the stumble, then looks away, embarrassed on my behalf. He waits for me to meet him halfway before turning and walking towards the entrance, opening the door, stepping into the hall, and gestures for me to follow.
We walk. Each footfall is loud in the empty corridor. I fix my eyes on the floor, trace the cracks in the tile, the chipped paint along the baseboards. Outside and across the quad, the escort checks over his shoulder to see if I’m still there.
I am.
Halfway back to my room, we round a corner and nearly collide with Dean Marcus.
He moves with purpose, a folder tucked under one arm, his free hand flicking through his phone. He wears the same navy suit as always, his tie straight and perfect, his hair unmoved by the wind or the world.
He sees me. Our eyes meet. For a fraction of a second, something flashes behind his face—sympathy, or maybe disgust.
Then he looks away, as if I am a stain on the wall, an inconvenient smudge. He brushes past, the folder grazing my arm, and keeps walking.
My chest tightens. My jaw clamps so hard I hear a pop in my ear.
The escort hesitates, then mumbles, “Almost there,” like he’s apologizing.
I follow, head down, every muscle locked.
When we reach my dorm, he opens the door for me.
“You’re done for today,” he says. “You can… rest.”
I step inside, the familiar darkness swallowing me whole.
The door shuts. Silence returns.
I move to the window, press my forehead to the cold glass. My reflection stares back: hair wild, eyes red, skin pale and translucent.
There is no hell because nothing could be worse than this.
I slide to the floor, knees pulled to my chest. My fingers dig into the fabric of my skirt, searching for a feeling, any feeling at all.
I replay the walk in my mind, the way my father’s eyes skipped over me, the way I was nothing more than a blip in his schedule. Not a daughter. Not a student. Not a person.
Just a product. A vessel.
A thing.
I wait for the tears, but none come.
The cold inside my chest spreads, until I feel nothing at all.
There is comfort in that.
I pick at the seam of my jacket, peel it apart, watch the threads unravel.
When I am hollow enough, I get to my feet, cross the room, and stare at myself in the mirror.
I am still here.
I am still Amara Marcus.
But there is less of me now, and more of what they wanted.
I look away, then back again, daring my reflection to move.
It doesn’t.
It never will.