In Her Skin(10)

My eyes fill with dumb tears.

“Are you okay?”

I yelp.

You stand in the shadows on the landing, a plaid blanket wrapped against the wind that blows off the Charles. Your finger rises to your lips, dragging the blanket like a royal sleeve.

“Shh,” you whisper.

“Why?” I whisper back.

“They don’t want me up here.”

I force myself to sit still and let you run your eyes across me again, over forehead and nose, out to the ear, mouth, and back to the eyes.

I can’t help how I look, but there are other tricks. I lift my voice a shade and speak from my belly, so my words come from a softer place. “Your parents don’t want you up here?”

“They want me to take it slow,” you explain. “Give us both time to adjust.”

I face the window, scrambling to get inside Vivi. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“They’re worried. They always worry.”

I crinkle my nose. “I know this turns your life upside down. And now I have to live here, which makes it doubly weird.”

“It’s definitely weird.”

“I don’t expect things to be the same. I’ll never be the girl I was.”

“I don’t expect things to be the same either.” You move closer to share my view. “They say I’m not supposed to ask you what it was like.”

Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Lovecraft. “Yeah. I’m not really ready to talk about it.”

A gust from the Charles River passes through the pane. In a flash, you’re draping the blanket across my shoulders.

“Thanks, but I don’t need this,” I say, trying not to notice your warmth on the blanket, or the care you’re taking to cover me with it.

“Keep it. You’re cold.”

“Temple!” Mrs. Lovecraft calls from the kitchen, and now her feet are on the stairs, light as a cat. Mrs. Lovecraft is light-footed, but her daughter is silent.

You meet your mother before she reaches the landing. “I heard Vivi coughing. I thought she might need a blanket. You told me to give her anything she needs.” This leaves your mother with no response and you know this.

“Of course,” your mother says shrilly. She turns to me. “You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

Your navy eyes dance. We are in this together and this is what you wanted. “I’m not sick. I was—cold,” I say.

Mrs. Lovecraft feels my forehead. “Henry keeps the thermostat at sixty-seven. We’re used to it, I suppose. I’ll speak with him. In the meantime, we’ve scheduled a physical for you tomorrow to make sure you’re well.”

My stomach drops. I don’t need a doctor nosing around my parts, making comparisons between what was known about Vivi and what is visible on Jo. I open my mouth to say I’m not ready to have someone touch me, but Mrs. Lovecraft’s small back is already winding down the stairs. Your eyes settle on me for a second, and inside my chest, I feel a tiny spark. You turn to leave.

“Thanks,” I call. “For the blanket.”

You stop.

Inside me, the spark throws heat.

“You’re wrong, thinking I’m not happy that you’re back,” you say to the floor. “It’s exactly what I wished for.”

I squeeze a pillow against my chest hard and stare at the river. The sun drops, filling skyscraper windows and washing over the MIT dome. Then it falls into the river and sets it ablaze, then slips beneath the black water. The whole thing takes five minutes, maybe six.

A doctor’s appointment could be the beginning of the end. A missing mole, the wrong belly button, a comparison of ear shapes.

It’s like Mrs. Lovecraft says: in this city, pretty doesn’t last. But I think it will be worth every minute.

*

I have no idea what a doctor’s office is supposed to look like. Momma was excellent at forging my school vaccinations, but mainly, I was healthy and lucky for it. When I got true-sick, like the time my appendix popped, Momma brought me to the emergency room at the hospital. This doctor’s office is in Brookline in a building with a doorman and a marble-floored lobby stuffed with plants. Mrs. Lovecraft hits B for basement, and things change fast. In the hall, bare bulbs sizzle on the ceiling, and I can barely read the office numbers. It doesn’t matter though, because the door we approach is unmarked. Mrs. Lovecraft looks over her shoulder before turning the knob, then dips her head into her chest and pushes me gently into the waiting room.

The rug is stained and the plastic orange chairs are empty. I sniff: mold and cigarette smoke. The receptionist desk is empty. I’m about to ask Mrs. Lovecraft if maybe the appointment is tomorrow when a man appears around the corner and introduces himself as Dr. Krebs.

He has long hands and his lab coat is dirty.

I follow Dr. Krebs into an exam room where the equipment looks hella old, and also, why the metal stirrups? I turn to ask Mrs. Lovecraft if this is Temple’s doctor, but she’s backed her way out of the room and shut the door. Dr. Krebs pats a cushioned table and I stare. He pats it again, and I realize he’s telling me to sit, so I hoist myself up. He slaps a blood pressure cuff around my arm and sticks a thermometer in my mouth at the same time. When the cuff releases, he pulls out the thermometer and says, “Last period?”