Such a Pretty Girl. Nadina LaSpina

me, manipulating me, doctors cutting me up, over and over again, inflicting pain. Pain or pleasure. What was the difference? Did it matter what they did to me? After all, what claim could I have on this defective, damaged, disabled body? Wasn’t I supposed to be grateful to the doctors who were trying to fix it? Wasn’t I supposed to be grateful to any man for any attention I could get?

      After the intern’s nocturnal visit, I tried to call Audrey. I needed the comfort of her voice. I wanted her to tell me I wouldn’t get pregnant. I hadn’t seen the intern put on a condom, but it was dark in the room. Surely a doctor would have been careful. Still, I worried. To whom could I confide but my blood sister? I couldn’t upset my mother. And I was afraid anyone else would have blamed me for what had happened.

      Audrey hadn’t been to see me at all. And we hadn’t been talking on the phone as much. I assumed she was busy in college. When I called her house, her mother answered.

      She sounded surprised to hear my voice. “Audrey? Audrey’s in the hospital.”

      In the hospital? What hospital? What for? Audrey was all done with hospitalizations. Her parents had long ago stopped being obsessed with the cure. Why was Audrey in the hospital? Her mother seemed reluctant to answer.

      “Do you have a phone in your room? I’ll tell Audrey to call you as soon as she feels better.”

      I gave her my room number and hung up. Only then did I remember the red pills. I doubled over in my chair, as if I’d been punched in the gut. Oh no! I should have warned her mother. But how could I have ratted on Audrey? She showed me the pills because we were blood sisters and she trusted me.

      “Oh, please, Audrey, don’t die,” I repeated over and over. “I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to leave me.”

      Her mother had said she would have Audrey call me. That meant she wasn’t going to die. But why wasn’t she calling me? I waited for three days, too afraid to call her mother again. I hardly left my room, because I didn’t want to miss Audrey’s call. But then, when the call came at nine in the morning, I was so sure it was my mother, who always called at that time, I answered in Italian. “Pronto.”

      “I fucked it up, but I’ll do better next time.” Audrey’s voice sounded weak and hoarse.

      I couldn’t talk. I held the receiver with both hands and cried.