A Girl Named Mister (9 page)

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.