Mom! Don't Pull The Curtain! novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Curtain
The cucumber slips, Mom walks in, the lie, the clinic, and the doctor behind the curtain with Mom's hand over her mouth. Mom's hand goes to the curtain.
The cucumber was the fattest one in Mom's crate, and now I couldn't get it out of me.
I lay on my childhood bed with my knees up and my jeans on the floor.
My fingers slid off the skin every time I reached for it.
Every try pushed it deeper.
That was when my bedroom door opened.
"Susanna, have you seen my good scissors?"
I yanked the quilt over my hips so fast the laptop fell off the bed.
Mom stood in the doorway with a laundry basket on her hip.
She is fifty-three and has never once knocked.
"What's wrong with you?" she said. "You're sweating."
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You look terrible."
I had to say something, and my brain gave me the dumbest thing it had.
"It itches," I said. "Inside. I can't make it stop."
Mom put the basket down.
"Itches where, exactly?"
"Down there. Deep."
"That's an infection," she said. "Get your shoes."
"Mom, it'll pass."
"It will not pass. Nobody's daughter walks around itching deep."
She was already digging in her purse.
She came out with a business card and dialed the number on it.
I knew every doctor in Harlan Falls, and that card wasn't any of them.
"Hostetler Women's Clinic," she told the phone. "Today, please. Her name is Susanna Marlin."
The clinic was forty minutes away.
Mom drove it with her hair twisted up in a clip and her good earrings on.
At the first red light she pulled the visor down and fixed her hair.
At the second light she fixed it again.
I sat with my thighs clamped together, because with every pothole the cucumber moved.
Mom looked at me and patted my knee.
"Almost there, baby."
The receptionist took us straight back to room three.
I climbed onto the table in a paper gown with my ears burning.
A curtain on a ceiling track hung along the right side of the table.
Mom took the chair at my head.
The door opened and the doctor walked in.
He was tall, maybe thirty-five, with dark hair that needed a cut and his sleeves rolled to the elbow.
A stethoscope hung around his neck over a white coat.
His name tag said Dr. Justin Hostetler.
He looked at my chart, then at Mom, and he stopped for half a second.
"You're Susanna's mother," he said.
"Carol," Mom said, and smiled too wide.
Then he turned to me, and I forgot about Mom completely.
His eyes were gray and very steady.
"Tell me what's going on, Susanna."
I told him the itch story again, to the ceiling.
He listened with his head tilted.
"Mrs. Marlin, I'll pull this curtain across for her privacy," he said. "Stay up there and keep her hand."
The curtain slid along its track until it hung between Mom and everything below my ribs.
Mom took my hand through the paper gown.
I heard the snap of gloves.
I felt the cold, and then his fingers.
They found it right away.
He didn't change his face at all.
He leaned down, and his voice dropped so low that only I could hear.
"Foreign object," he said. "A cucumber, I'd guess."
I wanted to die on that table.
"Breathe," he said. "I'll take it out. Your mother doesn't need to know."
Then, louder, to the room: "This may pinch, Mrs. Marlin."
His hand closed around it, and he drew it out in one slow pull.
I heard it hit the steel tray.
Mom said, "Is she all right?"
"She's fine," he said. "Just give me a minute."
I was not fine.
The cucumber was gone, and what it left was a bare, burning ache.
I had been alone and wound tight for months, and it throbbed for something real.
My hips rose off the table on their own.
His fingers were still there, two of them, resting on me.
I pressed down onto them.
I felt him go still.
"Susanna," he said, very quietly.
I pressed again, harder.
"You want more than a vegetable," he said, so low the paper didn't rustle.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Say it so I'm sure."
"I want you."
His fingers curled inside me and I bit my lip to stop the noise.
"Doctor?" Mom said. "Why is she breathing like that?"
"Muscle spasm," he said, without a flicker. "Hold her still, Mrs. Marlin. And keep her quiet, if you can."
I heard a belt buckle open.
It was a tiny sound, and Mom didn't turn her head.
Then his cock was against me, thick and hot, and I almost cried out.
He pushed in slowly, one hard inch at a time, until I was so full my toes curled.
A moan tore out of my throat.
Mom's palm came down over my mouth.
"Shh," she said. "Bite down, baby. It's almost over."
He gripped my hips under the paper and started to move.
Long, deep strokes, steady, each one dragging every nerve in me awake.
I clawed at Mom's wrist as he fucked me, and she thought I was scared.
"I've got you," she said. "I've got you."
Behind the curtain he was giving me everything I'd been begging for.
His thumb found my clit and rubbed it in tight circles.
I shook against her hand.
He sped up, and the table gave a soft rhythmic knock against the wall.
"Mrs. Marlin," he said, in his calm doctor's voice, "keep that hand right where it is."
I came with her hand sealing my screams, and my whole body locked around him.
He groaned once, low in his chest, and held himself deep until I stopped shaking.
My head fell back.
Mom stroked my hair with her free hand.
"There," she said. "That was a bad one, wasn't it? You poor thing."
Her thumb stopped on my cheek.
She was no longer looking at my face.
She was looking down at the floor, where the curtain didn't quite reach.
Under its hem sat a pair of shoes, pointing toward me.
Above them, in a puddle on the tile, lay a man's trousers.
Her hand slid off my mouth.
It went to the curtain.
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