Since Feeling Is First

Chapter Eight

When Wednesday comes, Audrey meets you in the art room, like always, but this time you go back to the student parking lot, because you drove today. The clinic is too far away to walk and after dealing with your fellow students all day, the last thing you want is to deal with public transportation.

When you get in the car, she clicks her seatbelt and tugs it twice to make sure it's done right as you pull your across your chest.

"We'll take the side roads, okay?" you say gently.

Her breathing comes a little shuddery when she says, "Thank you." She takes one more very slow, very deep breath and clenches her hands in her jeans, then nods once, giving you the go-ahead. You start the car.

The drive takes a while because the speed limit is around twenty for most of the streets you take, but her appointment isn't until 4:00, so you'll be okay. She flinches at every speed bump and her hands tense every time you brake a little too quickly. You try to keep her occupied with conversation, but she gives simple one- and two-word answers and doesn't converse much back, so eventually you settle for gentle reassurances that it's fine, it's okay, the road is empty right now and you're going the speed limit, see?

Finally, you pull up by the office. Audrey jumps out before the car is even stopped and presses her hands tightly against her chest, like she's trying to keep her heart from breaking through her ribcage. You walk over to join her on the sidewalk and pull her into a soft, tentative hug, and when her hands clench tightly in the back of your jacket, you think, thank god she's finally here. You haven't been in a car with her for a while so you didn't realize she was still so scared of driving, of even being in a car as a passenger. She never told you and you never saw it because, when you're with her, you've walked everywhere since the accident as far back as you can remember.

"Let's go inside, okay?" you whisper. She nods, pressing her cheek tightly against yours. It's wet, but you don't say anything. "Come on," you whisper, and you pull away just far enough to give you both the space to walk inside.

It's dim and quiet with just enough light to read by, with soft blue chairs and slightly raggedy grey carpet and stacks of magazines on end tables here and there. There's a tiny play-space in the back corner for small children. There are no other patients.

You nod toward the window where the receptionist sits on the phone and say, "They won't talk to me if I'm with you because of the privacy rules. Just tell them your name and that you have an appointment at 4:00. I'll be right here."

Her eyes are unsure and scared, but she does as you ask. You hang back just far enough to be out of earshot but still close enough, hopefully, to be comforting. They exchange a few words, Audrey gives the woman her insurance card, and the woman gives Audrey a clipboard with some paperwork to fill out. The receptionist disappears for a few moments to make a copy of the insurance card, then returns it and says something you can't catch. Audrey nods and turns back toward you, holding the clipboard tightly against her chest.

It's very basic: name, address, birthdate, phone number, the insurance information the receptionist just copied, again. Medical history. A page on patient privacy she has to sign.

"It basically says that they can't share your information with anyone unless you give them permission or it's relevant in a legal case," you tell her. She looks up at you, back down at the half-read page, and signs at the bottom.

She fills in everything but the gender space. She doesn't circle either the M or the F. You didn't, either, but eventually you had to give them your birth gender for their files. Hopefully Audrey has it easier. When she's done, she takes it back to the receptionist, who puts it to the side without reading it, smiles, and tells her to go ahead and take a seat while she waits.