hospital sent everything over. Let’s just get Ryn in to see the doctor right away,” the woman explains calmly. “Poor thing, she really looks bad.”
“Yes,” Mom snips, “of course she does. It’s—it’s just so unusual to not have to deal with paperwork.” I know this tone. This is the tone that makes me go to my room on my own without being told to.
“Well, it seems like your daughter has a very unusual rash,” the lady says while smiling at me. She is trying to be friendly, but I don’t like her smile. It’s too big. I hear a buzzing sound and a door opens. The lady ushers us inside past her desk and into an exam room. I do not want to sit. Sitting hurts. I stand in the middle of the room.
“You okay?” my mom asks. I just nod my head. I’m too tired to talk. After about five minutes, the door opens. It is not the doctor, but the lady again. She has a mug in her hand.
“I thought you could use this,” she says kindly as she thrusts it toward my mom. “I know you must be very anxious about Ryn. This is a valerian and chamomile tea to calm your nerves. I don’t know if they told you that while—of course—we believe in traditional Western medicine here, we also practice Eastern, homeopathic, and naturopathic medicine as well. This is a very holistic office.” My mom takes the mug and says thank you, and I can see she means it. She loves all that kind of stuff with plants and yoga and juices. The lady stays and watches my mom drink the tea. No one is saying anything and it feels weird.
After a few minutes, the lady leaves again and immediately there is a light knocking on the door. She doesn’t wait for us to answer. She just walks right inside. I thought the doctor would be a boy. I am happy that it is a girl because girls are better.
“Ohhh,” the doctor says, looking me up and down with sympathy. “That looks sore, Ryn. Let’s see what we can do about it.” The doctor looks at my mom and says very sweetly, but firmly, “You should wait outside.” My mom blinks. She looks at me and her eyes frown. I don’t want my mom to go. I want my mom to stay. “I should wait outside,” she says stiffly and she does. She actually leaves!
“I want my mom,” I say to the doctor. She is a tiny woman with very dark skin and bright blue eyes.
“Well, you can have your mom or you can get rid of that rash. You choose.” That doesn’t seem fair at all. My mom never leaves me in the doctor’s office alone. I stare for a quick minute at the doctor who is just looking at me. Her eyes are raised and her eyebrows would be, too, but she is bald there. Her skin is almost shiny.
“I guess I want you to fix the rash,” I tell her.
“Excellent,” she says as she walks over to a cupboard above a counter with a sink. She opens the cupboard door and takes out a package. “Now, I’m going to have to give you a shot. I am not going to lie to you. It’s a big shot and it will hurt. But I promise—as soon as I give it to you, the rash will go away.” My bottom lip starts to quiver. I hate shots. I’ve already had three! This room is cold. I want my mom. I try not to let the tears fall. Not because I care about being brave, but because the tears actually hurt my face. Doctors don’t lie. If this doctor says she can fix the rash, then she can.
“Okay,” I say quietly. I don’t watch her as she gets the needle ready. I don’t want to know how big it is. I close my eyes. I just have to get through this next part and then I will be better. The truth is, I’d probably take a hundred shots to get rid of this rash. The doctor moves quickly and without warning I feel the sting in my arm. It really hurts. It isn’t the quick kind of shot the nurses usually give out. This is taking a long time. Real long. But after about five seconds, my skin stops itching. After ten seconds, I feel the doctor pulling the needle out.
I look down at my legs and the backs of my hands and I watch the bright red spots begin to fade. They disappear almost immediately. It doesn’t take long at all for the entire rash to be gone. I let out a long steady breath.
“You fixed me,” I tell her.
“Yes. I’ve made you better, but now we have to make sure the rash never comes back.” The doctor is standing behind me and she places her hands, which aren’t that much bigger than mine, actually, on my shoulders. “You’ve been very brave so far, Ryn, and now you must continue to be brave.”
“I must continue to be brave,” I say. At least, I think I say that. I don’t remember thinking it. I don’t remember agreeing with her in my mind.
“Lie down on the table. Not on your back, but your front. There is a little cradle for your face.” Lying down on that table is the last thing I want to do. I want to go and see my mom, but my legs move toward the exam table anyway. I’m shocked to find that I am doing exactly what she has ordered. I feel the doctor move my hair up and away so that it is falling over the headrest. My blond locks are scraggy and unbrushed because of the rash.
“I am going to do a biopsy. That’s the word I want you to remember when we talk to your mother. I have to do this in a special place, right at your hairline on the back of your neck. So first, I’m going to shave the area.”
“Biopsy,” I repeat. I can’t really see anything from this vantage, just the middle section of her body, but it’s enough to notice the razor in her hand. I feel a cool liquid on my neck and the funny tickling sensation of my hair being shaved.
“Now I’m going to give you a bunch of tiny needles to freeze the area. These won’t hurt like the last one I gave you. Just lie still.” I want to jump up. More shots! I don’t want more shots! I want my mom and I want to get out of here but I can’t move.
But I am lying still just like the doctor told me to. Why is my body listening to her when my brain doesn’t want to?
I feel the teeny pinpricks go into my head. They actually don’t hurt all that much, but I am getting another feeling, like, suddenly, this is all very wrong. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be letting this doctor do this to me. When I see her remove the large scalpel from a paper container, I lift my head up. I stare at the doctor, who seems genuinely baffled that I am looking at her.
“I told you to lie still,” she says calmly. I put my face back in the cradle, but every instinct I have is screaming to get up. The doctor gets closer and just as she is about to move into position above me I jolt up and grab her arm.
I am no longer seven.
I am no longer wearing a tank top and shorts. I am in full uniform and I am ten years older. I watch as the doctor’s face morphs. Her eyes, as blue as a neon sign at night, get bigger and wider. Her body shrinks. Her hair disappears and her skin, which was already dark, becomes jet-black and reflects the fluorescent lights from above.
“You will let me do this to you,” she tells me. Any warmth she may have had has been drained from her tone.
“No …” I say firmly, “I won’t.” She tries to move her hand, the one with the scalpel in it. She can’t. She raises her other hand and I grab that, too, so that we are locked in a bizarre kind of dance. Her wrists are as hard as rock but I know, deep inside, that I am stronger than her. I can beat her. I can kill her. Yet when I kick her in the stomach, expecting her to go flying, she barely moves.
What’s happening? This isn’t right. My strength is waning. She is getting the upper hand. She pushes me back against the table, whips me around, and shoves my head into the tissue paper cover.
“Stop! Edo! Stop it!” I beg.
“You cannot beat me, Ryn. And why would you want to when I am about to give you such an extraordinary gift?” She sounds almost seductive in that raspy inhuman voice of hers.
“I don’t want it. Please, please.”
But her hand remains on my neck and I am stuck. I feel the slow painful drag of the scalpel—which is also wrong. She gave me anesthetic to numb this area, but it still hurts. I scream out loud. I am squirming and kicking, but I can’t get away. I begin to truly panic when I see the little black box in her tiny childlike hand. I know what it is.