Chapter Thirty
When I come to, I see my father leaning over me. The flatlined machine is screaming.
“Turn that off, Laura!” Dad shouts. “Lacey, are you okay? Wake up, honey.”
I push myself up onto my elbows and look around. The IV is still taped to my arm. Randy Miller, in his doctor’s coat with a stethoscope hanging from his neck, is staring at me, open-mouthed. Laura Bergen is holding my left hand and stroking it. Kind of annoyingly, actually. I see Starla Joy standing by my side, one hand on my leg and the other holding her demon mask. She’s out of breath like she ran here.
I look down and see that my legs are splayed open and covered in bright red fake blood, as is the sheet that was white ten minutes ago. In front of me is Pastor Tannen, Jeremy in his demon costume, and Pastor Frist. Everyone is frozen. I must have fainted, but thank goodness I remember where I am—this is a scary waking-up moment. I take a deep breath.
“I’m okay,” I say.
And then Pastor Tannen starts clapping. His hands thunder together, and he looks around the room smiling, encouraging everyone to join in. Soon I’m in the middle of my own standing ovation.
“That was the best example of giving it up to God that I’ve ever seen, young lady,” he says. “Ted, you oughta be very proud of your daughter.”
Dad beams. “I am,” he says.
Pastor Tannen comes over to me, holding out his hand. I shake it.
“It’s a pleasure to know you,” he says. “I’ll be thinking of you when I cast my own Abortion Girl next year.”
“Thank you,” I say, still a little stunned and not sure how to handle this situation. How can I tell them that it wasn’t God that moved me to faint—it was my own doubts and confusion, and maybe the sight of that burger baby.
“I think that’s enough for Lacey tonight,” Dad says. “Joe, I’m gonna take her home if you don’t mind. She needs her rest.”
“Absolutely,” says Pastor Tannen. “We need to save that star power for the real shows next week.”
I give Starla Joy a weak smile and whisper, “I’m really okay,” in response to her questioning, worried face. My dad helps me down off the hospital bed. Jeremy slaps me on the back encouragingly as we walk through the doorway, but I don’t respond. When we get out to the car, Dad lays a dark maroon towel on the passenger seat so I won’t get fake blood everywhere.
“Dean says it’s washable, but your mother would kill us,” Dad says.
On the ride home, my father goes on and on about how great I was, how into the scene I got, and how he could see Jesus working through me to convey the horror of abortion. He calls me a vessel for God.
Six months ago, I would have swooned at those words. But tonight, I know they’re not true.
When I get home, I wash off quickly and get in bed. Now everyone thinks I’m this iconic star of Hell House. That’s what I wanted, right? My movie moment. How can I tell them that I fainted amid a swirl of doubt?
My sleep is fitful, and the next morning I wake up full of angst.
Part of me doesn’t want to break the illusion that my father and the pastors are under—part of me wants to be the Hell House star that Pastor Tannen raved about and held up as an example of godliness. I’ve wanted to step out of the shadows for so long, and now I have this light shining on me.
But a bigger part of me knows I have to be honest with Dad—I’m done skirting the truth.
When I come downstairs, Dad is preparing the usual seven a.m. pre-church morning pancakes—whole wheat now, since his cholesterol has been high—and Mom is at the table reading the newspaper.
“It wasn’t God,” I say quietly, slipping into my chair.
“What?” asks Dad, still staring at the frying pan.
“Last night,” I say. “I wasn’t channeling Jesus or anything. I was thinking about … other things.”
“And God came through you,” Dad says. “That’s a powerful meditation, Lacey.” He flips a pancake, smiling, and looks at Mom. She’s beaming too—he must have told her what happened last night. Or his version of what happened anyway.
“No,” I say again, louder this time. “It wasn’t God. My head was full of doubts—is full of doubts.”
“What are you talking about, Lacey?” Dad asks.
He brings over a pitcher of orange juice and a stack of dark brown pancakes. I reach for one and start to eat it plain, with my fingers.
“I don’t know,” I say, my mouth half stuffed with fluffy pancake.
“Chew, honey,” Mom says.
I finish my bite and swallow. Then I look at Dad and find my words.
“I don’t see things in black and white anymore,” I say. “The light and the darkness—they’re mixed.”
“Lacey, you’re not being very clear,” Dad says.
“Dad, do you think that Tessa’s going to hell for having sex before marriage?” I ask. “Because I don’t.”
I get goose bumps when I say that because it feels good to express what I think, maybe even better than being in the spotlight at church.
Mom’s hands fly up to her neck. “Oh, Lacey,” she says. “What are you talking about?”
Dad quiets Mom with a hand gesture.
“Lacey, I don’t know why that came into your head, but Tessa’s situation is a very unfortunate thing,” Dad says. He’s using his children’s pastor voice. “Still, you know that if she truly repents for her loss of purity and lives her life in the light from now on, God will forgive her.”
I stare at my orange juice.
“I don’t know, Dad,” I say. “Maybe you’re right. But I don’t know. I have to think about it more.”
And as I say that, I realize that I do want to think about it. I want to think about everything. I want to think about Dean, and who he is and what if he were gay? What would that mean for him? For his family? For the church? For me? And I want to think about Tessa and her choice to have premarital sex. What if she’s in love? Isn’t there love before marriage? I want to think about Ty’s accident, and how talking about it, and asking for forgiveness, was what he needed. I want to think about Ty himself, and the questions he’s brought to me. I wanted to give him answers—solid words and lessons I’ve read and been taught—but instead he gave me questions. And I am glad that I have questions.
“You shouldn’t have to think about it, Lacey,” Dad says. “You know right from wrong.”
I open my mouth to argue with my dad, to tell him that right and wrong aren’t two sides of a coin to me anymore—they’re complicated ideas. But then I close it again. I’m past fighting with my Dad. And he can’t stop me from thinking for myself.
My house is a house of answers, I think. There isn’t room for questions.
“Honey, if you ever have doubts, you know to return to your Bible,” Mom says.
“That’s right,” Dad says, reaching for the front page of the newspaper and not looking at me anymore. “First Corinthians 6:18: ‘Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a man commits are outside his body, but he who sins sexually sins against his own body.’ ”
I push away from the table gently. I’ve moved beyond being mad at my parents. They’re not bad people—they just already have their own answers, and they don’t have time for questions.
“Thank you,” I say, kissing Dad on top of the head. “The pancakes were great.”
“Where are you off to, darling?” Mom asks. “Service is at eight.”
I look back at the table—Dad is reading the paper now and Mom is standing up to clear the dishes.
“I think I’ll attend the second service at eleven today,” I say. “I need to go for a walk.”
Before they object, I spin on my heels and head out the front door.
They could stop me. They could talk this out with me more. They could ask me about what I’m feeling. But they don’t, and I know they won’t bring it up later either. They want to dam up the rush of my doubting thoughts with fast answers, and I’m sure they think th
at’s what they’ve done. My parents will never entertain certain questions with me. So I’m going to talk to someone who will.
Chapter Thirty-one
It’s early, but I text Ty from my driveway anyway and start heading toward Ulster Park. It’s too far to walk, but soon I hear his loud red BMW behind me. He pulls to the side of the road and leans over, swinging open the passenger door.
“Get in,” he says.
I flash back to the first night he pulled over for me, how nervous and rebellious I felt just talking to him. Could that have been just a few months ago?
We drive in silence to Ulster Park. We don’t have the sleeping bag with us, so we sit right on the grass. I lean into him and he puts his arms around me. There’s a square of sunlight on the ground, and I ease my toes into that spot. Even though it’s almost seventy degrees today—a gorgeous fall afternoon—my feet are always cold.
“I heard about last night,” Ty says. “Sounds like you were really moved by the spirit.”
He’s not being sarcastic, but I can tell he’s wondering what I’ll say, how I’ll interpret the fainting incident.
“I lost it,” I say. “All the blood and Jeremy’s angry lines and Pastor Tannen—and the burger baby!”
“The burger baby!” howls Ty, and he laughs so much that I have to readjust my position.
“Dean is really good at shaping that burger baby,” I say, settling back against Ty’s chest.
“There is no way that burger baby looks remotely real,” Ty says.
“Don’t tell Dean that, but you’re right,” I say. “It’s just a gross ball of meat. Dean has to keep a few of them in the church freezer, ready to go.”
“No wonder you got sick,” says Ty. “So you really fainted?”
“I really fainted,” I say.
“Well, you picked a good moment,” he says. “You were in a hospital bed, right?”
“True,” I say. “My timing was impeccable.”
“So does this early-morning rendezvous mean you’re not going to church today?” he asks.
I look at him, surprised.
“Of course not,” I say. “We’ll go at eleven.”
“Okay, okay,” he says. “Just checking. I was surprised to see your text on a Sunday morning—I didn’t know how much things had changed last night.”
I let out a loud sigh.
“What is it?” asks Ty. He bumps his shoulder against me so I have to sit up and face him. He’s good at insisting on eye contact when he knows I might otherwise stare at the grass.
I push a strand of stray hair out of my face and tuck it behind my ear.
“I’m quitting Hell House,” I say.
“No, you’re not,” Ty says.
“I am,” I say. “I’m going to tell my dad this afternoon so Laura Bergen can do the rest of the rehearsals.”
“That’s ridiculous,” says Ty. “Laura Bergen couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag.”
“But she believes,” I say.
“And you suddenly don’t believe anymore, after living your whole life in this church?” he asks. “I don’t buy that.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe,” I say. “I still do. And I may come back to every belief I had, a hundred percent. Who knows? But I want to think about things. I want to figure out what I believe, in my own time, with my own experiences.”
Ty takes my face in his hands then, and he kisses me. It’s long and hard, it’s letting go. It’s a kiss that feels like more than lust. It feels like something real.
“I love you for saying that,” Ty says, when our lips finally part.
It’s not quite an “I love you,” but it’s close. I feel my cheeks get red and I bury my head in his chest so he doesn’t notice.
“But, Lacey,” Ty says, putting an arm around me once again. “You’re not dropping out of Hell House.”
“I have to,” I say. “It isn’t fair for me to have these questions in my head.”
“You just said you’re trying to figure things out,” Ty says. “Hell House is part of that. It’s been your dream to play this part for so long. And you’re brilliant at it! Aunt Vivian says you’ve raised the stakes for the other actors.”
“That’s only because they think I’m channeling God,” I say. “What I was channeling last night was confusion and repulsion—it’s a little different.”
“And you can tell them that,” he says. “You can tell the truth and they will see what they choose to see.”
“My dad still thinks it was God,” I say.
“Maybe it was,” says Ty. “The Lord does work in mysterious ways.”
“Does he work through a burger baby?” I ask, smiling.
“Could be!” says Ty, grinning back at me.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It seems weird to act out a scene when I’m so confused about it all.”
“You just said it yourself—it’s acting,” Ty says. “And the mission is still to bring people to God. Lost people, maybe. People who are searching.”
“Ty Davis, you’ve been anti-Hell House this whole time, and now you’re trying to convince me to stay in it?” I ask.
“I do think it’s good to bring people into the fold of the church,” Ty says. “I was raised in West River, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, you were,” I say affectionately.
“I may not be down with everything at the House of Enlightenment, but I do believe the church’s main mission is sincere,” he says. “Besides, you’d regret dropping out. It’s your role.”
And he’s right about the acting thing—it is a play, after all. And maybe it will help me figure out more about myself. Last night sure was a learning experience.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it. If you promise to walk through Hell House next weekend.”
“That’s the spirit, Abortion Girl,” Ty says. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Then he leans in again and kisses me. And there’s at least one thing I have no doubts about anymore: he is what I want.
Chapter Thirty-two
Through the whole week of rehearsals, I go to church and nail my part. I don’t faint like I did at the first dress rehearsal—I think that was a one-time thing. But I manage to turn up the sobbing and tap into my confusion. I let it feed a deep sadness that comes out in the scene. It feels like real acting. Everyone congratulates me on my performance, and Pastor Tannen continues to hold me up as the star of the show. It feels good in one way and awkward in another. I’m still sorting out my thoughts on everything, but this has been my dream for so long. Ty was right—I couldn’t just drop out.
By the time Friday comes, we’re ready for our opening night. There are lines around the corner outside the church, and our parking lot has been blocked off for tour buses that come through carrying youth groups from other counties. They know we’re the biggest Hell House in this area.
At seven dollars per ticket, we’ll make up the production costs and raise some money for the church too. Before we open the doors, I peer out the window at the crowd. Some kids are dressed up in Halloween costumes—most are made up like devils or angels—and some are just in normal jeans and sweatshirts. All of them seem to bounce with nervous energy that has more to do with their mood than the chill in the late October air—they’re ready for a good show.
I know Ty will come through and see Hell House for the first time tonight, and that makes me all the more determined to do a great job. But the thing is, although I do believe in leading souls to Christ, I’ve acknowledged—at least with Ty—that I’m uncomfortable with parts of the show. It’s getting harder and harder to hear the Demon Tour Guide’s lines, which strike me as harsh now that I can relate them to the girls at Saint Angeles and Tessa.
Still, I lean back in the bed and say the words I’ve memorized over and over again as crowds of about twenty people come through every five to ten minutes. I scream, “It’s my choice!” and then, “I killed my baby! I made a mistake … I want my baby back!” After every scene the
y clean up my legs, but the table stays bloody—we don’t have enough sheets to change them out continuously. I hear gasps from the audience each time a new group walks in—it’s easy to become immune to the red stains and the burger baby, but they’re seeing it for the first time, and hearing their sharp intake of breath helps me remember how shocking this part of the show is.
I hear lots of the girls begin to cry as the abortion plays out—this is always the scene in the show where tears start to flow. Maybe they know someone who’s had an abortion or a baby, or maybe they’ve been in this situation themselves. Maybe they’re just moved by the thought of a baby dying—I know I broke down during this scene the year that I turned thirteen, which was the first time I could walk through the full performance. I cried so much I had to wipe my nose on Starla Joy’s scarf, and it got so gross that she just gave it to me after the show. Now we’re both here, starring in Hell House.
I hear Starla Joy’s group coming toward me now. She’s in the hall talking about young love, and as she enters the room, I notice that Ty is in this crowd. I start to thrash and scream, wanting to be great in this scene for him. For me too. I feel like I have something to prove.
When the blood flows on my legs, I once again hear the gasps I’ve heard all evening. And then I hear something else.
“Starla Joy! Starla Joy!” Mrs. Minter’s voice echoes down the hall. It sounds like she’s running. And screaming.
The door bursts open, and Starla Joy, in full demon costume, turns to see her mother, hair frazzled, eyes wild, burst into the room.
“It’s Tessa!” Mrs. Minter says. “She’s in labor. We have to go—now!”
Starla Joy tears off her mask and looks up at me. I’m already untaping the IV and getting myself off the table. Ty is at Starla Joy’s side, and Randy Miller is nervously trying to save the abortion scene.
“You can’t get off the table, miss,” he says. “The abortion has just started.”
“Be quiet, Randy!” I shout. Then I look at the surprised faces in the audience. “I’m sorry. I have to go. Our understudy, Laura Bergen, will take over and do the scene for you.”
Small Town Sinners Page 21
