Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Laura Allen?" The receptionist's voice cuts through the quiet. "Doctor Anderson will see you now."
Laura stands. Her legs feel weak, unsteady. She walks toward the door that leads to the back hallway, the same door she's walked through every week for three months. The same door. The same hallway. The same exam room.
She sits in the waiting room chair for a moment longer than she should. The same chair she sat in weeks ago, the first time she came here. The same fountain bubbling in the corner. The same soft lighting. Everything looks the same. Nothing is the same.
The polyp is healed. The bleeding has stopped. The pain is gone. But she still comes every week.
She tells herself it's for the therapy. She tells herself it's for the pain. But the pain is gone. There's only him.
Helen has stopped asking about the appointments. She's noticed the change in Laura. The distraction, the mood swings, the way she flinches when anyone touches her. But she doesn't know what to do. Laura can see it in her eyes, the worry, the confusion. Helen wants to help. Helen doesn't know how.
Laura's work is suffering. She's been written up twice for mistakes.
Misfiled books. Missed deadlines. A patron complained that she was rude.
Laura doesn't remember being rude. She doesn't remember much of anything anymore.
Her boss, Carol, is losing patience. Laura can see that too.
But she can't focus on anything except the next appointment.
She's tried to stop. She's canceled twice, only to reschedule within hours. She's written letters to the medical board, only to delete them. She's told herself she'll never go back, only to find herself in the parking lot, her hands shaking on the steering wheel.
The door opens. The nurse smiles at her.
"Go on back, honey. He's ready for you."
Laura walks down the hallway. Her feet know the way. She doesn't have to think about it. Her body just moves, carrying her toward him.
The exam room is the same. The cold table, the paper covering, the stirrups folded up like metal arms waiting to receive her. She undresses mechanically. She folds her clothes and places them on the chair. She pulls on the paper gown. She sits on the edge of the table and waits.
The door opens. The lock clicks.
"Laura," Doctor Anderson says. "I've been looking forward to seeing you."
She doesn't respond. She can't. Her throat is tight, her chest heavy.
He pulls on his gloves. The sound of the latex snapping against his wrist makes her flinch. She lies back. She swings her legs up. The stirrups are cold against her heels.
His hands are warm. They always are. They part her folds, gentle but insistent. His fingers slide inside her, slow and deliberate. She is already wet. She is always wet now, her body trained to respond to his touch.
"Good," he murmurs. "You're so ready today. So open."
He works his fingers in and out, finding that spot inside her.
His thumb circles her clitoris. The pleasure builds, but Laura feels detached, floating above her own body, watching herself from a distance.
She sees the woman on the table. The spread legs, the glistening flesh, the doctor's bent head. She doesn't recognize her.
She comes silently, her body arching, her mind elsewhere.
Doctor Anderson withdraws his fingers. He removes his gloves. He helps her sit up, his hands steady on her shoulders.
"You're ready," he says. "You've made incredible progress. I think we can start spacing out your appointments."
Laura's heart stops.
"What do you mean?"
"You're cured, Laura. You don't need me anymore."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She should be relieved. She should be grateful. Instead, she feels panic rising in her chest, hot and choking.
"No," she says. "I'm not ready. I still need you."
Doctor Anderson studies her for a long moment. His eyes are warm, kind, unreadable. Then he smiles, that warm, fatherly smile.
"I'll be the judge of that," he says. "But if you feel you need more time, we can continue."
Laura nods, relief flooding through her. "Yes. I need more time."
She knows she's trapped. She knows she's never getting out. And the worst part is, she doesn't want to.
She gets dressed slowly. Her fingers fumble with buttons and zippers. Her clothes feel strange against her skin, too tight, too rough. She can still feel his fingers inside her, the ghost of his touch lingering.
She walks out of the exam room and into the waiting room. The receptionist smiles at her.
"Same time next week?"
Laura opens her mouth to say no. To finally break free. To reclaim her life.
"Yes," she hears herself say. "Same time next week."
She walks to the door, her legs unsteady, her body still humming with his touch. She doesn't look back. She can't. If she looks back, she'll never leave. And she's not sure she wants to leave anyway. She's not sure of anything anymore.
The door closes behind her. The waiting room falls silent.
Laura stands in the parking lot, frozen between escape and surrender, unable to move in either direction.