I nod.
She writes something on the sheet. “Follow me.”
I stand, knees stiff, and trail her behind the screens. The air behind them is even colder, if possible, and the space is lit by a single floodlight that washes everything in sick blue-white.
The exam table is taller than normal, almost a platform. There’s a paper sheet pulled over the surface, and a set of steps at one end. Beside it, on a rolling tray, is a parade of instruments: silver forceps, a long metal speculum, a plastic container of swabs. There’s a stethoscope, a digital thermometer, a blood pressure cuff, two vials with my name already printed on the labels.
The nurse (or doctor, I can’t tell) gestures for me to sit on the table. I climb the steps, the paper crackling under my weight. My hands are slick with sweat, but my face feels frozen.
She pulls a curtain closed behind us, then sets the clipboard on the counter. “Take off your jacket,” she says, in a voice that could cut steel.
I obey, folding it over my knees.
She glances up, eyes sharp over the mask. “You’ll need to undress completely for the examination.”
It’s not a request.
I hesitate, glancing at the curtain, but she’s already turning away, snapping latex gloves over her hands with a single, fluid motion. She busies herself with the tray, sorting the swabs by length, tapping the thermometer against the counter to clear the digital readout.
I force my arms to move. The blouse buttons are a challenge, but I manage to undo them quickly; the camisole underneath is harder, the cotton sticking to my skin. I fumble with the clasp of my bra. My fingers are too numb to manage the hooks, so I finally tug it over my head and let it drop to the floor. The air on my bare skin makes me shiver.
I slip off my skirt, then my underwear. I sit on the edge of the table, as small as possible, arms wrapped tight over my chest.
She turns back, picks up the clipboard, and scribbles something.
“Full name?”
“Amara Bianca Marcus.”
She writes. “Date of birth?”
“July nineteenth, two thousand and three.”
She writes.
There are more questions: allergies (none), menstrual history (regular), family diseases (none I know of). I answer, voice thin. She never looks at me.
When she’s done, she sets down the clipboard and moves closer. She puts two fingers under my chin, tilts my head up, examines my eyes with a penlight. She checks my throat, my lymph nodes, the shape of my ears. Each movement is brisk, efficient.
“Lie back,” she says, and I do.
The table crinkles as I shift. She takes my left arm and ties a tourniquet above my elbow, then swabs the inside of my arm with alcohol. The smell makes my eyes water. She inserts the needle in one smooth motion, drawing blood into the first vial. I watch the dark red ribbon fill it.
She swaps vials, draws more, then pulls the needle out and presses a gauze pad over the puncture. She tapes it in place without a word.
She moves to my other side, lifts my right wrist, checks the veins. Her fingers are cold, the pressure clinical.
She takes my temperature under my tongue, counts my pulse, measures my blood pressure with the cuff, leaving it on as shemoves about. Each time, she notes the numbers on her chart. I try to see what she’s writing, but the angle is wrong.
“Sit up,” she says.
I do, folding my arms over my chest again. She glances at me, then at the monitor, writing down my new blood pressure numbers.
“You’ll need to remove all jewelry,” she says.
I don’t wear any, but she double checks, moving my hair off my neck, looking at my ears, my wrists. Satisfied, she turns away and picks up the stethoscope.
She presses the cold disc to my chest, listens to my heart, then my back. Her hands are steady, but she does not avoid touching me. She adjusts my posture as needed, guiding my shoulders, my spine, with a touch that is impersonal and practiced.
