A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

I refuse to turn and look at Bea, knowing she’s likely pissed. She’ll
tell me this was too risky, that I went too far, bringing Meredith’s
name up. That I crossed a line.
But I’m so close. I can’t let it go. I ask Dr. Feingold, “If I did decide
to hire a doula, would you recommend any of these women?”
Dr. Feingold takes a long look. He thinks, and I appreciate the
attention he gives it, though I don’t think for a minute he’s being
sincere. He’s thinking before he speaks, being extra cautious. He
doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. He tells me, “If you felt the need
to hire a doula,” he says, with the emphasis on if, “either of the first
two would be good. But this Dickey one,” he says, tapping at the
paper with his hand, and I think he’s going to trash-talk Meredith at
first. “Meredith Dickey,” he says. “I don’t know her,” before passing
the list back to me and getting on with his exam.
He’s lying. A bald-faced lie. He does know Meredith.
Dr. Feingold tells me again to lie down on the table. It’s stern the
way he says it this time. Subconsciously I clutch the plackets of my
robe together. My mouth tastes suddenly metallic. I lie down flat and
defensive on the exam table, pressing my knees together.
Bea sits unconsciously forward in her chair. The doctor, noticing
this, says, “If you’d rather, your friend can wait outside.”
It isn’t such an odd thing to say. If she was my friend, my platonic
friend, I wouldn’t want her to see me naked. This would be awkward,
Bea in such close proximity during a pelvic exam. This is awkward,
but the idea of Dr. Feingold and me alone, with me naked, his hands
inside me, makes my flesh crawl. Bea can’t leave.
“My memory is rubbish,” I say, swallowing hard and scared, voice
trembling. I can no longer control it. “I asked her to come along to
remember all the things I’d forget to ask. She has three kids,” I say.
“She knows a thing or two about being pregnant. This is my first,” I
tell him, voice diminishing as I say it, taking on the somber tone of a
woman who may or may not have miscarried.
Bea shifts her chair in another direction and looks away.
Dr. Feingold motions for me to slide to the end of the exam table
and stick my feet in the stirrups. I do, lying spread eagle on the table
before him. Dr. Feingold sets his firm hands on my bare knees. He
presses my legs wider, before dropping somewhere that I can’t see.