Free Spinning the Moon by Karen White

body.
    The doctor frowned and walked toward me. “Yes, I see, but Mrs. Elliott would like me to examine it anyway.”
    I unbuttoned the top button of my blouse but stopped before I unfastened the second one, as the doctor’s face turned the color of a cherry tomato.
    â€œI would not dream of impinging upon your modesty, Mrs. Truitt. I will do my examination through your clothes.”
    With a slight cough, Stuart excused himself and Julia from the room, closing the door behind them.
    The doctor motioned for me to sit on the piano bench. Remembering how lethal my uncontrollable skirts were, I ignored his suggestion and instead sat down on a more stable-looking wingback chair, which appeared to be covered in horsehair.
    He placed his left hand firmly on my back while he palpated my shoulder with his other. He stared at a spot over my head to avoid eye contact with me. In the course of his ministrations, he must have noted the absence of a corset.
    â€œMrs. Truitt, I cannot help but notice that you are not wearing a corset. Do you have some sort of breathing affliction?”
    â€œNo, Doctor, I don’t—but I would if I forced myself into one of those contraptions.”
    He stopped in his muscle manipulations of my arm and dropped the limb as if he couldn’t bear to touch it any longer. “I see,” he said in a tone indicating that he did not. “A follower of Catharine Beecher. The thought that corsets restrict a woman from exercise and deform her body is balderdash.” He stepped back and closed his black doctor’s bag. “Nothing seems to be broken, just bruised. I suggest restricting your movement of the shoulder, and it should be better in a few days.”
    â€œThank you.” I wanted to contradict his opinion on corsets, but kept my mouth closed. If this really wasn’t a dream from which I’d be waking soon, I needed as many friends as I could get.
    â€œWhere are you from, Mrs. Truitt? Your voice has the inflections of the South, but your mannerisms are more reminiscent of the North.”
    His question caught me off guard, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
    â€œTo be honest, I think I hit my head or something, because I don’t seem to remember much. I remember my name and that I’m a widow, but not much else.” I had watched enough soap operas in my day to know that amnesia was a good explanation for just about anything.
    â€œOh, really?” His expression told me he didn’t believe a word.
    His examination apparently over, he walked to the door and opened it. Julia appeared in the doorway, an expression of concern on her face. “Is everything all right? No broken bones?”
    The doctor’s stern features softened as he looked at Julia. “No. Physically she seems to be fine.”
    Julia smiled. “Wonderful. Now, Charles, would you like some coffee? And I insist that you stay for supper.”
    â€œWhy, yes, thank you, Julia. That is kind of you.”
    Stuart reappeared and the two men found seats while Julia went to see about the coffee. I remained where I was to avoid any further embarrassment.
    Stuart turned to me. “Mrs. Truitt, when I met you, you said something about a Mimosa Boulevard here in Roswell.”
    I set about straightening my skirts to cover my long pause as my mind raced about for an explanation. “Yes, I do remember. I live on Mimosa Boulevard. I thought it was in Roswell, but you told me there’s no such street.”
    â€œNo, there is not,” interjected the doctor. “Your case is very interesting, Mrs. Truitt. I know a woman’s mental health is weak at best and, when put under the least bit of strain, tends to suffer greatly. I am sure after a period of bed rest your memory will return.” He stressed the word “memory,” making it sound as if it wasn’t my memory that was the problem, but something more akin to my character.
    I opened my