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.