My Favorite Girlfriend was a French Bulldog by Legna Rodriguez Iglesias

Author:Legna Rodriguez Iglesias
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McSweeney's Publishing

Sunscreen

on your hands

and on your chest.

You know a

woman’s true age

by looking there.

CLITORIS

I reported my situation on a Monday morning. I did it duly, in writing, to the Clinic. On Wednesday they called me in. The doctor lifted my skirt, separated the hair a little, and observed the irritation with the expression of a scientist. She put on gloves and took out a medicated cream. She spread the cream over my genitals and looked at me again the same way. A way of looking with a penetrating gaze, raising her eyebrows, opening her eyes nice and wide. She didn’t even cover her mouth. I reached the lodging with its sixty beds and threw myself on mine. My body resounded on the batting like a sack of rice when it’s dropped. The Clinic was a horrible place. Silent and white, but horrible. The doctors who worked there gave the impression they were veterinarians.

The next morning I was worse. The cream the doctor had applied was still there, sticky; my skin hadn’t absorbed it. I couldn’t open my legs. It hurt as much as it burned. I headed to the phones to call Mom. Girls from my class were sitting in front of the phones. When they saw me they started to laugh. They laughed in loud peals, pointed their fingers at my legs, covered their noses. They wanted me to cry and I obliged, ashamed. Mom answered the phone a few seconds later. I asked her to come pick me up. To save me. I explained my situation to her. The urgency of the situation. She promised to come right away.

Night had fallen by the time I received a call from the Office. Mom was there, asking for authorization to check me out. It was painful to move from the lodgings to the Office. The lodging was square and my bed, far from the door, shook when I got into or out of it. The beds were double. Bunk beds. My lodging was the third one on the fourth floor. I moved by holding onto the railings, the banisters, and the columns, asking for help from some fellow patient, breathing deeply. The director wanted to check the veracity of my story. He lifted my skirt and observed. Below was my body, naked and broken. The deputy director and the guard observed. Mom too. The four of them understood, covered their noses. The director personally signed the release.

Mom drove me home. It had been a long time since I’d seen the rest of my family. They all hugged me and carried me to my room in their arms. Dad’s sister, a neonatal specialist, came over not long after to examine me. The examination consisted of a profound, lengthy observation. “I don’t dare treat her,” she said. “You have to take her to the Hospital.” Neonatology deals with babies from one to thirty days. After thirty days, another type of specialist examines children, diagnoses them. That night I slept in my own room, on a real mattress, on a real pillow, with real people around me.

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