L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

entire space with names and ideals. Then I moved on to the next question: vaginal
orgasms? I skipped it. I had no idea. The one about erogenous zones almost had me
scanning the bookshelf for a dictionary. I couldn’t answer that. Nor the next one, nor the
one about being with women. I answered the rest as best I could. Finally I turned to the
last page in the booklet, where there was a blank space for me to add any other
thoughts.
I am trying hard to answer these questions, but I have only had sex with my husband. We
mostly did it missionary style. Maybe two times a week when we rst got married. After
that, maybe once a month. The light was often o. Sometimes I had an orgasm … I think.
I’m not sure; maybe I was faking. Scott never went down on me. I have … touched myself
now and again. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that, though. Scott always wanted me
to put him in my mouth. I did it, for a while, but I couldn’t do that again after he hit me. I
couldn’t do anything with him after he hit me. He died almost four years ago. It has been
longer than that since I last had sex. I am sorry, but I can’t nish this test, even though I’m
trying my best.
I put down my pen and closed the booklet. Even writing what I had made me feel a
little unburdened.
I didn’t hear Matilda slip back into the room.
“How did you do?” she asked as she returned to her desk and sat down.
“Not very well, I’m afraid.”
She picked up the booklet. I had the strongest urge to rip it from her hands and hold it
to my chest.
“You know, it’s not the kind of test you can fail,” she said, a sad smile crossing her
face as she quickly scanned my answers. “All right, then. Cassie, come with me. Time to
meet the Committee.”
I felt welded to my big comfortable chair. I knew that if I crossed the threshold of this
room, another chapter of my life would unfold. Was I ready?
Strangely, I was. With each gesture, it felt more doable. Maybe that’s what the ten
steps would feel like. I kept reminding myself that nothing bad was happening to me.
Quite the opposite. I felt like layers of ice were falling away.
We left the room together and crossed the reception area, where Danica hit another
button beneath her desk. The giant white doors at the end parted to reveal a large oval
table made of glass, around which about a dozen women sat chatting loudly. The room
was windowless, and also white, with a few colorful paintings similar to the ones in the
lobby. There was a portrait at the far end, above a wide mahogany console, of a
beautiful dark-skinned woman with a long braid falling forward over her shoulder. We
entered the room and the women fell silent.
“Everybody, this is Cassie Robichaud.”
“Hi, Cassie,” they sang.
“Cassie, this is the Committee.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.