Fiction: Fear Not
By Hannah Gerson
arttimesjournal.com April 25, 2021
“The doctor will be right in.”
Nina nods at the technician’s retreating back. No worries; an annual pelvic sonogram, a routine procedure.
Ten minutes pass. Then another ten minutes.
Nina has never waited this long for the doctor. The tech said she would be right in. What was taking so damn long? She suddenly feels small, sitting on the exam table, wrapped in the paper gown. Cold in the room, she is glad she has kept her socks on. She swings her feet back and forth, trying to move some warmth up her body. She imagines her old terry robe and snuggles into the gown; it rips under her arm.
Nina surveys the gap and feels a draft down the length of her ribcage. She clasps her arms around her middle, attempting to close the hole.
Five more minutes pass and Nina is about to jump off the table, open the door and shout out, “Hey, I’m still in here,” when the doctor enters.
“I compared today’s sonogram with last year’s. There’s a change,” she says.
Nina blinks.
“Fluid is present. It shouldn’t be in your postmenopausal uterus.”
A sudden sound in the room, a sharp in-take of breath, Nina realizes she has cried out.
“Do you think…it’s cancer?”
“Let’s do an endometrial biopsy. Then we’ll talk.”
The doctor explains the in-office procedure.
“Will I have to take a day off from work?” In twenty years, Nina has only missed four days of teaching.
“No. It can be done in the afternoon. You’ll be fine the next day.”
Nina has never needed a biopsy, a piece of herself removed to be examined in a lab under a microscope.
In the doctor’s parking lot, Nina scoops her car key up from the ground three times before she is finally able to insert it into the lock. She sits behind the steering wheel and tries to catch her breath.
After Nina has the biopsy, the doctor tells her, “It’ll take about a week until we have the results.”
Usually quick to fall asleep, that night Nina tosses and turns. Could it be that she’s sick? She feels fine now but isn’t that how illnesses sometimes begin? You feel alright, and then…there it is!
Exhausted, yet her eyes remain open. Nina longs for the weight of another body in her bed. How many years has it been since she has felt the comfort of a leg embracing hers, a chin nuzzled into her neck, a hand on her hip?
“Too many,” she whispers in the dark. And she thinks why she’s lying alone in the night. Of the men she pushed away and those she wanted, but who didn’t want her.
The clock on the night table ticks away the hours of sleep Nina has lost. Moonlight strolls through her bedroom, stops to kiss the photographs of her children covering the walls. She remembers caressing the silky skin of their newborn fingers curled in her palm, the feeling of wonder that she had created these tiny humans. The joy she never knew two syllables could bring until her children said, “Ma-ma.”
The 6 A.M. alarm finally calls her out of bed. Determined to get through the day, she jumps into an icy shower, gulps three cups of strong coffee, and applies under-eye concealer with a heavy hand.
Nina tries not to think about the biopsy and its possible results. She teaches a writing lesson to her third graders, then staples their completed stories onto the classroom’s bulletin boards. What will her completed story be? Every year, she has wanted to board a plane on the last day of school, and spend a summer vacation in Paris. Twenty-two summers later, she still hasn’t bought her ticket.
On the walk home from school, a display window of women’s trendy clothing catches Nina’s eye. She stops in front of the store and gazes at an outfit, slim ankle pants and a matching top with a draped neckline. That’s what I’ll wear on my trip she thinks. Nina imagines checking into a fine Paris hotel, her kitten heels tapping, “Bonjour, I’m here,” down the long, marble-tiled lobby. She’ll angle a black beret on her head, breakfast on a flaky croissant in a sidewalk cafe, then sashay down the Champs-Élysées. In a boutique, she’ll purchase a chic, designer silk scarf, wear it to the Louvre. Standing in front of the Mona Lisa, she’ll whisper, “I know what you’re smiling at,” and give Mona a gal-pal wink.
In the evening, Nina will slip into a black dress, a little off-the-shoulder number, and fashion her hair into a chignon. She’ll dine under the lights of the Eiffel Tower, and drink a fine Bordeaux from a long-stemmed crystal glass.
Nina wants to finger the fabric of the pants and top in the display window, trace the classic cut of the garments. She wonders how much the outfit costs. A pretty penny she thinks. Probably more than anything she has ever ordered from a mail order catalogue.
As Nina is about to walk away, clouds shift, and a splash of sun falls onto the blouse, illuminating its cream color, a shade that compliments her raven hair.
Nina pulls open the door and enters the store.
Hannah Garson
Bayside, NY