The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin Read Free Book Online Page B

But then I heard myself talking about Dr. Mena—our family doctor when I was a child. Mother had taken me to him that spring when I began napping every day, not wanting to be with my friends, refusing to eat. I was eleven.
    He was a large, reddish-skinned man with pure white hair. He laughed a lot, even when nobody had said anything funny. He suggested to Mother that she should let him speak with me in private.
    “Children Sarah’s age, especially female children, sometimes have secrets they don’t wish to share with their parents,” he told her.
    Then, looking at me, he added, “But Sarah and I are good friends. We can tell each other anything, can’t we, Sarah?”
    He took me into his examining room and helped me up onto the cold, stainless steel table. He pressed gently on my belly, asking if it hurt. When I told him no, he moved his hand up under my skirt and down inside the elastic band ofmy panties. As he moved his hand lower, he kept asking, “Does this hurt? This? This?”
    Nothing that he did was painful. Some of what he did felt good. Strangely good. So when Mother announced, a week later, that I had another appointment with Dr. Mena, I felt a mix of dread and anticipation. But that time, when he took me off for another private talk, it didn’t end up the same way.
    I don’t know if Dr. Mena put his penis inside me. What I do know is this: he put something inside me. His finger? A tongue depressor? I don’t know what it was, but it hurt, and it was large enough or sharp enough to make me bleed. His game wasn’t fun anymore. I squirmed away, pressing my legs together. He didn’t pursue it; he let the moment pass. But when he walked back out to the waiting room with me, he told my mother there were a few more tests he needed to run. He gave her a slip of paper to take to the lab.
    Dr. Mena knew how much I feared needles; how they made me cry. But even so, he ordered the blood tests. I knew that was his way of getting back at me for not letting him do whatever he wanted. I had been bad, and I was getting what I deserved.
    One afternoon when I came into the house, my mother was talking to Dr. Mena on the phone. I sneaked upstairs, to listen in on an extension.
    “Mono is nothing serious,” he was saying. “It just takes time and rest, and then she’ll be good as new.”
    “Thank you for letting me know,” my mother said.
    “And there’s something else.”
    “Yes?”
    “Remember those private chats I had with Sarah?”
    “Yes.”
    “I learned quite a bit about her,” he said. “She has a very active imagination.”
    “I know. We’re proud of that.”
    “I understand. But it is a fine line between fantasy and lies. I think you should be aware, so you can watch for any signs.”
    “Are you saying that Sarah lies?”
    “Oh, no, no, of course not. Only that she is so bright, and given to storytelling.”
    “She wants to be a writer,” Mother said.
    “Well, then, I wouldn’t worry. I just thought I’d mention it—in case she starts telling tall tales. Be aware that it’s just the sign of a good imagination, but one that should be redirected. Into her writing, for example.”
    The last thing I heard Mother say was, “Thank you, Dr. Mena. I appreciate all the effort you’ve gone to.”
    I knew that I must have been a very bad girl. First Dr. Mena had subjected me to needles, then he had told my mother that I lie. I didn’t like displeasing him so much. That’s why, a year later—when a boy from my class put his hands in those same places that Dr. Mena had touched—I didn’t stop him.
    There were other boys after that, but none of them mattered. Until I met Robert. He was lifeguarding at the beach that summer between my senior year and my first semester of college. Once I spotted him perched up there on the lookout tower—all tanned and muscular and serious—I started hanging around, asking him questions. Being a pest. Flirting.
    “Look,” he said, “I’m working.”
    “I know.