by FEATURED WRITER Christina Berke

A GOOD EGG

Christina Berke | SEPT 2024 | Issue 37

1.
Am I, or have I ever, had anxiety?

My intake form is done on a little tablet fixed to the counter. I’m standing there in front of a receptionist, lashes too thick and long to be real, and I see her looking up each time I read the questions out loud:

Am I depressed, or have I ever experienced depression?
Feel malaise?
Bleed easily?
Sleep through the night?
How regular is my urination cycle?
How many sexual partners have I had?
Is there a history of breast cancer on my paternal mother’s side?

Yes or no.

I tap no with my fingertip, but I really don’t know and there is no one to ask.

The chandelier above looks like thick, white sperm feverishly hurrying to the lightbulb egg, to be the chosen one.

2.
The intake nurse has pants too long and a top too tight, quite possibly house slippers or else just extremely fuzzy clogs, which instantly endear her to me.

Okay, ma’am, she starts, step on the scale, okay, now I will take your blood pressure, okay do you have an arm preference, do you have any problems, ma’am? You know, she gestures obtusely to her crotch, and whispers, you know...down there?

I say, Clean as a whistle. Want to look?

3.
When the doctor comes in, she tells me it’s nice to see me, and that particular wording reminds me that she doesn’t really know if she’s met me before or not. Not nice to meet me, or good to see me again. Like my former boss who used to keep the cap any time he lent his pen to someone so they’d remember to give it back. Imagine being so possessive about a pen, or memorizing a phrase that vaguely resembles warmth in Room 302-B.

With the stethoscope on my back, I jolt. Breath in, she says, you’re doing great, one more deep breath, she says, good. Her eyes are closed. Maybe she’s concentrating. You sound great, she tells me. I feel like a champ, like I’ll get handed out a medal afterwards. You’ll feel some pressure, she says, and I do. These are some Q-tips, she tells me, as she rolls back and forth on a chair in between my splayed-open vagina and the metal tray a little too far out of reach.

Have you ever thought about going into business for yourself, the doctor asks while a gloved hand is inside me. She presses my uterus up left up center up right.

Her head pops up between my legs and I meet her eyes. Just a thought, she continues. I know times are tough, she says by way of explanation, and I really think you have what it takes. You seem like a good egg. I myself like to have multiple streams of income. Something to think about, she says. I can give you my personal email.

I brace myself for the questions I know the doctor will ask next — have I considered going on a diet to lose the weight? Thought about increasing my exercise, perhaps going for a long walk before dinner? Eating more raw vegetables? How long have I been experiencing depression, and have I thought about freezing my eggs?

Okay, she clears her throat gruffly, it can be kind of a maze to get out of here, so just make a right then an immediate left. You did great.

I let my knees fall back together as she turns off the examination light, which is the kind they use for autopsies.

We’ve got one more before lunch, I hear the doc say to her nurse before the door shuts behind their uniformed bodies.

4.
The next stop is at the lab across from my new ob-gyn. They’ve decorated the office for Halloween — fake limbs strewn around, plastic crows, man-made spider webs, even a jack o'lantern with mini candies inside. I reach for a Butterfinger, remembering how I used to dump out my pillow case on that mustard yellow carpet, as the Simpsons Halloween special played in the background.

She croaked when I was seven. She left her TV to me in the will.

5.
Sit here, the phlebotomist tells me.

I notice her hair first — curly, full of life — beautiful amoebas.

Make a fist, she says.

Keep your arm straight, she commands.

I turn my head away from her, towards the blinking orange and white festive lights.

I’m kind of a wimp, I say. Can you tell me right before you do it?

She seems hurried, perhaps unkind, but at this, she says quietly, ok.

I pinch my eyes shut dramatically after she says “three” and I feel the needle pierce my skin. Pressure fills my brain as my blood drains out.

She’s standing so close to me, her body a small furnace that I could curl up against and I barely hear her ask me if I’ve eaten anything today.

No, I whisper.

Are you going to get something to eat after, she asks.

Yes, I say, drawn out enough to be two words.

What are you going to eat?

The gesture of her making this effort to distract me feels tender and woozy like a chicken nugget. Still, nothing comes to mind and I tell her so.

Nothing sounds good, huh?

I want to ask her to recommend something, to take me to her favorite cafe, the best place for enchiladas or ramen. Tell her that everything with her sounds scrumptious.

I say nothing.

The balloon-like rubber she ties around my arm is done expertly, her hands missing my skin even by accident. The needle keeps a fence between my skin and hers. The cotton, the bandage, all are barriers between me and her, skin to skin. Her hands are bare, no gloves, and she hasn’t even washed them or globbed on some of that hand sanitizer from the warehouse-sized bottle next to us. A stunning professional.

6.
On Wednesday, I get my eyes checked. I am the only person in the waiting room.

Wow, your retinas are perfect, says the optometrist. It is just the two of us there in that dark room, a metal looking glass in between our faces.

I swoon.

7.
Thursday I scrub my skin to its pulsing pink underlayer and massage in paraben-free lotion. The dermatologist tells me I look great for my age. Overall. But…ever consider Botox? Just a thought. In case that frown line bothers you.

Come to think of it, I have been frowning quite a bit. And, actually, yes, I think it does bother me.

We could do numbing cream, but really it’s such a small area, only 20 units, and it will only take a second. You’ll be out of here in no time, looking like a million bucks, that’s for sure. Just sign this waiver.

The waiver mentions: Ptosis. Drooling. Paralysis. Death.

Unlikely, but just covering all possibilities. Very rare, any of these.

The needle pokes past my epidermis, dermis, subcutaneous tissue, and, of course, where it’s needed, the fibrous muscle. I breathe in the soapy smell of the doctor. Only, he isn’t really a doctor, he’s a PA-C, but he’s got the coat on and his own assistant who he can rattle off dosages to so it’s pretty much the same thing.

8.
I can tell this table will require more service, but I know they won’t tip more than 20 percent. The tall one might slip me a fifty though if I work it right.

I say, You’re so sweet. But I bet you like your drinks a bit dry. Negroni okay for you, sir? I can put in an order of our fritto misto too. It pairs beautifully.

He says, I like it when a woman orders me around. Make it three, doll. He gestures to the other men, manicured hairlines and buffed fingernails.

You got it. I flash my teeth at all three of them, my gums searing from the bleach treatment I purchased off a Groupon.

9.
The bottle sells for $125 on our menu, but I know Jerry gets it at cost through some Princeton boy’s network. I had to sit through a tasting and memorize the pretentious script to help sell it: “A very light oak influence allows the elevated, sun-soaked terroir of Mount Veeder to shine. The acidity is bright, and the wine has tart, juicy black fruits. Herbs and black licorice add nuance, while chewy tannins persist in a lingering finish, which is rich in stony mineral notes.”

After work, with the flourish I save for my tables, I present the label to myself, a 2014 Mayacama Cab Sauv, slip my knife around the neck, peel off the foil, slide it into my robe’s pocket, twist the screw deeper into the cork, and feel the girth of it slide out of the neck. My lips are on it, greedily extracting its liquid like a forgotten succulent.

10.
Open, he says. You know, the proper way to floss is actually a seesaw motion, rather than a back and forth. That way it scoops up plaque rather than just move it around. Most people don’t even know they’re doing it wrong. Women typically aren’t as aggressive with their dental habits anyway. This is why you have so much sensitivity.

Spit, he says.

11.
At the hair salon, the music is playing the same Top 20 songs on a loop and this is its fourth round. Conversations are swarming around me.

Bleach smell. Burnt hair. Stale complimentary coffee.

But then like I had to tell him like I’m the kind of person who like communicates you know and he was just like yeah but I just wanted to chill and I’m like yeah but you need to tell me that you know?

Trimmed hair on the floor, on my pants, in the crook of my ear.

As Steph digs her acrylic nails into my scalp, I feel the drag of squeaky overly-clean follicles, all my oils washing out in the sink. She does not massage my temples or scalp like Mae did.

Skinny, airbrushed-tanned bodies, Prada bags, plump lips, tin foiled heads.

You really should be using a leave-in serum, she says.

12.
I’ve been seeing Van for years, but suddenly she’s wearing latex gloves and I feel offended. I don’t say anything besides, it’s been so hot out lately, right? Her tools are pressed into my cuticles, my nail beds. I curl my fingers around her wrist as she’s filing down, but she shakes me off like a housefly so I tell her she looks pretty today.

She forces a smile and says, do you want the callous treatment?

13.
I fall asleep with my fingers still inside me.

14.
In first grade, my teacher asks us if we have any nicknames we prefer to go by.

Monica is a fat slut.

Lorena is a fucking ugly psycho.

Yoko ruined music.

Anita is a lying skank.

My mother is dead.

Cindy, though: just the right calculations of mole, tan, hair, tit to ass ratio. One in a million.

I raise my hand and tell him Cindy.

But that’s not even your middle name, he says, looking up from the roster.

Blood burns my cheeks, my embarrassment pulsing on display, rooting a new groove into my brain.

15.
I should probably pay them:

Fernando, who likes to hear his own name.

Nikki, who spits on my back and tells me I’m her perfect whore.

Luis, who says he can’t get enough of my wet pussy.

Isaac, who likes to watch me drink the entire bottle of 2005 Contador Rioja.

Cole, who informs me I have a dream ass and perfect tits.

Mario, who carries an actual honest-to-god photo of me in his wallet. On the back, his faded ink: Mi corazon, mi vida, mi amor.

Christina Berke is a Chilean-American writer and educator based in Los Angeles. Her work has been supported by the Sewanee Writers' Conference, Bread Loaf, VONA, Tin House, and she was the Carol Shields Prize Foundation Residency Fellow at Hedgebrook. Christina is working on a memoir, WELL, BODY, an excerpt of which was Longlisted with Disquiet Literary International.