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As much as I’ve tried to convince him otherwise, my father still thinks he needs to accompany me to my first gynecologist appointment. To him, it’s an important rite of passage.
“I’m sure Tía Camila would’ve taken me,” I say, glancing out the car window. It’s bad enough that we’re going to this appointment together, but it’s also uncomfortably close to the hospital where he works, which means we’re going to run into at least three of his patients. “She likes doing this sort of stuff, and we could’ve worked it around her business trips.”
“Well, you’re my daughter,” he says, pulling into a parking spot. “And this is the sort of thing parents live for.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Dad has patches of gray sneaking into his black hair, and there’s an indent in the tan skin of his nose where his glasses rest. When he isn’t wearing a lab coat, he dresses in old-man clothes like sweater vests and khakis. I wish his lack of fashion sense were the most embarrassing thing about him, but it isn’t.
Inside, he actually pulls out a clipboard with questions to ask the doctor. I might just die. The waiting room feels too small and smells like cheap air freshener.
He tucks the clipboard by his side, looking down at a questionnaire from the secretary.
“When was your last menstrual cycle?”
“Dad.”
“These are normal questions.”
“Just . . .” I take the questionnaire from him. “I’ll figure this stuff out.”
“I ask my patients these sorts of questions all the time, you know. It doesn’t have to be awkward.”
“But I’m your kid. That makes it weirder.”
I fly through the questions, and I’m mostly honest. He’s already filled out the parts that take the most time—my medical background, especially—so I bring the form back up to the lady at the desk. When I return, Dad’s pulled out the clipboard he brought from home, reviewing his questions.
“There’s really no reason for you to be nervous, Simone,” he says, patting my leg. His glasses keep sliding down his nose. If he were my doctor, I wouldn’t be able to take him seriously. “A lot of the women I see are nervous for their first appointments.”
“I’m not a woman.” My legs bounce up and down. “I’m, like, twelve.”
“You’re seventeen. Most girls have their first appointment when they’re fifteen, but it’s more of a formality. You aren’t even—”
“Sexually active. I know. But we both know I’m not having sex.”
A woman with a gigantic pregnant belly glares at me. I don’t know why she seems irritated. She’ll be lucky if her kid ends up anything like me. I’ve made it to seventeen without dying, first of all, which I’m not sure my parents even expected.
“So,” he says. “Why were you so adamant about making this appointment now?”
I bite my lip. Technically, I don’t need to see a gynecologist. I’m not dating anyone. My chances of losing my virginity haven’t magically increased recently. But Dr. Khan, my HIV doctor, recommended that I see a gynecologist if I have questions, and, well, I do.
I can’t exactly tell my dad the other part of the truth—that I want to know more about sex because of a hot guy at school. There’s nothing going on between us, but still. I can hope, can’t I?
“It’s not bad that you wanted to come,” he says, tugging me out of my thoughts. “I just want to know what struck your interest.”
“Um. I’m just—you know,” I say. “Curious and a little nervous. I want to ask questions, like I told you. I feel like I don’t know anything, and Dr. Khan said this would be a good idea.”
“You’ll have the chance to ask questions,” he says. “I promise. I’ve spoken to Dr. Walker tons of times. She’s very good at what she does, and I figured seeing a woman would make you more comfortable.”
“Simone Garcia-Hampton?”
The nurse seems nice enough, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t make any chitchat with my dad right away. I get up, walking stiffly through the door. Dad presses a hand against my back, guiding me behind the nurse.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, Dr. Garcia,” she says, flashing my father a smile as we enter the examination room. Since she doesn’t say anything to me, I just hop up on the table without a word. “How have things been over at St. Mary’s?”
“Excellent,” Dad says, smiling back. “And how is little Jason?”
I guess I wasn’t spared the chitchat after all. It seems like everyone working in the medical field has seen Dad at the hospital or at a doctor’s appointment—or he has delivered one of their children.
“Getting bigger every day,” she says, flipping through my file. “Okay, Simone. Dr. Walker is going to come in and do a breast exam and check a bunch of other things. We aren’t going to do a vaginal exam today, though.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank Go—”
“Goodness,” Dad says, giving me a pointed look.
“You’re thanking goodness, aren’t you?” “Yeah,” I say, tucking a short strand of hair behind my ear. Dad is supposed to be a lapsed Catholic, but he’s more religious than he wants to admit. “I was going to say goodness. Gosh, don’t you know me at all?”
The nurse smiles as she does all the normal things, like taking my blood pressure and checking my heartbeat. She asks me about my period and sexual activity, and I try to ignore Dad, standing at my side.
“It’s nice to see such a close relationship between father and daughter,” she says, holding her clipboard to her chest. “My daughter is attached to my hip. I wish I could leave her alone with her father.”
“Well, I don’t have a mom,” I say, shrugging. “So I don’t have much of a choice.”
Dad gives me another one of his glances, but seeing this lady’s face is worth it. It gets all red and blotchy, like she’s just kicked a puppy by mistake, and she backs toward the door with big, slow steps.
