After

by Amy Efaw

  Devon looks up from the clipboard. Maybe her mom would know the answers to the heart problem, glaucoma, and cancer questions. But she is already occupied. She’s found a seat near the window and a man about her age. She’s smiling her big smile, moving her hands all around as she talks. Devon wouldn’t want to interrupt the Potential Boyfriend flirt act, would she?

  Devon completes the questionnaire the best she can. She brings it back to the woman at the reception desk.

  “Thanks, dear,” the woman says to her.

  “I left some things blank. I’m sorry—”

  “Oh, that’s okay. You can go sit down again. We’ll call you.”

  Devon slumps back down into her seat, rests her head on the wall behind her. She closes her eyes, takes slow breaths, tries to relax.

  Sometime later, Devon hears her name. She sits up, looks around, momentarily confused about where she is and why. Had she been asleep? At the far end of the waiting room, a woman is standing with an open door behind her, smiling. She’s wearing a green scrub jacket with multicolored dancing dinosaurs all over it. In her hands is a manila folder. “Devon?” she says again.

  Devon feels a stab of adrenaline in her gut then, because she remembers where she is. She stands—her arms shaking as she pushes off the armrests. The room has cleared out, she realizes. Only a handful of people remain now, with plenty of open seats.

  “That’s me,” Devon finally manages to say. “I’m Devon.”

  Her mom stands up, too, from the other side of the room. She’s holding a magazine, her index finger marking her place. The man she was talking with is gone. She bends down to pick up her purse from off the floor, arranges the strap on her shoulder.

  The woman at the door nods at Devon’s mom. “You’re going to tag along, Mom? Or—” The woman looks back at Devon then, raises her eyebrows, the gesture a question.

  Or. Devon looks across the room. Her mom’s eyes are wide and bright, so hopeful. She’s twisting a strand of her long blonde hair around and around her index finger, watching Devon closely.

  Does she want her mom to come in with her? She’d hear everything that is said then, hear the doctor’s questions, hear Devon’s answers to them. Devon isn’t sure what all that will entail exactly, or even why she’s become so anxious about this appointment. But what she does know is the embarrassment she’ll feel, having her mom sitting in the room with her, seeing everything. Making her chatty remarks. But . . . that hopeful face. So pathetic.

  Devon takes a deep breath, shrugs. “I guess, if you want to.”

  Devon’s mom smiles at Devon, relieved. “Want to? What do you think? Of course!”

  “Well then, ladies, right this way.” The woman with the manila folder turns toward the door. Devon and her mom follow her through it.

  The woman has Devon stand on the scale first, takes her height and weight. She annotates the information onto a form that’s inside the manila folder. Then she has Devon sit down, takes her blood pressure and pulse and temperature. “Hmm,” she says after reading the thermometer. “A hundred point three. You’re running a low-grade fever. Feeling under the weather today?”

  Devon shrugs. “I don’t know. Kind of.”

  “And your blood pressure is a teensy bit high,” the woman says as she writes into the manila folder. “Just a tad.” She smiles at Devon. “Nervous?”

  Devon tries to smile back. “Maybe a little.”

  “So,” Devon’s mom says, “what percentile is she in?”

  The woman looks up. “Excuse me?”

  “Her height and weight. What percentile—”

  “Mom—” Devon starts.

  The woman glances between Devon and her mom.

  “What?” Devon’s mom says. “It’s a good thing to know, Devon. How you compare to other girls your age and everything. What’s wrong with asking that?”

  “Well . . . ” The woman flips to the back of the folder, runs her fingers along a chart. “Five feet, eight and a half inches . . . a hundred and twenty-nine pounds. . . .” She looks up at Devon’s mom. “She’s in the ninetieth of height and fortieth in weight. Tall and slender.” She smiles at Devon. “One of the lucky ones.”

  “She’s already an inch taller than me,” Devon’s mom says. “Unbelievable. But the weight thing, well, I’m not saying.” She winks at the woman. “I’m not fifteen anymore, dammit.”

  The woman laughs. “Weren’t those the days? When we didn’t worry about stepping on a scale.”

  Devon’s mom plays with her hair again, frowns. “Yeah . . . it was . . .”

  The woman leads Devon and her mom to an examination room, opens the door, pulls a fresh paper sheet across the exam table. She turns back toward the door, smiles at Devon and her mom one last time. “Have a seat. Dr. Katial will be in. It’ll be just a few minutes.” She closes the door quietly behind her.

  “Well.” Devon’s mom drops into the chair near the door. She opens her magazine.

  Devon paces the room. She steps over to a desk in the corner, picks up a pamphlet explaining juvenile diabetes, puts it down. She can feel her heart beating faster and faster, feel the adrenaline racing through her stomach. She leans against the desk, picks up a paperweight advertising some drug with a complicated name.

  “I didn’t appreciate that comment.”

  Devon looks up, relieved to have something occupy her mind for the moment. “What comment?”

  “Oh, that weight comment. About stepping on the scale or whatever stupid thing she said. Obviously, she thinks that’s something that I have to worry about.”

  Devon sighs. “Um, I don’t think she was saying that at all.”

  Devon’s mom is flipping through her magazine. “Well, maybe she has to worry about that. She could obviously drop ten pounds and not even notice. But she shouldn’t project her own crap on me. I’m a size eight! I’ve never had a—”

  “Mom! You’re the one who made a big deal about not telling her your weight!”

  Her mom stops flipping pages, holds up the magazine to show Devon a picture. “Now that is a gorgeous gown. Don’t you think? Catherine Zeta-Jones is the most beautiful woman in the world. I don’t think she could look ugly if she tried.” She turns the magazine back around and starts flying through the pages again. “Or look old,” she says, almost to herself. “Oh, I just love In Style magazine. They have the best articles.”

  Devon rolls her eyes—as if her mom actually reads them—and looks at the wall, at the watercolor hanging there. It’s a landscape—a lake with a hazy impression of tall trees surrounding it and hills in the background, an early morning mist overhead. But in the middle of the silvery water, stands a large rock. A young child sits on that rock with her back turned, looking tiny and alone, the world so big around her.

  A little rap on the door. Both Devon and her mom turn to look. A dark, lanky man pokes his head in. He looks foreign, Indian maybe. He wears a scowl on his face, carrying an air of sternness, even some irritation, with him; Devon can see this around his eyes, the way his brows furrow, how he holds his mouth. He knows how to dress and does so with care; Devon can see that even under his white doctor coat. The rich colors of his pressed shirt and khakis complement the olive tones of his skin.

  “Well, come on in, doc!” Devon’s mom says. “We don’t bite.”

  He walks in, closes the door behind him. He looks down at Devon’s mom, offers his hand. “I’m Dr. Katial.”

  “And I’m Jennifer,” Devon’s mom says, taking his hand. “Jennifer Davenport. And that’s Devon over there, my daughter.”

  “Ah, yes. The patient.” The doctor crosses the room to where Devon is still leaning against the desk, offers his hand to her. “Hello, Devon.” He looks directly into her eyes as he shakes her hand. Devon can see then that he isn’t really an angry person at all; his eyes are warm, like chocolate, and a little sad. Angry people don’t have eyes like that. Devon looks down toward the floor.

  “Why don’t you jump up on the table,”
he says.

  When Devon moves, he opens the manila folder on the desk and takes a seat.

  Devon hops up on the table, leaves her feet dangling over the edge. She looks over at her mom; she’s inspecting the French manicure she’d given herself. The magazine, Devon notices, she’s stashed under her chair. Devon almost rolls her eyes again at that. What, is her mom hiding it? As if the doctor actually cares—or notices—that she reads vapid fashion magazines.

  “So, we’re doing a sports physical today.” The doctor turns around to face the room, his legs crossed.

  “Yes,” Devon’s mom quickly says. “But I’m also wondering if . . . well, Devon’s been getting her sports physical done with the school nurse, so it’s been kind of a long time since she’s been to a real doctor, you know, for a regular checkup with a real doctor, I mean. And—”

  “How long?”

  “Since, gosh, probably since she’s been twelve or something. Maybe thirteen?”

  Lie, Devon thinks. More like eleven. Summer after fifth grade. Her mom’s friend Tiffany had said it was “criminal” to let Devon go so long without a checkup. “I’ll take her myself,” Tiffany had said, “if you don’t.”

  “So, I was wondering—”

  “Don’t worry,” the doctor says. “When we’re done today, we’ll have a pretty good picture of Devon’s overall health.”

  Devon jiggles her left foot. The paper under her makes a crinkling sound.

  “Well, she’s superhealthy,” Devon’s mom says. “She hardly even gets colds. But the thing is, I’m just not sure where she’s at with her shots. I think I’ve, maybe, misplaced her shot record. I got a notice from the school the other day. They said she’s missing something, so . . .” She giggles nervously, combing through her blonde hair with her fingertips. “You must think I’m a terrible mother, Dr. Katial. No shot records, no checkups . . . ”

  The doctor smiles, shakes his head. “No, not at all.” He stands, crosses the room to the door. “There’s a database that maintains immunization information on everybody.” He squeezes Devon’s mom’s shoulder as he passes her. “So, no worries.”

  The doctor sticks his head out the door, speaks to someone in the hall. Devon’s mom draws her hair over to one shoulder, scoots around in her seat, crosses then recrosses her legs, arranging her little skirt just right.

  The doctor closes the door, looks down at Devon’s mom, gives her a small smile. “We’ll have that in a few minutes.”

  “Wow,” she says. “Technology. Amazing.”

  The doctor returns to his seat, focuses his attention back on Devon. “So, Devon, which sports do you play?”

  Devon draws her hands up into her sweatshirt sleeves, clears her throat. “Soccer mostly.”

  “Mostly?” Devon’s mom snorts. “More like only, Doctor. Soccer’s her life.”

  The doctor nods. “Which position?”

  “Keeper,” Devon says. “I mean, goalie.”

  “That’s a difficult position to play,” he says. “You have to be mentally tough.”

  “I guess.”

  “She’s probably the best keeper in the state for her age,” Devon’s mom says.

  Devon shoots her a look, feels her face grow warm. “Mom—”

  “Well, it’s true, Devon.”

  “What else do you like to do, Devon?” the doctor asks. “What are your interests outside soccer?”

  Devon thinks about this. She gives training sessions to little girls who hope to become good keepers like Devon one day. She referees kids’ soccer games, too, on occasion. But that’s still soccer. So, what does she do when she’s not playing or practicing? She doesn’t have much downtime. She studies hard. Takes long runs all over Tacoma. Sits in the empty apartment, watches cable until her brain aches. Boils up mac and cheese or ramen noodles for dinner. These things she can’t tell this doctor, this man in his beautifully pressed clothes and solemn eyes. She sometimes walks the mile downhill to Main Library, though, to sit in its quiet comfort, a book, any book, in her hands. IMs her scattered soccer friends—from California, Nevada, Oregon, and Colorado, who she made at Regional camp over the past couple of summers—until some librarian kicks her off the public use computers. Hangs out at Kait’s house sometimes, goes shopping with her at the Tacoma Mall.

  “I like reading,” Devon says finally. “I babysit a lot.”

  “And school? Are you a good student?”

  “Yeah.” Devon doesn’t have to think how to answer this question. “I actually love school.”

  “Good girl. That’ll get you far.” The doctor stands. “Flip off your sweatshirt for me?”

  Devon feels her heart speed up. Feels the heat from her face wash down her body, leaving a light sweat in its wake. She quickly pulls the sweatshirt over her head. She’s thankful for the black tank she chose to wear under the sweatshirt. Otherwise, she’d be sitting here in her bra.

  “I’m going to examine you now,” the doctor says, crossing the room to the exam table, “starting from the top—your head—and working my way down. All right?”

  Devon nods, swallows. “Sure.”

  “And if at any time you feel tenderness or discomfort, let me know. Okay?”

  Devon nods again. “Okay.”

  “Okay. Just relax.” The doctor puts his hands on Devon’s head, presses her forehead with his thumbs, kneads her scalp. Devon closes her eyes. It’s the luxurious feeling of getting her hair shampooed at the Gene Juarez Salon and Spa on her thirteenth birthday, the stylist’s massaging fingers working the suds through her hair. No Supercuts coupon special that day. A complete spa treatment—facial, manicure, pedicure, a cut and style and highlights. Her mom was dating the salon’s manager then; it was his special treat. He’d wanted Devon to like him.

  “All right,” the doctor says. “Now open your eyes.” He pulls a small instrument from off the wall behind Devon, its coiled cord stretched taut. He flicks it on and tells Devon to track the light with her eyes—up and down, left then right. “And when did you last menstruate, Devon?”

  Devon feels her body grow stiff. She jiggles her foot again, then glances at her mom. Her mom smiles back, gives a little wink.

  “Keep following the light, Devon,” the doctor says.

  “Sorry.” Devon jerks her eyes back. She clears her throat. “Uh, I just started it . . . my period . . . today, actually.”

  “And are you pretty regular?” The doctor pulls a second instrument from off the wall to peer into Devon’s ears and nose. “It comes monthly?”

  “Yeah.” Devon nods. She thinks about the pad lining her underwear. “Pretty much.”

  “And about how long do they last? How many days?”

  Devon swallows. “I don’t know, four or five maybe?”

  The doctor returns the instruments to their places on the wall. He has Devon open her mouth, suppresses her tongue with a wooden stick, checks her throat. He moves his hands to Devon’s neck, feels the glands there. Then he pulls a stethoscope out of the pocket of his coat. “Okay,” he says, putting the earpieces in. “I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs now. Just breathe normally.” He holds the round metal piece in his hands for a moment to warm it before he reaches toward her.

  Devon grasps the edge of the exam table, holds tight. Looks up at the ceiling. The doctor gently touches the metal piece just above her collarbone on one side, then the other, on her sternum, under her breasts. Devon holds her breath until he moves his hand away.

  The doctor pauses to look at her. “Relax. Your heart sounds like machine gun fire.”

  “Okay,” Devon whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  The doctor slips the metal piece under her tank top, touching places on her back. “Now, deep breath in . . . and let it out. Good. And again? Okay. Now hold it.” Devon counts the seconds—one, two, three, four. “And let it out.”

  He steps back. “Lungs and heart sound good.” He removes the stethoscope, returns it to his pocket.

  “I told you she’
s healthy,” Devon’s mom says.

  The doctor smiles over at her. “And so far, you’re right.” He looks back at Devon. “Now I’d like you to lie down. I’m going to poke around your abdomen for a minute. Just relax. And again, let me know if anything hurts.”

  The doctor presses her with his fingertips, under her ribs and along the top of her belly, moving from right to left. Devon studies the ceiling, her body going rigid even though he told her to relax. He moves vertically downward now, across her navel and toward her pelvis, then across from hip bone to hip bone, right to left. She sneaks a look at the doctor, watching his face out of the corner of her eye. He’s staring straight at the wall, his lips pursed, concentrating, working methodically, his gentle touch inching across her. Then he frowns, troubled about something. “Tender here?”

  Devon thinks she does feel something, but she shakes her head no. It’s just a little twinge, she thinks. Probably because her stomach’s so empty. Hunger pangs.

  The doctor lifts her tank, touches her skin underneath, pressing the area near her navel again, moving downward toward her pubic bone. His fingertips are soft, his fingers long and cool; he must notice her clammy skin.

  “I’m just going to unbutton your jeans now, take a little peek, and we’ll be done. Okay?”

  Devon nods, squeezes her eyes shut. She can feel his fingers work the buttons on her button-fly jeans. Her breaths come short and shallow, like little dog pants. When he pulls at the elastic on her underwear, she holds her breath. She can feel her own strong pulse in her neck. The doctor takes a quick peek at her private area, then buttons the top button of her fly. She lets the air out, watches the ceiling.