My blood chilled, froze solid like tiny piercing crystals of ice lodged in my veins. She might have been hundreds of miles away, but her voice, coming from the phone in my kitchen—my family’s very own kitchen, our safe haven—made me feel completely violated.
“How did you get my number?”
“Well, I’m sure I could have found it in the phone listings on my own if I’d tried, but as it is, it was just posted on the Internet this morning. It was the latest post on that Virgin Mina website that everyone’s been talking about. They’re encouraging people to speak out directly—you know, have a real dialogue with you about our thoughts.”
“Your thoughts?” I hissed into the phone. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You’re not entitled to call me in my own home with your thoughts about my life.”
She snorted, a sort of harrumph sound, and then continued. “I saw that piddly fluff ball of an interview you did for KBC last week, and let me tell you, it was obvious from where I was sitting that you really have nothing to say for yourself. ‘I can’t explain how this happened,’” she quoted, her voice taking on a nasally, offensive edge as she attempted to imitate me, “‘but no, I’m not claiming to be God’s chosen either. I’m just trying to do the right thing.’ Because that’s just plain old nonsense. If you knew—if you really knew with every fiber of your being, your soul—that you were innocent, then how could this be anything but a miracle? How could you be anything but chosen? But you won’t say either of those things because you know that you’re lying, and I suppose it’s good to see that you at least have enough decency to close your mouth when it comes to the most sacred claims. Mind you, I still think you’ll be going straight to the Devil if you keep up with the path you’re on now, and . . .”
I hung up and threw the phone down onto the counter, watched as it skittered and spun in precarious circles edging closer and closer to the sink. Good. Let it get ruined. Let me be inaccessible to the whole world of strangers who now had our number, just in case they wanted to “dialogue” with me this morning, tonight, tomorrow, whenever they so desired. I edged my back along the cabinets as I sank to the floor and buried my head in my hands. Her patronizing tone still rattled in my ears, making my whole body shake.
She was right. The KBC interview I’d agreed to last week had been a joke. A totally insubstantial, useless filler story that did little if nothing to help my case. I blushed, stuttered, rambled about my good grades and my regular church attendance while my hyperdilated eyes darted everywhere but at the camera or the reporter sitting across from me on our living room sofa. Based on the feedback I saw on the website after the report first aired—and again after the reposting of the video online—the majority of viewers concluded that the nervous tics more than proved my guilty conscience. Only a few outsiders suggested I was endearingly confused, crazy and delusional rather than an outright pathological liar.
“You’ll just have to do better next time,” my dad had said under his breath, all of us gathered in front of the TV, stone-faced and hushed, for the first prime-time viewing. So far, I hadn’t let there be a next time, despite the daily flood of new requests. One failed attempt was enough to convince me that there was nothing I could say to change the public opinion. My story was weak. There were no facts. There were no theories. I had no supporting evidence, no photographic proof, no witnesses other than Jesse, and I refused to let him burn under the spotlight next to me.
But as I played over Gladys from Richmond’s call, I was most upset, I realized, by her claim that if I was so certain, if I was so absolutely positive that this baby had come about by nothing short of divine intervention, than I would be claiming my “chosen” status with pride and courage. That there could be no room for uncertainty.
But how could I know—how could anyone in the world know—that miracles were, by necessity and without a doubt, the plan, the doing, the sign of God? Of a god, of any god? And if so, which god? Whose god? Last I checked, there was more than just one perception of God, so why should I assume that this was the work of the same god as in my Bible? The god I learned about in Sunday School and the god who almost everyone in Green Hill considered to be the “true God”—the “one and only God.”
Perhaps there were miracles outside of the church. Miracles outside of any realm that we knew, and outside of any logic system that we as mere humans could even begin to wrap our heads around. I was starting to think that ancient cultures—the Maya, Celtics, Egyptians, Buddhists, Native Americans—had a much more sensible view of the way things worked, the divinity to be found in nature, the world all around us, the sun, the moon, the trees, the changing of seasons and the forces of weather.
“Miracles are not contrary to nature, but only contrary to what we know about nature.”
It was a line I’d stumbled across over and over during my online scouring for miracles, a quote from Saint Augustine of Hippo, born in the fourth century, a Latin philosopher and theologian from the African Province of the Roman Empire often considered to be one of the greatest Christian thinkers of all time. I had researched him afterward, excited that he had so eloquently summed up my own thoughts—my hopes that there was more to nature and its phenomenal possibilities than met the eye—but I didn’t see much else in his writings that I agreed with or could absorb as my own belief system. But I still had this one quote, this sentiment of faith, a new perspective for the kind of miracle I was experiencing in my here and now.
And I needed that, desperately. Needed something to cling to, nails dug deeply in, no matter how insubstantial or removed the idea might be. It’s not as if Iris had outlined the greater scheme to me. There was no name-dropping, no finger pointing to who exactly was calling the shots or if “they” had any concrete plans for the baby once he or she was walking, breathing, living on planet Earth alongside me. After nearly seven months of pregnancy, I still hadn’t come to many conclusions. What I knew, or thought I knew, to be true on some inner, metaphysical level, came to a very short list: This, this baby, this asexual form of reproduction, was an inexplicable, unprecedented scientific phenomenon. It was the work of some power—some much, much higher power—beyond our limited understanding as the insignificant peons temporarily wandering around this planet. For reasons that were entirely undecipherable to me, I was the person who would bring this mysterious creation into life.
And I would care for this creation, protect and love this baby, for the rest of my life, regardless of whether or not I ever came any closer to understanding the heart of it all: why?
Why, why, why?
One syllable, three letters, yet it still had more power over me than any other word I’d ever known. I’d always been the type of person who needed answers, which is probably why I’d been such a naturally good student. Teachers asked questions, and I’d study until I could answer them. But then came this question, the biggest question of my life, and I would probably never have an explanation, any real sort of resolution. My own sort of, kind of, innate and intuitive answers would have to be good enough. Somebody or something was clearly trying to teach me a lesson.
There was no perfect answer. Just like there was no perfect way to live.
I had tried, after all, for almost eighteen years. And now, with more ups and downs and unexpected loops than in the rest of my life combined, I somehow, oddly, felt more alive than ever.
The phone rang again from the counter and I held my breath, counting the rings as I waited for the answering machine to pop to life. Eight, nine, ten. Gracie’s sunny, giggly voice chirped from the speakers and made me feel even more alone. I needed the real Gracie. Hiyah! You’ve reached the Dietrich house! We’re not around to talk right now, so pretty please leave us a message. Bye!