Clinic

by Julie Christman

I.
    On the edge of the sink, it teeters, gleaming white, a Popsicle stick full of urine that tells the future. Its clairvoyance: two plastic windows with glaring magenta stripes, error proof in testing for errors. You stand to my left, feet spread wide, legs stiff in defiance, arms glued to your sides. Frozen. Staring at the teetering Popsicle stick and its two pink lines.
    You waiver slowly, body winces. You turn toward me, or maybe I turn toward you, in slow motion. I grab your shoulders; your wool sweater scratches the palms of my hands. My grip iron like your will. A flash, I catch your eyes: wide, dark, wild. Swollen from crying—a face like moonlight.
    A terrible secret caught in the Popsicle stick teetering on the edge of my bathroom sink.
    You shake your head, trying to shake loose from the fear, the truth that made you wince. Matted black hair swings, stirring the tension. You look like you have awakened from a nightmare, knowing that we have awakened to it.
     "Is that pink? Shit."
     "Yeah, it's really pink."
     "Shit." Cracked voice: low, quiet.
     I pull you closer, feel your breath heave against my chest. The sound of the faucet dripping echoes loudly.
     "Shit. I really fucked up this time."
     We stare at the sink, at the white Popsicle stick. It doesn't change. The line doesn't fade. It grows darker, bolder.
    Your cigarette haunts the air. Its stale smell lingers. Smoke curls around your trembling hand resting close to your lips. We try to joke. It almost works. But not until I throw the test away, wrapping it in a white tissue, burying it deep in the blue plastic trash can.

II.
    Heavy bodies fill the chairs: moist, shifting bodies. The mauve chairs groan, sweating under the thick, stale air. The blinds tangle with the humidity of these corralled bodies. We almost can't find two empty seats together.
    Take a number, get in line: first for consultation, then tests, then procedure. I foolishly prided myself on getting you here one minute before your scheduled appointment. Everyone must decide on the type of anesthesia upon registration. Local, intravenous, surgical. You decide on intravenous, knowing local to be a long needle inserted into the cervix. The girl who arrives just after you proclaims loudly that she wants to be knocked out cold, turning to see faces swivel toward her and smiles of sad confusion.
    "Your ride will stay the entire time." The nurse peers over her reading glasses, at patient and escort. It’s not a question; it’s a command. With a nod you hand over your Visa card. Five hours.
    Five hours of sitting trapped, the seats gradually emptying, women disappearing behind the brown metal door. 
     After the first hour, you return with a white bottle in your hand and a release form. The receptionist crosses the boundaries, leaves her protective, bulletproof-glass cubicle to switch on the air conditioning.
     You go, leaving me your bag, the sweater that made my palms itch.
    The hollow hiss of the AC and a relentless drill pounding somewhere next door digs into the back of my neck. I try to sleep to pass the time, squirming in my chair, curling up and feeling discomfort passing over me in warm waves of nausea. I wish time moved like it does in the movies. Five hours.
     I change seats to face the blurry TV. Talk shows: I hate talk shows. I try to read. There is a book of poetry in your bag. I hate poetry. I read it anyway.

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