A Girl Named Mister (3 page)

He won’t return

my texts, or phone calls.

It’s all I can do

not to wait for him

at the gym

after basketball practice.

I just want to ask

what happened to him loving me?

Why can’t we still be

together?

I don’t understand.

He said I was his girl.

He said he was my man.

Days disappear in a haze

of Shakespeare, career fairs,

pop quizzes, history homework,

and the white noise of teachers

calling on me

for answers I’ve suddenly forgotten

how to give.

I’m slow.

But even I know

this isn’t going to work.

Just try telling that

to my heart.

My head keeps spinning.

I need some space to think.

Later that day, I say to Trey,

“Look. I can see

you want to cool it for a while,

so let’s.”

Trey is all shrugs.

I wonder what that means,

but not for long.

“Yeah, well,” says Trey.

“Whatever.”

I suddenly shiver

in the winter

of his words.

The bathroom

seems light-years away.

I barely make it

before the flood of tears

puts my shame on display.

It’s official.

I live in regret.

That’s the black room

at the end of the hall.

Call before you come.

I may not be

in the mood for company.

These days, I wake

and look at The Book,

a familiar stranger

collecting dust

on my bedside table.

I haven’t felt the weight of it

in my hands for weeks.

How can I even

call it mine anymore?

I know the score.

It’s fragile pages

make it clear:

sex outside of marriage is sin.

Spin it any way you like,

I blew it.

One voice tells me

to search the Psalms

for forgiveness.

Another says

Don’t go crying to God now.

And so I pull away and stew

in a new kind of loneliness.

I slip into my mother’s room,

raid the small shelf by her bed

hunting for a book a little less holy,

some story about God twice removed.

I know its crazy,

but I need to feel Him here,

just not too near,

you know?

There was this one book I remember,

something Mom used to bug me to read.

What was it?

I scratch my memory

with a finger of thought.

Come on, Mister. Think!

I tell myself.

But it’s no use.

Frustrated, I take it out

on her door,

slamming it on my way out.

Good thing Mom wasn’t

home from work,

or I’d never hear

the end of it.

I collapse into Mom’s recliner

and reach for the remote,

my drug of choice.

My fingers graze the cover

of a dog-eared book

sitting face-up on the end table.

The title clicks:

Mary, Mary.

That’s it!

The book of poetry my mom

has loved forever,

a book about Christ’s mother.

I quickly scan

the first few pages,

find the language

a little old-timey.

Still, it reads like a diary,

and the mystery of that

makes it worth

trading in the remote.

I slip the slim volume

into my jeans pocket

for the short ride to my room.

I figure I’ll flip through

a few pages before

hitting the homework

like I’m supposed to.

That’s the plan.

Our golden boy

nestles in my arms,

clutching my breast

nursing, oblivious

to the braying of donkeys,

the mooing of cows,

and the smell of offal

pervading this stable

in the heart of Bethlehem.

Joseph hangs over my shoulder,

his face a mask of wonderment.

I sigh, no less in awe

than he.

Husband.

Mother.

Son.

These new words

roll round my mind

like shiny marbles,

bursting with color and light.

Was it truly only

nine months ago

I blushed

at the very idea of a wedding bed?

So much has happened since then.

I close my eyes, straining to remember

a time before the angel Gabriel,

a time before the Lord Jehovah

visited just long enough

to turn my world

upside down.

Early evening

is my favorite time of day.

I take my time

winding down the hills of Nazareth

to the village well.

My feet know the way

so I can concentrate on enjoying

my silent conversation

with Jehovah:

me meditating on his word,

Him speaking to my heart.

Some evenings,

when the wind strokes my cheek,

I can almost hear him

call my name.

Playful pouting is not seemly,

Father told me,

not during the holiest of seasons,

and perhaps he was right.

But I do not understand

why I must be

as heavy and somber as he

at Passover.

The coming festival fills me

with joy—

a few days away from Nazareth,

another chance to stand

in the temple of our God,

another opportunity

to feel the sway

of sweet psalms sung

by the Levite choir there.

Why should such wonders

weigh me down with the sadness

I see on Father’s face?

Mother reminds me

that each of us comes to Passover

with a different heart.

What matters, she tells me,

is that we give that heart

to God.

Her wisdom is enough

to send me to Father’s side.

“Forgive me, Father,” I say.

“Let me help you pack

for the journey.”

I lie on my pallet that night

wondering what it was like

when the Angel of Death

stole the firstborn

of all under Egypt’s wing,

save those blessed ones

whose homes were blood-marked

for salvation,

those faithful Jews

who knew God was

as good as his word:

Pharaoh’s kingdom would suffer

until he set God’s people free.

Would I have shuddered

as the Shadow of Death

passed me by?

Would I have had

enough breath left

to praise Jehovah?

And now, because of that

long-ago night,

we Jews are free,

Pharaoh having lost

his taste for Jewish slaves,

the life of his young son

a price too high

after all.

The latter rains

have wet the earth,

but my poor eyes

are dry as the desert wind.

The three-day journey to Jerusalem

punishes with aching calves

and blistered feet.

Why is it I always manage to forget

the tedium of this trek?

I feel a complaint

rising to my lips,

but bite it back

when I remember holy Scripture.

“Let the Israelites keep the Passover

at the appointed time.”

I chew on God’s words,

determining to put one foot

in front of the other.

I shade my eyes

and look ahead,

finding my betrothed in the distance,

his gait as steady as it was

when we left Nazareth.

He may be closer to my father’s age than mine,

but Joseph will make a fine husband,

I think for the hundredth time.

Then I’m distracted

by the glittering jewel

rising out of the desert:

Jerusalem!

The setting sun bounces golden

off the walls of the temple

where Jehovah resides,

and my heart beats faster.

I awake to new strength

surging through me,

and lengthen my stride.

As we draw closer to the Holy City,

I pick up the pace,

pausing every now and then

to wipe away my tears.

Back home in Nazareth,

my family and I

relax after dining,

sated with food and new memories

of the Passover festival.

The songs of the Levite choir

still ring in my ears.

My soul carried them with me

like waterskins,

refreshment for

the long journey home.

The glint in my father’s eye

reminds me of

the golden incense holder

I’ve heard men speak of.

I have never glimpsed it

from the Court of Women.

Pity that we’re not permitted

to see the holy sacrifices

for ourselves.

Though, truth be told,

I would rather not watch

an animal have its throat slit.

Still.

“You know, Father,” I say.

“Next year at the Passover,

I believe I’ll enter the Court of Israel

to witness the sacrifices firsthand.”

Father almost drops his cup of wine.

“What?”

“They say a woman did so once before.

Besides, am I not as much

a child of God as any man?”

Father’s eyes flash toward Mother.

“Speak to your daughter!”

Mother gives me her sternest look,

for Father’s benefit,

then, when he turns away,

we share a secret smile.

Later, as we clean the cooking pots,

she tells me,

“I see what joy it gives you

to frighten your father.

But I ask you,

why settle for being equal with men?”

My mother’s bold words

make me love her more,

and I pledge myself to walk

in her strength.

Someday, I hope my children

will walk in mine.

Familiar as my bedchamber is,

I miss the temple.

Not the raucous crowds,

or the squeal of lambs

or squawk of pigeons

readied for the sacrifice,

but His Presence.

I met God in the temple,

and he knew me.

In some strange way,

I even feel him here.

I snuggle down

on my sleeping mat,

and close my eyes.

But not for long.

An angel slips into my room,

announces that God is on his way,

then tells me I am to be mother

of Messiah, the Promised One,

the Savior of our people;

that my once-barren cousin Elizabeth,

too old to bear a child,

bears one now.

What sense am I

to make of that?

I rub my eyes,

waiting to wake,

unable to shake this vision.

Lord?

What is happening?

I feel a gentle warmth

settling over me,

fingers of heat

fluttering from naval to knee.

Am I dreaming?

What is this cloud of light?

I close my eyes

and count to three,

but when I look again,

the shadow without darkness

is still swallowing me whole.

I poke its side,

then hide my face

when my touch

sends up sparks without flame.

Lord,

what is this cool fire

that licks my skin,

and why do I tingle so?

Gabriel?

Is this what you meant?

Gabriel?

Are you still there?

Who will believe me?

Who?

And what if no one does?

What then?

I march through the next day

numb, that one question

circling my mind

like a vulture

ready to pick my thoughts clean.

I feel my belly,

flat as ever,

and close my eyes,

remembering the fire

of God’s touch,

hearing the echo of the word

Messiah.

And what about Joseph?

We are as good as married,

our betrothal

as binding as any other,

and nothing less than

a paper of divorcement

could end it.

Of course, we have never

shared a bed,

nor will we

until our wedding night.

So, if I truly am with child,

Joseph will know

the father

is someone else.

And what will Joseph—

No. I am not yet ready

to consider

what hard or bitter things

might await me

in the distance.

Besides, the Lord Jehovah

will meet me there.

Yes?