Thumped

thumped

MEGAN McCAFFERTY

Dedication

 

 

For everyone who helped me celebrate the Summer of Yes

Contents

“What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit a soul?”

—Mark 8:36

I FACE MY REFLECTION, AN ENGORGED DISTORTION I BARELY
recognize anymore.

“I’ll do it this time,” I say to the mirror.

I mean it too. I’m alone here in my bedroom. The blades are sharp enough and there’s no one here to stop me but myself.

Until they come for me.

“Harmony!” Ma calls from down the hall. “You’re missing your own nesting party!”

My housesisters and I have been preparing for this party for eight and a half months. Every morning I’ve joined Katie, Emily, and Laura in their household for prayer and purposefulness. Now we’re stocking the nursery’s shelves with the cloth diapers, knitted booties, and cotton jumpers we have to show for our collective efforts.

All four of us received the sacrament of marriage on the same day in a group ceremony. We’re all with child, but I’m the furthest along and the only one carrying twins. I’m also three years older than they are, so that often makes me feel more like a housemother than a housesister to them. For these reasons, they say, the Church Council voted to give Ram and me our own house to keep, the only couple in the settlement that doesn’t have to share with three other families.

There’s a gentle knock on the door as it opens. I quickly conceal the shears in my apron pocket.

“May I come in?” Ma asks as she pokes her head in the room. “Are you still woozy?”

I’d felt fine all morning until Ma had presented me with two exquisite hand-stitched quilts in the traditional pattern of interlocking hearts and halos.

“May you be as blessed as I have been,” Ma had said as she handed over her gift, a gesture that symbolized the bestowment of motherhood—of womanhood—from one generation to the next.

At that moment, I had to leave the nursery. I couldn’t breathe in that room. It felt like four tiny feet were stomping my windpipe when in fact the twins hadn’t moved inside me at all.

Now Ma reaches up to press her palm against my sweaty forehead. Without thinking, I clutch my hand against hers and am somewhat surprised by how cool her skin feels under mine. She inhales sharply, so I know that she’s startled by the gesture too. I’m relieved when she doesn’t resist because I can count on our two joined hands how many times in my sixteen-almost-seventeen years we’ve had a moment alone together like this. Our household never had fewer than a dozen children at one time to care for, so Ma always had to be efficient with her time and attention. Ma is raising eight of the neediest children in the settlement right now, all of whom are under the age of five. Surely there are infants crying in their bassinets, waiting to be soothed. Babies she didn’t give birth to—like me—but were placed by the Church Council to be raised by her righteous example.

When she retracts her hand, mine falls away and hangs limply at my side.

“Would it help to know that I felt overwhelmed during my first pregnancy?” she asks. “I wasn’t that much older than you are now.”

Before the Virus, women could wait until they turned eighteen to get married and have babies. Now, for all but a very few of us around the world, within a year or two of that birthday marks the end of our child-bearing years. At sixteen-almost-seventeen, I’m considered a very late bloomer.

“Put all your faith in God. He will never give you anything more than you can handle.”

Ma stands up and brushes the invisible dust off her apron as if the matter of my overwhelming maternity is all settled. She is nothing if not practical. When your whole life has been devoted to taking care of others, you have to be. Small and stout with curly black hair and brown eyes, Ma has never looked anything like me. But for some reason those physical differences are all I can see right now.

“Take a few moments to pray on it before rejoining us.” She smiles benignly, then slips out the door.

Ma means well. She always does. But I feel like I’ve already been dealt more than I can handle. I’ve seen that formerly empty room for what it was destined to be all along: a nursery. Two quartersawn oak cribs, one against each wall. A changing table stacked with cloth diapers. A braided rug on the floor in soft shades of yellow and green. A glider and ottoman near the window. But try as I might, I can’t envision the babies sleeping in their cribs. Being changed out of a soiled diaper. Or rolling happily on the rug. And it is all but impossible to picture myself rocking back in forth in the glider, nursing a ravenous baby on each breast. I know now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that unlike the three other girls in the room with Ma, I will never live up to her example.

A riot breaks out in my belly. The thrashing of four tiny feet, the pounding of four tiny fists. The twins are awake.

“Are you two trying to stop me?” I whisper. “Or do you want me to go through with it?”

Another round of kicking and punching.

I choose to interpret this as a sign of encouragement. After eight and a half months, I’m convinced the twins feel as trapped as I do. I take the shears out of my pocket and return my attention to the mirror with a renewed sense of purpose. I grip the handle, all ready to go through with my plan, when I’m stopped by the sound of my name once more.

“Harmony!”

Only this time, it’s not Ma. And it’s not coming from down the hall.

“It’s me . . .”

It’s
him
.

“Please pick up . . .”

Calling to me from the MiVu screen.

Oh my grace. I’ve blinded his profile countless times, but he keeps coming back.

“Harmony . . .”

I don’t want to look at his face. I draw upon every last ounce of strength I have left not to look. . . .

But I can’t help myself. And there he is, larger than life on the screen, looking every bit as tortured and handsome as he did the last time he tried to contact me a few weeks ago.

Jondoe. Or
Gabriel
, as he should be known.

No, I will only know him as Jondoe.

“You’re at thirty-five weeks today, Harmony. I just want to make sure you’re okay. . . .”

He looks so sincere. But how can I ever believe someone who gets paid to lie?

“Please let me see you . . . I miss your face.”

Right now I hold all the power. I can see him. But he can’t see me.

And if I have my way, he never will.

I briskly walk over to the MiVu screen and blind his profile again.