A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

emotion, for me to cry later, at home, alone. Because crying is
messy. It’s not his cup of tea.
“The blood test,” he tells me, “gets sent to the lab. Results will be
back in a couple of days. Soon as the exam is through I’ll send the
nurse back in for the blood. Now, let’s take a look,” he says,
motioning for me to lie back on the exam table.
My breath catches. Under my arms, I begin to sweat. I know that a
pap smear and a pelvic exam are routine during a first prenatal
appointment. I came across that when I did my research in
preparation for the appointment. But I hadn’t expected it to get so far.
With the pregnancy now nearly debunked, there’s no reason for Dr.
Feingold to do this until after the bloodwork, until after we know for
certain if I’m pregnant, which I’m not. The thought of this man
touching me, of his fingers inside me, makes me nauseous. I think of
Shelby being murdered, of her naked body dragged to the riverbank
and abandoned there.
Did this man do that to her?
“Shouldn’t we wait for the results of the bloodwork?” I ask.
Only then does he smile. It’s supercilious, predatory. “If I’m going
to be your doctor,” he says, “you need to trust me. Okay, Katie?” he
asks, and I mechanically nod, speechless, not able to correct his
blunder. I’ve never been a Katie or a Katherine. I’ve only ever been
known as Kate. It’s the name my parents gave to me, not the
diminutive form of something else. “There are changes to the uterus
when a woman is pregnant. These can sometimes be detected
during a pelvic exam,” he says by rote, and though I know he won’t
feel these changes, any mother-to-be, I think, would do whatever he
asked to know if she was pregnant. Any mother-to-be in my position
would be desperate for confirmation of the pregnancy.
What choice do I have? I go to lie back, but then I stop myself. I sit
back up, propping myself on my elbows. I have questions to ask, and
if I’m going to ask them, I need to ask them now. As soon as Dr.
Feingold completes his exam and comes back with the bad news—
I’m not pregnant—my questions will be moot. No baby, no need for a
baby doctor.
“A friend of mine,” I say, speaking quickly now, letting my nerves
get the best of me. “A different friend, not this one,” I say, about Bea.