LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Sure. Don’t worry.’ I changed the subject and said what a lovely afternoon it was and how much I liked the summer, but Zeena didn’t reply.

      We walked the rest of the way to the surgery in silence. A couple of times I glanced at her, but there was nothing to be read in her downcast profile beyond anxiety. If she didn’t want to confide her worries in me there was little I could do to help. We entered the surgery and went to the reception desk, where Zeena gave her name and date of birth to the receptionist, who typed this information into her computer. She gave Zeena a card to complete so that she could register her as a temporary patient. We went into the waiting room and I sat beside her as she filled in the card: her name, date of birth and our address. I told her the postcode, which she hadn’t memorized yet. The last section asked for details of her previous doctor. Her pen stopped and she looked at me.

      ‘Why do they want to know that?’ she asked, anxiously.

      ‘So they can get your medical records,’ I said.

      ‘Will my old doctor know who my new doctor is?’ she asked.

      ‘I’m not sure. I suppose they might,’ I said.

      ‘I can’t fill it in,’ Zeena said. ‘My old doctor is a family friend and he’ll tell my parents where I am.’

      I knew there was no point in trying to reassure her that confidentiality should have prevented this; she was petrified of any link that might trace her.

      ‘I can’t remember his details,’ she added, leaving the box blank.

      ‘All right, let me tell the receptionist,’ I said.

      I took the card to the receptionist and explained that Zeena couldn’t remember the details of her previous doctor.

      ‘Just the name and the area will do,’ she said helpfully.

      I went over to Zeena and repeated this. ‘I can’t remember any of it,’ she said, shaking her head.

      The receptionist must have heard this, for as I returned to the desk she said, ‘All right, don’t worry. Leave it blank for now and let us know when you have the information.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I said.

      I left the card at the reception desk and returned to sit next to Zeena. A couple of minutes later her name was called and she stood and went down the short corridor to where the doctor’s consulting rooms were. A minute later she reappeared, very distressed. Rushing over, she sat down beside me. ‘It’s a man,’ she said. ‘I can’t see him.’

      Dr Graham also appeared and came over. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said to me. ‘I’ll see if my wife can see her. Tell Zeena not to worry.’

      ‘Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘I am sorry.’

      He smiled and went over to the receptionist and looked at her computer screen. I’d told Zeena the practice consisted of a husband and wife, and that I’d taken the first available evening appointment, but it hadn’t crossed my mind to tell her it was the male doctor who would be seeing her. My family and I saw either Dr Graham or his wife Dr Alice Graham. They were both excellent doctors.

      Dr Graham returned and said quietly, ‘If you don’t mind waiting half an hour, my wife has a cancellation.’

      ‘Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘I am grateful.’

      ‘You’re welcome,’ he said kindly, and called the next patient.

      ‘Sorry,’ I said to Zeena. ‘I should have asked you if you wanted to see a woman doctor. They’re both nice people and very good doctors.’

      ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘I just can’t see him.’

      ‘All right. Don’t worry, we’re waiting to see his wife.’

      She nodded, but I could see she was still anxious and her anxiety grew. Her hands trembled in her lap and she kept chewing her bottom lip.

      ‘Is there anything I can say that will make you feel less worried?’ I asked her.

      ‘No,’ she said.

      I placed my hands on hers. ‘Try not to worry,’ I said, I didn’t know what else to say.

      I then stood and went over to the small table in the corner of the waiting room where there were some magazines. I took a few and returned, offering some to Zeena, but she didn’t want one. I opened the top magazine and began flipping through it, but I couldn’t concentrate; it just occupied my hands. Zeena was clearly very worried and her refusal to see a male doctor, coupled with her not being able to tell Tara (or me) why she needed to see a doctor, led me to the conclusion that whatever she was suffering from was a personal female condition. With a sinking heart I thought she was probably pregnant. It seemed the most likely outcome, given the existence of the secret boyfriend.

      That half an hour was one of the longest of my life as Zeena’s anxiety grew and I couldn’t offer her any words of comfort or support. When her name was finally called she visibly jumped.

      ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?’ I asked.

      ‘No,’ she said quietly. Keeping her head lowered she left the waiting room, this time to go to Dr Alice Graham’s consulting room.

      I returned the magazines to the table and watched the clock. The minutes ticked by very slowly and the longer Zeena was with the doctor the more convinced I became that she was pregnant. It all fitted: her secretiveness, the boyfriend’s urgent phone calls, their relationship ending when she’d told him she was pregnant; rejected by her parents and called a slut by her mother. Pregnant at fourteen, and having to shoulder the worry alone. No wonder she was in a state. I wished she could have told me.

      Twenty minutes later Dr Alice Graham appeared and came over to me. ‘Could you come in, please?’ she asked quietly so none of the patients waiting could hear. ‘Zeena’s very upset.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, going with her.

      I followed Dr Alice down the corridor into her consulting room. Zeena was sitting on one of the chairs in front of the doctor’s desk with her head in her hands, crying.

      ‘Oh, love,’ I said, going over and sitting in the chair next to her. I put my arm around her. Dr Alice closed the door. There was a box of tissues on the doctor’s desk and I took a couple and passed them to Zeena. ‘Come on, pet,’ I said. ‘Nothing is that bad. Whatever the problem is, we can sort it out.’

      Dr Alice sat on the other side of her desk. I could tell from her expression how concerned she was, and although there were other patients in the waiting room and she was running late, I felt there was no rush and Zeena could take all the time she needed.

      ‘Come on, dry your eyes, love,’ I encouraged.

      Zeena blew her nose and wiped her eyes and then sat hunched forward with a tissue pressed to her cheek. She looked absolutely wretched. I slipped my hand from around her shoulder and placed it reassuringly on her arm.

      ‘Zeena, do I have your permission to share your condition with Cathy, your foster carer?’ Dr Alice asked her.

      Zeena nodded, but didn’t look up.

      Dr Alice looked at me. ‘I understand Zeena has only been with you a short while?’

      ‘Yes. Nearly a week.’

      Dr Alice made a note. ‘Zeena should have seen a doctor sooner,’ she said, ‘when her symptoms first appeared and were at their worst, although I can appreciate why she didn’t. She tells me her family are very strict?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said, not understanding where this was leading.

      ‘I’ve examined Zeena,’ Dr Alice said. ‘She has a severe case of genital herpes. She must have been in pain for some considerable time.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said, and hid my

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