A Girl Named Mister (8 page)

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!