Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
AVERY
I haven’t been with a guy for three years. Not since the epic breakup with Peter and everything that came afterward. I know other women have dry spells, but their biggest worries when they find someone they might actually want to get naked with probably have to do with grooming. Making sure all the parts are shaved or waxed or whatever.
Some girls might be proactive and get an STD test, but I’m pretty sure most girls don’t have to worry about being a silent carrier of an asymptomatic disease. Germs just lying in wait to wreak havoc on her life all over again.
Like Lisa and Josh, Peter and I got pregnant by accident. Unlike Lisa and Josh, however, Peter and I had been dating for years. But instead of giving birth and suffering from postpartum depression, I almost died and woke up in the hospital with no baby, no fallopian tubes, and my boyfriend calling me a slut.
Turns out, all this— he’d shouted, gesturing at the tubes and machines keeping me alive —was caused by an untreated STD . And I sure haven’t slept around, so it must’ve been you.
Those were the last words he said to me, but not the last words he said about me. Before I was even discharged from the hospital, he managed to convince all of our mutual friends that I was a lying liar who cheated on him. He called my sister and demanded that she drive down to Atlanta to pick me up. I spent weeks huddled in her guest room, refusing to talk to anyone, until I was well enough to fly back to Atlanta, pick up my car and the boxes of belongings Peter packed up, and drive home to Climax, where I never told anyone exactly what happened.
But now, if I want to explore this attraction to Josh, I have to suck it up and make sure it doesn’t happen all over again. Minus the accidental pregnancy, since I can’t ever conceive naturally again.
There’s a new OBGYN clinic in town with a female doctor, so I’m hoping I won’t be completely sex-shamed the way I was three years ago. I’m still nervous as I fill out the patient history, and I can’t keep from fidgeting once I’m sitting on the exam table half naked.
At least the room is warm, and the gown is actually made of fabric instead of paper. I’ll be sure to mention both in my Yelp review. Unfortunately, when the PA comes in, she goes through my entire history like I hadn’t just filled out the form. It’s a good thing she took my blood pressure before the inquisition; otherwise, it’d be off the charts.
“Hmm.” A little wrinkle appears in her brow.
“Is something wrong?”
“Um. I don’t know. I’ll just flag this for the doctor.”
“You can’t tell me?”
She looks up. “I don’t mean to worry you. It’s really just an inconsistency in your history. I’m sure the doctor can clear it up.”
She exits pretty quickly after that, but by the time the door opens again, I feel like my heart could win a horse race. “The PA said that something’s wrong,” I blurt out.
The petite woman in a trim white coat holds out a hand to me. “I’m Dr. Bautista. Good to meet you, Ms. Mills.”
Her smile is as warm as her handshake, which helps to settle me a little. Until she settles on a stool and rolls over to the computer screen, where the same wrinkle appears in her smooth brow, and she makes the exact same “hmm” sound as the PA.
“What’s the matter?” It’s a good thing this gown isn’t paper, or I’d have shredded it by now.
She blows out a breath. “I’m just trying to sort out this salpingitis diagnosis.”
“The PID?” I learned way more than anyone ever should about pelvic inflammatory diseases like salpingitis after waking up in the hospital.
She nods, eyes still on the computer. “It says here that you had a salpingectomy after your fallopian tube ruptured due to an ectopic pregnancy.”
“That’s right.” My voice is so thready I’m not sure she heard me, but she continues anyway.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, meeting my eyes with what looks like real compassion before looking back at the screen. “What I’m confused about is the fact that the doctor determined that an STD was the cause of the salpingitis, when there’s no record of any test.”
“It all happened kind of backward, I guess, because of the emergency surgery.” I have to swallow past the lump of shame blocking my throat. “I didn’t know I had an STD, just like I didn’t know I was pregnant and didn’t know I had the PID, because I didn’t have any symptoms until I started bleeding.”
“It can be difficult to talk about these things.” The doctor hands me a box of tissues, her voice as full of sympathy as her eyes.
I nod, determined to get back on track and get through this. “But after the surgery, the doctor said that the ectopic pregnancy was a result of scarring in the fallopian tubes, due to me having an STD.”
The doctor’s lips flatten. “But they didn’t test for it?”
I shake my head.
“Were you having unprotected sex at the time?”
As I nod, an ugly wave of self-disgust washes over me. “My boyfriend and I weren’t using condoms because we’d been together for a while, and I was on the pill. But I guess I didn’t take them regularly enough because I got pregnant anyway. So I figured that maybe I’m just bad at birth control.”
Peter’s harsh words echo in my ears, and it takes everything I’ve got to keep from pulling the gown over my head to hide. He swore he hadn’t cheated, so all I could think was that I’d somehow contracted something before we got together. My freshman year of college, I had a lot of sex. I’d been a bit of a late bloomer, and the attention from so many guys was intoxicating. I always used condoms, but all I could think was that some random guy must have had some random disease that I got anyway. That was the only explanation I could come up with, but Peter didn’t believe it. He was sure I was cheating on him.
Dr. Bautista waits patiently while I blow my nose and wipe away the tears chilling my cheeks. Before I can ask her about tests for sneaky STDs, however, she says, “I’m sorry if this is upsetting to you. I don’t mean to rehash old trauma. But I have one more question. Did you tell the doctor about your appendectomy?”
“Um, no? What does that have to do with it? That happened, like, years before.”
She winces. “Since the ectopic pregnancy was an emergent situation, he might have performed the surgery without checking old records. But he should have asked afterward.”
“Why?”
She meets my gaze. “Because it’s entirely possible—if you never had symptoms of a sexually transmitted disease—that the PID and subsequent scarring were caused by the appendicitis.”
I’m sitting in front of my computer, trying to remember what it is I needed to get done this afternoon, when a throat clearing startles me back to the present moment.
Two throats clearing, I guess, because when I look up, Daisy and Leia fill the doorway to my office.
“Did you…” It takes me a moment to find words. “Um… need something?”
“Just for you to get your head out of your ass,” Leia says.
Daisy swats our boss before adding, “We’re worried about you. You’ve been staring at that computer without moving all afternoon.”
I didn’t cry when the doctor explained how the misdiagnosis might have happened. I didn’t cry when she explained that because the doctor removed both fallopian tubes, it’s true that I can’t get pregnant without IVF treatments, even though I still get periods. I didn’t cry on the way back to CPR, even as the losses tallied up, all because a doctor made assumptions about my sex life. But now, looking at my two friends’ concerned faces, a sob bursts out of me.
Before I know it, my office door is closed, Daisy’s got an arm wrapped around my shoulders and Leia’s asking what’s wrong.
“I can’t,” I manage between sobs, “talk about it here.”
Leia pulls out her phone and punches buttons, while Daisy rubs my back, murmurs something vaguely soothing, and hands me one tissue after another.
“Travis will take the twins this evening.” Leia tucks her phone in her back pocket. “They’ll swing by and bring your parents dinner,” she says to me before pointing at Daisy. “Then they’ll feed your dog.”
Leia crosses her arms and nods her head sharply. “We’re going to Come Again.”
The name of Climax’s townie bar is endlessly hilarious to horny teenagers. But to a full-fledged adult—especially one who hasn’t had sex in over three years—it’s just annoying. Come Again does have a few things going for it, however: excellent draft beer and cider, low prices, and a back patio for when you don’t want to deal with the pool-and-darts-playing, small-town-gossiping crowd indoors.
My friends offer to buy me a drink while I stake out seating. I score the firepit with the most stable Adirondack chairs and light the kindling as I try to decide how much of my embarrassing past to share with my friends.
I’ve carried around the shame of my breakup with Peter like the weighted backpack the teacher doled out for the health class unit meant to show young teens how much of a pain in the tuchus it is to have to take care of a baby. But as I go over everything I learned in this afternoon’s appointment, I realize I have nothing to be ashamed of, unless I count the fact that I believed everything the doctor said and let Peter gaslight me into thinking it was all my fault.
How could I not have asked more questions? Gotten a second opinion? Or at least consulted Dr. Google?
Anger begins to devour all that useless shame. By the time the flames flickering in front of me have burned through the twigs and started on the logs, I’m flat out mad. Problem is, I’m as mad at myself as I am at the doctor. I’m also mad at all the people who can have kids but don’t want them. I’m even mad at the fucking sheep and cows in all those farms surrounding Climax, with their adorable lambs and baby cows.
Oh shit. I said the f-word in my head.
“Did you just swear?” Daisy asks.
My friends stare at me from the other side of the fire. “Um. Maybe?”
“Start from the beginning,” Leia says, handing me a frosty glass of Afternoon Delight, a Peak Finish Cidery favorite. “If you talk it out, you’ll at least feel better.”
I take a sip of the crisp apple cider to give myself a moment to settle, focusing on its blend of sweet and acid on my tongue. Come Again may be a bit of a dive, but they support all the local breweries and cideries.
Daisy clinks my glass with hers. “Whatever it is, we’ve got you.”
I take in her kind eyes, and then Leia’s, which only show concern. We work alongside each other every day, we’ve known each other forever, but I’m beginning to wonder if, like me, my closest friends keep some things to themselves. Maybe I’m not the only one with shadows in my past. Maybe sharing my ugly story will make it easier for them to trust me with theirs. So I set down my glass and clear my throat.
“I’m going to skip the gory details. Long story short, three years ago I was on an evening shift at the hotel down in Atlanta, and I suddenly felt really bad. Like I had a stomach flu. But when I went to the bathroom and got up from the toilet, there was blood in the bowl. Like, a lot of blood.”
Daisy gasps. “Oh my god.”
“It was pretty scary.” I take a breath, doing my best to stay calm, even though just thinking about it has the fear gripping my gut. “Peter was out with friends, so a co-worker took me to the emergency room. I don’t remember the exact sequence of things after that, but I was basically rushed into surgery.”
Leia—the most undemonstrative person I know—takes my hand and squeezes it, which gives me exactly what I need to finish.
“When I woke up, I was told that I’d had an ectopic pregnancy and that it had ruptured.”
My friends are silent, but when I take in their faces, there’s no judgment. Only concern.
“That must have been awful,” Leia says softly.
“Did you know you were pregnant?” Daisy asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. I was on the pill.”
After a few beats, Leia asks, “So what was the surgery for?”
“Turns out the ectopic pregnancy was just one of the problems. According to the doctor ,” I spit out the word, wondering if anything that shirt-for-brains man said or did was right, “the embryo was stuck in the fallopian tube due to severe scarring caused by pelvic inflammatory disease.”
I close my eyes, reminding myself that the next part wasn’t true. “Which he also said was caused by an untreated STD.”
Both of my friends sit back, like I might still be infected.
“Did you get it from Peter?” Leia asks.
I shake my head again. “Peter immediately jumped to the conclusion that I’d cheated on him.”
“What?” Daisy practically yells. “Did you give him the what for?”
I blow out a bitter laugh. “Have you ever been driving along, obeying all the traffic laws, when you notice a cop behind you? And suddenly, you’re so afraid that you were doing something wrong that you end up driving erratically?”
Both my friends nod.
“I knew I hadn’t been with anyone while I was with Peter, and I knew I’d used a condom with every partner prior to him, but there was the doctor telling me I’d had an STD; there was Peter telling me he didn’t give it to me, and I thought I must’ve gotten it in college or something. That I was careless one time and I’d been carrying this little bomb around, destroying my reproductive system and threatening Peter’s health.”
Daisy takes my other hand. “That must’ve been awful.”
All three of us stare at the fire for a few moments, my friends flanking me, and I realize that even without the full truth, they’re not judging me. They’re on my side.
Then Leia shifts, turning toward me. “Wait. Then what happened today?”
I blow out a breath and then gently ease my hand free to take a long sip of cider. “I went to the doctor. To that new clinic?”
Once I catch their nods, I return my gaze to the fire, still finding it difficult to believe how my story has changed. “She told me that it’s entirely possible, even probable, that the infection that caused the scarring could’ve started when my appendix burst in college. The doctor who removed my fallopian tubes never asked about appendicitis, but I guess he should have. And he didn’t even do an STD test. He just looked at me, saw a young, unmarried, sexually active woman, and assumed that was the cause.”
“Well, that sucks,” Leia says, still holding tight to my hand.
“It does. Especially because I thought I’d be with Peter forever.”
“But he didn’t believe you!” Daisy cries. “Fuck that guy.”
I lift my glass in salute. “Yeah. Fuck that guy.”
Typically, when Daisy whips out her tarot deck or bag of runes, I inwardly roll my eyes and just pretend to play along. I may not believe in her woo-woo, but it means a lot to her. But after my big confession, she insists that we throw our old fears into the fire.
Literally.
She pulls a notebook out of the boho monstrosity I call her bag of tricks, shoves pens and paper at us, and tells us to write down our greatest regrets. It doesn’t take me long. After all, I just dredged up my sordid past for them. So I write, believing the doctor and Peter . And then after a few moments, I add, not trusting myself .
After I fold up my paper, I look to Daisy for further instruction. While she finishes whatever she’s doing with her own—eyes closed, mumbling something while fervently pressing it against her sternum—I steal a glance at Leia. What I see on her face makes my heart skip a beat.
My boss-friend keeps her emotions close to the vest. She always did, but when she got pregnant at seventeen, she locked it all down and just powered through. From finishing her senior year while breastfeeding twins to working her way up CPR’s ranks while taking night classes at the community college, I’ve never seen her flinch away from a challenge.
But right now, her piece of paper balled up in her fist, I swear she’s regretting something big time. Before I can find the guts to ask her about it, Daisy’s bright green eyes pop open, and she flings her paper into the fire with a whoop, ordering us to follow suit.
It actually feels good to pitch my old fears at the flames. To watch as the edges curl and blacken, swallowing my words as the paper collapses on itself. When there’s nothing left but smoke, it’s almost like there’s new space in me. One space in particular that would like to be filled to the hilt over and over again in a thrusting fashion.
But also in my heart.
For the past couple years, I’ve been telling myself that I’m fine. Happy, even. Happy to fill in for my mom with the toddlers, happy to be the problem solver and the shoulder to cry on, happy I can be here for my parents. But what happens when they’re gone?
And I’m left alone?
If I’m not the giant fudge up I thought I was, maybe I deserve a person—a family—of my own. A ready-made one with a space for a mom.
Slow down, girl. You’ve barely kissed the guy and you hardly know him.
What you do know: he’s likely planning to cut the toddler program that’s the highlight of your week. Even if he and his son love it, he may not have a choice.
Plus, he might not be married, but he’s grieving.
Though I think I read somewhere that sex can be healing. If only we can find the time.
When I crawl into bed later that night, the buzz from the cider has worn off, but Daisy and Leia’s love is still wrapped around me like a cozy blanket. Whatever happens with me and Josh, my friends will have my back.