Free Balance of Fragile Things by Olivia Chadha Page B

Her mother switched them off.
    â€œPoor creature.” Her mother slowed the car, and the moth escaped.
    Potholes punctuated the remainder of the ride to Dr. Gott’s office. Her mother seemed tenser than usual. Isabella’s stomachaches were worsening, and in a female form there were so many other organs down there, from ovaries to fallopian tubes, that Dr. Foster, their family physician, suggested Isabella make her first gynecological appointment to rule out ectopic pregnancy, cysts, and endometriosis. She could only imagine what her mother must’ve felt and thought when Dr. Foster even said the word pregnant . She must have freaked out. Isabella had no desire to have sex. Kissing, however, she thought of often when she saw Erik.
    Her mother had told her that Oma had never mentioned to her how babies were made but that she’d managed to make two. When Isabella woke at thirteen to blood in her panties, her mother said, Don’t fret, meita . This is a part of your life now. You are a woman now. And she left a box of tampons under the bathroom sink.
    â€œSo, Izzy,” her mother said. “The exam might feel strange, but it only takes a second, and before you know it we’ll be on our way home.”
    â€œOkay, Mama.” Isabella clenched her jaw.
    Her mother inhaled, gripped the wheel, and said, “Do you have any questions you’d like to ask me? I mean, about, you know, the—sex.” She whispered the word sex .
    â€œNo.” Isabella wished she had never heard the word sex from her mother’s mouth.
    â€œBecause you know it is only meant for people who are married.”
    â€œYeah, I get that.”
    â€œFor making of the babies.”
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œYou’re too young to have a baby.”
    â€œMama!”
    Isabella wiped the small beads of sweat from her upper lip and daydreamed about being anywhere but locked in a moving vehicle with her mother skating around a sex talk. When they arrived at the doctor’s office and were assigned an exam room, Isabella said, “Mama, maybe you can wait in the car or the waiting room?”
    â€œNo, no, I should come in with you.”
    â€œI don’t know, Mama.” Isabella imagined her mother’s awkwardness making the exam even worse.
    â€œI’ll come in.”
    â€œMama, I just—”
    â€œIzzy, fine, go on and change and I will come in afterward.”
    Isabella sighed, frustrated by her mother’s cluelessness. She wanted to tell her she needed to do this alone. Instead she said, “Whatever.”
    Isabella entered the room, closed the door behind her, and put on the gown. She left her green-striped tube socks on as a remnant of a less naked world. The mint-green gown did not feel fresh, and it was rough against her skin. They’d said “take off everything,” so she had, almost.
    Now she examined the room: Q-tips and cotton balls, tongue depressors and a box of gloves, size extra-large. Dr. Gott must have big hands, Isabella thought, big paws. She opened the first drawer and found open boxes of syringes, small bottles with soft plastic lids, and a cream she couldn’t pronounce. She took a syringe and put it in the pocket of her jeans, which were folded up on a chair with the rest of her clothes.
    The next drawer was full of tubes of lotion, most with the word glide integrated into the brand name: AstroGlide, SureGlide, GlideRight. She looked at the biohazard waste can and noticed a scrap of tissue hanging out of the top. Doctor’s offices should be sterile so you forget about all the other butts that have sat on the table before yours, Isabella thought—like a thin piece of white paper can actually protect us from one another anyway. Might as well be sitting butt to butt with Mrs. Mulch (who she’d seen in the lobby making a follow-up appointment for something contagious) or Ms. Charlotte (who smelled as though she needed immediate