How did it happen?

I told myself

it�s only touching.

I told myself

my clothes are still on.

But who was I kidding?

Even through

my rayon-cotton blend

his touch

burned the world away.

Blame it on my mother.

She�s the one who named me

Mary Rudine.

The name is some throwback

her old-fashioned thinking

came up with.

Nobody but Mom

has called me Mary Rudine

since forever.

First it was Mary,

then it was M.R.

Mister is all anybody

calls me now.

My boyfriend used to think

it was cute,

a girl named Mister.

Used to think I was cute.

Used to be my boyfriend

what feels like

a million years ago.

Then again, I used to be

a good Christian girl,

the kind who would never, well�

Just goes to show

how little people know.

Even I was surprised by me.

Now, I close my eyes

hoping to see

exactly where I went wrong.

Was it that long ago?

I remember one morning

sitting in church,

keeping my eyes on Dante,

the cutest boy in the band.

Mom caught me.

�Quit eyeing that guitarist

like candy,� she whispered.

I laughed easy.

In those days,

Mom and me,

we could talk

about anything.

A second home,

as familiar as skin.

Crammed inside its walls

memories of

Sunday school,

all-church picnics,

and vacation Bible school

Sword drills.

My youth group meets there,

and choir, of course.

Even my old Girl Scout troop

once hung out

on holy ground,

meeting in

the church basement.

I could always

count on the deacons

to take dozens of cookies

off my hands.

I�m just saying,

God�s house

was cozy territory,

no question.

Until this last year.

Don�t ask me why,

but something in me

started pulling away.

For as long as I can remember,

I have loved to sing in the choir.

�Sing, Mister� folks call out

as my voice does a high-wire

reaching for heaven�s hem.

I don�t know what my friend Sethany

concentrates on,

but whenever she sings

about the Lord

her face gets this inside-out glow.

That�s all I know.

Ankle deep,

my faith a thing

I wade into now and then.

Not like Sethany.

She�s mid-sea

and thinks I�m

right behind her.

I�m not sure when it happened,

but one Sunday I woke up

and for me,

church was mostly about

hanging out with friends

at God�s house.

And for the longest time,

that seemed to be enough.

After worship,

Mom would flash me a smile

that said �Good girl!�

as Seth and I

trotted off

to youth group.

I turned the music

of the world

way up,

my feet itching to dance

to a new rhythm,

something other than

gospel.

Mom calls volleyball

my new religion

just �cause

I practice every day.

How else will I get better?

Let her razz me

all she wants.

I figure

since I was good enough

to make the team,

maybe volleyball

can help pay my way

to college.

It could happen.

you know what they say

about miracles.

It was a Tuesday.

It was almost clich�.

He raced round a corner,

rushing to class,

and smashed into me.

My books went flying

and so did my temper.

Thanks to this bonehead

I was going to be late,

which put me in no mood

for his apology,

and I was all ready

to cut him down to size

with my eyes,

until I caught his.

Those long lashes got me,

the way they softened

the hardscape of his face.

One look,

and they softened me too.

�Are you okay?� asked Trey.

I said something, I think,

or maybe I just nodded,

or smiled.

It�s not my fault

I can�t remember.

Blame it on

those stupid lashes.

I asked around,

found out Trey

is one of those guys

who hangs out on the fringes

of our group.

He doesn�t go to church

but seems to like

Christian kids,

so I figure

he probably believes in God.

That�s one point

in his favor.

I never thought

he was perfect.

I won�t tell myself

that lie.

But he was fine,

had a twinkle in his eye

with my name on it.

And when he smiled

I fell into him

headfirst,

got lost in his laughter.

I saw no danger.

After all,

we were just friends.

I remember the first time

he claimed me.

We were at a party

with a bunch of kids from school

just after Thanksgiving.

I�d gone with Sethany.

Trey had shown up on his own,

like always.

Seth and I were chatting away

when some guy

from a school �cross town

came up to me for a dance.

Before I had a chance to speak,

Trey threw me a look,

then got all in this guy�s face,

smiling though

and saying nice as anything,

�Excuse me, but

this is my girl.�

Trey found me in the library,

surprised me with a kiss

on the back of my neck.

The heat of it

ran up and down my spine

and I�m thinking,

Dylan who?

�See you later,� Trey whispers.

distracting me a little more

for good measure.

So, of course,

I had to go back

to the top of the page

and start reading

�Do Not Go Gentle

Into that Good Night�

all over again.

I can�t usually stand know-it-all

b-ball players,

but I liked the way

Trey committed to

steering clear of drugs,

and how he talked about

keeping his body pure-

something we had in common,

even though I know

it doesn�t mean the same

for him and me.

Maybe, one day

it will.

Trey said he�d be happy

to hang out with me wherever,

so I invite him to video night

at church.

Soon as the lights wink out

in the rec room

and Princess Bride

blinks onto the screen

(never mind that we�ve all seen

it a gazillion times!),

Trey whispers in my ear

that he wants me all to himself.

No more of these group dates

on video night,

or lame trips (his words)

to the local skating rink

for spins around the ice

and cups of hot chocolate.

�Why can�t we,

you know,

go on a real date,

just you and me?�

yeah, why not?

I start thinking.

Why not?

�Careful,� Seth warned me.

�I see the way you look at Trey,

the way he looks at you.

Remember, we both promised God

we�d wait.�

�We�re not doing anything,� I told her.

We�re not doing anything,

I told myself.

Still, I couldn�t help but notice

how the purity band

on my ring finger

seemed loose lately.

Like any day now,

it might

just

slip

off.

Alone at his house,

his parents I don�t know where,

we sit on the sofa,

the TV watching the heat

rising between us.

I tingle all over

as Trey closes the distance.

It�s okay,

I tell myself.

I won�t let it go

too far.

But before I know it,

his hand is rubbing my inner thigh,

racing toward my waist,

reaching underneath my-

What am I doing?

�Stop!� I tell him

using what little breath

I have left,

too trapped

in my own frustration

to worry

about his.

I switch on the TV,

see this boy and girl

plastered against the wall

of some fictional school,

kissing their brains out,

then sneaking inside the boys� room.

Together.

I shudder, slightly disgusted,

and turn away.

Still, I start to wonder

if all the other

kids are right.

Am I Miss Priss?

Am I making too big a deal

about waiting?

�You�re so beautiful,� says Trey,

his hands busy

with my buttons.

I finger the cross

round my neck.

A voice inside me chides

Remember:

you�re saving yourself for true love.

Trey must�ve heard.

How else to explain

him suddenly

cupping my face in his hands

and whispering,

�you�re killing me, girl.

you know I�m falling

in love with you.�

Nelly�s �Body on Me�

filters through the window.

I close my eyes,

wait for the music to end,

but I still can�t sleep.

The beat of my thoughts

a rhythm I can�t get

out of my head.

I just want you.

I just want to be

your addiction-

lines from a song

stirring in me

and the CD

isn�t even on.

Like a summer shower

falling in silver sheets

thick as curtains,

love rains down on me.

Love

and love

and love

and Trey

are all I see.

I can�t explain it.

I think Trey

and feel as if

I�ve swallowed warm honey

and a spoonful of sun.

I�m not that pretty,

still I�m the one

he wants.

Don�t ask me why.

I only know

it makes me happy.

And isn�t that what love is?

And isn�t love what God is?

So how can wanting more of this

be wrong?

Trey strokes my bare shoulder

and I shudder as

once-familiar words burst

like fireworks in my brain.

Something Pastor said about

temptation, and God�s help.

What was it?

I start to push away,

to study the words before

they fade.

�you�re sweet as

a chocolate Sunday,�

whispers Trey.

I smile, close my eyes,

and wait for more.

Before I know it,

my eyelids are screens

flashing the words

your body is a temple

of the-

�Silk wishes it were

as soft as you,�

Trey interrupts,

blowing hotly in my ear.

And after that, I swear

I don�t remember

much of anything.

Oh, God, oh, God! His hands

mapping every inch of me,

journeying where they shouldn�t be

but, ooooh!

Lord, I know you�ll understand.

you made my skin, Trey�s hand.

I never knew it could feel so-

What�s he doing?

Mmmm. He�s tracing my name

across my belly,

Mister, each letter

wet from his tongue.

God, I�m sorry but

I can�t stop,

don�t want to-

Oh God, oh God, Oh

God will forgive me,

right?

Right?

He sleeps, guiltless.

I slink out of bed,

slither into wrinkled shirt and jeans,

pretend I�m a shadow

creeping across the floor,

slipping out the door,

racing home quick as feet

can meet the air.

But no matter how fast I flee,

step by step

guilt gains on me.

I wish it was easier

breaking God�s law.

I wish that commitment band

didn�t burn my finger

like lye.

I snatched it off that night,

opened my bedroom window

and tossed it.

If Mom asks where it�s gone,

I�ll say I lost it.

What�s one more lie?

I already told God

I didn�t mean it,

that I hadn�t planned

to give myself away.

But just between me and you,

that�s only half true.

My mind�s a mess.

Wasn�t it yesterday

I looked for Trey around

every corner, down every hall?

Now, for the last three days

all I do

is duck whenever

he comes into view.

I need time to think,

to figure out

what I�m feeling

and why.

I switch on the computer

Mom worked overtime

to pay for,

check my IM

and click on slickwillow,

the screenname Coach

gave my best friend, Sethany,

�cause she�s tall and willowy,

and the enemy always

counts her out,

thinking she�s a girly-girl.

But once she hits the court,

look out,

�cause she�s a slammer,

and God help the girl

across from Sethany

when she�s at the net.

�hey! waz up?�

The words pop

on the computer screen.

�before you answer,

wat�s a 6 letter wd

for sequester?�

�wat�s sequester?� I write.

�sigh. that�s Y U cant

beat me at Scrabble.

U have heard of the dictionary?�

�whatever,� I write.

�i�ve got more important things

on my mind.�

�oooh! this is going 2 be hot,

i can tell.� ☺

�well, i was with Trey last week.�

�and?�

�i-was-with-Trey last week.�

�OMG,� Sethany writes. (:0)

�exactly.�

I didn�t tell Seth this,

but I wish I had waited.

I know, God.

You wish I had too.

How come your voice

is coming through loud and clear now?

Why couldn�t I hear you before?

Never mind. I know.

Call me Jonah.

I was too busy running

in the opposite direction.

Just one more thing

for which I have to take the blame.

The next day

Seth nods to me

across the classroom,

like always.

Except there�s something off

about her silent hello,

a look that says

I guess I don�t know you

as well as I thought.

�Waz up, girl?

Hardly seen u since-

u know.

I�m missing u.

When can we meet?

Trey.�

I hit delete.

Wish I could do the same

with that one, wrong night.

The next day

Trey meets me after class.

He leans in for a kiss.

I love those lips

and get lost in them, for a minute.

But then I come to my senses.

�Trey, we need to talk.�

He pulls back.

�What�s wrong?�

�Nothing. I mean -�

My hands go clammy.

�I don�t want to talk here.�

�Let�s go to my place then.�

A siren goes off in my head.

His place? Alone? Again?

�Fine,� I tell us both,

promising myself

this time will be different.

Inside the door,

Trey drops our backpacks

on the floor,

and reaches for me

as if he�s grown

an extra pair of hands.

They�re everywhere-

at my buttons,

fiddling with my zipper.

I push him away.

�Stop it, Trey.

We can�t do this.

I can�t do this.

I�m sorry.�

Trey goes stone-still,

then drops his hands

to his sides.

His eyes go glacial.

�I�m sorry,� I repeat.

�Whatever.

I need to hit the shower.

You know where the door is.�

�But Trey-�

�Go run hot and cold

somewhere else.�

It�s me.

I must�ve done

something wrong,

not made myself clear.

I mean, he loves me, right?

So it shouldn�t matter

if we�re not together

like that.

Maybe if I just

explain it to him right.

I�ll try again, tonight.

He won�t return

my texts, or phone calls.

It�s all I can do

not to wait for him

at the gym

after basketball practice.

I just want to ask

what happened to him loving me?

Why can�t we still be

together?

I don�t understand.

He said I was his girl.

He said he was my man.

Days disappear in a haze

of Shakespeare, career fairs,

pop quizzes, history homework,

and the white noise of teachers

calling on me

for answers I�ve suddenly forgotten

how to give.

I�m slow.

But even I know

this isn�t going to work.

Just try telling that

to my heart.

My head keeps spinning.

I need some space to think.

Later that day, I say to Trey,

�Look. I can see

you want to cool it for a while,

so let�s.�

Trey is all shrugs.

I wonder what that means,

but not for long.

�Yeah, well,� says Trey.

�Whatever.�

I suddenly shiver

in the winter

of his words.

The bathroom

seems light-years away.

I barely make it

before the flood of tears

puts my shame on display.

It�s official.

I live in regret.

That�s the black room

at the end of the hall.

Call before you come.

I may not be

in the mood for company.

These days, I wake

and look at The Book,

a familiar stranger

collecting dust

on my bedside table.

I haven�t felt the weight of it

in my hands for weeks.

How can I even

call it mine anymore?

I know the score.

It�s fragile pages

make it clear:

sex outside of marriage is sin.

Spin it any way you like,

I blew it.

One voice tells me

to search the Psalms

for forgiveness.

Another says

Don�t go crying to God now.

And so I pull away and stew

in a new kind of loneliness.

I slip into my mother�s room,

raid the small shelf by her bed

hunting for a book a little less holy,

some story about God twice removed.

I know its crazy,

but I need to feel Him here,

just not too near,

you know?

There was this one book I remember,

something Mom used to bug me to read.

What was it?

I scratch my memory

with a finger of thought.

Come on, Mister. Think!

I tell myself.

But it�s no use.

Frustrated, I take it out

on her door,

slamming it on my way out.

Good thing Mom wasn�t

home from work,

or I�d never hear

the end of it.

I collapse into Mom�s recliner

and reach for the remote,

my drug of choice.

My fingers graze the cover

of a dog-eared book

sitting face-up on the end table.

The title clicks:

Mary, Mary.

That�s it!

The book of poetry my mom

has loved forever,

a book about Christ�s mother.

I quickly scan

the first few pages,

find the language

a little old-timey.

Still, it reads like a diary,

and the mystery of that

makes it worth

trading in the remote.

I slip the slim volume

into my jeans pocket

for the short ride to my room.

I figure I�ll flip through

a few pages before

hitting the homework

like I�m supposed to.

That�s the plan.

Our golden boy

nestles in my arms,

clutching my breast

nursing, oblivious

to the braying of donkeys,

the mooing of cows,

and the smell of offal

pervading this stable

in the heart of Bethlehem.

Joseph hangs over my shoulder,

his face a mask of wonderment.

I sigh, no less in awe

than he.

Husband.

Mother.

Son.

These new words

roll round my mind

like shiny marbles,

bursting with color and light.

Was it truly only

nine months ago

I blushed

at the very idea of a wedding bed?

So much has happened since then.

I close my eyes, straining to remember

a time before the angel Gabriel,

a time before the Lord Jehovah

visited just long enough

to turn my world

upside down.

Early evening

is my favorite time of day.

I take my time

winding down the hills of Nazareth

to the village well.

My feet know the way

so I can concentrate on enjoying

my silent conversation

with Jehovah:

me meditating on his word,

Him speaking to my heart.

Some evenings,

when the wind strokes my cheek,

I can almost hear him

call my name.

Playful pouting is not seemly,

Father told me,

not during the holiest of seasons,

and perhaps he was right.

But I do not understand

why I must be

as heavy and somber as he

at Passover.

The coming festival fills me

with joy-

a few days away from Nazareth,

another chance to stand

in the temple of our God,

another opportunity

to feel the sway

of sweet psalms sung

by the Levite choir there.

Why should such wonders

weigh me down with the sadness

I see on Father�s face?

Mother reminds me

that each of us comes to Passover

with a different heart.

What matters, she tells me,

is that we give that heart

to God.

Her wisdom is enough

to send me to Father�s side.

�Forgive me, Father,� I say.

�Let me help you pack

for the journey.�

I lie on my pallet that night

wondering what it was like

when the Angel of Death

stole the firstborn

of all under Egypt�s wing,

save those blessed ones

whose homes were blood-marked

for salvation,

those faithful Jews

who knew God was

as good as his word:

Pharaoh�s kingdom would suffer

until he set God�s people free.

Would I have shuddered

as the Shadow of Death

passed me by?

Would I have had

enough breath left

to praise Jehovah?

And now, because of that

long-ago night,

we Jews are free,

Pharaoh having lost

his taste for Jewish slaves,

the life of his young son

a price too high

after all.

The latter rains

have wet the earth,

but my poor eyes

are dry as the desert wind.

The three-day journey to Jerusalem

punishes with aching calves

and blistered feet.

Why is it I always manage to forget

the tedium of this trek?

I feel a complaint

rising to my lips,

but bite it back

when I remember holy Scripture.

�Let the Israelites keep the Passover

at the appointed time.�

I chew on God�s words,

determining to put one foot

in front of the other.

I shade my eyes

and look ahead,

finding my betrothed in the distance,

his gait as steady as it was

when we left Nazareth.

He may be closer to my father�s age than mine,

but Joseph will make a fine husband,

I think for the hundredth time.

Then I�m distracted

by the glittering jewel

rising out of the desert:

Jerusalem!

The setting sun bounces golden

off the walls of the temple

where Jehovah resides,

and my heart beats faster.

I awake to new strength

surging through me,

and lengthen my stride.

As we draw closer to the Holy City,

I pick up the pace,

pausing every now and then

to wipe away my tears.

Back home in Nazareth,

my family and I

relax after dining,

sated with food and new memories

of the Passover festival.

The songs of the Levite choir

still ring in my ears.

My soul carried them with me

like waterskins,

refreshment for

the long journey home.

The glint in my father�s eye

reminds me of

the golden incense holder

I�ve heard men speak of.

I have never glimpsed it

from the Court of Women.

Pity that we�re not permitted

to see the holy sacrifices

for ourselves.

Though, truth be told,

I would rather not watch

an animal have its throat slit.

Still.

�You know, Father,� I say.

�Next year at the Passover,

I believe I�ll enter the Court of Israel

to witness the sacrifices firsthand.�

Father almost drops his cup of wine.

�What?�

�They say a woman did so once before.

Besides, am I not as much

a child of God as any man?�

Father�s eyes flash toward Mother.

�Speak to your daughter!�

Mother gives me her sternest look,

for Father�s benefit,

then, when he turns away,

we share a secret smile.

Later, as we clean the cooking pots,

she tells me,

�I see what joy it gives you

to frighten your father.

But I ask you,

why settle for being equal with men?�

My mother�s bold words

make me love her more,

and I pledge myself to walk

in her strength.

Someday, I hope my children

will walk in mine.

Familiar as my bedchamber is,

I miss the temple.

Not the raucous crowds,

or the squeal of lambs

or squawk of pigeons

readied for the sacrifice,

but His Presence.

I met God in the temple,

and he knew me.

In some strange way,

I even feel him here.

I snuggle down

on my sleeping mat,

and close my eyes.

But not for long.

An angel slips into my room,

announces that God is on his way,

then tells me I am to be mother

of Messiah, the Promised One,

the Savior of our people;

that my once-barren cousin Elizabeth,

too old to bear a child,

bears one now.

What sense am I

to make of that?

I rub my eyes,

waiting to wake,

unable to shake this vision.

Lord?

What is happening?

I feel a gentle warmth

settling over me,

fingers of heat

fluttering from naval to knee.

Am I dreaming?

What is this cloud of light?

I close my eyes

and count to three,

but when I look again,

the shadow without darkness

is still swallowing me whole.

I poke its side,

then hide my face

when my touch

sends up sparks without flame.

Lord,

what is this cool fire

that licks my skin,

and why do I tingle so?

Gabriel?

Is this what you meant?

Gabriel?

Are you still there?

Who will believe me?

Who?

And what if no one does?

What then?

I march through the next day

numb, that one question

circling my mind

like a vulture

ready to pick my thoughts clean.

I feel my belly,

flat as ever,

and close my eyes,

remembering the fire

of God�s touch,

hearing the echo of the word

Messiah.

And what about Joseph?

We are as good as married,

our betrothal

as binding as any other,

and nothing less than

a paper of divorcement

could end it.

Of course, we have never

shared a bed,

nor will we

until our wedding night.

So, if I truly am with child,

Joseph will know

the father

is someone else.

And what will Joseph-

No. I am not yet ready

to consider

what hard or bitter things

might await me

in the distance.

Besides, the Lord Jehovah

will meet me there.

Yes?

�Are you deaf?�

My mother�s voice penetrates,

unwelcome,

reaching me easily from downstairs.

�What?�

�Is your homework done?�

she asks.

I trade Mary, Mary for my notebook,

and yell down �Soon!�

That�s as close to the truth

as I can manage.

Lucky for me, I�m a good student.

By the time she calls �Lights out,�

I�m done.

I flip the switch.

�Goodnight,� says Mom.

�Goodnight,� I answer.

I place Mary, Mary beneath my pillow

and feel a little closer

to God.

Where have I been?

I wake and look around

as if the world is new,

or old.

I can�t tell which,

only that

the fog inside my head

is lifted

and I can think again.

I can see.

Trey was bad for me.

Time to move on.

Off to school.

English lit to study.

Friends to concentrate on.

Volleyball to play.

Pray coach and teachers

don�t call on you.

Got lots of catching up to do.

Long as I can remember,

Seth and me,

we were two peas

in a pod,

exactly alike

in every way.

That�s no longer true

and there�s nothing I can do

to change things back.

We�re in different places now,

like I entered a room

Seth doesn�t have a key to

and the best we can do

is wave through the window.

I just hope one day soon

I�ll figure out how

to crack that window open

an inch or two,

without, you know,

smashing it to bits.

Somewhere between

bites of pepperoni

and a swig of milk,

Seth asks,

�So, what�s with you and Trey?

Are you, you know,

hooking up now?�

I almost choke,

no joke.

Milk sputters

down my chin.

I grab a napkin,

start dabbing away,

my brain on fire

from the fuse

she just lit.

�It was one time, Seth!�

I say, teeth tight.

�One time!

And I�m already sorry.�

�Okay, okay!� says Seth.

�I was-you know-

just wondering.�

I cut my eyes at her.

�Okay!� she says.

�I�ll shut up.�

That is

the smartest thing

she�s said

all day.

All through practice,

Seth snatches looks at me,

as if she�s wondering

what I�m doing here.

I want to yell,

�Virgins aren�t the only ones

who can sing!�

But who am I kidding?

I do feel weird being here,

singing about a God

I broke my promise to.

If everybody knew,

maybe they�d ask me to leave,

and maybe I would.

And maybe I should.

�Haven�t seen Sethany

around here much lately,�

says my mom.

�You two get in a fight?�

�No,� I say. �We�re both busy, is all.�

I study the wall

just right of her head,

hoping she doesn�t notice

how adept I�m getting

at avoiding eye contact,

wishing she wasn�t

so dang nosey.

�We broke up, by the way,�

I told Seth over lunch.

She quit munching her sandwich

long enough to look up

to see if I was okay.

I didn�t say anything,

just shrugged my shoulders

in a way that said Don�t ask.

Not now.

She took the cue,

smiled to let me know

she was relieved,

and finished eating

in silence.

I miss the old days

before I pulled away from church,

when I trusted Seth

with all my secrets,

even face-to-face.

Funny how my fears

weighed half as much back then,

as if telling my best friend

split them in two.

I used to say or do whatever

and never worry

that she�d judge me

or love me less.

If only we could be

that close again.

What if I took a chance

and let her in?

�Here�s the ugly truth,�

I tell Seth after school.

�Trey never really

cared for me.

He just wanted

to add me to his list.�

I ball my fist,

fighting back the tears.

Seth slips an arm around me.

�It�ll be alright,� she chokes out.

�Besides,� she adds,

�he�s not worth the dirt

under your fingernails.

He�s a supercilious, joyless jerk.�

Clearly, Seth�s been

hitting the dictionary again,

which makes me smile

in the middle of my cry,

which is exactly why

I love her.

Later that week,

I finish up an essay for English

as my cell phone rings,

putting a period on my homework

for the night.

It�s Seth, of course,

calling to remind me

about Youth Group Video Night.

�It�ll probably be lame,� she says.

�Ya think? Bet you anything

it�ll be The Princess Bride.�

�Again!� we say in unison.

�Come hang with me anyway,�

pleads Sethany.

�We always have a blast.�

�Escuchame, pero

yo no hablo Ingles,� I say.

�Girl! Quit it!�

We ping-pong words

back and forth awhile

before I finally say yes.

I can�t help but smile

at the ease of it,

feeling like we�re almost

back to normal.

His heart must be

a light switch,

something he turns on and off

whenever the mood hits,

�cause here he is,

weeks later,

pressing another girl

up against the hall lockers.

I can�t fly by

fast enough.

What was that line again?

�You�re killing me, girl.

You know I�m falling

in love with you.�

Yeah.

Right.

Color me stupid.

The school library

is suddenly my best friend.

I sneak there

for a quick rendezvous

with Mary.

Joseph joins my family

for the evening meal,

the first we have shared

since it happened.

Does it show?

Does my face glow

like the skin of Moses

on Mt. Sinai?

�Shalom, Joseph,� I greet him,

quickly dropping my gaze,

afraid my secret is sealed

in the glint of my eye.

�How was your day?�

�The trek to Sepphoris was grueling

in this midsummer heat,

especially the climb

up that last, steep hill.

But you know, Sepphoris is

our nearest metropolis,

and that is where the work is.

So, I go.� I nod to show

that I am listening,

all the while wondering

why Mother didn�t hear us,

why a man,

righteous as my father,

couldn�t sense

the presence of God

in his own house.

Unless God did not want him to.

�I worked on cabinets today,�

says Joseph.

�Or should I say

they worked on me.

My muscles scream.

Surely, you must hear them.�

�Poor Joseph,� I tease.

�Maybe I can help.�

Rising from the table,

I plant my strong young hands

onto his stiff old shoulders

and knead the pain away.

�You are an angel,� says Joseph.

I smile to myself, thinking

No. But last night,

I met one.

When Mother greeted me

this morning,

my only answer was a nod.

I refuse to speak until sundown,

this one-day vow of silence

the least I can do

to help me focus,

sort truth from wild imagination.

After all, where is the evidence

that my visit from

Gabriel and God

was more than a dream?

The very idea seems

impossible to me now,

that somehow Jehovah

would place

his son in me.

Three days have passed,

and life remains common

as birdsong and morning

as I move swiftly through

the market at Sepphoris,

careful to guard my purse

from the sly fingers

of small thieves.

I am here to purchase

fresh coriander and thyme,

but a tumbling mound of

luscious pomegranates

tipping the scales

of a nearby merchant

tempts me to add a few

to my basket.

I reach for one,

only to drop it when I hear

�Gabriel?�

My heart races at the sound.

�Gabriel?�

I spin round to discover

the source of my distraction.

It is a young woman,

not much older than me.

Could it really be?

Does she see the angel too?

I rush toward her,

my mind fumbling for

words to ask that

impossible question.

Two steps away,

my lips part just as

a little boy darts

from behind a market stall.

�Gabriel,� she scolds, �how often

must I tell you not to run from me

in the marketplace?�

I lower my head and turn away,

feeling foolish.

And yet, I cannot shake the feeling

of that holy presence

in my bedchamber,

nor any longer deny

that the archangel�s voice

still rings in my ear.

Did he not say

he knew of my cousin, Elizabeth?

That Jehovah had visited her too?

Once and for all,

I must learn if it is true.

I head home to pack.

My puny purchases

can wait.

I must journey to Judah.

I must speak with Elizabeth.

Lamech, a servant of Joseph,

joins me, huddling beneath

an acacia tree.

The sun threatens to peel me

like a grape,

and I am grateful for

this circle of shade,

though I would hate

for these deadly thorns

to pierce my skin.

I slide to the ground,

and lean against the trunk,

tensing at the sound

of a lion�s roar

in the distance.

Thankfully,

judging from the direction

of the sound, we are downwind

of his scent.

�Here,� says Lamech,

offering his waterskin

before slaking his own thirst.

I smile at his kindness,

remembering the Bedouin proverb

my father never tired of repeating:

Always take care

of the stranger,

for one day,

you may be the stranger.

�Learn this wisdom,�

my father said,

�for no one survives alone

in the wilderness.�

�Drink deep,� says Lamech.

�Only a camel travels miles

on a single sip.�

I reach for the waterskin,

and drink my fill.

�Come, Lamech,� I say,

springing to my feet.

�We must not allow this heat

to slacken our pace.

The hills of Judah call to me,

and I wish to see my cousin�s face

by nightfall.�

Zechariah meets us at the gate,

smiling wordlessly.

I assume, as priest,

he has taken a vow of silence,

and think no more of it.

He leads us to the inner court.

Elizabeth welcomes us

with cups of pomegranate juice,

as Lamech and I having been

spotted some distance away.

�Shalom!� Elizabeth calls to us.

As I draw near,

I rehearse what I will say,

what I will ask:

Cousin, what do you know

of angels? Of Gabriel himself?

I have to know!

But, before teeth touch tongue

and my words begin to flow,

Elizabeth declares,

�Blessed are you among women,

and blessed is the fruit of your womb!�

God�s spirit descends on me

like mist, and through my tears

I notice the swell

of Elizabeth�s belly.

Six months with child,

Gabriel had said,

and so it seems.

I drop my cup

and lift my hands to heaven.

�My soul does magnify

the Lord!�

Elizabeth has a word for this

disease churning my stomach

like rancid butter,

for the way my nostrils swell

at the very smell

of warm goat�s milk,

for this faint feeling of floating

miles from lake or ocean swell.

It is a feeling Cousin

has come to know well,

and she calls it

Proof.

I noticed this morning

the snap on my favorite jeans

seemed to have changed zip codes.

I could hardly hitch the zipper

into place. Shoot.

Mom better give

that new detergent

the boot.

Late for volleyball drills,

I race to the locker room,

dump my open backpack

on the bench, and strip

faster than Clark Kent.

I climb into my gym clothes,

moving too fast to catch Seth

flipping through my copy

of Mary, Mary.

�What�s this?� she asks.

I look up, snatch the book,

and stuff it back into my pack,

totally ignoring the O of Seth�s mouth.

�Well, excuse me!� she says,

meaning nothing of the kind.

But I don�t care.

Some things you just don�t share.

Mary, Mary is mine alone.

At least for now.

Funny how a person in a book

can come to life.

It�s like I know Mary now,

like we�ve been kicking it

half of forever.

I never thought about her

being funny, or tough,

or brave enough to travel

through the wilderness

where there were lions,

just so she could see her cousin.

All I have to do to see mine

is hop the subway.

No way I would have made it

back then.

But I�m glad Mary

can take me along

for the ride.

Miss Wells,

the guidance counselor,

flips through papers on her desk.

I sit across from her,

breathing heavy,

tapping my no-name sneakers

on the floor,

waiting for her to get started,

so she can finish,

so I can go.

�You kids just can�t

sit still, can you?�

I know a rhetorical question

when I hear one.

�So, Mister-

that�s what they call you,

right?

What are your plans

after graduation?�

�To go to college,� I answer,

without missing a beat.

�To major in what?�

She�s got me there.

�You should start

thinking about that,� she says.

�More importantly,

think about ways

to beef up your transcripts.

Find more extracurricular activities

that will look good on paper.�

Yeah, I�m thinking.

That�s what I need,

�cause I�m not busy enough already.

You didn�t hear that

from me.

But I should get serious

about college.

Let�s face it,

I�m gonna need

all the scholarships

I can get.

Nix on the glee club.

I�ve already got choir.

Can�t stand politics,

so class council is out.

Hmmm.

For the rest of the day,

as I pass from class to class,

I scan the hall bulletin boards,

half hoping for ideas.

One ad jumps out:

a call for tutors

in the library literacy program.

Ding, ding, ding!

If there�s one thing

I love to do, it�s read.

That ad

might as well have

screamed out my name.

It�s eight weeks since Trey,

and I am almost over him.

In two days,

it�ll be our choir�s turn

to rock the house,

and four-part harmony

never sounded so good.

I close my eyes,

let my soprano raise the roof,

and before I know it

I�m lost in the music,

rubbing shoulders with God,

my faith as natural and easy

as it used to be.

I can�t explain how,

but Mary must be getting to me.

My stomach sloshes like

I�m at sea.

What�s the matter with me?

Is this some new version of PMS?

Guess it could be.

It�s been awhile

since my last period.

But that�s one good thing

about being a girl jock.

I don�t get periods

as often as other girls.

The sight of eggs

sunny-side up

makes me want to hurl.

�Honey, what�s wrong?�

asks Mom, shuffling into the kitchen

in Sunday slippers.

�You look a little pale.

I hate for you to miss church,

but you can stay home

if you�re feeling ill.�

�Thanks, Mom,� I say,

halfway to the bathroom.

�I think I will.�

My eyes follow Trey

down the central stairway.

�Snap out of it,� says Seth,

watching me.

I know she�s right,

but I still feel a twinge

when Trey slips his arm

over some other girl�s shoulders.

Good thing I ended it.

Imagine how much worse I�d feel

if we had gotten serious,

and he had dumped me

for the next cute girl

to come along?

And what if I�d gotten pregnant,

or caught some nasty disease?

Like Seth said,

I don�t even know

where his thing has been.

I shake my head

and leave all thoughts of Trey,

and possible disasters, behind.

I know I was lucky this time.

We�re pulling on

our uniforms,

Sethany next to me,

both of us getting ready

for the big game against

Cleveland High.

�You�re getting quite

a pooch there,� Sethany says.

�Time you lay off those

potato chips.�

She was just being flip,

but I cringe,

having to admit

my waistline seems to be

wandering a bit.

Better hit that floor

and work those drills double time.

That oughta shake off

a pound or two.

A sleepover

is all I asked for.

Nothing fancy since

I know we can�t afford it.

Mom makes a fuss anyway,

takes me and Seth out for dinner,

bakes my favorite carrot cake

with cream cheese icing,

and serves it with a tiny jewelry box.

Inside, I find a promise ring,

just like the one I tossed,

the one I�d said I lost.

�I know how much

it means to you,� Mom says,

and I cry, because my lie

has made us less close

than we used to be.

�It�s okay, baby,� she says.

�Sorry,� I whisper,

wiping my wet cheek.

Meanwhile, Sethany studies

her perfect nail polish,

keeping her knowledge to herself.

�Now blow out your candles!� Mom says,

giving my shoulder a squeeze.

�And don�t forget to make a wish.�

I�d tell her I�m too old for this,

but I know what she�d say:

Nobody�s too old for wishing.

Saturday, I stroll Broadway

hunting mangos for Mom.

I slow in front of

Fashion Passion,

and drool over cool clothes

hanging in the window.

A girl with a too-thick waist

stares back at me

and I wonder why she�s

wasting time

checking out

these clingy numbers.

Do I know her?

I step closer to the window,

squint, spy the mirror

behind the mannequins,

and-Oh!

Guess it�s time

for me to go

on a diet.

LaVonne Taylor waddles into

the cafeteria today,

four months along but looking six.

Kids laugh as she passes by,

but I don�t see

what�s so funny.

In fact, I think

it�s pretty sad.

She�s still a kid,

only fifteen years old,

same age as-

Something nasty rises in me,

like a flood:

thoughts of my pancake breasts

suddenly swelling like dough;

a growing list of shirts and jeans

too shrunken to fit;

waistline slowly vanishing

like some magic act gone wrong;

and way too many bloodless days

on the calendar.

I feel myself

start to drown,

make a gurgling sound,

and, next thing I know,

the school nurse

is leaning over me,

asking, �Honey, are you okay?�

�No. God, no!� I say,

but not to her.

How long I laid on her

office cot, crying,

I�ll never know.

But at some point,

a soothing voice

deep in the core of me

whispered, �Breathe. Breathe.�

And I did.

I clutch Mary, Mary

to my chest,

waiting for sanity

to return.

�Help me, Mary,�

I whisper.

�Help me, God.�

Elizabeth and I

sit in the synagogue

where women are assigned,

rapt in twin silences,

but separate thoughts.

Elizabeth beams,

clearly more than ready

to slip into a mother�s sandals.

But I shiver, wondering

what kind of mother

I will be.

I know so little of babies.

Will caring for a child

come naturally?

I can only hope to match

my own mother.

But where do I begin?

Then, I remember the story:

how Mother wrestled

with the Lord, in prayer,

pleading for a child,

and how, when I came,

she blessed God for the gift.

So, I will start with prayer.

Jehovah, please prepare me

to be a mother.

And Jehovah, I pray

as you knit this child

inside of me,

strengthen him

in every way.

We sit in the evening glow

of oil lamps,

plucking names from the night

like figs,

as if we needed to.

But why not?

This is precisely what

expectant mothers do.

So, for a moment,

we pretend God has not

already chosen our sons� names.

�Eli has a nice sound,� I say.

�Or Ezekiel,� says Elizabeth.

�I like Tobias.�

�Too plain.�

�Uriah?�

�Never!�

�You are right.

Things did not

turn out well for him.�

�Here is one, then: David,�

says Elizabeth.

�Like the king,� I say.

�Like your ancestor.�

�The one through whom-�

�Messiah will come,� we both say,

and something in me quivers.

I excuse myself for the night,

needing to lose myself for a while

in the world of sleep.

I hug my quiet kinsman,

Zechariah,

and wish Elizabeth well,

though I hardly need to.

The blessed birth of her son

is only a few

weeks away at most,

and she is blissful.

I leave her in the able care

of her midwife,

and say my last good-byes.

Lord Jehovah,

make the months fly

until we are together again,

until her little John

meets my Jesus.

Entering Nazareth, once again

we come upon a riotous crowd,

closed tight around

someone, or thing.

We cannot tell

till Nathan, our neighbor, yells,

�Harlot!

You thought you could

break God�s law, and live?�

We next hear

stone striking bone.

A girl screams and I,

unblinking,

push into the crowd,

elbowing my way up front

just as limestone brick

splits the girl�s skull,

sending blood rushing

like a wild river,

flooding her eyes, her nose,

splattering her once

rosy cheeks.

I peek, now,

from half-closed lids,

wondering what holds me here,

why I continue to stare

at this poor, crumpled girl,

writhing in pain until death

rescues her, a girl I knew

as Salome, young wife of Hillel,

a girl who so easily

could be-

�Mary!� Joseph�s servant

reaches my side.

�Let us leave this place,� he says

and I let him pull me away.

Wordlessly, we head home.

But I carry this girl�s

wretched screams with me,

like a splinter throbbing

in my ear.

I begged the nurse

not to call my mom,

said I probably just had

food poisoning, or something,

and apologized for crying

like a big baby.

The nurse shook her head,

put the phone down,

looked me in the eye, and said,

�Mary Rudine, my guess is

you�re less than

three months along.

Take my advice:

Tell your mother before

she figures it out

on her own.

You shouldn�t try

handling this alone.�

I dropped my eyes,

grabbed my books,

and ran.

Coach says

I have none

since I�m leaving the team

at the end of the season,

just before the biggest game.

�You looking to play

in the city club off-season?

�Cause I gotta tell ya,

this ain�t the way

to hold your spot.�

What can I say?

Sorry, Coach, but I can�t play

because I�m pregnant?

Forget it.

So I just shrug and leave Coach

shaking his head.

And when Sethany finds out,

she stares me down

like I stabbed her in the back.

But I�ve got no choice.

I can�t tell them why.

I can�t even

tell myself.

They ache.

This morning

strapping on my bra

causes way too many

decibels of pain.

If anyone so much as

bumps into me,

they�d better plan

their eulogy.

Any day now

my period will start.

Any day now

menstrual cramps will crush

the kernels of fear

quickly greening in me

like saplings.

Any day now

I�ll be plain old fifteen again,

a girl passing silly notes in class,

giggling at the sight

of condoms.

Cake or no cake,

I knew I was too old

for wishing.

I study myself in the shower,

unable to deny

my breasts are bigger,

just like they show you

in those sex-ed movies.

I hold them up,

figure they must be

a 36B now.

It�s almost funny.

I used to wish for this.

Why do I even bother

leaving the bathroom?

Leaving home?

I might as well

hang a sign around my neck:

Warning: Steer clear.

Girl about to barf.

I hope Mom doesn�t make a habit

of coming home early.

�I know the regular season�s over,

but doesn�t your volleyball club

practice today?� she asks.

Here�s where lying

would come in handy.

I try another tack,

pretend not to hear her,

then hurry to my room,

calling over my shoulder,

�Homework!�

What else would you call it?

I know girls

who have sex every day

and walk away.

Me, I break God�s law once,

and look what it gets me.

If this isn�t punishment,

I�m missing the point.

But then I think of Mary,

who God gave a baby

just because he wanted to,

and she didn�t do anything wrong.

So maybe punishment

is not the point

after all.

I don�t know, Lord.

I don�t know anything, right now.

Color me confused,

and scared.

I feel like

one of those ladies

in the commercial

about allergies.

She�s walking around in a fog,

and everything is fuzzy,

especially around the edges,

and no matter

how many times she blinks,

nothing seems clear.

That�s how it is for me.

I don�t want anybody

to notice, though.

So I try to smile

when I catch anyone

looking at me,

and I keep going

through the motions.

I used to love

the full-length mirror

on my bedroom door.

Not anymore.

I wake in the middle of the night,

fingers fluttering over my rising belly.

My mind is split between

worry and wonder.

This inchworm of a life

taking root in me

is suddenly real.

How did I get here?

How could I be so stupid?

What am I going to do now?

I reach for Mary, Mary,

searching for answers,

but the words all blur.

How many tears are left in me

is anybody�s guess.

All I know is,

I had enough to last me

through the night.

Home again,

I hurry to my chamber.

My cloak barely hides

the changing contour

of my belly.

Soon enough I will look

as though I swallowed the moon.

I must tell Joseph

that the life nesting in me

was placed there by Jehovah.

But why would he believe?

What if, convinced I have broken

God�s holy law,

he drags me before the priest,

has me judged and sentenced

to be stoned?

What if-

The bloodied face of Salome

floats to the surface of my mind.

Stop it! Stop it!

I order myself.

Where is your faith?

Do you truly believe

God Almighty would bless you

to carry his son,

then stand idly by

while both your lives are taken?

I bow my head,

soak in the silence,

and wait for my heart to slow.

Lord, forgive me.

I know you will protect us.

Please ready me for

whatever trials lie ahead.

Wringing my hands,

I wait by the well

at the foot of the last tel

Joseph must climb

on his way home.

He is pleased,

though surprised,

to see me.

We trade holy kisses

and mount the hill in silence.

Joseph is the first to speak.

�What brings you out

to meet me?�

�Well, I-I, uhm-�

�Yes?�

I look around,

then lead the way

to a grove of olive trees

where we can be alone.

�Mary,� says Joseph,

�why are you being

so mysterious?�

�Joseph,� I whisper,

�do you believe in

the mysterious?�

Before he can answer,

I squeeze out the truth.

Once the words

are in the air,

Joseph stares at me, silent.

The weight of the pain

and doubt in his eyes

presses me to the ground

and holds me there

till I feel faint

and finished.

At long last,

Joseph finds his voice.

I tremble at the sound of it.

In pinched tones, he says,

�I care for you, Mary,

and will not turn you over

to the priest.

But come tomorrow,

I will give you papers

of divorcement.

You will then be free to go

wherever you wish,

only please,

go from here.�

A tear on his cheek,

Joseph turns his back on me

and heads for my father�s house,

our hearts blending

with the darkness.

God, you must be

mad as hell.

I made you a promise

and stomped on it.

Go ahead.

Tell me you�re angry.

I know I�d be.

Can�t stand to look at me?

That makes two of us.

My bed and pillow both

seem made of rocks.

There is no sleep to be found.

Even my thoughts toss and turn.

If I were still a little girl,

I could curl up next to Mother,

let her tell me

everything will be alright.

Lord Jehovah,

please be my mother

tonight.

Who will want me?

No more tight abs to show off

at the beach.

No slender waist to catch

a cute boy�s eye.

Four months and look at me!

Soon, I won�t be able to see

my feet anymore.

Or, I could be lucky

and stay pretty small, like all

the women in our family.

Yeah. Like I�ve been lucky so far.

Look at me! I�m hideous!

There�s not much to do about it

except cover all the mirrors

in my room,

and race past

all the rest.

I crawl into bed,

pull Mary�s words to my chin

like a warm blanket.

Her faith is so strong.

Maybe if I keep close

it just might rub off.

Alone on the rooftop,

I mourn the sunset.

I am in no great haste

to keep the promise

I made myself at sunrise:

to tell my parents.

If only Joseph�s angel

would speak to them first!

Joseph kindly offered

to stand with me.

Yet, I declined. This

I must do on my own.

But what words can I use

to convince my parents that

everything will be alright?

Raised in God�s shadow,

nursed on the Mosaic Law,

I have been a regular at Temple

all my life,

have daily listened to

my mother humming psalms

as she grinds meal for flatbread.

I have priests for kinsmen,

and am daughter to

a righteous man.

So how, Lord,

am I to tell my parents

that their unmarried daughter

is with child?

And once my words shatter

their dreams for me,

will they ever be able

to look me in the eye again?

I breathe deep,

descend the stairs,

and pull Gabriel�s words round me

like a cloak.

One look at my face

and my mother draws near.

�Mary? What is it, child?�

My tears come quickly.

�Oh, Mother!�

Ask me what I fear most:

my mother�s eyes

welling with disappointment,

wondering where

she�d gone wrong.

They watch me now.

They do not mean for me to notice,

but I do.

I wish I had some remedy

for their disbelief

and disappointment.

I cannot decide

which hurts worse.

These days,

I feel Mom�s eyes on me

every time I leave a room.

Some mornings,

she�s Lois Lane

grilling me over Frosted Flakes:

�I haven�t seen that shirt before.�

�Is that the new style,

shirt hanging out your pants?�

�Don�t girls wear belts anymore?�

�Honey, are you gaining a little weight?�

Sometimes, she�s Superman,

still as stone,

mum as Clark Kent,

but looking for all the world

like she�s got

X-ray vision.

That�s when I know

I can�t keep the truth from her

forever.

Lately,

every day after school

I speed-walk round the track

once or twice,

doing my best to dodge

all the boys warming up

for baseball practice.

So what if I can�t play

my own sport right now?

I refuse to grow

gross and flabby

just because.

Eyes straight ahead,

I charge past

a clump of kids

and leave them

eating my dust.

Slickwillow@znet.com

�i�m pregnant,� I write.

�i guessed,� answered Sethany.

�there had 2 be some reason

ur sick all the time.

other kids notice 2 btw.

i was just waiting

4 u 2 tell me,

on ur own.�

�yeah. well, i don�t know

how i�m gonna tell my mom.�

�what did trey say?�

�didn�t tell him yet, either.�

�what r u waiting 4?�

I�m not sure

how to answer that.

Eventually, I type in

�armageddon.�

�Shalom!�

A voice melodious as a lyre

fills the family courtyard.

There is only one person it could be.

I throw my arms around Hadassah,

my girlhood friend.

As ever, I am happy when

she comes to visit me.

She greets my parents before

we climb to the roof

for a leisurely hour

of weaving and conversation.

After trading ordinary news,

we work side by side,

silent at our hand looms

while the sun lavishes her warmth

on our spring afternoon.

Too soon, though,

the silence grows heavier than

I am used to.

Hadassah is the first

to shatter the stillness.

�You have changed

since I saw you last,� she says,

noticing that I am larger

than she remembers,

though not knowing why.

Thankfully, the billowing

folds of my garment

do much to hide my belly

four months swollen with child.

I wave off Hadassah�s comment,

as if there were

no truth to it,

and weave on,

wondering if she will

press the point.

Thankfully, she does not.

Yet, I can almost feel her

penetrating stare,

hungry for the one secret

I can never share.

But suddenly I realize

the perfect way

to throw her off the scent.

�Have I mentioned

that Joseph and I

are soon to wed?�

Hadassah�s hands leave the loom

long enough to clap for joy.

�I knew it!� she cries.

�Tell me everything.�

I try on shirts

with Sethany for company.

She stares at me,

stares at my reflection

in the mirror,

eyes lingering on

my lower half.

She makes faces

at my belly

till I have to laugh.

Of course, we both know

there�s nothing funny

about my trouble.

�Time to tell Trey,� says Sethany,

catching me off guard.

I cut my eyes at her.

�Hey! That�s all I got to say

on the subject.�

Which means

she�s just getting started.

�Seth!�

I groan loud enough

for her to hear.

�It�s gonna be rough,

still, the daddy

needs to know.�

On and on she goes.

�I�m not saying

it�s gonna be easy,

but at least you know

God�ll give you the words.�

I snort. �Yeah. If he�s still

talking to me.�

�Ooooh,� says Sethany.

�I see. So, you�re telling me

God forgives murderers,

but can�t forgive you.

Well, that�s a new one.�

Sarcasm aside, she�s got a point.

�Say you�re right,�

I concede,

�so what?�

�Get up in his face

and spit it out,� says Sethany.

�Don�t go shy all of a sudden.�

I nod, whisper, �Okay.�

Then Sethany switches her attention

to new shirts I should

try on.

�Look at this one,� she says,

holding up a green number.

�It�ll bring out your eyes.�

Then, she surprises me

with a hug,

guessing how badly

I need one.

Soft as fleece,

God�s forgiveness

falls over me

like a quilt,

and this time,

I let it smother

my guilt.

The next morning,

I feel strong enough

to carry out my plan.

Today, I�ll tell Trey, I think.

Him first, then Mom.

That settled,

I march into school

and wait by Trey�s locker.

I lean against the door,

close my eyes,

and let the combination lock

dig into my spine-

anything to keep me

from feeling numb.

�I got some treasure in there

I don�t know about?� asks Trey.

I look up, part my lips

and manage, �Hi.�

�Whoa! This mean

you talking to me again?�

Tell him. Go on!

�Trey, I-uhm, I-�

My mouth fails,

my practiced speech

becomes a heap

of dead syllables

crushed between my teeth.

�Cat got your tongue?� says Trey.

I nod, turn away,

but somehow stop myself

from running.

Do it. Do it!

I tell myself,

then turn back,

wrap my tongue

around the truth,

and throw it like a ball,

hard as I can

till it hits home.

�Trey, I�m pregnant.

And it�s yours.�

�I�m too young

to have a kid,

and so, I don�t,�

says Trey.

�You need to take

that fairy tale

to some other fool.�

His words ricochet

inside my head,

hot and deadly.

�There is no one but you,�

I say.

�Oh, yeah? And how do

I know that�s true?

Because you say it?�

Trey slams his locker door

like the period

at the end of his sentence,

and he�s gone.

The bell rings,

and I�m left gasping

in the hall.

Glad there was a wall

to lean on.

Blinded by fear

masquerading as teardrops,

I feel my way

to the school exit,

and leave, lost,

struggling to register

a new definition

of lonely:

the baby growing inside of me

the only company

I can count on.

And, maybe, if I�m lucky,

God.

Odd, that I hardly

feel my feet

as I wander the streets

pointed toward Broadway.

I turn, on automatic pilot,

pass the Audubon Ballroom

and the ghost of Malcolm X,

wishing, if only for a moment-

Lord, forgive me-

wishing I could join him,

that I could simply

disappear.

It�s Friday night.

Mom sticks her head in the door,

waving a video cassette.

I bet it�s some old-school flick

like Casablanca.

She loves that stuff.

Not me, but I love her.

Plus, its our ritual,

huddling on the sofa

close as bone and skin,

in celebration mode,

ticking off another week gone by

and us alive and well

despite the dangers of these streets,

this world.

Just us girls.

But I can�t risk cuddling anymore.

So when Mom says, �Come here, baby�

and reaches out,

I shout, �Stop calling me baby!�

before I�m sure my mouth

is even working.

Mom leaps back from the punch.

Softer, I say, �I�m sorry. It�s just that

I�m not a baby anymore.�

�Well,� Mom says,

�I guess you�ve grown up, overnight.�

She sighs. �Alright. I stand corrected.�

I nod, wanting to hug her,

wanting to squeeze away the heap of hurt

that makes her shoulders slump,

but if I get too close,

she�ll feel the bump and know.

So I sit at one end of the sofa,

and Mom sits at the other.

For the first time

we�re together,

alone.

Mom�s twenty-nine. Again.

So I count out candles for her cake,

numbering her fake age.

I light them, one by one,

wondering why her real age

is such a mystery,

wishing she had a driver�s license

I could check.

Not that her age matters to me,

but I�m curious why

she sometimes gets furious

if I press the point.

Is there some scary story

threaded through the truth,

or have I just been

watching too many movies?

Last Communion Sunday

marked me as villain.

Never mind that I sat in the pew

with yards of blue cotton-polly

and an oversized vest billowing

out around me.

Cool camouflage, right?

But hardly good enough

for God.

�Prepare your hearts for the feast,�

said Pastor Grant.

�All are welcome at the Lord�s Table.�

I sat up straight to wait

for the holy tray.

I�ve always loved Communion.

�But take heed,� Pastor warned.

�Do not eat the bread, or drink the cup

unworthily.

For some, doing so,

have died.�

I fell back against the pew

as my secret sin gave me two

swift kicks, and sent my heart racing.

Did anybody see?

Mom sat right next to me.

I snuck a peek

but found her lost in prayer.

Eyes closed, she sent the tray my way.

The silver rim all but singed my fingertips.

I quickly passed it on

without taking my share,

too scared to even dare

a look.

At long last,

I crack my Bible open,

finger the fragile pages

of Luke, chapter two,

and review the old story of Mary.

Jealous, I read how Joseph

stood by her

even though the kid

wasn�t his.

But the Spirit whispered

Reread the passage,

so I did.

And there it was:

a reminder that God

gave Joseph

a giant push

in the right direction,

sent him a dream,

and an angel, no less.

Details.

I look in the mirror,

but don�t recognize

the girl I see.

Suddenly, she�s some

scared-crazy kid

entertaining fleeting notions

of throwing herself

down a long flight of stairs,

or lingering over thoughts

of abortion.

Like I don�t know

how God feels about that.

Like I could forget

for more than two seconds.

But Lord, you tell me:

What, exactly,

am I supposed to do

with a baby?

I sit at the computer,

volleyball between my legs.

(Never thought I�d miss those drills!)

To hold the ball still,

I squeeze my thighs.

Someone told me

it�s a good exercise, but who?

Anyway, Seth�s latest IM

says the VB club misses me,

especially after tanking

three games in a row.

�Ouch!� Seth types,

and I reply,

�Maybe I should come back,

baby bump and all.�

LOL pops up on the screen,

and I almost do.

Almost.

I tell Mom I�m quitting

the volleyball club, for now,

so she can save

all the slave wages

she pays out for dues.

Of course, she asks why.

I only half lie,

telling her I�m just too tired

this season.

Tired or not, nothing stops me

from dreaming of a future.

When I graduate,

I want to be a teacher.

At least, that�s what I thought

when I was ten.

Then again,

I could be a librarian.

That way, I would spend my days

swimming in a sea of books.

Before I sign on

for desk duty, though,

I�d like to make

the U.S. volleyball team,

go to the Olympics

and kick some butt.

Truth is,

I haven�t settled on

a profession yet.

All I know for sure is,

when I grow up,

I (still) want to be

a girl with options.

I walk the school halls

behind an invisible wall,

cut off from the rest of the world.

It doesn�t matter

that I carry small.

I�m Pregnant Girl,

not supergeek, not freak,

not girl-jock, or even

plain old Mister.

I�m just a girl in trouble.

Ask anyone, and they�ll tell you

no other identity applies.

And if you�re wise,

you�ll keep your distance.

If I see one more

young and giddy

mother-to-be,

I�m slamming that remote

right down the TV�s throat.

After homework,

I hurry online,

surf my way to

my picture gallery

and scroll through

last year�s photos

of me and the team.

I sure looked wicked

in my volleyball uniform.

I sure was having

a sweet time.

I sure wish I knew

if either thing

will ever be true

again.

I waited for her

on the sofa,

let winter�s darkness

sweep into the room

and swallow me whole.

Home, at last, Mom

switches on the light,

notices me fighting

back tears,

and rushes to my side.

�What�s wrong, baby?�

she asks,

her mom-o-meter

off the charts.

Here I am

about to break her heart,

and all she�s worried about

is me.

Wordlessly, I take her hand,

place it on my belly,

and cry until

my eyes run dry.

She holds me whispering,

�It�s okay, baby.

I think I already knew.

I just refused

to believe.�

After hours of bathing,

I cover myself to keep

my swollen belly secret,

then let Hadassah anoint

my head and shoulders

with Rose of Sharon, and other

favorite sweet oils

before I dress.

Less than five minutes later,

a flicker of torchlights

brighten my window

to let me know the procession

is about to begin.

In sweep Joseph�s friends, and mine

ready to spirit me away

to Joseph�s house-

my home to be.

According to tradition, we

form a happy parade

dancing through

the night-drenched streets

of Nazareth

until we reach Joseph�s door.

The crowd pushes us together

so the feasting can begin.

The tables are laden

with many tasty dishes,

but I have no appetite.

�Let him kiss me with the kisses

of his mouth,� quotes one friend.

�Your love is sweeter than wine,�

recites another.

�Arise my love, my fair one,

and come away.�

All the night long,

as wine flows,

psalms and poems,

sweet stories and love songs

swirl about us,

the strains of pipe

and lyre filling the spaces

in between.

This marriage merrymaking

is all I had ever imagined,

except for the awkward glances

between Joseph and me,

or that my right hand

would so often leave his left

to rub my belly

when no one was looking.

Then, to my surprise,

Joseph places his hand over mine,

looks deep into my eyes,

and smiles.

Two years of engagement

and preparation

are now rolled up

like a scroll.

A night of feasting

is finished, and finally

Joseph and I are led

to the nuptial chamber.

Alone, at last,

my new husband

lights the oil lamp,

then turns his back

while I free myself of my

wedding finery.

I shiver shyly, and hang my head.

None, save God and Gabriel,

have seen me thus.

It was not supposed to be like this,

my belly already swollen,

my body misshapen,

no longer the slender girl

I once was.

How can Joseph bear

to look at me?

Suddenly, all I want to do

is disappear.

�How beautiful you are,�

Joseph whispers,

wishing to ease me, no doubt.

Instead, his words

send more blood rushing

to my cheeks.

Gentle Joseph draws me

to the wedding bed,

but only to hold me.

We will not truly be man and wife

until the life inside of me sees the sun.

Like a wild desert wind,

some days

like this one

my feelings swirl

sudden and angry

for no reason

I can find.

Mother insists

this is normal for

a woman with child,

but I hate it.

I beat the floor

with my broom

and take my anger out

on dust and dirt,

trying to sweep my

momentary rage

out the door before

poor Joseph wanders into

the eye of the storm

that is me.

I have never been

one for tears.

Even as a little girl,

a fall or cut

might make me

bite my lip,

but nothing more.

Now, it seems

tears come easily

and often.

Just last night

I cried myself to sleep.

Joseph tried to comfort me,

but how could he understand

my desperate longing

for the old me,

the one whose belly

was flat enough

to nestle comfortably

on her side

any time she pleased?

I always thought

Mary had it easy,

her knowing all along

God was the one

who wrote her story.

Guess I was wrong.

Turns out

she needed God

as bad as me.

Tears spent,

Mom brings me a cool cloth

to wipe away the evidence.

Between dabs, I notice

her shoulders sagging

from something heavier

than fatigue.

Maybe I shouldn�t have told her,

I think.

Look how it�s weighing her down.

�This year, I�m really twenty-nine,� she says.

I nod, waiting

for the punch line,

wondering what her age

has to do with anything,

wondering what�s worthy

of all her hand-wringing.

�You�re a smart girl,� she says,

glancing up at me briefly,

then looking away.

�Once I told you my real age,

I knew you�d put two and two

together.�

My math skills

are failing me now.

I have no idea

what Mom�s getting at.

Then, without further ado,

she lets the truth fly.

�Mary Rudine,� she whispers,

�I�m twenty-nine now,

which means

I was fourteen

when I had you.�

One word.

That�s all I had breath for.

�What?�

After all these years

of Bible,

of �God said,�

of �wait.�

After coaxing me to do

the silver ring thing

she tells me this?

Not that she sinned,

but that she was

as young as me?

What exactly am I supposed to do

with this piece of information?

So many questions

pounding my mind to mush,

but only one word

makes it to my mouth:

�What?�

�I didn�t want

to give you permission

to be like me,� Mom says.

�To make the same mistake.

It�s a hard life, honey.�

This stranger�s words

build a wall between us.

I�m mad as hell

and I tell her.

Only, once I do

I realize it�s not true.

What I really feel

is robbed.

She stole

the straight-shooter I knew,

left behind this double-talker

who can teach me, what?

How to lie to my kid

when the time comes?

�You know why I told you

the truth now?

So you�d know

I understand what

you�re going through.�

I roll my eyes

and stomp out of the room

for emphasis.

I needed you to be my rock, Mom,

is what I�m thinking,

a hefty boulder that could

bear my weight,

not some small, smooth stone

washed up on

the same shore as me.

�Always tell the truth,�

Mother used to say to me.

Who�s the liar now?

One week since Mom�s

big confession,

and I�m still asking

how did I miss the signs?

The way it seemed

she was in school forever,

first high school, then college,

Grandma filling in the blanks

of her absences.

There I was thinking

my mom�s just going back to school

as an adult,

me patting her on the back,

proud that she did it,

proud that she looked young as

all her classmates.

Talk about stupid!

Guess the last laugh�s

on me.

I can�t hate her now.

I need her too much,

especially since

she knows what it takes

to do this mom thing,

to have a kid

when you�re a kid.

It�s not like

they teach this stuff

in school.

She lied to me, yeah.

But it must have been hard,

homework at the table

squeezed in between feeding me,

and running off to work

at night.

I might have noticed, except

she more than made the grade

as mom.

Hardly ever complained,

now that I think about it.

How�d she do that?

Okay, so she lied to me.

So what?

She loved me up one side

and down the other.

Nothing hypocritical

about her hugs,

now was there?

Dead on my feet,

too many nights of no sleep,

and teachers wonder why

I nod off in class.

This forced exile

on my back

is too tough to take.

I daydream about detaching

this protrusion,

setting it on a table

at bedtime.

Jesus, I�m begging you.

Please let me sleep on my side

just one night, Lord.

Just one!

I swear,

I�d do anything you ask.

Try me.

I feel funny

sitting in youth group,

the half moon of my belly

putting space between me

and everybody else.

But that�s okay.

I�d rather sit with Mom anyway,

feeling the cozy blanket

of her love

warming me up

in the pew.

Folks at church

treat me better

than I imagined.

Sure, I get a couple of looks,

but mostly it�s ladies saying,

�We�re praying for you, honey,�

or �Let me know

if there�s something I can do.�

You�d think I grew

a few extra mothers.

Some days,

it�s enough

to make me cry.

I don�t think

it�s their words, exactly.

I don�t know.

Maybe it�s God

reminding me

I�m not as alone

as I thought.

Last night�s news

was a shocker.

A fifteen-year-old girl I know

was killed by a drunk driver.

A drunk driver!

It�s not like I knew her well,

but still.

Our volleyball team

played against her�s

last season.

I can see her now,

standing at the serving line,

alive as anything.

It�s crazy.

You could be scoring points

for your team one minute,

and the next,

suddenly not be.

That�s when it hit me:

There are worse things

than being fifteen

and pregnant.

Mom makes sure

I see the doctor

once a month.

�Are you taking your vitamins?�

�Yes.�

�Any spotting?� she asks.

�No.�

�Good! Let�s hear that heartbeat.�

It all gets to be routine,

until she suggests

a sonogram.

No biggie, I tell myself.

She spreads some jelly

on my belly,

hooks me up

to a monitor,

and-voila!

Something moves

on the screen.

Little elbows,

little hands,

little feet,

little toes,

doll-sized head,

perfect mouth,

perfect nose.

It�s a baby!

A real, live baby in there!

A baby!

And it�s mine.

Early Saturday morning,

I speedwalk to the park

bouncing the ball of my belly.

I head straight for the VB court,

then sit on the sidelines

like some old fogey,

and stare at a stranger

serving up what used to be

my game.

I raise my arms

like memory,

imagine I am helping that ball

clear the net.

I never met a volleyball

I didn�t like,

only now, it doesn�t like me.

That�s silly, I know,

but try telling that

to my heart.

At the Saturday matinee,

Sethany and I surrender our tickets

and make a beeline

for the popcorn concession.

With prying eyes sizing up

my supersized belly,

I�d just as soon skip it.

But Sethany says,

�What�s a movie

without popcorn?�

So, I stuff my shame

and feign nonchalance better

than any Oscar-winning actress.

Thankfully, we get in a line

that moves in record time,

and we�re soon enshrined

in the blessed twilight

of the theater, where

for 141 minutes,

plus previews-

I get to be

just another kid

in the dark.

I lay on the dressing table,

wrapped in a thin gown,

and yards of awe.

Obviously,

I�m no stranger

to basic biology,

or human anatomy.

I understand the work

of lung and aorta.

So explain to me

why the sound

of a simple heartbeat

suddenly seems more

like magic.

From now on,

boy or girl,

my baby�s name

is Junior.

After seeing her

busy little fingers,

his sturdy little thighs,

the word �it�

no longer applies.

Maybe it�s

something I ate,

something I drank,

something I should have.

Whatever the reason,

Junior�s got me

against the ropes,

kicking like crazy,

sparring in the dark.

My days are quiet

without Mother near

to chide me

or join me round

the grindstone,

or tempt me with a spoonful

of some savory new stew

from her cooking pot.

A lover of silence,

even I have had enough.

Come quickly, little one!

Fill this home with the music

of voices.

The life of a new wife

is too lonely.

No matter what Joseph says

there are still lentils to be found

in the marketplace,

though I have purchased

more than my share.

And who could blame me?

Is there anything better than

chopped leeks and garlic

simmering in a lentil stew?

Joseph wrinkles his nose

as he crosses our threshold,

day after day, after day.

I smile a weak apology,

wanting nothing more

than another bowl

of that delicious stew.

I trudge to the village well

in the heat of the day,

anything to avoid

those nasty gossips.

My secret joy

is cleverly hidden beneath

two layers of clothing

falling in folds, and folds,

and folds of softest wool.

Even so, at six months,

neighbors begin

to count the full moons

since my marriage.

I hear them wonder aloud

how Joseph�s seed

could so quickly

take root in me.

No one dares charge me

to my face, of course.

They simply lace their speech

with gossip about

the girl who is, perhaps,

too soon with child,

all the while

pretending piety.

God!

Please deliver me

from this vicious venom!

I wish they would widen

the spaces between market stalls.

All I seem to do anymore

is squeeze between small spaces.

I suppose I am just too-

Oh!

Leah and I bump bellies.

She is the first to laugh

and soon, I join her.

�Shalom, Mary,� she says.

�Shalom, Leah.�

She is a neighbor

I have scarce shared

ten words with before.

I suppose it is because

she is a few years older,

though that hardly matters,

now that we are both

mothers-to-be.

We have much in common.

We interrupt our shopping

to trade notes on midwives,

and whose expected one has

the strongest kick.

I love Hadassah,

but I long to have a friend

who truly understands

what I am going through.

And now, thank God,

I do!

Three days running,

Joseph has missed

the evening meal.

I ask why,

but all I get for an answer

is �busy.�

Enough!

Even a strong man

grows weak without food.

I waddle about the house

throwing together a basket

of bread and cheese,

figs and grapes,

and a skin of wine.

I make my way

to his carpentry shop

out back.

Heavy as I am,

I manage to slip in

without drawing his attention.

Yet I am the one in for

a surprise.

Joseph, brows knit

in concentration,

bends over a handcrafted

baby bed.

I gasp at its beauty,

and Joseph, startled, looks up.

�Well, now you see,� he says.

�The sanding is almost done.

All that remains

is a bit of carving.�

I find it impossible to speak.

�Now that you have taken a peek,

what do you think?� asks Joseph.

I lay a hand over my heart

and let the love in my eyes

say all.

a♦dopt,v.t.1. to choose for or take to oneself; make one�s own by selection or assent: to adopt a name or idea.2. to take as one�s own child, specif. by a formal legal act.

��The American College Dictionary

Mom mentions the A word

and I shiver from heart

to heel,

asking why my own mother

would advise me

to throw Junior away.

�It�s not like that,� she says.

�It�s love giving life a chance.

It�s giving the gift of joy,

girl or boy,

to an anxious couple

waiting for a child

to pour their love into

like a holy, healing potion.

So trash the notion

of throwing your baby away.�

My pulse pares down

to a steady rhythm.

�Did you ever consider

giving me away?�

�Things were different then,�

says Mom.

�I never would have seen

your sweet face again.

Nowadays, with open adoptions,

that�s all changed.�

I nod, understanding

at least a little.

�No promises,� I tell her,

giving Junior

a reassuring rub.

�I�ll think about it.�

At least,

I can chew on it now

seeing as how

the word adoption

no longer leaves

a bad taste

in my mind.

These days

when I pass Trey

in the hall

smooth-talking

his latest,

all I feel for him

is sorry

�cause underneath those

lovely lashes,

his eyes are dead.

Funny how

I finally

notice that now.

Damn.

Sorry Lord, but

some gremlin must�ve

snuck into my room

in the middle of the night

and jammed syringes full of water

into my ankles. Again.

Tell me they don�t look

like blowfish

attached to the anchors

of my feet!

LaVonne squeezes up

to the lunch table

at eight months,

her belly nearly big enough

to rest her tray on.

She�s an island in a sea

of cool kids

and I can�t stand to see her

all alone, again.

That will be me real soon.

I pay for my sloppy joe

and OJ, and make my way

across the cafeteria.

�Mind if I join you?� I ask LaVonne.

�You sure you want to?

Might give you a bad name,� she says.

�The way I figure,� I tell her,

�we�re two of a kind.�

LaVonne snorts,

eyeing my middle.

�Not yet.

You�re hardly showing.

Just wait.�

Why do the last two words

weigh heavy on the air?

I don�t care to examine that question,

so I distract myself with another.

�Are you going to keep it,

or give it up for adoption?� I ask,

settling on the bench.

�Keep what?�

�The baby.�

�You crazy?�

LaVonne explodes.

�You see the way it�s already

messed up my life,

like the fact

I ain�t got one?

Keep it? Hell no!

The second this thing

is outta me, it�s history.�

I shudder, afraid to fathom

exactly what she means.

�If you feel that way, then why-�

I catch myself

sticking my nose in.

�Never mind.�

LaVonne�s cheeks balloon

then, ever so slowly,

her anger fizzes out, like air.

�I waited too long,� she mutters.

�So sue me.�

I hunch over

my mediocre lunch,

wolf it faster than I should,

and jet at the jangle

of the change bell.

As I hurry through the halls,

I touch my stomach, thinking,

Don�t worry, Junior.

It�s not like that

with you and me.

Lonely, my disappointment

pricks like a needle

burning through my skin.

�It�s all right,�

God whispers in my ear.

I hardly hear him, though.

I�m just glad it didn�t take long

to find out how wrong I was,

thinking LaVonne and me

shared more than

a superficial similarity.

Last night,

I caught a news byte

while I set the dinner table,

something about

another baby being found dead.

�A needless tragedy,�

said the news woman.

Apparently, there�s this law:

If the mom was afraid

to keep her kid,

all she had to do

was to leave him

at the nearest hospital.

No questions asked.

The newswoman moved on

to the weather,

and I went back to

arranging utensils.

In between the clink

of knife, fork, and glass,

it hit me.

I maybe had heard something

about this law before.

I couldn�t exactly remember when.

Besides, I wasn�t paying

attention then.

Banana pancakes

are Mom�s favorite

Mother�s Day meal,

and I don�t disappoint.

I�m less messy than

when I was a kid,

but I still hold my breath until

she takes that first bite

and smiles.

She doesn�t know it yet,

but I�m treating her to a movie,

after church.

When we get there,

the pews are filled with moms

all dressed to kill.

Evangelist Pauline Devereax

gives the message.

It�s all about the mother

God handpicked

for his own son,

how she�s the one

we should look up to.

Don�t ask how many points

Sister Pauline ticked off

to prove her argument.

My human computer

only clicked Save on one:

She trusted God.

Who made her son on purpose,

who had a purpose for his life.

She trusted God

to see her child through.

�And so should you,� said Sister Pauline.

And all the church said,

�Amen!�

This evening on Joseph�s return

from the day�s labor,

his face is long, his jaw

unusually firm, as though

he has news I will not wish

to hear.

�I must go to Bethlehem,�

he says.

�Our family must be registered

for the Census.�

This makes no sense to me.

Yes, I understand that

the emperor�s decree is law,

but leave me? Now?

I breathe deep,

forcing my heart to slow.

�Husband,� I say,

�the child will be here any day.�

Joseph sighs and wraps me

in his arms.

�Forgive me, Mary,� he whispers.

�But I have no choice.�

I purse my lips and nod, thinking,

Then neither do I.

I nod, preparing

to bid my midwife farewell.

I nod, planning

what I will pack

for the journey.

�It is settled, then,�

I tell Joseph.

�We will both leave

in the morning.�

What was I thinking?

The long, dry road to Bethlehem

is littered with rough rock

and regret.

Mother, I miss you!

Maybe Joseph was right.

Maybe I should have clung

to the comfort of home,

or else remained behind

with my parents until

Joseph�s return.

What kept me from it?

Only that this baby feels

ready to come into the world,

and when he does,

I want both his fathers near.

And what is there to fear,

midwife or no?

Women have born children

since time began, yes?

Besides, I will not be alone.

The Lord of Heaven is at my side.

The donkey ride is slow and bumpy,

but eventually, we are there.

�Look!� says Joseph, excited.

�The foothills of Shephelah!

Bethlehem is just beyond.�

The baby begins kicking me fiercely,

ready to see Bethlehem

for himself.

What if

I keep my baby?

Mom lays it on me straight.

�I won�t lie to you,� she says.

�I�m here to help you,

no matter what.

But you need to understand

your life will be harder

than you can imagine.�

I try to. I do.

What would it be like,

daily diaper duty

and me still in school?

Would I nestle Junior

in a sling

across my chest?

Slot hot bottles of formula

in my backpack between

history books

and my English journal?

Get serious, I tell myself.

High school has no

show and tell,

and Junior isn�t It.

Idiot.

I curse myself

for thinking crazy.

�I�ll have to get a babysitter,�

I think aloud.

�Yes,� says Mom.

�And they�re expensive.�

And so are diapers,

bottles, vitamins, and

what about home?

My room�s already

an obstacle course

of daybed, desk, and dresser.

What am I going to do,

stick her in the top drawer,

laid out on a soft bundle

of clean socks and T-shirts?

Look at this place!

Lord knows,

there�s no space here

for a crib.

Besides,

my dreams for Junior

reach higher than

this ceiling.

God, I want the stars

for this kid.

At least, I want to want that,

you know?

Can you take care of him, Lord?

Take care of me?

I still want to see

whatever dreams

you always had in store

for my future.

I worry that I�m selfish,

but Mom says

I need to be true

to me,

to you.

Junior is especially

restless this morning.

He/she is somersaulting, I swear.

Is that possible?

�Calm down, in there,� I whisper.

�Everything�s okay.

School�s over on Friday.

Then you�ll have me

all to yourself.

And, in ten more weeks,

you�ll get to see your mom.

You�ll find out who she�ll be.

I�ll get to say hello,

and maybe say good-� No.

Don�t go there, Mister. Not now.

�Where was I? Oh!

You�ll get to play outside.

Till then, enjoy the ride.�

In a way,

it feels like any other

summer Saturday afternoon,

the usual New York swelter

chasing a gang of us kids

out to the edge of the ocean.

But this trip to Coney Island

with Seth and friends

is blah.

Sure, I can block out the stares

of nosey passengers

on the long subway ride to Brooklyn,

and there�s still the flutter

in the pit of my belly

as the park rushes into view

through the train window.

But that�s all the excitement

I�m gonna get for the day

�cause once I get there,

strolling the boardwalk broadway,

munching a cheesy slice of pizza

or one of Nathan�s juicy hot dogs,

and digging my toes in the sand

is all I�m good for.

There�s no strapping myself in

for a slow round ride

skimming the sky on

the Wonder Wheel,

or enjoying the screaming drop

of Astroland

or the Cyclone rollercoaster.

No sir.

No female whales allowed.

Maybe next summer.

If I can find a cheap

babysitter, that is.

�No� used to be

two squiggles on a page

that mostly meant nothing to me.

Now, suddenly,

those letters together

are like prison guards

telling me where to go,

what to do,

who to be.

Or not.

I keep asking myself

where did all my freedom go?

Then I remember:

I forgot to say no

when it counted.

�My sweet boy.� I coo

and cuddle him,

swaddled in white

and smelling of sweet oil,

thanks to the royal rubbing

Joseph gave him

after his birth.

Joseph was amazing,

holding my hand

through every piercing pang,

even though I squeezed his hand

till it was bloodless.

He caught the little one

as if he had done the same

a hundred times.

�Joseph the Midwife,�

I called him,

and he filled this barn

with laughter, startling

the cows and goats, I think.

I might sniff the hay and offal,

and look round this stall

meant for animals, and wonder

what it all means, that there

was no spare room for us

at the inn,

that we were forced to spend

the night in a barn.

But at this moment,

I only have eyes

for the bundle of love

who now lies

in my arms.

Lord,

here is your son,

the one you shared with me.

May he grow strong

in my care, and Joseph�s.

Thank you for this good man,

and this beautiful boy.

Help us, Jehovah-Jirah,

to build a sturdy frame

for his future.

I�m so glad

breakfast is my friend again.

I sit at the kitchen table

dividing my attention

between bites of toasted waffle

and the beginning

of Mary, Mary.

Why stop at the end

when you can read it

all over again?

�I loved that book,�

says Mom,

peeking over my shoulder.

�I know. You said.�

A thousand times before.

�It helped me when

I was carrying you.�

Food still in my mouth

(who cares?)

I tell her,

�Me too.�

Our trip to the Laundromat

interrupted.

The pool at my feet says

those dirty sheets

will have to wait awhile.

�Mom!�

�I�m right here, baby.

Let�s get this show

on the road.

My grandchild�s about

to make an appearance.�

My knees buckle,

a single thought threatening

to lay me flat:

You�re almost out of time.

Make up your mind

to keep your baby

or not.

I start to pant.

I can�t! I can�t!

I can�t decide.

Not yet.

I waddle into the ER,

my heartbeat

the only sound I hear.

Is this really happening?

I look around,

see the slow ballet

of nurses, doctors, and orderlies

pushing beds and wheelchairs

with patients pale as ghosts.

Are they as scared as me?

Abruptly, a rude noise breaks in,

some tinny voice

squawking from a loudspeaker,

paging Dr. so and so,

and saying STAT

but flatter than they do on TV.

Palms sweaty, knees wobbling,

I wish this were a show

I was watching.

My thoughts bounce off

the cold white walls:

I�m not ready.

I�m not ready.

I�m not ready.

I tug on Mom�s sleeve.

�Mommy, let�s get out of here. Please.

I don�t want to be-�

OH, GOD!

What was that?

�Looks like labor,�

says a nurse.

�Come this way.�

Not bad,

I thought at first.

A minute of crazy pain,

then several minutes to recover.

I can do this.

I can-

Oh, God!

It�s okay. It�s okay.

Just so long as

it doesn�t get worse.

I lie in a room

with other screaming ladies,

their cries setting

my nerves on edge.

I wish they�d all go away.

Instead, there�s Mom and Seth-

when did she get here?-

plus a parade of nurses

and the social worker

asking every ten seconds,

�Are you okay? Are you okay?�

No! What do you expect me to say?

I�m scared to death.

And by the way,

there�s an alien in my body

bent on ripping me apart!

When will it end?

I float in a river of sweat,

this baby too stubborn

to come out.

Don�t know

how much more of this

I can take.

I�d keep crying, but

I just don�t have

the energy.

Oh, God!

Here comes another

I can�t take this! Why doesn�t somebody

just slice me open like a melon

and get it over with?

My immune system�s resistance

is nonexistent.

I�m wracked with fever,

the tail end of a cold

fanned into full infection.

A film of gunk

covers each eye,

but so what?

Right now, the only thing

I want to see

is this baby

out

of

me!

One more push

I didn�t know

I had in me.

And then

that blood-soaked eel

of a human being

finally squirts out of me,

his cry

the only sound

strong enough

to drown

my pain.

Call it amnesia,

this sweet something that

erases all traces

of birth-pang memory.

I welcome the peace

that blankets me like fleece.

Outside my room,

the social worker waits

for my decision.

I take my time,

stare into love�s eyes,

and count each finger, each toe.

No math

is more beautiful.

I name him Mine,

if only for a moment.

What was it

Sister Pauline said?

Mary trusted God.

Yes.

Yes.