The Shameless Hour Page 10

  Dr. Peterson’s expression was chilly. “We see signs of infection, which are almost certainly caused by a sexually transmitted infection. Have you ever been diagnosed with one before?”

  “No,” I gasped, my face prickling with heat. “But I don’t understand. I use condoms.”

  “We hear that a lot,” the doctor said, stepping back to give his student some room. “But if you have skin-to-skin contact before the condom is applied, it can happen.”

  Oh my God.

  Oh my God.

  Oh. My. God.

  My heart began to beat like a drum, and I tasted bile in the back of my throat. The young medical student loomed over me now. My pulse was racing, and there just wasn’t enough air. My eyes got hot.

  Dr. Peterson shoved a tissue box in my direction suddenly.

  “What’s that for?” I asked in a voice which was less than polite. My attitude was suddenly the only thing standing between me and a breakdown.

  “For when you cry,” he said simply.

  I pushed the box back toward him. “Keep it then,” I ground out, determined not to cry.

  Above me, the younger man hesitated. I forced myself to look up at him, finding a pair of empathetic hazel eyes waiting for me. “Do you need a minute?” he asked quietly.

  Angrily, I shook my head.

  He hesitated anyway. “May I touch your stomach? I’d like to know if any of your lymph nodes are swollen.”

  I nodded.

  He moved around my bent knee to stand next to me. Patient hands pressed gently into my pelvic region. “Please tell me if anything hurts.”

  He probed lower, and within seconds I was hissing in a breath.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly, reaching to check the other side. “How about here?”

  “Yeah,” I said through clenched teeth. I was really sore there.

  He patted my hip twice, in a way that should have seemed weird but somehow wasn’t. “Your lymph nodes are swollen because they’re working to fight the infection. Now I only need a quick swab, okay?” the young man said. “Then we’ll be all done.”

  Again, I spoke through gritted teeth. “Do your worst.”

  The swabbing stung. But not nearly as much as the anguish of hearing the words sexually transmitted disease.

  “Now you can get dressed,” the old coot said when it was done. “Meet me in my office in ten minutes, and I’ll give you a prescription and some information.”

  At that, he turned and left, followed only slightly more graciously by the med student.

  I clamped my thighs together, heart pounding.

  With shaking hands, I stumbled into my clothes. STD. The ugly letters sloshed around in my mind. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I practiced safe sex. I’d thought I did, anyway. Why me?

  My stomach gave a lurch, which had nothing to do with the infection. This time the pain was from shame.

  So much for being a sex-positive feminist in control of her own body. Just then I felt exactly like the slut people had claimed I was. People like Lianne across the hall. And the hockey girlfriends.

  And my mother.

  Ugh. My mother couldn’t know this. I was never going to tell her.

  Still quaking, I wandered down the hallway, wondering which door was Dr. Peterson’s office. I stopped when I saw the med student sitting in a chair, then double-checked that the name plate outside the door said “Peterson.”

  I went into the little room, sitting in the obvious patient chair.

  “So, Isabelle,” the young man said.

  “Bella,” I snapped, keeping up the bitch front.

  “Bella,” he said gently. “I just wanted you to know that this happens all the time. Your test results will probably show that it’s easily curable.”

  I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to give me some perspective. Jesus. I probably should have thanked him for trying, but instead I only swallowed hard.

  Dr. Peterson breezed into the room, seating himself on his desk chair. “Miss Hall, I have a prescription here.” He slid a little square of paper toward me. “Take the full course of antibiotics. That’s really important.”

  Silently, I took the paper.

  “Your symptoms should start to disappear immediately, but finish the medicine anyway. Meanwhile, you should have no sexual contact with your boyfriend during this time.”

  That was easy, of course, since I didn’t have a boyfriend. But my stomach filled with dread. “I need to ask a question.”

  “Of course.”

  My eyes went to the wood-grain desktop and stayed there. “What’s the incubation period?”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Do you mean to ask how long ago were you infected?”

  I nodded. Shame and silence descended together, like a mushroom cloud. Depending on his answer, there were two or three people who might have infected me.

  And, likewise, there were two or three people who I might have infected.

  “Within the last two weeks,” the doctor said. “Probably ten days.”

  “Okay,” I whispered. I was going to have to go home and scrutinize my calendar to figure out what I’d done when and with whom.

  “Naturally, you’re going to have to follow up with your partner,” the doctor said. “He or she will need to know that an infection was transmitted.”

  Every time he said the word “infection” I just wanted to die.

  “Your test will come back within a few days, and a doctor will call with the results. Then you’ll have something more precise to communicate to your partner.”

  He kept talking, but I’d stopped listening. Because I was realizing just how awful this was going to be. I knew a hundred ways to ask a guy to come home with me. But I couldn’t imagine telling someone I may have given him a disease.

  “Bella?”

  I looked up fast. The medical student was trying to hand me a glossy brochure. I snatched it from his hand.

  “There’s a lot of information in there. But if you have any questions, call us here. Or ask whomever calls with your results.”

  I swung my gaze over to Dr. Peterson. “Can I make a request?”

  He frowned. “Yes?”

  “Would you ask Ms. Ogden to call with my results?”

  The doctor’s frown deepened. “I’ll make a note of it. But no guarantees,” he said, scribbling on my file.

  “Thanks, I’d really appreciate it,” I said. My gaze wandered over to the med student, and he gave me the world’s quickest smile. Apparently I wasn’t Ms. Ogden’s only fan.

  “If you have no more questions for now, I’ll see the next patient.”

  “I’m good,” I said, lying through my teeth. I was so very far from good.

  The doctor rose and strode out, his white coat flapping behind him.

  “Gaines,” he grumbled, summoning the med student.

  Gaines stood up to follow him, but lingered just for a second in the doorway. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” he whispered. “But once the shock wears off and you do a little reading, it will all seem less awful.”

  “Thanks,” I clipped.

  He gave me another quick smile. “Call Helena Ogden with your questions.”

  “You can bet on it.”

  He disappeared then, leaving me alone with a prescription in one hand and a glossy brochure in the other. Taking Your Sexual Health In Hand, it read.

  I folded it up into a tiny square and jammed it into my pocket. Then I got the hell out of there.

  An hour later, I’d collected a small prescription bottle from the pharmacy as well as a take-out salad from the student center. The walk home was slow going, though, because the riff of irritation I’d felt down there earlier in the day had blossomed into full-on pain. So I walked carefully, wishing I could just beam myself up into my dorm room.

  I needed to be completely alone. To regroup. To furtively Google search terms I never thought I’d type into my browser window. To throw darts at Dr. Peterson’s picture. But no
t to cry.

  Fuck that guy.

  I’d almost made it to my entryway door when someone jogged into the courtyard from the other direction. When he got to our door, he spread his sculpted legs and bent forward, hands on his knees, stretching before tackling the stairs.

  Rafe. Even panting and sweat-coated, he was beautiful.

  He was also the last person I wanted to talk to right now.

  Shit.

  Noticing me, he stood up straighter. “Hi,” he said on the exhale, reaching for the ID he’d clipped to his pocket. He swiped it past the scanner, then opened the door like a perfect gentleman.

  Choking on my own discomfort, I gave him a self-conscious little wave.

  His expression flickered with uncertainty. “Something wrong?”

  Not a thing. And, by the way, do you suppose you gave me a disease? God. How was I ever going to discuss it? How did people do that? Rafe was frowning now, waiting for an answer. Pull it together, Bella. “I’m fine,” I said grumpily. “You?”

  His eyes widened at my rude tone. “Never better” he said, pressing his lips together.

  I was somehow destined to offend this guy. But that was the least of my problems right now. “Great. Have a good night.” I passed him, heading for the stairs. Unfortunately, climbing them was even less comfortable for me than walking had been. I powered up the first half flight anyway, feeling his eyes on me.

  The sting made me want to scream.

  Running out of ideas, I set my bag down and knelt down to re-tie my perfectly tied shoe. Slow footsteps moved up the stairs behind me. I felt Rafe pass me carefully on the landing. Then he trudged up ahead of me.

  When he disappeared around the next curve, I picked up my bag and began again, slower this time. Gripping the railing, I pulled myself up, stair after painful stair.

  On the next landing, Rafe waited, his head cocked to the side. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I snapped. “Sore ankle, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” His face softened. “You need…?”

  “Nope, I’m good.”

  His face fell again. “Okay. Later, then.”

  This time he turned and jogged up the next flight as if he couldn’t get away fast enough. And I didn’t resume my climb until I heard the door to his suite open and close again.

  Finally alone, I finished my agonizing journey home. The first thing I did was to take one of the tablets I’d gotten at the pharmacy. I wasn’t sure where to keep the bottle. Not the bathroom. I could only imagine Lianne’s smugness at finding out what had happened to me. Or anyone’s smugness, for that matter.

  I hid the bottle in my desk drawer.

  Then I called Trevi, the hockey captain, and told him I had flu symptoms and couldn’t make it to practice. “Could you tell Coach Canning that I’m sorry?” I asked.

  “Sure. And feel better,” he said.

  If only. “Thanks man. See you tomorrow or Thursday.”

  “Ciao.”

  Finally, I was alone. I switched on the lamp beside my bed, which cast a homey glow on the slanting ceiling. Flopping down on the bed, I curled into an ornery, achy, frightened little ball.

  But I did not cry.

  Ten

  Bella

  If there was anything lucky about my debacle, it was that hockey season was not yet in full swing. It would be hard for a girl to hide in her room when weekends meant back-to-back away games.

  On Saturday, while sulking after brunch, I got a call from Student Health Services. And when I answered, it was Ms. Ogden on the line.

  Thank God.

  “Bella? Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Of course. I didn’t know you worked Saturdays, though.”

  “I work whenever the vaginas need me,” she said, which made me burst out laughing. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

  I hesitated. “Sure. Is it that bad?”

  “No!” she said. “Not at all. I just want to see your face. We’re not supposed to have favorite patients, but…”

  “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

  She laughed. “Meet me at Java Tree in ten?”

  * * *

  I bought myself a cup of peppermint tea, and went to sit down across from Ms. Ogden. She’d nabbed a very private table in back. “Hi,” I said, feeling calmer than I had in days. There was something about her level gaze that banished panicky thoughts.

  She reached across the table to give my hand a quick squeeze. “Bella, dear. I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you came in last week.”

  “Please tell me that you were someplace wonderful. Because Dr. Peterson is an evil troll.”

  She grinned. “My wife and I went to Bermuda.”

  “Nice.”

  “And I know he’s a grouch. But he’s also a very sharp clinician. Unfortunately, you don’t have to be a nice person to get a medical degree.”

  “I noticed.”

  “It helps to remember that he’s saved lives.”

  “Pish,” I said with a wave of my hand, and she smiled again.

  “I have some lab results here.” She passed me a sealed envelope. “But I just wanted to make sure — are you doing okay? I’m sorry you got difficult news.”

  “I’m okay,” I lied. Actually, I’m hiding in my room most of the time. Is that normal?

  “Are your symptoms subsiding?”

  “They are, thanks.” But not my shame.

  “Well, I have a small bit of good news,” Dr. Ogden said, dropping her voice. “Your test came back positive only for chlamydia, which will easily be killed off by one course of antibiotics.”

  Well, yippee. It isn’t every day you find out you’ve got the good kind of STD. “That’s… something.” I tried not to sound too grim.

  She tilted her head, studying me. “Bella, would you be feeling the same way if you’d caught the flu from a partner?”

  “God no,” I answered immediately.

  “Generally, my role is to beat the drum for safer sex. But I want to say something else to you.” Her warm eyes studied me. “This isn’t a message from God. There’s no reason to panic or feel any shame. You’re still the same beautiful girl you were the last time I saw you.”

  Hearing her say that made my throat burn. I took a gulp of tea to hide my reaction.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she whispered. “You’re going to be fine.”

  I knew that was technically true, but I didn’t feel anything like fine. “It’s hard,” I said, my voice cracking. “There’s a difficult conversation I need to have, and I haven’t done it yet.” I’d taken a close look at my calendar. Luckily, only my lackluster night at the Beta Rho house with Whittaker fell within the transmission window.

  Just looking at my calendar to figure it out had made me feel physically ill. There had been times during the past two years when my number of partners would have been higher than one. That made me cringe — as if the people who judged me for my sex life had pulled off a secret victory.

  Ms. Ogden stirred her drink with a straw. “Now, it’s not easy to tell someone that he gave you a disease. He may not believe you, because over half the people who carry it don’t have any symptoms.”

  “None?”

  She shook her head. “But I can make the conversation a little easier.”

  “How?”

  Ms. Ogden took a card out of her pocket. “Give him my number. If he calls me, I’ll ask him a couple of screening questions — to make sure he’s not allergic to the antibiotics — and then I’ll prescribe over the phone. He doesn’t even have to be tested.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “It’s called expedited partner therapy. If you’re pretty sure who gave it to you, then we do it this way. Otherwise, he’s just going to keep spreading it around.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  Reaching across the table, she patted my hand. “Hang in there, Bella. And feel free to call my cell phone if you have any questions. It�
�s on my voicemail message if you call my office phone.”

  “Thank you,” I told her.

  “Keep in touch, okay? Because my gut says that you’re taking this hard.”

  “I’ll be all right,” I said. Convincing no one.

  Now that I had a proper diagnosis, I couldn’t put off telling Whittaker the bad news.

  That night, for the first time all week, I took a long look at the clothes in my closet. If I was going to march into the Beta Rho house and ask to speak to the star running back, I wanted to look good doing it. One of the charities my mother supported gave designer clothes and makeup to cancer patients, with the theory that they’d heal faster if they felt they looked better.

  Thinking of those poor women reminded me that it could always be worse.

  “It could always be worse,” I said to myself as I picked out a little denim skirt, a pretty tank top and a cardigan.

  “It could always be worse,” I whispered into the mirror while applying a slick of lip gloss. (For me, that was going all out.)

  “It could always be worse,” I repeated as I trotted down the stairs and out into the evening air.

  The walk to Beta Rho didn’t take nearly long enough for me to compose a suitable speech. When I climbed the wooden steps onto their porch, I noticed how quiet the house was for a Saturday night. For a moment I was thrilled by the prospect that Whittaker and all his pals were out. But as soon as I rang the doorbell, footsteps approached.

  The guy who opened the door was a sophomore they called Dash. “‘Zup,” he said, giving me the generic frat-boy greeting.

  “Hey,” I returned. “Is Whittaker home by any chance?”

  “I’m pretty sure he is. Come on in, and I’ll find him for you.”

  Dash trotted off like a good little newbie. Until tap night in a couple weeks, he was still a low man on the totem pole. When the new crop of pledges showed up, Dash would be the one doling out the orders and ordering someone else to watch the door.

  I’m sure he could hardly wait.

  I stepped all the way into the living room. On a giant sectional couch, three brothers — all of them football players — held game controllers in their hands. “S’up, Bella,” somebody said without removing his eyes from the screen.