Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(72)

“When was your last menses?”

I do not know.

“When did you first have your menses?”

I cannot remember. Since the village and the Compound and Robach, things have been different, down there—inside.

“Are you sexually active?”

If my look could kill, there would be one less nurse.

“Were you sexually active before . . .” She trails off. There is no soft way to ask if I was a virgin before I was raped.

At any rate, I was a virgin.

“She would have only been fourteen.”

The nurse clears her throat, sounding nearly as uncomfortable as I feel. “I’m sorry for the questions. It’s just we have to ask about your sexual history, even at that age.”

Ms. Delphine is offended on my behalf, and I sneak a look to see she is glaring at the nurse. “Let’s move on, shall we? These questions are irrelevant. What is important is now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The nurse asks me to remove my clothing and don the paper robe.

She leaves us alone. Ms. Delphine tries to avert her eyes when I turn my back on her so I can undress. I worry about what the doctor will say about me, because I will not be able to bear her pity. When we return home and she tells Mr. Noble and Elin what she has heard, they will pity me too.

The doctor is not only a woman but the same color as me. She is older, maybe sixty, with big round glasses and a comforting smile. I relax a bit. Her hands are warm and soft, and she does not talk down to me or make assumptions.

“May I?” she asks before touching me.

She will never know how grateful I am that she asked first. I nod, sneaking a look at Ms. Delphine, who earlier refused to leave when the nurse suggested that she wait outside during the examination.

“She is my daughter,” Ms. Delphine told her. “You’re mad if you think I’m leaving her.”

My entire chest expanded so much I was afraid it would explode.

The doctor tells me what she is doing every step of the way. She shows me the speculum before she puts it in. Despite my effort to keep quiet, I cry out from the pain, from memories of my defilement by those men. Down there, the doctor makes sounds I cannot discern to be good or bad.

“Nurse, let’s have an ultrasound.”

Once the technician completes the ultrasound exam, the doctor says regretfully, “Just as I feared.” The monitor is swirls of gray, black, and white. I do not know what I look at, but she begins to explain. “This”—she points at the screen, tracing a web of what looks like white bands in a sea of black and gray—“is what I was worried about. It’s scar tissue, a result of extensive traumatic injury. Untreated scar tissue hardens, which it’s done now. Scarring can come from tears in the vagina from forceful entry or could be from untreated sexually transmitted diseases.”

“Does she—?” Ms. Delphine chokes out.

The doctor looks at me with compassion. “We’ve tested for all of it, and the results will come soon. I’ve put a rush on them. To me, this scarring looks like a result of forced entry.”

Ms. Delphine says, “I did explain to you that Nena has been sexually assaulted.” She glances at me. “Repeatedly,” she whispers as if I have not lived it. She uses her right hand to twirl the large diamond rings on her wedding finger.

The stitching of the doctor’s name on the breast of her coat reads Eddington. “Yes, and the massive scarring . . .” She trails off. “Reveals a substantial history of abuse.”

She didn’t need these scars to tell her that. I could have told her that without all this fuss.

“Which is why she’s now with us,” Ms. Delphine explains rigidly.

I drown them out. The doctor says nothing I do not already know. My scars are not new to me. They are only a part of my story.

She pauses, her duty making her deliver the rest. “I also fear Nena will be unable to carry children without extreme difficulty. Maybe not at all.”

My head swivels toward Ms. Delphine, and to my shock, she is crying. I hate these moments. Consoling people is not my thing, but I pat the hand resting on my arm.

Pat, pat, pat.

“No children?” Ms. Delphine interprets.

“It looks unlikely. There is too much damage, rendering her body unable to sustain a pregnancy. And if her assailant passed on an STD that went untreated, her ovaries and eggs were likely compromised.”

Pat, pat, pat.

Our roles reverse because while I am okay with this news, Ms. Delphine is beyond solace.

“My child cannot have her own children?”

There is a lightness in my chest at hearing her say “my child,” as if I have been there all along.

Pat, pat, pat.

This time, I will not fail them.

“No more tears, Mum,” I say. Pat, pat, pat. “I will be okay.”

Mum looks at me and dissolves into more tears. Have I misspoken? Her shoulders are shaking, and she is a blubbering mess. I cannot tell if it’s calling her Mum that has reduced her to pieces or the news I am barren.

And there you have it. I will not bear children. And I am not surprised by it. It is my fate, the final nail in my coffin, so to speak, for betraying my family.

Fitting, no?

Consider it. Death and violence are my legacies.

But watching Mum strengthens my resolve to become the best at whatever I do from this moment forward. I resolve to make amends to my first family, to no longer know fear.