She probably should have asked Luke before she came. He would know if it was a scam. He was taking AP Psychology as well as AP Physics this year, and no family dinner went by without a random comment on hormone levels in the occipital lobe or the benefits of negative reinforcement versus punishment. This sort of thing would fit right in. Probably.
Of course, telling Luke meant he would eventually break down and tell their parents, and that was the last thing she wanted. They'd want to know why she was going into the city, and they'd ask her what the bag of clothes and CDs she'd packed the night before were for. Then they'd tell her she wasn't allowed to, anyway, and that would be the end of that.
Grace sits beside her on the train, eyes focused steadily on the passing trees. She hadn't really asked for an explanation when Joan asked her to come to New York, and though Joan has been aching to tell her since they boarded at 8:43 that morning, her headphones haven't run out of batteries yet.
---
"Where to, Girardi?" Grace is wary of this, Joan can tell. She can't really blame her.
"Um, just hold on, I have a map right -" Of course she can't find it, and of course she drops her bag, and of course it all spills out over the dirty train station floor. Joan wants to cry. She's been crying a lot lately; it's not a new feeling.
Grace stoops to pick up the clothing, but stops, fingering a black denim jacket. She sits there for a long moment, and then looks up at Joan. "Didn't this belong -"
"Yes."
Grace stares at the jacket for another long moment before shoving it back in the bag. "Here's the map," Joan tells her quietly.
---
They reach Lacuna Inc. at 12:38, a good twenty minutes early. There's nothing particularly interesting about the building, and the lack of a shiny professional sign makes Joan feel nervous. She remembers the pediatrician's office from when she was a little girl, and the red block-letters that spelled out Hart & Longwood Family Physicians on the front lawn.
Joan opens the door and steps inside.
The walls inside are gray-blue, and a pretty blonde girl sits at the receptionist's desk. Her hands are trembling, but Joan rests her fingertips on the edge of the desk anyway.
She swallows. "Joan Girardi."
Click click click, and the girl is nodding. "You have an appointment for one o'clock? Dr. Mierzwiak is running a little late today, but you'll need to fill this out anyway." A clipboard swiftly appears and Joan accepts it, a sinking feeling in her stomach.
"I don't know my insurance provider," Joan whispers to Grace, and is surprised when she is pulled out the front door.
"Where are we, Joan?" Grace looks angry now. Her eyes are big and wet, and her cheeks are turning red, although it could just be the chilly air. "And what are you doing with Judith's wardrobe in a bag?"
"Grace, you wouldn't understand," Joan mutters, turning back towards the door. Grace grabs her arm.
"I'm not kidding around. Tell me what the hell is going on, or I'm leaving," Grace hisses, but Joan thinks she already knows, anyway.
"Leave me alone, Grace."
"You brought me here! Did you think I was just going to play along this whole time?"
"You were until now," Joan spits; Grace's arms fall to her sides.
"Fuck you, Girardi. I'm not going to watch you...throw all this away." Joan watches her walk away, leaving wet footprints on the sidewalk.
---
It's weird, the pre-procedure. It's intrusive, but not in the way she imagines a gynecologist would be - just question after question after question, and she wants to ask them, aren't you supposed to be helping me forget? But they hold up the scarves and sweaters and notes they'd passed in class, they ask her to describe them, to tell them what meaning do the objects hold, and all the while there's this thing on her head and she thinks she can feel it buzzing every now and then. She's never been to a gynecologist, but she can't imagine it being any worse.
Joan imagines that the assistants will leave, and the doctor will enter, and it will be God. She imagines the entire conversation - your memories are you, Joan. She is a part of you - and she imagines herself upset, crying, yelling, "I wish I could erase you." God would look at her sympathetically and leave and she'd change her mind by the time the real doctor came in. Thirty years from now she'd still know the name Judith.
But the real doctor does enter, eventually, and he's not God. He's nice, but he isn't God.
She thinks about Grace walking down the sidewalk, and how Grace is probably right. She's right - Joan is throwing away the one thing she should be clinging to the tightest.
It's just - it hurts; that's all.
end