The City of Broken Girls

The City of Broken Girls Erika Strauss Published by Erika Strauss, 2023. This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. THE CITY OF BROKEN GIRLS First edition. January 2, 2023. Copyright © 2023 Erika Strauss. Written by Erika Strauss. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication The City of Broken Girls Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Epilogue Further Reading: Simon Says Die About the Author A big thanks to Joel, Mads, Izzy, and Hera. Without you, none of this is possible. This book is dedicated to Cheryl Leach. I hope I made you proud Mamaw! PEOPLE SHOULD EITHER BE CARESSED OR CRUSHED. IF YOU DO THEM MINOR DAMAGE, THEY WILL GET THEIR REVENGE; BUT IF YOU CRIPPLE THEM, THERE IS NOTHING THEY CAN DO. IF YOU NEED TO INJURE SOMEONE, DO IT IN SUCH A WAY THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FEAR THEIR VENGEANCE. –NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI Prologue The universe has been playing a cruel joke on me. Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by babies. I go grocery shopping, and I can’t help but look at the delicate frills and ruffles on their little, tiny clothes and the redundant laces on their shoes. When I am convinced that no one is watching, I sneak a whiff of the sickeningly sweet baby lotions and lavender baby soaps. It seems like all my friends are getting pregnant every time I turn around, and I’m being flooded with invitations for gender reveals or baby showers. Even the little cafe next to my apartment has a mommy-and-me yoga class every Wednesday according to a maddeningly cheery sign. Sometimes, when I’m grabbing my morning coffee, I stand there and watch the moms bouncing and stretching with their precious cargo. I want one so bad, and the universe taunts me by constantly putting them in my path. It doesn’t help that I work for the best fertility doctor in the state, so pregnant women and other hopeful parents are constantly parading through the waiting room with their hearts, and sometimes uteruses, full of love and wonder. But here I am, once again, in the emergency room, with my fourth miscarriage in as many years. You would think working at a medical office that specializes in fertility would give me some advantage here, but it doesn’t. My boss has tried to tell me that my uterus isn’t strong enough to carry a baby to full term, and I should stop trying. She looks at me with a mix of pity and disdain and reminds me there are other ways to have a baby, and I could always adopt, or the office could help me find a suitable surrogate. Each time she starts this conversation, I grit my teeth to stop myself from blurting out, “I don’t want to hire a human incubator; I want to feel the flutters of life in my stomach.” The stretch marks and morning sickness wouldn’t even bother me. I can’t help feeling cheated by my own body—I must deal with the morning sickness, bloating, nausea, and mood swings but without the prize of a baby at the end. The pot of gold at the end is supposed to promise eternal happiness and motherly bliss. However, this tall, blonde, ridiculously fertile, goddess, also known as my boss, will never know how I feel. She has had three beautiful children in the five years I have worked for her and walks through this office practically throwing her fertility in my face. Whenever she brings me into her office and I become her patient, I wonder if she feels smug talking about how nice it is to have a functioning uterus while I struggle to have even one baby. If stubbornness were the key to a healthy, full-term pregnancy, I would have had no problems bringing a child into the world. If only wanting a baby was enough. After all, I’m the one going through all the trouble of poking holes in my boyfriend, Xavior’s condoms, and casually mention “missing a few pills” and what do I get in return for my Oscar-worthy performance? Nothing. Judging by the way he’s been looking at me lately, I can tell that he’s getting really tired of this emotional roller coaster of “oh, the condom broke again,” followed by “I’m pregnant again,” and ultimately “I lost the baby again.” He says he doesn’t even want kids, but he can tell that I want one so bad, so he avoids the topic until he can’t anymore. We have been together since our sophomore year of college, so I think it’s time we do something major if we aren’t going to get married anytime soon. He owes me that much at least that. As my mind wanders through all the tiny heartbreaks and disappointments that got me here, the nurse finally calls my name. I follow her back to the locked double doors as she swipes her key card to unlock them. In a forced neutral tone, she asks if anyone will be joining us that she should be aware of. I shake my head no and look down at my feet as we walk to an empty hospital bed. She then proceeds to ask me all the mandatory questions, “Have you taken any medications today?” I already have my answers prepped but I still pause and pretend to think hard. “I took acetaminophen last night for a migraine; I get them really bad when I’m pregnant,” I answer, looking at my overgrown cuticles and the dirt underneath my fingernails. Holy crap, I really need a manicure. Not happy with my nonchalant demeanor, she keeps going, “Do you smoke, drink, or take any recreational drugs not prescribed by a doctor?” ”No.” I’m gonna go with her next question being allergies for a thousand, Alex. Nurse Karen