by Tim LaHaye
Given these pros and cons alone, the decision was easy. Marilena resisted peeking again at the picture, which she sensed would push her over the brink. She determined to leave it in the envelope until she was sure.
Marilena was really in no shape for a long walk, but restlessness alone fueled her and she kept on. There was simply no objective party with whom she could discuss the decision of a lifetime. It didn’t surprise her that Viviana and her Svengali lobbied her toward the side of the spirits. Marilena could try to look up the young door-to-door evangelists, but they were clearly her intellectual inferiors and, of course, hardly objective.
If Marilena prayed, to whom should she pray? She took some pride, some comfort in withholding her allegiance from the one who had promised her a son. And yet she had been swayed by the manifestations of his power through clairvoyants and channelers, prophets, incantations, tarot, and Ouija. She no longer questioned the reality of the world beyond her own.
And despite the protestations of Viviana Ivinisova and Reiche Planchette, there was conflict in the spiritual realm. The respective leaders were jealous of each other, competing, diametrically opposed to one other. How could Marilena determine the relative merits of the two factions when she was so new to even accepting an immaterial dimension?
In truth, she didn’t want to take sides. The battle was not hers. Except for the reality that by accepting the gift of a son she would be supporting one side, she personally didn’t care who won. Tangible, measurable power was a hallmark of the one she had studied most.
The miracles boasted by the other side seemed confined to the ancient texts, impossible to verify. Marilena had certainly seen no evidence of miracles in her lifetime. In fact, the death tolls from the worst natural disasters in history—acts of God, the insurance companies called them—were proof enough that He either didn’t care or was wholly disengaged. The age-old question, “If there is a God, why does He allow suffering?” was more than valid. And it was one Marilena could not answer.
The earnest evangelists with their smiling news that she, like everyone else ever born—except Jesus, of course—was conceived in sin did little to persuade her to join the other side. Marilena did not see herself as proud, despite her belief that she—like nearly everyone she had ever encountered—was basically good at heart.
And that was that. She wasn’t ready to personally cast her lot with Lucifer, not yet being sufficiently versed in his motives and plans. But she could agree to the caveat of raising her son as his student, believing with her whole heart that the young man would be bright enough to someday decide for himself where he stood on matters spiritual.
As for the other side, it simply didn’t ring true. Why would a loving God allow people to be born in sin? How were they personally culpable? What chance did they have?
Marilena sat beneath a streetlight on a low concrete wall that edged a public park. She slipped the picture from the envelope and turned it toward the light. And fell in love with the image of her soon-to-be son.
Resolutely, she headed home to call Viviana Ivinisova, despite the hour. She would likely wake the woman, but Viviana would be thrilled.
With every step, Marilena was mentally bombarded by a still, small voice. “Resist the devil and he will flee from you.”
She spoke aloud. “How do I know he’s the devil? Maybe You’re the devil.”
“Test the spirits.”
“The spirit of Lucifer will be tested by whether he grants the wish he has promised,” she said.
“Resist the devil and he will flee from you.”
“If I resist You, will You flee?”
“You dare not spurn Me.”
“But You call the other, clearly more powerful spirit the devil?”
“Resist him and he will flee from you.”
“I reject that. I am resisting You.”
And Marilena got her wish. Silence. Blessed silence.
TEN
THE EXPERTS at Înşelăciune Industrie informed Marilena that the first attempt at impregnating her had gone “swimmingly, pardon the pun.” She had hoped for some feeling, some fulfillment of her maternal instinct to wash over her, but apparently that would come later.
As soon as Marilena began to show, she announced her resignation; the end of the semester came at about the four-month mark of her pregnancy. Her separation from Sorin had been cordial to the point of friendly. In fact, she was quite taken with his cooperative attitude. He seemed most helpful in arranging—and paying for—students to help her move to Cluj. He even gave lip service to her request that they keep in touch by mail after her move. Whether he would follow through, she couldn’t predict. Of course, Marilena suspected that Sorin’s sensitivity toward her had more to do with his excitement over what all this meant for him and Baduna, but she appreciated it nonetheless.
As prophesied, Marilena’s pregnancy was easy and without incident, but not without the consternation of her obstetrician. He knew nothing of the particulars of her baby’s conception but soon became aware, of course, that her husband was out of the picture. Viv accompanied her to her appointments and introduced herself as Marilena’s sister.
“We hardly resemble each other,” Marilena said.
“No one will raise an eyebrow,” Viv said. And she was right. Sisters who look nothing alike were common. Marilena soon found herself eager to introduce Viv as her older sister, because while she had no problem with lesbianism, for some reason she felt compelled not to be mistaken for one.
Though Marilena knew what was expected of her pregnancy, she couldn’t help but worry when the doctor appeared concerned at four and a half months. She had seen the fetus, about the size of an avocado, on an ultrasound. But the doctor had predicted that she would feel the first kick by now, and when she reported no movement and he also detected none, his face clouded.
“Probably sleeping,” he said, “but keep me posted.”
“Is he all right?”
“Heartbeat is strong, fast, normal. He’ll be annoying you a lot soon.”
But he didn’t. In spite of herself, Marilena worried. Aloud.
“We’ve been told he wouldn’t move,” Viv said. “You should be concerned if it were otherwise.”
“But doesn’t a fetus need to move to develop?”
“Apparently not. We also know he’s going to be perfectly healthy.”
“I hope.”
“Ye of little faith.”
__
Marilena was grateful Viv left her out of the heaviest part of the work of setting up housekeeping in the Cluj cottage. It was quaint with lots of natural wood, log walls inside and out, a fireplace, and a comfortable smoky smell without the oily residue. Whoever built the place, probably forty or fifty years before, knew ventilation. Viv included her in the decorating choices, and they soon had the place cluttered but cozy.
Two issues that puzzled Marilena were Viv’s insistence on privacy and her refusal to smoke only outside. “The child will be protected from harm,” she insisted. “And you have built immunity from having lived with a pipe smoker all these years.”
Marilena was tempted to put her foot down but chose to pick her battles elsewhere. Equally disconcerting was Viv’s working with a locksmith on securing her own bedroom, and not just the door. He worked half a day in the room itself, but since Viv did not invite her in, Marilena was left to wonder what had to be so secure.
Her mentor also had her eating more healthily and walking. Marilena felt better than she had in a long time. And with each passing day, her sense of anticipation—and angst—grew. She couldn’t wait to be a mother, but she imagined all manner of complications. Though the baby did not move, Marilena felt tiny protrusions here and there. Only occasionally did they feel normal, as if she could make out his position and form. Most of the time it seemed she detected too many bones, too many limbs, and good grief, sometimes what felt like two heads. What if she was carrying a monster?
__
The high-speed wirel
ess Internet worked perfectly, and Marilena soon landed several part-time jobs doing research for former colleagues and new clients. This was shaping up to be too good to be true. She could read and study and shape the material into a form she knew would be helpful for the classroom or the professor’s own writing assignments. She loved her life.
One morning, however, as she was checking her e-mail, she was stunned to receive a message from a former colleague referring to the suicide of Baduna’s wife and assuming Marilena knew all about it. Marilena had met Mrs. Marius more than once at faculty social events. Word was that she had accepted her husband’s homosexuality and his decision to divorce her and eventually marry Sorin. Even though Sorin had agreed not to divorce Marilena until after the baby was born, as soon as Marilena moved away, Baduna had left his wife and moved in with Sorin. That, apparently, was more than Mrs. Marius could take, and she was found in their tiny garage, stretched out across the seat of their car with the engine running.
Marilena was angry that such news had not come to her first from Sorin. But he had not even had the courtesy to tell her she had been replaced as his roommate—she had learned that from another old friend. Marilena had written him every couple of weeks and had not, as yet, received a reply. She could hardly believe he had not informed her of the tragedy.
“I must attend the funeral,” Marilena told Viv.
“Of course. I’ll drive you. But I certainly have no business there.”
“I’m sure you’d be welcome.”
“I’ll wait for you. You will want to express condolences to the husband. And were there children?”
“Grown.”
“Well, at least that’s good.”
Marilena e-mailed Sorin to tell him to watch for her at the funeral and found it terribly disconcerting when he still did not respond. She sent several test e-mails to see if he was getting them, finally receiving a terse message: “Yes, you’re coming through loud and clear.”
That made it all the more disturbing when she arrived at the sad rites, only to discover that not only had Sorin chosen to stay away—the more she thought about it, the more thoughtful she found it—but that Baduna also was nowhere to be seen. When she asked after him, his children and his wife’s relatives grew stony, hatred burning in their eyes.
Sorin’s absence made some sense. He was, after all, the interloper, the cause of the split and thus indirectly of the death. But Baduna would not even attend the funeral of his own wife? They were still married!
Even worse, if possible, word came to Marilena the following week that Baduna had actually joked about his wife in class. A student had apparently had the gall to ask if it was true that his wife had killed herself because Baduna had “come out.”
“Yes,” he was quoted. “You know, I knew her to get awfully tired at times, but I never knew her to be exhausted.”
Rumors said even the students felt he had crossed a line so revolting that not one laughed. And the university was in the process of determining appropriate discipline for the remark. Normally the department head would have been involved in something like that, but of course in this case . . .
The debacle left Marilena speechless. She was curious about Sorin’s take on it, but he clearly had moved on from caring about communicating with her. She had hoped that by informing him she would be at the funeral he would have at least wanted to greet her—if not there, then somewhere in Bucharest. But no.
__
At Marilena’s next appointment the doctor asked three times if she was certain she had not detected even the slightest movement in her womb. “He sleeps a lot,” the doctor decided, “but surely not twenty-four hours a day.”
Marilena cried out when the doctor tried to manipulate the baby, to get him in a position where he would be freer to move. Still nothing.
“You may want your sister to join us for a moment.”
As the three of them sat in the examining room, the doctor explained various reasons a baby might not move. “Paralysis. Retardation. Brain dysfunction.”
Marilena caught her breath, but Viv smiled serenely. “I’m confident he’s fine and will be fine.”
“I just want to prepare you,” the doctor said.
“We’re prepared,” Viv said.
Marilena shot her a double take. “I’m glad you are.”
__
Viv, so far, had proved a good housemate—other than the smoking and obsessive privacy. Her care seemed genuine, and she showed signs of selflessness. She was a smart woman, though not the intellectual Sorin had been. Marilena missed that. But Viv appeared teachable and clearly enjoyed it when Marilena shared with her what she had been reading and studying. Viv spent her free time with tarot cards, a Ouija board, praying to the spirits, channeling, and even automatic writing.
Marilena found this bizarre. Viv would put herself into a trance, pen in hand, paper at the ready. As she nodded and her eyes rolled back, she would begin writing fast and furiously in a stream-of-consciousness style. No one could think that fast, and she claimed she herself had to read it later to know what had been communicated.
A sample result of one of her sessions:
The child within shall serve me endlessly and be protected supernaturally though one day he will be wounded unto death but I will raise him up to continue to worship me and be worshiped and he shall have a right-hand prophet who will instruct the world and the nations and the leaders and the people to bend the knee and bow the head before me but the one who bears him shall suffer if she does not share his devotion and thus endeth the message.
“What do you make of that, Marilena?” Viv said as she seemed to return to consciousness.
“I don’t like the sound of ‘wounded unto death.’ ”
“Isn’t it time you adjusted your thinking?”
“I can’t just ‘adjust,’ ” Marilena said. “It has to be real. I have to feel it.”
“Do you want to suffer?”
“Of course not, but I don’t want my son to suffer either. Faking something will surely not absolve me.”
__
In her ninth month Marilena experienced discomfort she could only have imagined. Her doctor had grave reservations. “If the baby shows no signs of movement before birth, he will likely be forever immobile, even if his pulse and respiration are good.”
Viv waved off the scare.
Marilena was unable to shake it.
With about a week to go before the due date, Viv received what appeared to be an urgent, alarming message through the tarot cards. She immediately went to the Ouija board, which, she was careful to point out to Marilena, clearly spelled out “Prepare the sacrifice.”
The next morning Viv returned from her errands with a humane mousetrap and a tiny cage.
“I have seen no mice or any evidence of them,” Marilena said.
“Nevertheless, a mouse is the proper sacrifice.”
“For what?”
“Trust me.”
Two days later the women were awakened by the sound of a mouse in the trap. Viv eagerly transferred it to the cage, where it darted about and squeaked to the point that Marilena had to turn on a small fan to drown out the noise so she could sleep.
The following Sunday night Marilena was so miserable she couldn’t imagine sleeping, but she stretched out as best she could. She tossed and turned and, after several hours, thought she detected the beginning of contractions. How could she be sure? She didn’t want to wake Viv until she really had to. An hour later she was sure.
Marilena was agitated with pain and anticipation. She knew a first delivery could take a long time, and it was already 2 AM Monday. But when she woke Viv, Viv seemed more nervous than she. Her fingers trembled as she grabbed the prepacked bag in one hand and used her free arm to help Marilena to the car. Once she had the younger woman settled in, she headed back toward the cottage.
“Where are you going?” Marilena called out. “We have to go!”
Viv rushed inside and emerged shortl
y carrying the mouse cage and a handful of colorful markers.
Marilena wondered if the woman had lost her mind.
“I’m going to see the chosen one tonight,” Viv said.
“I thought I was the chosen one,” Marilena said, forcing a smile.
“You’re the vessel, dear. And I see you every day.”
They hardly saw another car en route. Marilena was struck by the inky blackness of the night. She saw no clouds, no moon, and strangely, no stars. “Have you ever seen such darkness?” she said.
“It’s jet-black,” Viv said.
Marilena was about to tell her that was redundant, but a contraction stole her breath.
__
At Cluj-Napoca General the admitting nurse told Viv Ivins her pet was not allowed inside.
“Ma’am,” Viv said, as directly as Marilena had ever heard her, “this is no pet. This is a creature irreplaceable to Mrs. Carpathia’s religion.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“But nothing. Do not presume to allow your provincial regulations to encroach on the religious freedom of a patient. You know we don’t have time to get our lawyer and the authorities involved, but I will if forced.”
“The doctor will never—”
“I will tell him the same thing I’m telling you. I’ll accept full responsibility. Now don’t threaten the health of this child by delaying.”
In the labor room Marilena’s contractions went from bad to worse, yet she resisted any suggestion of an anesthetic. The baby’s heartbeat remained strong, but the doctor still appeared grim about the absence of movement. “Prepare yourself for a severely handicapped child,” he said.
Viv began to lecture him about “upsetting the mother at a time like this,” but the subject changed quickly when he noticed the mouse. Viv warned him about violating Marilena’s freedom to practice her religion.
“This is a first for me,” he said. “What kind of religion requires a mouse in the labor room?”
“Ours,” Viv said. “And it will be in the delivery room as well, so deal with it.” She reiterated that she would indemnify him and the hospital. A document stipulating the same was quickly delivered, and Viv signed. When the doctor tried to get Marilena to sign too, Viv warned that she would create such a fuss he would regret it, and he caved.
