The group grew organically. We never had a set schedule or agenda during our meetings. It’s not like we ever went door-to-door recruiting followers or performed rituals of any sort, so it never felt like a cult. The Believers would just gather together to chat and eat. Some would ask me to pray over them, and I would. Others would ask if they could rub my belly, and I let them. It was a spiritual experience for them. They would cup their hands on either side of my round stomach and then cry tears of joy or smile out of relief or they would tell me that the migraine that they had suffered all day had suddenly been cured. Being around these people on a regular basis, it was hard not to feel magical. I was important. Influential. Invincible.
Until Gabe Albright showed up on the Carpenters’ doorstep.
The doorbell rang. It was early afternoon on a Saturday, so I was still in my pink pajamas, and my tutor wasn’t around. Mrs. Carpenter was out grocery shopping. Jared was upstairs in his bedroom.
I swung the front door open, expecting Beth or Patty or Molly.
“Look. You need to stop this. Whatever ‘this’ is,” Gabe said immediately.
I stared down at my feet, ashamed. My protruding belly made it so that I could only see the tips of my toes. I couldn’t believe he was here. I should have expected him to show up at some point, really. It was stupid of me to think that he would disappear.
“You could’ve at least answered my texts,” he continued. “That’s the very least you could’ve done.”
My skull felt like it would crack and split open down the middle. My brain was liquid in my head. When I finally looked up at him, my vision was a little blurry.
“I know,” I said. I could barely hear my own voice.
“The baby’s mine, isn’t it.” It was technically a question, but the way he said it made it sound like an inarguable fact.
I shook my head side-to-side.
“Are you telling me you slept with someone besides me in the past year?” he pressed.
“No,” I said quickly. “You’re the only one.”
All of this was way too risky. I thought about what would have happened if Jared walked downstairs at the very moment that Gabe talked about our affair. Would Jared fight Gabe the way he fought Harold? Or would Jared believe him?
I stepped back into the house and started to slam the door shut, but Gabe stretched his arm out to keep it opened. He was obviously stronger than me.
“I told our parents about everything. My parents and your parents. I told them about how we met each week, and now they know that we used to sleep together. Your parents trust me. They think my story is more believable than yours. They know you’re lying.”
Each word he spoke hit me like a brick. I crumpled to the floor and sat on the ground, helpless, as he continued to speak over me.
“I came here to warn you,” Gabe said. “Harold has organized a protest. It’s against you, Emma. He and his friends are going to swarm the Carpenters’ house during your meeting this Thursday. They’re going to out you as a fraud. Your parents will be there. My parents will be there. The media will be there. Kids from school and your old youth group will be there. A lot of people will be there, Emma. And all of those people really, really don’t like you right now.”
Mrs. Carpenter’s minivan came into view and pulled into the driveway.
“Look. If you come clean before Thursday, we’ll call the protest off. I would still support you. We can still do this together,” Gabe said. His voice decrescendo-ed as Mrs. Carpenter parked the van, stepped out of the driver’s seat, and walked around to the trunk to get the groceries.
“Leave,” I said, standing up from the ground. “She can’t hear us. Leave, and I’ll call you with my decision later.”
I shooed him away like he was a pesky cat.
“Wait,” he said, pointing to my belly as he slowly backed away. “How is it?”
“He’s good,” I told him, still gesturing for him to leave.
“He?”
“He.”
Gabe smiled before jogging across the lawn and down the street. His eyes and hair were as perfect as I remembered them and, as Mrs. Carpenter walked up the driveway toward the door, both her hands gripping grocery bags, I hoped that my baby would look like him.
“Was that Gabe Albright?” Mrs. Carpenter asked me. I reached out to help her carry a plastic bag full of vegetables into the house.
“No,” I told her. “Just a Believer that looks a little like him.”
I never called Gabe. I couldn’t even think about calling Gabe. I was way too far into this mess to try and back out of it. The thought of running away with Gabe, leaving this whole disaster behind, and living a quiet life with him, sounded wonderful, like a dream. But this was my life now. Jared, Mrs. Carpenter, the Believers, and the Nonbelievers.
I spent that Thursday morning and afternoon feeling like I was strapped into the front car of a rollercoaster, dangling over the top edge just waiting for the drop. I had no idea what was going to happen, but Gabe had warned me that it would be a big deal.
At seven o’clock, the Believers and I sat in the living room, eating pizza and passing soda bottles around the room to be shared. My due date was less than four months away, and everyone was buzzing with excitement. The mothers of the group huddled close to me, sharing the stories of their own labors and giving me helpful tips. The men warned Jared that he should sleep now, while he could. The younger children gave me suggestions for baby names, and the older children made bets with candy bars on the baby’s birthdate. I pretended to be as enthusiastic as everyone else. I ate, despite my nausea-inducing anxiety. I smiled, even though it made my cheeks hurt. I tried to meet everyone’s eyes when they spoke to me, but I could not seem to keep my gaze away from the living room’s large bay window.
“What are you looking at?” Beth asked me, interrupting her own recollection of Harold’s birth. Everyone had noticed that my attention was out the window.
“Nothing,” I said. “I think I just need some fresh air.”
I left the house. Barefooted, I waddled off of the porch and down to the end of the driveway. The world was quieter than I had ever heard it; like I was starring in a television show, and somebody watching at home had hit the mute button. Not even the crickets chirped.
Suddenly, my left eardrum tingled with noise. A murmur of sound traveled to me from down the street. It was out of sight, but I could tell that it was coming from around the block.
I turned to peek inside the Carpenters’ living room. Through the glare of the bay window, I could see all of the Believers. They were chatting and laughing, celebrating what they thought would be their second savior. Their faith had brought them here to me, and it was their faith that kept them here despite the news reports and phone calls and Nonbelievers. They thought I would protect them. Me and my baby. They thought their faith in us could save them.
The sunset burned the sky a blazing shade of orange, and the little murmur got louder and louder. As the sound grew, I could tell it came from a large crowd. I heard voices yelling and dozens of feet scuffing along pavement. The crowd turned the corner of the block onto the Carpenters’ street. The news reporters led the way. Cameramen walked backward, their lenses pointed toward the front of the mob. The group moved toward me, and when they got close enough that I could make out the individual faces of the crowd, I saw that Gabe, Harold, and my parents were up front.
My head whirled back and forth between the bay window and the oncoming crowd. I couldn’t let the Believers and the Nonbelievers meet. Both sides would be willing to battle, physically and spiritually. I thought back to how Jared had beat the life out of Harold in the cafeteria, and imagined him and the others throwing punches in my honor. In the cafeteria, the fight had been one-on-one, but now it would be group against group, and I could see Harold had more followers in his crowd than I had in the Carpenters’ living room. I imagined Beth and Patty and Mrs. Carpenter coming head-to-head with
Harold’s mob. They didn’t stand a fighting chance against the loud, angry Nonbelievers, but they would try if I let them.
I couldn’t let them. It was my turn to defend myself.
I speed-walked as fast as my swollen ankles allowed me. Little pebbles from the uneven street pavement stabbed my bare feet. As I moved closer to the mob, I saw that many of them were holding up signs with Bible verses painted on them. My dad held one that read, “THE LORD DETESTS LYING LIPS.” My mom’s read, “THE RIGHTEOUS HATE WHAT IS FALSE.” Harold was front and center. Instead of a sign, he held a megaphone. He screamed about how Emma Victor was a liar, about how they wanted Emma Victor to come clean. His voice crackled through the megaphone and echoed off of the surrounding houses. Somebody in the crowd must have realized the person walking towards them was me; they all became quiet. Harold dropped the megaphone from his mouth and the others lowered their signs. The news reporters noticed the change in the crowd, and directed their cameras toward me.
“Don’t go to the Carpenters’,” I yelled, slowing my steps as I approached them. “They have nothing to do with this.”
“Emma,” Mom started. She looked at me as though I were a fairytale monster come to life.
“Really. Don’t go to them. They are just doing what they think is right,” I said, coming to a stop in front of Harold.
“Emma,” Gabe said.
My dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. The reporters kept their cameras on me. Gabe pointed toward my crotch. I looked down toward myself, but my big belly made it so that I couldn’t see.
“You’re bleeding,” Mom said.
At first I felt embarrassed, like a fifth grader who got her period for the first time while wearing white pants to school. But then, I remembered that pregnant women don’t get their periods. I heard my dad speaking into his phone. He said, “We need an ambulance.” Gabe and Harold stood on either side of me, led me by the arms, and helped me sit down on the curb. My mom knelt down in front of me and squeezed my knee with her hand. The rest of the crowd grew confused and scattered. A searing cramp burned through my abdomen. I thought my torso might burst into flames. Gabe and Harold lowered me backwards so that I laid flat on the grass of a stranger’s lawn. I looked straight ahead toward the clouds. The sky was orange, then purple, then a deep navy blue, and as I heard the siren of an ambulance grow louder and louder, the bluish sky turned black.
The next thing I remember is asking my mom where the baby was. She brushed her hand along the hospital bracelet around my wrist and locked her fingers with mine.
“There is no baby,” she said, stroking the back of my hand. “He was stillborn. You delivered him yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
There was no baby?
“I’m sorry, Em,” Mom said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I looked down at myself. Beneath the blankets, my stomach was flat. I had deflated, and there was no sign of what had been inside of me. I was hollow. I felt hollow. How could this have happened to me? Why would this ever happen to anyone? I didn’t have answers. I still don’t. My parents don’t. My therapist doesn’t. We can only speculate. Maybe it was stress, or issues with the umbilical cord, or some sort of genetic disorder. They tell me, There’s no way to predict these things. There’s nothing you could have done to save him. I guess that’s supposed to make me feel better.
There was no baby.
I asked my mom where Jared was.
“He’s … home,” she said, hesitating. “Your father went to get your stuff from the Carpenters’ house this morning.”
She squeezed my hand tighter.
“The doctors say you can leave the hospital today. You’re going to come back home. With us.”
Later, I found out that Jared thought I was a demoness from hell, and he believed that God sent me into his life in order to test his faith. He called me when he heard I was home from the hospital to tell me that he had prayed a lot about it, and he decided that he is glad I lied and cheated. He was able to successfully dodge my and Gabe’s sinfulness. When he called, he didn’t mention the baby once.
There was no baby.
I looked my mom in the eyes and said, “Gabe.”
She looked back at me and said, “I know. We’ve known. Gabe told us all about it. Don’t worry about that right now.”
The local newspaper was on the bedside table next to me. Its front page headline read, “VICTOR A HOAX: DELIVERS STILLBORN ‘SAVIOR’.”
“Don’t look at that,” Mom said. She tucked the newspaper under her arm and stood up. “Gabe is actually here to see you. I’ll let you two talk.”
He came into the room as Mom left. Before she walked out the door, she hugged him.
Gabe leaned over the metal rail of the hospital bed and carefully wrapped his arms around my shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Em,” he said.
“Why are you here?” I asked as he sat down on the chair beside the bed.
He paused.
“Because he was mine, too,” he answered. And he was right, of course, but I’d never admitted it. I closed my eyes and thought about Gabe and I together in his bedroom five months earlier. I imagined us apartment hunting and buying baby clothes. I imagined him driving me to the hospital and squeezing my hand as I pushed the baby out and looking at me when we heard the baby cry for the first time.
Am I a killer? I wondered. Maybe I killed him. Someway, somehow, we could have had a good life together. I could have held his hands as he took his first steps and fed him mashed peas and rocked him to sleep. He could have gone to school and gotten married and had little babies of his own.
“What if I killed him?” I accidentally asked out loud.
Gabe reached over the bed’s railing and touched a strand of hair that fell across my face.
“There is no way you killed him,” he said.
“I cheated on Jared. I lied to him and to everybody. I—”
“I know you did. The whole town knows you did,” he said. “You lied and cheated and then you lied some more, but you’re not a murderer.”
I couldn’t say anything else. We sat in silence until Mom came back into the room.
“Dr. Samuels said they’re ready to discharge you,” she said.
I didn’t want to leave. Just three days ago, I imagined that when I left the hospital, I would be leaving with a baby. Jared and Mrs. Carpenter would take me back to their house, where the rest of the Believers would be waiting for us in the nursery we’d spent the last three months preparing. Now, outside of the hospital, the Believers hated me, the press was ready to eat me alive, and the Nonbelievers were vindicated. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be.
Gabe waited out in the hallway with my dad as Mom helped me slip out of my hospital gown and into a pair of jeans. A nurse escorted the four of us out of the labor and delivery unit, through hallways of wailing ladies and pacing fathers-to-be. We passed a room with a big, glass window. Inside were dozens of newborns, wrapped up in white blankets with hats to match, sleeping in rows of cradles. I tried not to look, but I couldn’t avoid it. Some of the clear plastic bassinets in the room were empty, and I wondered which one my son would have rested in if he had lived.
“You didn’t kill him,” Gabe repeated to me under his breath. “You’re not a murderer.”
As we walked past the automatic sliding doors to the hospital parking lot together, I squeezed his hand, closed my eyes, and did my best to believe.
AUTHORS
STEPHEN CLEMENTS
Stephen Clements earned a Masters in Political Science from the University of Memphis, served a stint in the US Army with a heaping long tour in Iraq, and would never recommend Baghdad as a vacation spot. When he got out, he cornered and married a mean, beautiful woman, and they have three corgis and one murderous cat. He has three books, with a recent short story in Memphis Noir. He loves history, theology, travel, and making wine.
NICOLE CRUCIAL
MIKE HAYS
Mike Hays is from Kansas, a tried and true flatlander by birth. He relishes the fact his adult self can now make stuff up and not be sent to the principal’s office for it. His life is built around stories—whether as a dad, a molecular microbiologist, a high school sports coach, or as an author—stories are key. He writes mainly from a boy point of view and hopes to spread ideas and stupid-funny inspiration through his books, blogs, and social media. His upper middle-grade historical fiction, THE YOUNGER DAYS, is about a family’s survival in the fallout from the violent Border War over “Bloody” Kansas. Connect with him on Twitter (@coachhays64).
SHARON HUGHSON
Nurtured through a troubled teen-hood by Aslan in Narnia, Sharon Hughson has long appreciated the power of the written word. She has published romance and women’s fiction, but her dream is to write young adult fantasy, a genre she credits for keeping her alive during her parents’ turbulent divorce and the chaotic readjustments that followed.
In the Beginning (Anthology) Page 22
