had wanted to kill him.
A thin shaft of light pierced through the gloom as the technician re-entered the room. Squeezing a jelly lubricant all over the wand-like probe, she then placed a pillow under Charlotte’s hips. Charlotte had never felt so exposed, so out of control. As the cold, plastic probe delved deeper and deeper inside her, her helplessness triggered a spurt of pure terror.
“Stay still!” the woman hissed. “Or we’ll be here all night.”
For forty interminable minutes, she was subjected to the technician’s ruthless intrusions; to the clicking and stopping, clicking and stopping, as she photographed the shadowy depths of her womb.
Charlotte knew there was something in there. She sensed it. It was something ugly and vile. Made of her own hair and muscle, of bits of bone, blood and the tears she had never shed, it clung to her and grew, sapping her energy and sucking the air she breathed. Nothing could expel it. It had always hurt, this thing that grew inside her. It hurt so much that she imagined it was tearing her insides apart. When she smiled and politely asked the technician what she was seeing on the screen, the woman ignored her. It was only when Charlotte closed her legs and threatened to leave that she responded.
“I’m not allowed to answer your questions, ma’am. It’s company policy.”
“So when I will know the results?” Charlotte asked as the woman wiped the wand clean with a white towel.
“We send them to your doctor,” the woman replied coldly, handing her a wad of Kleenex. “But I wouldn’t worry about it
too
much,” she added casually. “Now please wait until I check the film.”
“What the hell did that mean?” Charlotte whispered to herself. “I wouldn’t worry
too
much?” Wiping the lubricant off her belly, she imagined the woman casually gossiping about her cancer with colleagues. When the technician stuck her head in the door and told her she could go, Charlotte struggled like a zombie through the motions of putting on her clothes and trembled.
What if it is a tumor?
she thought.
How will I pay for it all? How will I work?
10
She was walking so fast towards the News Bar on 3 rd Avenue and 23 rd Street, she was short of breath. There had been something horrifyingly familiar about the experience of lying on that table; about the helplessness. Slowing down her pace as the first cramp snaked through her gut and the crowd jostled past her, a memory sprang up like a clown coiled up in a jack-in-the-box.
The family was in Barbados and her mother had offered her a swimming lesson. She was six. She could feel the burning sand beneath her toes as they ambled towards the promise of a cool blue sea. They were together so rarely that even though the sand burned, Charlotte refused to rush.When the pebbles on the shore cut into the soft soles of her feet and the waves loomed larger, she held more tightly to her mother’s hand and smiled.
“Just try and relax,” her mother had said, as she held Charlotte firmly beneath her small arms and together they bobbed on the crest of the waves. Charlotte wanted so much to give something to her mother; something that would make her proud.
It was just at the moment when her limbs began to unlock and she felt so light, so buoyant, she laughed out loud, that her mother let her go. And down she went, caught in the steel-like grip of cold, blue water. It had puzzled her, the strength of that watery grip, before the panic took hold and she opened her mouth to cry out. Later, on the beach, her throat stinging from retching up sea and sand, her mother had hugged her. “I told you to relax, dear,” she’d said with a grin. “That’s how you learn to float.” Charlotte had never put her head beneath the surface of the sea again.
Punching at the glass door as if to punch the memory back into its box, Charlotte entered the News Bar. After handing over her credit card to the cashier, she looked for a seat. Every computer was open.
A thin shaft of light pierced through the gloom as the technician re-entered the room. Squeezing a jelly lubricant all over the wand-like probe, she then placed a pillow under Charlotte’s hips. Charlotte had never felt so exposed, so out of control. As the cold, plastic probe delved deeper and deeper inside her, her helplessness triggered a spurt of pure terror.
“Stay still!” the woman hissed. “Or we’ll be here all night.”
For forty interminable minutes, she was subjected to the technician’s ruthless intrusions; to the clicking and stopping, clicking and stopping, as she photographed the shadowy depths of her womb.
Charlotte knew there was something in there. She sensed it. It was something ugly and vile. Made of her own hair and muscle, of bits of bone, blood and the tears she had never shed, it clung to her and grew, sapping her energy and sucking the air she breathed. Nothing could expel it. It had always hurt, this thing that grew inside her. It hurt so much that she imagined it was tearing her insides apart. When she smiled and politely asked the technician what she was seeing on the screen, the woman ignored her. It was only when Charlotte closed her legs and threatened to leave that she responded.
“I’m not allowed to answer your questions, ma’am. It’s company policy.”
“So when I will know the results?” Charlotte asked as the woman wiped the wand clean with a white towel.
“We send them to your doctor,” the woman replied coldly, handing her a wad of Kleenex. “But I wouldn’t worry about it
too
much,” she added casually. “Now please wait until I check the film.”
“What the hell did that mean?” Charlotte whispered to herself. “I wouldn’t worry
too
much?” Wiping the lubricant off her belly, she imagined the woman casually gossiping about her cancer with colleagues. When the technician stuck her head in the door and told her she could go, Charlotte struggled like a zombie through the motions of putting on her clothes and trembled.
What if it is a tumor?
she thought.
How will I pay for it all? How will I work?
10
She was walking so fast towards the News Bar on 3 rd Avenue and 23 rd Street, she was short of breath. There had been something horrifyingly familiar about the experience of lying on that table; about the helplessness. Slowing down her pace as the first cramp snaked through her gut and the crowd jostled past her, a memory sprang up like a clown coiled up in a jack-in-the-box.
The family was in Barbados and her mother had offered her a swimming lesson. She was six. She could feel the burning sand beneath her toes as they ambled towards the promise of a cool blue sea. They were together so rarely that even though the sand burned, Charlotte refused to rush.When the pebbles on the shore cut into the soft soles of her feet and the waves loomed larger, she held more tightly to her mother’s hand and smiled.
“Just try and relax,” her mother had said, as she held Charlotte firmly beneath her small arms and together they bobbed on the crest of the waves. Charlotte wanted so much to give something to her mother; something that would make her proud.
It was just at the moment when her limbs began to unlock and she felt so light, so buoyant, she laughed out loud, that her mother let her go. And down she went, caught in the steel-like grip of cold, blue water. It had puzzled her, the strength of that watery grip, before the panic took hold and she opened her mouth to cry out. Later, on the beach, her throat stinging from retching up sea and sand, her mother had hugged her. “I told you to relax, dear,” she’d said with a grin. “That’s how you learn to float.” Charlotte had never put her head beneath the surface of the sea again.
Punching at the glass door as if to punch the memory back into its box, Charlotte entered the News Bar. After handing over her credit card to the cashier, she looked for a seat. Every computer was open.
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