Free Scar Girl by Len Vlahos Page A

my mind.
    â€œDon’t worry about the money,” she said. “I have a lot saved. You can pay me back.”
    â€œI can give you some, too,” Theresa said. I didn’t think Theresa had any money, and I didn’t think she really wanted to give it to me, but Agnes’s generosity had shamed her into making the offer.
    It’s not that Agnes shamed her on purpose. It’s that girls like Theresa and me just sort of start out from a place of feeling shame. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s the truth.
    Anyway, it didn’t matter. They had both offered, and it calmed me down, at least a little bit, and it made me love my sisters more than I ever had before.
    Then a new woman came in, this one wearing a white lab coat.
    â€œI’m Dr. McCartney,” she said. “You must be”—and she looked down at the clipboard—“Cheyenne.”
    I was surprised that the doctor was a woman. I’ve been so trained to think of doctors as men that it never occurred to me that this doctor would be anything else. It made me happy.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt’s a nice name. So tell me what’s going on.” She was young, and she had dark brown hair that was pulled back in a ponytail and charcoal-colored bags under her eyes, almost like she’d got beaten up.
    â€œI’m pregnant, and I think something’s going wrong.” I told her as much detail as I could about the bleeding and the cramps.
    â€œOkay. Are you a patient of the clinic or do you have another OB/GYN?”
    â€œThis is my first trip to a doctor.”
    â€œHow long ago was your last period?” Concern etched itself into the corner of her mouth.
    â€œI don’t know, like three or four months ago.”
    Dr. McCartney froze and looked from me to Theresa.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    I knew enough to be embarrassed about not having come to the doctor sooner, so I just hung my head and nodded.
    The doctor, who was probably used to seeing dumb little girls like me, forced a smile.
    â€œOkay, then, let’s see what we’re dealing with.” She pulled a rolling stool up next to the examination table and grabbed a plastic tube of Vaseline. “This is going to be a bit cold.” She squirted a bunch on my stomach, and it was cold. It made me flinch, which made me hurt.
    With my shirt off, you could see the barest hint of the bump that was my baby trying to push its way out of my belly. The doctor took out this flat black paddle thing, which was hooked up to a machine with what looked like a telephone cord. Like one of those things they use to start your heart when it stops.
    Seeing that freaked me out. But the paddle wasn’t for hearts. It was for sonograms. Agnes, Theresa, and I watched the grainy black-and-white TV monitor as the doctor moved the paddle all around my stomach. The room was quiet, and my attention wandered from the monitor to the doctor’s face.
    Every muscle in her jaw and neck had pulled itself tight, and her forehead was scrunched. After one last go-round with the paddle, she bit her lower lip, pushed her stool back, and looked at me.
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    The doctor put the paddle back in its holder and took my hands. She looked me straight in the eye.
    â€œI’m sorry, Cheyenne,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “There’s no heartbeat. You’re having a miscarriage.”
    One of my sisters gasped—I’m not sure which one—and at first, I didn’t know why. Dr. McCartney kept holding my hands and watching, waiting for me to catch up.
    I did.
    No heartbeat.
    My baby was dead.
    HARBINGER JONES
    I’m a socially awkward, disfigured, guitar-playing coward. Try to tell that story in two hundred and fifty words or less. It can’t be done. I mean, it literally can’t be done. I know. I tried. At least twenty times I tried.
    I finally decided that I should just ignore the word count in