Page 26 of On Thin Ice

There was a light rapping at the door, so I said, “Come in,” hoping I’d made my voice sound weak enough that my supposed illness wouldn’t be questioned.

The doorknob turned, but there was a long pause before the door was pushed open. When I saw the huge tray Edna carried in, I understood why. She’d likely set the tray on the table in the hallway so she could open the door before entering. “I’m so sorry you’re not feeling well, child. What’s bothering you?”

“My stomach.”

“Oh, dear. You might not want to eat at all.”

“I do.” After last night’s activities, I was nearly starving—but I hoped I didn’t convey that to Edna. I added, “I think the worst has passed.”

“Good. Fortunately,” she said, bringing the tray to my bed, “most everything here is fairly bland, which is supposed to be good for you when you don’t feel well.”

The tray held two slices of buttered wheat toast, a peeled banana cut into chunks, a small bowl of oatmeal, a glass of water, and a cup of tea, along with a teapot and a small bowl of sugar. “Thank you so much, Edna. This is so kind of you.”

She beamed as she rested a corner of the tray on the nightstand, picking up the pitcher and sugar off the tray and placing them on the polished surface. “I was happy to do it. Do you feel like you could hold this on your lap?”

Sitting up, I replied. “I think so.”

“Would you like me to open your curtains? Get some sun shining in here?”

“Yes, that would be nice.” I wanted to begin devouring my small meal and thought better of it. Someone who’d supposedly spent the night before throwing up might eat gingerly.

“I must admit I’ll miss you at lunch today.” When she finished opening up the drapes around the room, she said, “But there’s always tomorrow. What do you think about grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup?”

More mostly bland food—but that was okay. It was only until I could walk like a normal human being—which I was going to try after I showered.

“That sounds fine, Edna. Thank you.”

Just as she was walking out the door, she said, “I suppose I should give you my cell phone number so you can call it if you need something.” I agreed and added her number to the short list of contacts in my phone. “Otherwise, I’ll be back in a few hours to check on you.”

After she closed the door, I gobbled the food as if I hadn’t eaten in days. It was almost funny, considering how I’d refused food over and over the first week or so I’d been here. As always, Edna’s food soothed my hunger pangs along with my soul—and I got to work.

First, I showered. Part of me was sad that I was washing off every trace of Sinclair—every kiss, every touch, his lingering scent. Although I was a little sticky between the legs, I knew that was because of me and not him, because the condom had prevented those fluids from entering me. But I was curious what even that would feel like.

I could if I were on birth control.

When I got out of the shower and dressed, I was still hobbling around. I couldn’t force myself to walk normally unless I moved very slowly. Fortunately, it didn’t hurt as much, and I hoped I would be back to normal by tomorrow. It would be hard faking sick two days in a row—especially after I’d told Edna the worst had passed.

But I was suddenly struck with inspiration—and it was based on something that had happened to one of my few friends in high school. She’d become sexually active our junior year and started feeling ill not long after her first time. Like me, she didn’t have a mother in the picture, but her father wasn’t nearly as caring as mine—so she didn’t talk to him about anything.

One day she confided in me. “It’s one of three things,” she said. “It’s either a yeast infection, a bladder infection, or I’m pregnant.”

“What?” I had a hard time rectifying all the possibilities. And I’d wanted to ask why she hadn’t used protection…but part of me wondered if she’d wanted to get pregnant all along so she could get out of her dad’s house.

Of course, her getting pregnant happened at the beginning of our senior year, but when she went to the doctor before that, she found out she had a urinary tract infection. “A bladder infection on steroids,” she’d said—but a little medicine cleared it right up.

Maybe I could use this supposed illness as an excuse to see a gynecologist…I could look up the symptoms and tell them to Edna, asking her to get me an appointment. I knew doctors were bound by confidentiality, so whatever happened behind those doors would be my business alone.

So, after doing a little research, I sent Edna a text, asking if I could talk to her for a minute about seeing a doctor. I expected her to call when she got the message but she instead came upstairs. I’d put on a pair of clean pajamas, a lavender top with long sleeves and pants made of light, breezy fabric. I thought that might add to the belief that I wasn’t feeling well.

When Edna arrived, she first asked, “Did you want more tea, dear?”

“No, thank you. I’m all right.”

“Ah…you ate it all. Did it not set well?”

“No, it’s okay. It’s, um…something else. I don’t know if it’s related to how my stomach felt, but it’s in the same area. I’m—hurting below. You know, kind of itchy and painful.”

“Oh. In your…feminine area?”

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