Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

her arms over her bare chest, hands tucked into her armpits, and trembled in her panties. They were small and faded, but familiar in all the strangeness. They were actually hers. Pale butterflies chased across her hips. She focused on them, trying to draw comfort from the only thing that made sense.

      The nurse glanced up from her clipboard. “Everything off, sweetie, and hop up on the exam table. There’s a paper gown on it.” She touched the wall-mounted intercom to call for the doctor.

      Angie dropped her butterflies and dove for the table. The stiff, disposable gown scratched, but at least she was covered again. Her knees were blue and knobby as her legs hung loosely over the edge. She watched all the clothes gathered into a plastic bag and tagged.

      “Quick manicure now,” the nurse said. She scraped under Angie’s nails and saved the gunk in a small vial. “Excuse me.” She peeked under Angie’s paper gown. “Not enough hair to comb,” she commented mysteriously, and dropped the paper back over Angie’s lap. Angie crossed her ankles tighter together.

      “Open, please.” Mechanically, Angie opened her mouth for a huge swab. Her gag reflex kicked in, and she breathed hard through her nose so she wouldn’t vomit. Her cheeks and tongue were thoroughly scrubbed and the swab dropped into a long glass vial.

      The nurse picked up her pen and clipboard. “Date of your last period?”

      Angie flushed. “I haven’t started yet. I’m sort of a late bloomer.”

      A sharp knock, and the doctor entered. Angie’s breath caught. The doctor was a man. Oh God. She’d never been examined by a man.

      Knees pressed together, Angie shivered and watched him closely. He looked old, with white hairs mixed into his beard and a wrinkled, friendly face. At least that was less humiliating than a cute, young doctor. She loosened her laced fingers and shook the hand he offered. Hers was sweaty, his warm and dry.

      “Hi, Angela. I’m Dr. Cranleigh. Is there anything you’d like to ask me before the examination?”

      She thought. “Will it hurt?”

      “There may be about thirty seconds of discomfort or cramping. That’s all. Okay?”

      Angela nodded. No false promises. She liked that. “Even though I’m a virgin?” she asked.

      “Even if you’re a virgin,” he replied. “I understand that you may be suffering from traumatic amnesia, yes?”

      She nodded again.

      “I’m very sorry about your ordeal.” He turned to the sink to wash his hands.

      What was the correct response to that? “Um. Thanks.”

      The nurse hovered in the background, now a silent observer. Angie wondered what she was thinking, how many other young girls or women she had seen through this. Maybe it was different if you actually had been raped, if you were filled with fury, if you were aching for vengeance.

      But she wasn’t.

      Dr. Cranleigh snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “So. A mystery. We’re looking for clues then, to explain anything about what has happened to you, where you have been. Think of us as a team. I promise to be as quick and gentle as possible. You promise to tell me if anything hurts. If we need to stop and take a break, we can do that. Also, very important, Angie, tell me if anything in the examination triggers a memory—a memory of any kind. Okay?”

      Angie wasn’t so sure she wanted to trigger any memories. Something truly awful had happened to her feet. She couldn’t bear to look at them, dangling down from the edge of the examining table. And there were those dark ridges on her wrists as well. There must be a really good reason she couldn’t remember.

      A bubble of resentment rose to the surface of her mind. She didn’t have to be here. She could have refused all this. Maybe she still could. Why was it so important to find everything out, anyway? Couldn’t everyone just be glad she was home and leave her alone? She was safe. She was alive. Let it go.

      “Okay, now, Angela,” Dr. Cranleigh said. “I am going to check you for bruises and scars on the outside.” With impersonal and quick hands, he lifted the gown and examined every inch of her skin while Angie focused on the light above her, which flickered slightly. One fluorescent bulb was yellower than the one beside it, and she concentrated on the pattern of blinks.

      Dr. Cranleigh spent a considerable time on her feet and wrists before he paused to jot a few notes and take photos. She watched the hands of the clock creep around and breathed in time with the ticks, trying to ignore the nauseating, dull, rubbery sensation when he touched her scars.

      Angie forced herself to ask. “What do you think … I mean, what could have done that to me?”

      The doctor met her question square on. “Healed wounds like these are typical of repeated chafing from restraints, most likely metal, not leather. The wrists suggest something more like rope or twine. The appearance is not consistent with self-injury. Any thoughts?”

      “No,” she answered numbly. She’d been restrained? Shackled? She chased the word around in her mind, trying to find a wisp of memory. Her mind resisted, pressing back with dark blankness. “I just don’t know.”

      “Thank you, Angela. Now lie down please, with your feet in these stirrups, knees up and apart, so we can look for any internal injuries.”

      Angie’s chest suddenly squeezed too tight to breathe. Hide! a tiny voice screamed. A blinding pain shot through her skull, and she covered her eyes with her hands.

      In the distance, she heard the doctor’s voice. “You may feel a slight pressure… .”

      But she didn’t. The headache lifted as quickly as it had come, and her eyes fluttered open with surprise. The nurse extended a hand to help her sit. “All done, sweetie,” she said. “Thank you for being so cooperative. You can get dressed.”

      All done? That was the exam? Where was the doctor? He couldn’t have snuck out in the two seconds her eyes were closed, could he?

      Her heart skipped a beat. It was only two seconds, wasn’t it? She hadn’t blacked out, had she?

      Angie’s eyes flicked from the nurse to the clock. Only a few minutes since she last looked, and they’d been talking for part of that. Relief eased the tightness in her chest. Guess the doctor was just quick on his feet.

      Anyway, thank God it was all over. Time to go home and forget all of this. She smiled briefly at her unconscious choice of words. Could you forget about forgetting? Maybe so.

      In spite of all the evidence, proof even, she didn’t feel like three years were missing. If she could just convince her parents to chill, she could get on with her life as usual—call her friends, go back to school, pick up where she left off. Why not? She pulled on the soft sweater Mom had brought and hugged her arms around herself. Trust Mom to remember her favorite oversized fuzzy blue sweater.

      Angie slid her slender legs into the pair of tan cords, feeling almost normal again, until she stood straight and realized the pants were a couple of inches too short. And there it was. Proof again. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t just continue with her life as usual. Her life didn’t fit her anymore.

      The nurse walked Angie down the corridor, to a room marked PRIVATE. “Doctor’s talking to your parents. Go on in, sweetie. Good luck with everything.”

      Yeah. Good luck. How was she supposed to be a size-thirteen girl in a size-sixteen life?

      Angie put a hand on the knob and began a slow twist. The doctor’s voice penetrated the door, and she paused to listen to what he was telling Mom and Dad. She caught, “Severe lacerations … unusual internal scarring … no doubt of repeated assault … ankles … not typical of self-mutilation … wrists … suicide … good health … not pregnant … psychiatric …”

      Angie retreated to the hall bathroom, cranked the bolt, and sank against the locked door, weak at the knees. Repeated assaults. Internal