flushed red, like she was embarrassed by the flurry of activity their arrival had caused at the emergency room.
“I just want to get it over with,” Angie said. A dull throb sat between her ears. She was too tired to feel anything stronger. Mom was anxious enough for both of them anyway. “Not like I have any choice, do I?”
Detective Brogan turned at the sound of her voice. “Technically, you do. They’ll need your consent. But I can’t emphasize enough how important this is to the investigation.”
On soft, white-sneakered feet, a nurse approached with a clipboard. She glanced between her paperwork and Angie, a wave of pity crossing her face. “Let’s head back to an exam room and go over this.”
Dad looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he picked at his thumbnails. “I’ll just, uh, I’ll wait here with the detective.”
The room was shockingly white, except for the cloudscape painted on the pale blue ceiling. The exam table was much too short to stretch out on, and Angie wondered how she wouldn’t fall off. She listened with a numb, detached feeling while the nurse explained the rape kit procedure. This couldn’t be happening.
The nurse held out a pen. “Sweetie, here’s where you sign. Okay?”
Very slowly, in perfect handwriting, she wrote Angela Gracie Chapman, wishing she had a few more middle names to make it take even longer. The blank line next to it asked a question she couldn’t possibly answer. “Mom, what’s the date?”
“September eighteenth,” Mom answered.
Angie blinked hard and wrote it in. Then she handed the pen to Mom to sign as the “parent/guardian of minor.”
Without a word, Mom drew a single line through the year and corrected it.
Angie swallowed the acid in her throat. Three years. Gone with the slip of a ballpoint pen. How could things like that happen?
Mom’s hand still hovered over the page. “She’s never even had a pelvic.”
“Do you want to be in the room with her?” the nurse asked.
Angie met her mom’s flustered look. She shook her head. “That would be too weird,” she said. “Mom should wait out there. With Dad.”
The nurse touched Mom’s shoulder. “Mrs. Chapman, I’ll be present for the entire procedure. I’m very experienced with this sort of case. Why don’t you give me her change of clothes?”
Mom’s face was stuck between guilt and relief. She signed the form and kissed Angie on the cheek. “I’ll be right nearby, hon. Just right by. Out here.”
As the door clicked closed, Angie felt much less than sixteen, less than thirteen, even. Maybe seven. She wanted to call Mom back to hold her hand, to tell her it would be okay soon. She wanted Mom to remind her to get a sticker on the way out or to ask her where she wanted to get a double scoop when they were done. That’s how she always got through checkups, the embarrassment of taking off her clothes, the chill of the room, the dreadful anticipation of the needle.
“Okay, Angela. Hang in there.” The nurse spread a tarp on the floor. “Please stand in the middle of the pad and place all your clothes on it, not touching the floor.”
“Why?” Angie asked as she unbuttoned the flowered top. She fumbled with clumsy, quivering fingers.
“There may be evidentiary hairs or fibers on your clothes. Shoes, too.”
“Oh.” Self-consciously, she unzipped the pants she was wearing. She couldn’t call them hers—she’d never seen them before. She slid them to the ground, pushing off her shoes. Her skin glowed white in the sterile light. It shrank against her muscles as she broke out in goosebumps. Next, she peeled off her socks.
“What are these scars from, sweetie?” the nurse asked, pointing to Angie’s feet.
She followed the nurse’s finger. Her stomach flipped over. Sour liquid burned a path up into her throat. Around each ankle ran a two-inch band, a thick, lumpy welt of scar tissue. She clamped a hand over her mouth to avoid throwing up. “I don’t know,” she whispered between her fingers. Tears collected at the corners of her eyes.
Oh my God. What had happened? Her legs were gross! Disgusting! She would never, ever wear sandals again.
She crossed her arms over her bare chest, hands tucked into her armpits, and trembled in her panties. They were small and faded, but familiar in all the strangeness. They were actually hers. Pale butterflies chased across her hips. She focused on them, trying to draw comfort from the only thing that made sense.
The nurse glanced up from her clipboard. “Everything off, sweetie, and hop up on the exam table. There’s a paper gown on it.” She touched the wall-mounted intercom to call for the doctor.
Angie dropped her butterflies and dove for the table. The stiff, disposable gown scratched, but at least she was covered again. Her knees were blue and knobby as her legs hung loosely over the edge. She watched all the clothes gathered into a plastic bag and tagged.
“Quick manicure now,” the nurse said. She scraped under Angie’s nails and saved the gunk in a small vial. “Excuse me.” She peeked under Angie’s paper gown. “Not enough hair to comb,” she commented mysteriously, and dropped the paper back over Angie’s lap. Angie crossed her ankles tighter together.
“Open, please.” Mechanically, Angie opened her mouth for a huge swab. Her gag reflex kicked in, and she breathed hard through her nose so she wouldn’t vomit. Her cheeks and tongue were thoroughly scrubbed and the swab dropped into a long glass vial.
The nurse picked up her pen and clipboard. “Date of your last period?”
Angie flushed. “I haven’t started yet. I’m sort of a late bloomer.”
A sharp knock, and the doctor entered. Angie’s breath caught. The doctor was a man. Oh God. She’d never been examined by a man.
Knees pressed together, Angie shivered and watched him closely. He looked old, with white hairs mixed into his beard and a wrinkled, friendly face. At least that was less humiliating than a cute, young doctor. She loosened her laced fingers and shook the hand he offered. Hers was sweaty, his warm and dry.
“Hi, Angela. I’m Dr. Cranleigh. Is there anything you’d like to ask me before the examination?”
She thought. “Will it hurt?”
“There may be about thirty seconds of discomfort or cramping. That’s all. Okay?”
Angela nodded. No false promises. She liked that. “Even though I’m a virgin?” she asked.
“Even if you’re a virgin,” he replied. “I understand that you may be suffering from traumatic amnesia, yes?”
She nodded again.
“I’m very sorry about your ordeal.” He turned to the sink to wash his hands.
What was the correct response to that? “Um. Thanks.”
The nurse hovered in the background, now a silent observer. Angie wondered what
