Heteroflexibility Page 7

  I sat back and another pain jabbed me. Death. Accelerating. My breathing came faster. I tried to calm it down. Don’t overreact.

  I threw the car into drive and gunned it, darting into the traffic lanes and blasting through town. My gynecologist was three exits away. I’d make him see me. He’d see me. He knew my family history. Maybe the stress had been the last straw, letting the cancer overtake me.

  The car had barely chugged silent before I flung my body out of it and hurtled across the parking lot. Dr. White was the nicest doctor I’d ever known, often running behind schedule because he wanted to make sure every one of his patients felt as through they had their questions answered.

  The waiting room teemed with pregnant women in various states of belly balloons. Suddenly I was certain Cade’s woman was here, rubbing her happy bump, and he might even be with her. She would have a baby, and I would be dead.

  I felt woozy. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I rushed the front desk. “I need to see Dr. White. It’s an emergency.”

  The receptionist glanced at my belly, which I tried to pooch out, this time glad for the extra heft. Maybe if she thought I was pregnant, it would get me in.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m in pain,” I said, willing the sharp stab to return, to justify my freak-out. It hadn’t happened during my mad run into the office. “Down there.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She frowned. “But it’s possible?”

  I hadn’t had sex with Cade in, Holy Cow, two months. How had that happened? Why hadn’t I noticed? “Yes.”

  She pushed a form toward me. “Fill this out. We’ll try to work you in.”

  The wait was agonizing. Mothers with babies surrounded me. Every time the door opened, I was sure it would be Cade’s woman.

  I dug through a pile of magazines and paused on one. Christian Mother.

  The cover showed a mom looking up at a dad with a baby on his shoulder. The bold headline said, “Gays threaten traditional marriage.”

  I snatched it up, turning to the back. It didn’t have a label. The doctor’s office didn’t subscribe to it. Someone had left it there.

  The story began with a hysteria-inducing account of kids being forced to go to a teacher’s lesbian wedding, then kindergarteners being exposed to information about gay lifestyles with books like Heather Has Two Mommies.

  Since when did five-year-olds learn about sex at all? This was ridiculous. Of course the idea would make parents upset, but it wasn’t true. The article went on to bash Roy and Silo, two male penguins at the Central Park Zoo who were given an egg to hatch. Propaganda, they claimed. I dropped the magazine back on the table.

  “Zest Renald?” The nurse in pink scrubs scanned the room.

  I stood up, expecting the pain again, but it was gone. Great. I’d rushed in here for nothing. The urgency I’d felt an hour before had dissipated. I wasn’t going to die after all.

  She led me down the hall. When we got far enough from the reception desk, I said, “You know, I’m feeling a lot better. I think it was a false alarm.”

  “You didn’t schedule your annual. Dr. White wants to see you.”

  Oh, man. What happened to impersonal health care? I wanted to be a number again, a check box on a form. Dr. White waved at me as he headed toward his office.

  Nurse Kim led me into a room. “Let’s do the whole deal since you’re here,” she said, handing me a cotton gown. “Annual exam. Pap smear. Tie up the front!”

  Bah. She closed the door, and I turned toward a wall of babies. A couple of the pictures were mine, actually, as Dr. White had kindly referred a few people to me after I sent him some business cards. I compared them to the work of some of the other professional photos, scattered among the home snapshots and printed announcements. I did okay. With more experience, I’d be as good as them. Once I found another studio space.

  I changed into the gown and sat on the paper-covered table, another pain shooting up. Thank goodness. I wasn’t crazy. Even though I’d had the pain before, it was so random that I hadn’t paid a lot of attention.

  I shivered in the air conditioning. Nurse Kim stepped back inside to take my blood pressure. “So what’s all the fuss about?” she asked. “The front desk said you came in all shaky and convinced you were dying.”

  “I’ve been having shooting pains.”

  “How long?”

  “Not sure. A few weeks, I guess.”

  “Does it hurt when you have intercourse?”

  The pressure built around the cuff. “I haven’t had sex in a while.”

  She nodded and turned her attention to the gauge.

  The air hissed out in a long exhale. “Probably nothing major. We’ll take a look.”

  “My mom died of cervical cancer.”

  She flipped open my chart. “We’ll take a good hard look.”

  Two quick knocks on the door were followed by Dr. White’s head poking inside. “Everybody decent?”

  “You’re on time today,” I said.

  “No babies rudely disrupting my schedule,” he said. “Little buggers never can arrive during their appointments. That’s why I spank them.” He sat on the stool. “So tell me about these pains.”

  “It’s random. It shoots up when I’m sitting.”

  “Let’s go ahead and lay back and see what we see.”

  I fell back on the papered pillow, staring at the ceiling where the staff had tacked a poster expounding the virtues of self-breast exams.

  The speculum went in, and I tried not to tense up. Despite having shifted from doom to calm, I began edging back toward certain death. The touch of the swab was so painful that I recoiled.

  “Sorry, Zest,” Dr. White said. “It’s pretty red down there.”

  So I was dying. The cancer was eating away my insides. I remembered my mom, coming home from the first chemo, pale and weak, eventually throwing up and continuing to retch long after there was nothing left to purge. Only then did she tell me she had cancer. The whole week before, as they took tests and diagnosed her condition, I blithely attended ninth grade.

  I’d walked up and down the hallway outside the bathroom, listening to the terrible sounds. Finally she’d come out and laid across the sofa. “I’m not going to die,” she said. “So wipe that panicked look off your face.”

  “Should I make something for dinner?” I’d asked. I always made dinner.

  “Eat some cereal.”

  I’d sat alone in the kitchen, unable to make the corn flakes go down, finally dumping them in the sink. Mom headed back to the bathroom again.

  The second time I didn’t let her evade my questions. “I’m calling Dad.”

  “He’s off shore.”

  “You can get him for emergencies.”

  “This isn’t an emergency.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She headed toward her bedroom. I followed her, flipping on the light as she curled up. “Cervical cancer,” she finally said. “This is just the treatments. I’ll be fine.”

  The words slammed into me like a concrete wall, but I hid it. “You don’t look fine.”

  “Yeah, well, I never was a looker.”

  “I’m calling Dad.”

  “Don’t call your dad. He’ll be home in three days. We’ll tell him then.” She head out her hand, as if I should take it, a gesture of solidarity I had no idea how to handle.

  But I took it. Her skin felt thin and papery, like she was a hundred years old. And cold. “I won’t call him.”

  She let go and closed her eyes. “That’s my good girl.”

  The first and last time she called me good.

  The doctor slid the speculum out, and I relaxed. He tugged off his rubber gloves and extended a hand to help me sit up. The pain was definitely worse this time, darting up and radiating out, lasting several seconds instead of an instant.

  I had nothing funny to say, no ribald comment. He jotted a few things down in
my chart. Probably how long I had to live.

  “Zest, we can wait for the results, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got Chlamydia.”

  “What?”

  “One of the milder STDs. A little antibiotic will take care of it. You’re in no danger.”

  “How did I get that?”

  “It spreads by sexual contact.”

  “Oh my God.” That son of a bitch.

  “It’s very common. And seventy percent don’t have any symptoms. It could have been around a while.”

  “The antibiotic will cure it?”

  “Absolutely. But you might want to alert any sexual partners that they should be treated. Has there been any change at home?”

  “Cade is divorcing me.”

  “I see. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well. He’s obviously been busy.”

  Dr. White patted my ankle sympathetically. “I took an extra swab to test for everything else, but I think you’re okay. We’ll write you up a prescription. If the test comes back different, we’ll call you.”

  I nodded at him, not sure whether to cry or bomb Cade’s house.

  After dressing and instructing the desk to bill the copay to my home address—take that Cade!—I pointed my Volvo to the nearest Walgreens to fill the prescription, still burning from the notion that Cade’s woman had given both of us a disease.

  Chapter 13: Dating at the Speed of Flight

  I looked forward to a nap and a pity party when I got home, but Fern had other ideas. The minute the door opened, she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward her bathroom. “I called one of my people,” she said. “I set us up for speed dating tonight.”

  I halted. “Oh, no.”

  “She’s very exclusive. No losers in the group. I promise.”

  “Fern, I’m not even divorced. It’s only been, what, five days?” Not to mention I was, well, communicable.

  “Come on,” Fern said, tugging at my hand. “You need to get yourself out there. Meet some men. Have some fun! I can’t handle such a morose best friend.”

  “So it’s all about you.”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  I plunked down on her bed. “I won’t go.”

  She shrugged. “I have connections. I’ll bring them to you.”

  “Fern.”

  “Zest!”

  I flung myself backward. “What?”

  “Come on. Let’s get dolled up.”

  I buried my face in the crook of my arm. “I don’t do doll.”

  She hauled me up by the elbow. “Tonight you do. I’ll straighten your hair and find you some clothes.”

  ***

  The sidewalks of the Warehouse District were deserted. Seven o’clock on a Wednesday wasn’t exactly prime time. Fern and I passed the dark doorways of bars, only half of them even open yet. My head still ached from all the tugging Fern had subjected me to in the name of smooth hair.

  I didn’t really want to face any men, although I should have known whatever I ended up doing with Fern would involve a bevy. “So how does this work?”

  “We’ll get to meet six guys, ten minutes each. Everyone will check either yes or no by each other’s names. If you both choose each other, Lila will hook you up with double-blind email addresses.”

  I totally planned to check all no’s.

  “Why didn’t you wear the tights?” Fern admonished as we walked along the sidewalk, passing the open doors of bars, their bouncers sitting idly on stools, waiting for the late crowds. “You’re too pale-legged for that look.”

  I glanced down at my white knobby knees. “I don’t care.”

  “You should. You’re on the market now. The style is boots, textured tights, short skirt. You can’t leave a bit out.”

  “But it’s warm out.” I gestured to girls walking toward us. “They all have naked knees.”

  “They’re twenty and tan.”

  Fern slowed down, and we paused under the bright light of an entrance. “This is it.” She tucked some hair behind my ear, then brought it back out. “You should do your hair like this all the time.”

  “It took an hour!”

  “Beauty knows no timeline. You ready?”

  “Like a lamb going to slaughter.”

  The bouncer shifted on his tall stool. “IDs, ladies?”

  We passed our licenses over. He stamped our hands and we entered, the cool air shifting to warmth, beer smells, and the roar of conversation.

  Fern tilted her head toward me. She had dressed fairly normally for this occasion, a simple black skirt and striped sweater. No vamp, no cutie-pie, no bizarre theme. “Generally the guys will just check off everyone,” she said. “So don’t worry about that. You just decide if you like them.”

  A woman in an unfortunate gold lamé pantsuit held a small sign that said simply, “Meet Here.”

  “That’s Lila,” Fern said.

  “You should give her fashion advice.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  We headed over to her section of the bar where six tall tables were set with two opposing stools.

  “Hello, Fern, darling,” Lila said, air kissing her. “Is this your little friend?”

  “This is Zest,” Fern said. “It’s her first time.”

  “Charmed,” Lila said, holding out her hand in a position that made it seem as though I should kiss it.

  I grasped it awkwardly in a limp shake. “Thanks for letting me come.”

  “Anything for Fern!” Lila said. “She’s my most prodigious client.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “Poor thing never finds a keeper.”

  Fern pulled me toward the bar. “I’m not interested in getting hooked,” she said over her shoulder, then whispered, “But I am interested in getting booze. Let’s grease our evening with some scotch.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I think I need my wits about me.”

  Fern wiggled her finger at the bartender in a fitted black t-shirt, a scowling type who came instantly. “Trust me, it’s better with a buzz on.” She smiled at the boy. “Two Obans, neat,” she said.

  “You got it,” he said, and winked.

  Good grief. I turned my back to the bar, surveying the men walking through the door. Another woman talked to Lila, who handed her a sheet of paper.

  Fern passed me my drink and pulled her arm through mine. “Let’s watch like vultures for the man-meat to come in.” She led me back to the six tables, each marked with a tiny “reserved” sign.

  “Oh, Fern!” Lila called. “Your little friend needs to fill out the paperwork.” She waved a sheet of paper.

  I sat down with the page and my pencil stub. Name, phone, address. I used Fern’s. “Use a throw away email,” Fern advised. “That way you can quit checking it if someone gets annoying.”

  I rapidly filled out the blanks. Two men had come in together and stood just inside the door, glancing around. “You think they’re with us?” I asked.

  “They’re gay,” Fern said, rolling her eyes. “Good grief.”

  “They come to straight bars?”

  “Stop talking, my dear. Someone might hear your ignorance.”

  I bit my lip and refocused on the page. I had forgotten how mean Fern could be under stress. Despite her act, she must be a little unnerved by the prospect of meeting new men.

  Three check boxes.

  -- Single, never married.

  -- Separated.

  -- Divorced.

  I checked “separated” and returned the form to Lila, who accepted it absently, still stuck in conversation. I lingered near her, pretending to look around, not really wanting to go near Fern again yet.

  Three men came in the bar in quick succession. Lila waved her sign, and two of them headed toward her. Fern returned to my side. “Not Mark the Shark again,” she groaned. “He’s always at these things.”

  “Did you go out with him?”

  “Twice. Terrible in bed.”

  “You slept with him on the second date?”

 
“No, on the first. We had two first dates, actually. One last year, and then we tried again a couple months ago. I thought maybe he would have learned something in the interim.”

  “He hadn’t.”

  “Not a thing.”

  The taller of the two, tanned and clean cut in a ribbed sweater and pressed khakis, leaned against the table closest to us and said, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this…again?”

  “Hello, Mark,” Fern said. “I see you’re still trying to pick up first dates.”

  He rubbed the light stubble on his upper lip. “Delightful as always. You brought a friend?”

  Fern pushed me forward so my hips rammed a stool. “This is Zest,” she said. “She’s sweet and vulnerable, and I already warned her about you.”

  He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Zest.”

  His fingers closed around mine, warm and firm in their grip. “Thank you.”

  “I should have made Lila give me the list.” Fern sipped her drink casually, but her grip on the glass was white-knuckled.

  “I’m not as bad as Fern would make me out to be,” Mark said. “I just didn’t grovel at her oversized feet.”

  Fern actually trembled. I had never seen her rattled. She tilted her head and faked a bitter smile. “Better big feet than a tiny dick.”

  “It’s time!” Lila called. Quite a number of people were gathered in our corner of the bar. “Come closer, dears, so I don’t have to shout.”

  She raised a card in the air. “Here is how it goes. Each of you will get one of these. On it, you will find the first name of each person you will meet. The bachelors will sit at the table and the ladies will pick where they want to go first. Each time I ring the bell,” she paused to demonstrate the tinkling sound, “the girls will move toward their next choice.”

  She walked toward the line of tables. “Boys, you may go ahead and sit. Remember ladies, no pushing or shoving. All of you will get a chance to meet each other.”

  Fern stepped forward and leaned to my ear. “Try to do your favorite choice first,” she said. “That’s when everyone is actually paying attention. It gets sort of tedious in the middle.” She gazed at the line of men taking their seats on the stools. “Mark can go in the no man’s land, but I’d put him,” she pointed to a friendly-looking man at the end, “as your top choice.”