A Girl Becomes a Comma Like That Read online

  4.

  Ella had been working at the clinic for nearly five years. She’d seen other counselors and two doctors come and go. She’d watched girls turn into women, and grown women lose so much weight that they turned back into girls. There were unexplained bruises and swollen faces. She listened to what were obviously lies and also to what was so horribly the truth. There were timid girls who were afraid of the boys they left in the waiting room, and there were cocky girls leaning in to confide in Ella about pregnancies: He thinks it’s his, but I don’t fucking know whose it is.

  There were forgettable girls clustered together in the waiting room. Girls wanting the pill, tossing their hair or applying lip gloss in unison. Girls who were excited, almost giddy, starting out and wanting to be safe, and there were others who seemed tired already at fifteen, weary, heads bowed, eyes to the floor. Some were shy, while others were bold, brazen, with their cigarettes still glowing at their lips. “Put that out,” Ella would scold from behind the window. “Where do you think you are? What are you thinking?” she’d say.

  Ella had been hired as a counselor but performed minor medical tasks as well. She took blood pressure, weighed them, and also took blood from their fingers. She’d smear a few drops on a tiny slide and print the girl’s name underneath it with a special pen. She’d hold a jerking finger still with two of her own and prick it with a lancet.

  “Are you a doctor?” one exceptionally nervous girl asked.

  “No.” Ella held the tiny razorblade and aimed.

  “What are you then?”

  “I’m an English major.”

  “A what?” The girl was horrified, trying to pull her finger from Ella’s grip.

  “I write poems.” Ella held tight.

  “Poems? Are you kidding?”

  “Nope,” Ella said, bringing the lancet down, jabbing at the pink pad of the girl’s finger.

  A week after she was caught kissing Jack, Sarah cornered Ella outside examining room number 2 and said that she’d be leaving the clinic by spring. She’d sworn that she was back with her longtime boyfriend, Eddie, and that he’d asked her to marry him—they’d even set a date. “I have work to do,” Ella said, walking away from her.

  Their schedules only overlapped on Thursdays, and even then Ella did her best to stay at the opposite end of the clinic—if Sarah was with clients, Ella did inventory. If Sarah was in the counselor’s lounge, Ella ate her lunch in the back room. Still, the clinic was small, and it was impossible to avoid her completely.

  On a Thursday morning Ella was sitting on the couch in the counselors’ lounge, looking at a new girl’s chart. Dahona Strickland was thirteen and her complaints were numerous: fever, body aches, weight loss, and a vaginal rash that had spread to her thighs. Ella closed the folder and stood up. She held the chart under her arm and began walking down the hall toward the waiting room. She was wondering about Dahona, thinking about the horrible diseases and their beautiful names: chlamydia, gonorrhea, and condyloma. How melodic the words themselves were, how if she didn’t know what they looked like on a slide, they might sound like perfect names for a girl. She was thinking about the next poem she’d write for Rachel’s class when Sarah turned the corner. She met Sarah’s eyes for the briefest second and Ella decided that she’d call her new poem “Sarah,” and she’d use the worst case of herpes she’d ever seen, use that poor Amy Duncan—whose sores were so ripe and so plentiful that she refused to urinate—to describe Sarah’s condition. “I’m getting married, Ella. It was a mistake,” Sarah said, but Ella was already halfway down the hall, on her way to Dahona Strickland, and pretending not to hear her.

  After the incident with Sarah, Jack had started dropping new words into their conversations: experience, loyalty, monogamy, and repetition. Ella thought of drowning again and again and again, as if you could go underwater and stop breathing more than once. She thought of the girls with swelling bellies who came to the clinic so full of boys who did not love them, so full of boys they couldn’t possibly love—or perhaps they could. She thought about Georgia’s repetition, one boy and then another, one disease and then a month later its filthy cousin.

  Ella had seen girls like Georgia who came to the clinic repeatedly, whose habitual visits remained with her long after they turned their backs and swayed away. And she’d seen girls like Amy Duncan and women like Rachel Spark, who showed up only once and never came back, but were memorable still. They made indelible impressions, and their missed follow-up appointments left black holes in her days.

  To the left of the clinic’s front door was a bench meant for patients, but often Ella spotted protesters sitting there. Sometimes, Born Again Paula sat for hours at a time. Paula in too much blush and pink lipstick. Paula with a seemingly cheerful ponytail that bounced when she moved or came in too close, talking about Jesus or maybe to him, screaming about the innocent unborn. Paula with one shoe on and one shoe off, white pump on the bench beside her. Paula rubbing her bare foot, her blisters and yellow sole.

  Paula’s favorite poster would be upside-down beside her, leaning against the bench—the stick she held for hours a day, pointing toward the sky, the bloody fetus breach now, upside-down like one of Jack’s sleeping bats.

  In the mornings Ella scooted past Paula and the others, sipping her coffee and trying not to look at them. More than once Paula called Ella by name, saying, “Ella-the-devil, you’re going to hell,” and Ella wondered which girl had given her up, betrayed her, and told the woman her name.

  The protesters left their Styrofoam coffee cups on the concrete. They left their pamphlets and prayer books on the bench, where the patients could not rest because they, the protesters, were tired of standing and holding their posters high, were tired after hours and hours of saying, “Look at this, think about what you’re doing. Who are you off to kill?”

  And on that Monday twelve-year-old Amy Duncan, with her fierce case of herpes, pushed past Born Again Paula and knocked her down. A twelve-year-old girl, thin and pale in her blue sweater and long, floral skirt, knocked big Paula to her knees with just one shove and became the clinic’s skinny heroine of the day. Amy stood expressionless in front of Ella. She refused Ella’s smile and congratulations, and refused the stool Ella offered her, choosing to stand instead.

  Hers was a pregnancy Ella could only guess about and the worst case of herpes the clinic had ever seen. Hers was an adamant silence—a girl Ella suspected was mute until she said, finally, clearly, one loud resounding No, as in, No, I will not talk to you, I will not answer any questions.

  “Will you nod at me yes or shake your head?” Ella said.

  She nodded.

  As the interview went on, Ella ignored the questions on the sheet in front of her that called for multiworded responses, explanations, or declarations, and the girl nodded or shook her head. Ella wanted to say, Who touched you and gave you a disease? Who made you pregnant? Whom did you let in or whom did you refuse? But instead she said, “Do you want the pill, Amy?”

  And the girl shook her head no.

  “Do you itch or burn?”

  She nodded once, and then again.

  “Let me help you, Amy.”

  “No,” she said—her second audible no of the day.

  It was her skin Ella remembered later, the blue veins running up the sides of her cheeks to her ears, and the shove she mustered up for Born Again Paula that sent a grown woman to her knees, and that No, that resounding, unswayable No.

  5.

  At the kitchen table, Jack asked to be forgiven. “Please, Ella,” he said. “Please. I’m begging.”

  She stood at the window with her coffee cup, threatening to leave. “There are places I could go,” she said.

  “It was just the one time.” His voice cracked.

  “San Francisco or Santa Barbara. My cousin’s in Santa Barbara, you know. I could go there.”

  “You’ve got school, your job,” he tried.

  “And there’s not a school in Santa Barbara?” she
said sarcastically.

  “It was just a kiss.”

  “A kiss is a very big deal, Jack. It might hurt less if you were really drunk and fucked someone.” She talked without looking at him. She moved the shade to one side and watched the twin boys across the street leave their house. They kissed their mother at the door, first one and then the other standing on his toes to meet her lips. It was eight A.M., a weekday, and the boys were obviously on their way to school. Matching backpacks and little blue jeans.

  “Look at me, Ella,” Jack said.

  “She touched your dick, maybe your balls,” Ella said, not turning from the window.

  “Look how sorry I am.”

  “I can’t tell these boys apart,” she said.

  “Please stop this,” Jack said.

  “Tim and Tom, who’s who?”

  “It was just a kiss,” he said again.

  “Just a kiss,” Ella mocked. She turned from the window and went to her husband. She put the coffee cup down. She pulled out a chair and sat at the table across from him. She looked at Jack’s face, rested her eyes on his lips. He was tan. He’d shaved, but looked even more ridiculous to her now because the area where the goatee had been was pinkish and pasty, chafed. “You need some lotion for your face,” she said.

  “It’s itchy,” he said, reaching up to scratch it.

  “Don’t,” she said, stopping him.

  “I am so damn sorry,” he said.

  “I’m glad we don’t have kids. It’s a good thing we didn’t do that,” she said.

  6.

  Eventually, Georgia Carter told Ella the truth about her pregnancies, and Ella believed it was a sort of progress, them communicating, the girl’s honesty. “He’s just a guy I met up with at the 7-Eleven, my brother’s friend,” Georgia confessed about number one, the miracle. “He’s just a guy I hooked up with after detention,” she admitted about number two. “He’s just a guy I met at a rave,” she said about number three.

  “Aren’t you tired, Georgia?” Ella said.

  “Of what?”

  “Boys.”

  She shook her head.

  “Aren’t you tired of surgery, then?”

  “Fuck, yes,” she said.

  All the counseling cubicles were taken, so they were in the video room. Ella passed that room all day long but had been inside it only twice. It was the room where men and boys were invited to watch short, dated films on vasectomies or sexually transmitted diseases. It was where the clinic lured them with the promise that information and education would offer them a smoother future, where the clinic bribed them with hot coffee or chocolate, tiny muffins and doughnut holes. If the door was left open and Ella was coming down the hall, she would smell the sweet cakes and coffee. She heard the booming voiceover describing the ease of transmission or the finality of the procedure, and was reminded of junior high sex-education class. More than once she turned around and caught a glimpse of a man’s body, his vasectomy on the screen or a herpes sore blown up to the size of a planet.

  “The worse-half room,” Georgia said as Ella led her down the hall. “We’re going to the worse-half room.”

  “The what?”

  “You know, the worse half. Idiots always introduce their husbands or wives like that. Here’s my better half,” Georgia said, mocking.

  “I get it.”

  “It just takes you a while,” she said, smiling.

  “Men aren’t always the worse half, you know.”

  “Of course not—don’t forget it’s my mom who up and left my sick dad and me,” she said.

  The television was off. There was a bowl of fruit drops in the middle of the coffee table. “You guys should really get the individually wrapped candies,” Georgia said.

  “Why?”

  “Germs,” she said, pointing at the candy. “Each piece probably has piss on it, or worse.”

  “I doubt it,” Ella said.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “I saw it on 60 Minutes.”

  “You, Georgia Carter, are worried about germs?”

  “Yeah, I am,” she said.

  “There are more dangerous things, bigger risks to one’s safety than eating fruit drops, don’t you think?”

  “Isn’t it too early for one of your lectures?”

  “It’s never too early,” Ella said, smiling.

  “Obviously not,” she said.

  There was a pink box open on the counter against the wall that Georgia had already explored. A little napkin with three doughnut holes sat in front of her. Every so often she pulled a piece of coconut from one of them and put it in her mouth.

  Ella stared at Georgia’s bitten nails. Georgia caught her and placed her hands in her lap. She curled her fingers, made fists so that there was nothing for Ella to see. “Don’t stare at my hands,” she said.

  “Sorry,” Ella said.

  There were posters on the walls, one advertising the pill, which Ella made a mental note to discuss with her boss, and another for condoms, which made more sense, considering who was usually sitting on that couch.

  “You clinic people are so transparent,” Georgia said, looking at the posters.

  “We’re on your side,” Ella said. “I don’t know why you can’t see it.”

  “I can see it,” she said, unconvincingly.

  “How’s your job going?” Ella tried. “How’s the yogurt business?”

  “Mrs. Yates is pretty cool. I had to miss a few days last week on account of my dad, and she didn’t even freak out. I think she feels sorry for me.”

  “I know it’s tough, Georgia. I wish you’d—”

  “Let’s talk about something else, okay?” the girl said, interrupting.

  Just then Sarah popped her head in through the door’s crack and began talking to Ella in that sweet voice she’d been using since she’d been caught with her tongue in Jack’s mouth. “We’ve got more girls out here,” Sarah said meekly. “Should I call Dana and ask her to come in?”

  Ella looked at her watch. “We’ll just be a few more minutes,” she said. “We’re finishing up.”

  “Are you sure?” Sarah said. “Because Dana owes me a favor. I covered for her last week. It’s no trouble, Ella. I can call her.”

  “We’re just wrapping up,” she said again.

  Sarah stood holding the door, staring at the two of them.

  “Don’t bother Dana, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” Sarah said, nervous, closing the door.

  Ella looked at Georgia, who had placed the backpack in her lap and was shielding herself with it against anything Ella might be preparing to say. “You lost some weight,” she said. “You’re down to a hundred and ten, Georgia.”

  “So?”

  “I’m wondering how low you plan to go. You’re tall.”

  “I eat,” she said. “It’s not like I don’t eat, okay?”

  Ella nodded.

  “What’s that chick’s name?” Georgia wanted to know.

  “Who?”

  “The one that was just here.”

  “Sarah.”

  “She bugs me.”

  “She’s okay” Ella said.

  “She’s a bitch,” Georgia said.

  “Not nice.”

  “I’m just saying, I know a bitch when I see a bitch, and that girl who was just here, that’s a bitch.”

  “She’s okay,” Ella said again.

  “Bullshit,” Georgia said. “You hate her too. I can tell. I bet something happened between her and Jack.”

  “What?” Ella was surprised.

  “He used to wait for you. I’d see him sitting on the couch. I haven’t seen him in weeks.” Georgia paused. “She’s just the type.”

  Ella tried not to smirk, but then gave in to it—what her mouth and eyes were doing. “Let’s talk about you,” she said.

  “Whatever,” Georgia said, reaching down and picking up a doughnut hole. “These are pretty stale, you know? If I was going to eat something, I wouldn’t eat these.” She ta
pped at it with her finger.

  Ella smiled.

  “You people could at least get fresh doughnuts. If you’re going to have candy with piss on it, at least get us fresh—”

  “They’re not really for you,” Ella interrupted.

  “Who are they for, then?”

  “Other visitors.”

  “Figures,” she said.

  “Listen, Georgia,” Ella said, changing the subject, “what about the pill?”

  “Remember how sick it made me?” She took a small bite, then put the doughnut hole back on the napkin.

  “That’s right.”

  “I was sick and fat.”

  “I remember”

  “You remember I was fat?” she said, worried, looking down at her flat stomach.

  “I remember you were sick. You weren’t fat—you were never fat. If you think you’re fat, we need to talk about it.”

  “I’m not one of those girls who sees a fatty in the mirror. I know I’m not fat, Ella. Don’t make something out of nothing.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  Georgia cut her off. “I’m just saying that when I was on the pill, my tits were huge. Did you notice how huge they were?”

  “No,” Ella said, “but you told me.”

  Georgia flipped out her palm and looked at Ella. “Give me some of those condoms,” she said.

  7.

  They took a gondola ride at dusk. Their gondolier, a redcheeked boy Ella recognized from school, helped her into the little boat. “Ladies first,” he said. “My name is Daniel,” he told them. Jack’s palm, held up like a stop sign, refused the gondolier’s help, and he stepped into the boat on his own.

  There were wool blankets. There was a lantern, a bottle of red wine, cheese and salami, a basket of sourdough bread. Jack had his arm around Ella’s shoulder. He gave her a sweet kiss on the cheek and yet another apology in her ear. I wasn’t thinking, I only love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry— twice before the boat even left the dock.

  They sat with their backs to the gondolier, whose chest, Ella noticed, was strong and memorable in his black-and-white striped shirt. He wore a red scarf around his neck, a beret—the whole gondolier getup, but despite the charming costume, Daniel looked and sounded like the California surfer boy he most likely was.