The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

a dressmaker displaying gowns of silk and other comely fabrics, a bakery exuding delicious, warm-baked smells through its door.

The midmorning crowds sauntered down the brick sidewalk as the sun, cascading its warmth over her, poured onto the automobile seat. The gentle rise of Mt. Greylock, emblazoned with scarlet maples and green patches of pines, presided over the northern horizon.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to leave the car’s comfort, assuming her place among the pedestrians, knowing full well Dr. Morton’s address, but wrapping her dark hair in a scarf and lowering her head as people passed, to avoid being recognized so close to home.

The brass plaque, glinting in the sun, was the only indicator of the office, which occupied the first floor of a corner building. Her hand hesitated at the door, but she screwed up her courage, thinking she was already damned so why not go through with it. Her mother had told her many times that women who had sex before marriage were shameful harlots who would never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

As she entered the quiet office, she took a last look down the street. A white church steeple punctured the cobalt sky, a stark vision that stung her eyes.

A nurse, attired in a uniform the color of the steeple, sat behind a desk. “Good to see you again, Emma,” she said, looking up from the papers in front of her. The woman forced a smile—an attempt to put her at ease, a technique used with more success by the down-home ministrations of the older, gentleman doctor who visited the family farm when needed.

Emma nodded and the nurse invited her to sit.

“Did anyone come with you?” the woman asked.

She gazed at the framed diplomas on the walls before answering. “No, my mother took the train into Boston for several days and left me with the automobile—that’s why I wanted this appointment time. I told her I was staying with a friend in Vermont.”

The woman studied her like a curious cat. “Then you’ve made your preparations and you’re committed to the procedure? We are, of course, prepared for you. You should be fine by tomorrow—unless there are complications.” She awaited Emma’s response.

Emma stared at the woman, unnerved by the word “complications.”

“Fill out these forms,” the nurse continued, handing the papers and a pen across her desk. “After that we can begin. Oh, and please . . . use your real name and birthday. You are certifying that you are over eighteen years of age. You’ve done everything he asked? No meals since last night?”

She nodded and signed the documents, paying little attention to what they read, having never considered falsifying her name and age. The pen felt thick and leaden in her hand.

“Your privacy as well as Dr. Morton’s will be assured by these documents.” The nurse returned the papers to her desk. “It’s important that you realize the gravity of your situation and the procedure practiced here.” She rose from her chair, looking down upon her. “There now, don’t look so glum . . . everything will be fine. You can change and then the doctor will see you.”

Emma found herself in a small room at the back of the building that smelled of rubbing alcohol and medicinal salves, tepid light filtering in through two frosted windows, allowing her to see only shadowy outlines outside. She wondered what lay beyond the glass—the street, an alley, perhaps a glimpse of the church, or a view of the mountaintop with its patches of scarlet and green. The room was dominated by a wide metal table covered by a white sheet. Two oak chairs sat against a wall, framing a wooden bureau laden with medical instruments and glass bottles.

The nurse handed her a gown. “Put this on. Leave your clothes on the chair. I’ll collect them after the doctor has seen you.”

“If I . . .”

The nurse looked at her, expecting Emma to finish her sentence, but then completed the thought for her. “Don’t worry—you won’t die. The doctor has never lost a patient. You’ll be fine.”

“Oh, my overnight case—I left it in the car.”

“I’ll get it for you. You won’t need it until after the procedure.”

Emma told her where the automobile was parked and the nurse left the room. She undressed and, shivering, pulled the gown over her head. Dutifully, she folded her clothes and placed them on one of the chairs. After a few minutes, a soft knock sounded at the door.

Dr. Morton tugged on his wire-rimmed spectacles as he entered, a frizzy mop of white hair crowning his head. His features were bucolic, Emma thought: a doctor more comfortable treating children for colds than for performing abortions.

“Good morning, Emma,” he said, and a smile unfolded. Holding a medical folder in his left hand, he extended his right for a handshake.

“Will I die?” Emma asked as she grasped his fingers.

His smile faded and a scowl a cross father would give a naughty child formed on his face. “Not in my office, young woman. I won’t let that happen. You should eradicate such morbid thoughts from your mind. If you’re like most, you’ve already punished yourself enough for deciding to seek me out.”

Emma looked away for a moment, shame filling her.

He cocked his head, released her hand, and turned to the bureau, where he opened a drawer, and took out a bottle filled with small white pills. “Take one of these.” He poured a glass of water and shook a pill into her hand.

Emma placed the white tablet on her tongue and drank.

Dr. Morton asked questions about her home life and her interest in art. After some time, she found herself flat on the table with her legs apart and her knees pointed toward the ceiling, the effects of the pill making her feel as if she were a drowsy actress in a slow, unfolding play.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, talking under her gown, his warm breath flowing against her legs.

She found it impossible to answer,