The King
Page 46
Søren started to say something else, but then the doctor came in—an intelligent-looking woman in her late thirties—and the words were lost.
“Kingsley, this is Dr. Sutton,” Søren said. “She attends my church. Dr. Sutton, this is my brother-in-law, Kingsley. He is a reprobate. You’ve been warned.”
“I’ve had my fair share of reprobates. They keep me in business.” Dr. Sutton smiled in that placid seen-everything way doctors always smiled. “How are you, Kingsley?”
“I hate being here, so, please, get this over with as soon as possible,” Kingsley said.
“As you can tell, Kingsley is also charming and pleasant.”
“It’s all right, Father Stearns,” Dr. Sutton said, giving him a motherly pat on the knee. “I’ve had worse. Now, Kingsley, we’re getting tested?” she asked, pulling up a wheeled stool.
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Kingsley said. “But I’m getting tested.”
Søren gave him the “behave yourself” glare.
Dr. Sutton rattled off a long list of questions that Kingsley answered without making eye contact. Yes, he’d had the clap and syphilis. Yes, he’d been treated. No, he had no current symptoms. When she asked how many sexual partners he’d had, she did a double take at the answer.
“I think that’s a record,” she said, writing the number down.
“I’m French,” Kingsley said.
“That’s your excuse for everything,” Søren said.
“It’s not an excuse. It’s an explanation.”
“You’re half French,” Søren reminded him with a scowl.
“Yes, and if I was all-French that number would be twice that.”
“Is there anything in particular you think you’ve been exposed to?”
“Yes,” Kingsley said, staring at Søren who’d forced him to do this stupid testing. “Catholic guilt’s a venereal disease, oui? I wonder who I caught it from.”
He expected another glare from Søren. Instead, he received something far worse—a look of compassion mixed with pity.
“Tell her the truth,” Søren said.
“The truth?” the doctor asked. “You can tell me anything. Whatever you say is confidential. Doctors are like priests in that regard. We can kick him out of the room if you’d like.”
Kingsley turned away from them both and stared blankly at a yellow smiley-face poster.
“I was doing some work in Eastern Europe last January,” Kingsley finally said, his tone as casual as possible under the circumstances. “Don’t ask me what I was doing, because I’m not allowed to say. But I was taken prisoner and shot. At the hospital they said...they said I’d been assaulted. While I was unconscious, I mean.”
In his peripheral vision he saw the doctor studying his face.
“You were sexually assaulted?” Her tone was neutral, calm. He appreciated that.
“Very likely,” he said.
“Do you have any lingering pain or symptoms?”
“I have flashbacks sometimes. Nightmares. No memories.”
“Sounds likes post-traumatic stress disorder,” Dr. Sutton said. “I can refer you to someone who is an expert in that field.”
“No therapists,” Kingsley said. “I hate them even more than doctors.”
“When were you last tested?” Dr. Sutton asked.
“I was tested in the hospital, and I was supposed to get tested again six months later. I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He turned his head and met her eyes.
“Told you—I hate doctors.”
She smiled at him.
“I hear that a lot,” she said. “So...after what you went through, I take it we’re testing you for...”
Kingsley took a nervous breath.
“Everything.”
16
DR. SUTTON TOOK his vitals, two vials of his blood, made him piss in a cup and then did something with a Q-tip that men routinely paid upward of five-hundred dollars for a dominatrix to do to them. She told him the results would come back in two weeks.
“Two weeks?” he repeated. “I have to wait two weeks?”
She gave him a look of deepest compassion.
“I know. It’s the scariest two weeks of anyone’s life waiting on the lab results. And they might come sooner, but two weeks is average. Try not to think about it.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I’m advising you not to have intercourse until your results are in.”
“Not possible,” he said.
“It is possible,” Søren said. “I’ll chain you to the floor if I have to.”
“I’ve had sex chained to the floor before. Remember when—”
“Kingsley.”
“You have to think about your future,” Dr. Sutton said. “You’re putting your life at risk. You’re putting your fertility at risk. Even if you don’t want children—”
“I do.”
Søren looked up sharply. Kingsley had no idea where those words came from. Did he just say he wanted children? He did? When was he planning on telling himself that?
“Then you should use protection,” Dr. Sutton continued. “Every time. Until, of course, you’re ready for children.”
“No other options?” Kingsley asked.
“Kingsley, this is Dr. Sutton,” Søren said. “She attends my church. Dr. Sutton, this is my brother-in-law, Kingsley. He is a reprobate. You’ve been warned.”
“I’ve had my fair share of reprobates. They keep me in business.” Dr. Sutton smiled in that placid seen-everything way doctors always smiled. “How are you, Kingsley?”
“I hate being here, so, please, get this over with as soon as possible,” Kingsley said.
“As you can tell, Kingsley is also charming and pleasant.”
“It’s all right, Father Stearns,” Dr. Sutton said, giving him a motherly pat on the knee. “I’ve had worse. Now, Kingsley, we’re getting tested?” she asked, pulling up a wheeled stool.
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Kingsley said. “But I’m getting tested.”
Søren gave him the “behave yourself” glare.
Dr. Sutton rattled off a long list of questions that Kingsley answered without making eye contact. Yes, he’d had the clap and syphilis. Yes, he’d been treated. No, he had no current symptoms. When she asked how many sexual partners he’d had, she did a double take at the answer.
“I think that’s a record,” she said, writing the number down.
“I’m French,” Kingsley said.
“That’s your excuse for everything,” Søren said.
“It’s not an excuse. It’s an explanation.”
“You’re half French,” Søren reminded him with a scowl.
“Yes, and if I was all-French that number would be twice that.”
“Is there anything in particular you think you’ve been exposed to?”
“Yes,” Kingsley said, staring at Søren who’d forced him to do this stupid testing. “Catholic guilt’s a venereal disease, oui? I wonder who I caught it from.”
He expected another glare from Søren. Instead, he received something far worse—a look of compassion mixed with pity.
“Tell her the truth,” Søren said.
“The truth?” the doctor asked. “You can tell me anything. Whatever you say is confidential. Doctors are like priests in that regard. We can kick him out of the room if you’d like.”
Kingsley turned away from them both and stared blankly at a yellow smiley-face poster.
“I was doing some work in Eastern Europe last January,” Kingsley finally said, his tone as casual as possible under the circumstances. “Don’t ask me what I was doing, because I’m not allowed to say. But I was taken prisoner and shot. At the hospital they said...they said I’d been assaulted. While I was unconscious, I mean.”
In his peripheral vision he saw the doctor studying his face.
“You were sexually assaulted?” Her tone was neutral, calm. He appreciated that.
“Very likely,” he said.
“Do you have any lingering pain or symptoms?”
“I have flashbacks sometimes. Nightmares. No memories.”
“Sounds likes post-traumatic stress disorder,” Dr. Sutton said. “I can refer you to someone who is an expert in that field.”
“No therapists,” Kingsley said. “I hate them even more than doctors.”
“When were you last tested?” Dr. Sutton asked.
“I was tested in the hospital, and I was supposed to get tested again six months later. I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He turned his head and met her eyes.
“Told you—I hate doctors.”
She smiled at him.
“I hear that a lot,” she said. “So...after what you went through, I take it we’re testing you for...”
Kingsley took a nervous breath.
“Everything.”
16
DR. SUTTON TOOK his vitals, two vials of his blood, made him piss in a cup and then did something with a Q-tip that men routinely paid upward of five-hundred dollars for a dominatrix to do to them. She told him the results would come back in two weeks.
“Two weeks?” he repeated. “I have to wait two weeks?”
She gave him a look of deepest compassion.
“I know. It’s the scariest two weeks of anyone’s life waiting on the lab results. And they might come sooner, but two weeks is average. Try not to think about it.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I’m advising you not to have intercourse until your results are in.”
“Not possible,” he said.
“It is possible,” Søren said. “I’ll chain you to the floor if I have to.”
“I’ve had sex chained to the floor before. Remember when—”
“Kingsley.”
“You have to think about your future,” Dr. Sutton said. “You’re putting your life at risk. You’re putting your fertility at risk. Even if you don’t want children—”
“I do.”
Søren looked up sharply. Kingsley had no idea where those words came from. Did he just say he wanted children? He did? When was he planning on telling himself that?
“Then you should use protection,” Dr. Sutton continued. “Every time. Until, of course, you’re ready for children.”
“No other options?” Kingsley asked.
