Bumped (16 page)

REBIRTH

I OPEN MY EYES TO SEE THE MAN WHO HAS WALKED BESIDE
me in my dreams for as long as I can remember dreaming.

“Wake up,” Jondoe says.

I unstick my cheek from the window, dislodge my tongue from the roof of my mouth, wipe the sleep out of my eyes.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Not long.” Then he looks as if he’s about to add something, then reconsiders.

“What?” I ask.

“What
what
?”

“You looked like you were about to say something. . . .”

He lowers his chin, looks up at me through his lashes.

“You talk in your sleep.”

My cheeks burn. How shameful for him to know this about me.

“Now, now,” he says, patting me on the back, “Don’t be embarrassed. You didn’t say anything too incriminating. . . .”

“No man has ever heard me talking in my sleep!” I say. “Not even my h—”

I should have just come out and said it. Husband. Not even my husband.

“Who?” Jondoe asks.

“No one,” I reply.

I think about Ram. I hope he hasn’t come looking for me. I pray he uses this time apart to recognize that he’ll never be able to hold up his side of the marital quadrangle: God, man, woman, child(ren). I know this, our parents know this, and the Church Council knew it when they put us—two unteachable spirits—together. If he finally accepts the truth about himself, then I’ll know I did him a favor by leaving. I only wish I’d had the courage to do it before the wedding.

Ma remembers the last horse-and-buggy days and the arrival of the first truck. “A Dodge
Ram
,” she likes to remind me, as if this alone would make him the ideal husband. Ma has seen how Orders are made and Orders are unmade as mere men interpret God’s Word one way and then change their interpretations to see it another, altogether different way. Maybe one day I’ll tell my daughter about how I had to wear veils and dresses that fell to my ankles and she, in her T-shirts and jeans, won’t believe me. Maybe I’ll tell my daughter about having to marry a man I didn’t love, and how lucky she is that she grew up in a different time.

If I have a daughter.

If I ever go back.

“Let’s do this,” Jondoe says, opening the car door.

I get out of the car and make note of our surroundings for the first time. We’re parked in the circular driveway of a two-story house that sits on the wide corner lot of a block lined up with near-identical homes. The large, boxy structure doesn’t look all that different from our houses in Goodside. True, the front and side yards aren’t cultivated with any plants worth growing—it’s three-quarters of an acre of wasted greenspace. And there’s a detached garage where a barn should be. Otherwise, this vinyl-sided house with the stone facade is in keeping with the outsize suburban fashion of the early to mid ’00s. Just like ours—only we fill our houses with four families instead of just one.

A lamp turns on in the downstairs window. Someone knows we’re here.

“I haven’t been back here in almost a year,” Jondoe says.

“Where is here?” I ask.

“Where Gabriel spent the first fourteen years of his life.”

Gabriel. Like the angelic messenger sent by Jesus to work on His behalf.

The front door swings open and a man and a woman step out onto the front porch. They’re both wearing robes over pajamas, bedroom slippers, and big, toothy grins.

“Gabriel!” they cry out, arms outstretched.

“Who are they?” I ask.

“Gabriel’s parents,” Jondoe says as he takes the first steps toward them.

I point at him. “Gabriel?”

He says nothing, answering instead with a smile brighter than all the shining lights in the heavens.

I AM QUITE LITERALLY FLOORED, PARALYZED BY THE NEWS
that my married, trubie twin sister spermjacked my RePro, not just any RePro, but the hottest on the MiNet. Which meant that if she
hadn’t
showed up on my doorstep,
I
might have already bumped with the hottest RePro on the MiNet.

If that’s not enough to floor a girl, I don’t know what is.

I have stared at his fotos for . . . I don’t know? Hours? Weeks? Aeons? His is an unlookawayable face. Jondoe’s face defies any improvements made by the attractiveness app. No tweaking of the distance between his chin and lips, forehead and the bridge of his nose, or between the eyes. The geometry of his face is scientifically perfect. And don’t even get me started on his abdominal muscles, which are a study in anatomical symmetry.

I’m
supposed to bump with
him
?

Or
was
.

Finally, after whatever amount of time it was, Zen speaks up.

“If Jondoe thinks he’s with you,” Zen says, “he’s probably been messaging you this whole time.”

I gasp, knowing that Jondoe
has
been messaging me this whole time . . . only I thought it was spam! I double-blink-wink-left-right-left-blink to read the rest of Jondoe’s messages.

Amid all the flattering messages about how reproaesthetical I am, I got an itinerary that matches up with what I saw in the fotos:

Avatarcade

Underground All-Sports Arena

U.S. Buff-A

Surprise!

Then Jondoe spammed me with a bunch of flattering feeds about . . . himself.

But it’s the last few messages that made no sense at all:

PSALM 127:3

PSALM 128:3

PSALM 37:5

If Harmony told him that
I
have God, why would
Jondoe
send
me
psalms? Unless, maybe, he was trying to impress her . . .

“Ram! What are the Psalms?”

He thinks for a moment, scratching his head. “Bible verses.”

I am dangerously close to throwing a clot.

“Even
I
know that!” I snap. “But what
are
they?”

I don’t even wait for Ram to say “don’t know” or Zen to look up the passages before messaging Jondoe back. The whole time he’s been with Harmony, he thought he was with me. And now he thinks
I
have God! She converted me behind my back. I waste no time in updating my status.

THIS IS THE REAL MELODY

“Psalm one hundred twenty-seven, verse three,” Zen reads from the quikiwiki. “‘Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift? The fruit of the womb his greatest legacy?’”

U R WITH MY GODFREAKY TWIN SISTER

“Psalm one hundred twenty-eight, verse three,” Zen continues. “‘You will bear children as a vine bears grapes.’”

ASK WHAT HER REAL NAME IS

“Psalm thirty-seven, verse five. ‘Open up before God, keep nothing back; He’ll do whatever needs to be done.’”

TELL HER I’M FOR SERIOUSLY PISSED

A second goes by. Five. Ten.

“That’s some righteous versin’ right there,” Ram says.

Nothing.

“It looks like Jondoe changed his strategy,” Zen says, trying to lighten the mood, “from humpy to thumpy.”

I. Am. Beyond.

“TERMINATE! NOW! SERIOUSLY!”

I don’t need to say it twice. Zen and Ram disappear into the kitchen.

WTF?

Another second goes by. Five. Ten.

I check his location on the MiStalk but he’s nowhere to be found. No surprise. He’s either blinded himself or has gone off the grid.

WHERE R U?

WHERE R U?

WHERE R U?

THE SOBBING, HEAVING COUPLE IS HUGGING JONDOE (GABRIEL!)
with no signs of ever letting go. The emotional embrace that began outside on the front porch has danced itself inside to the entrance hall.

“It’s been so long!”

“Too long!”

I’m uncomfortable watching this reunion.

I’ve never shared a group hug with my parents. It’s just not appropriate. Church folk don’t glorify displays of affections, choosing to support each other through shared labor rather than shared embraces. My father was remote even by Church standards and was always far more interested in my housebrothers than me. Occasionally he gave me pats on the head, but only when I was much younger and after I had made myself useful by cleaning the chicken coops. I’m not sad that he never hugged me because that’s just the way it was.

My most intimate moments with my mother were also when I was much younger, when I sat in her lap as she braided my hair. Those mornings are the only times I can say her affections were fully focused on me and me alone. She would hum hymns to herself as she smoothed and straightened and plaited my hair, but her fingers were too deft for my liking. Her one-on-one attention never lasted more than a few short minutes before my next housesister was in her lap. I know it’s wicked, but I often tied knots into my hair just so Ma would need extra time to comb them out. I don’t remember the pain of having my hair pulled into submission, just happiness that I would get to hear Ma hum a whole hymn.

Jondoe’s parents haven’t noticed my presence, or likelier, they don’t care. Even though it’s the middle of the night, they are overjoyed beyond words by Jondoe’s surprise arrival, barely communicating through undecipherable keening punctuated by the occasional semicomprehensible word burst.

“Gabey! It’s you! It’s really you!”

“My boy! I can’t believe it!”

Jondoe is more object than participant, at one point going out of his way to wink at me over his mother’s fluffy pink shoulder, to let me know that he at least remembers that I’m still here.

Motivated more by a need for a distraction than genuine curiosity, my eyes are drawn to one of several small wooden signs mounted by the front door.

GET AN AFTERLIFE!

I quickly read some the other plaques adorning the walls.

THIS HOUSE IS PRAYER-CONDITIONED!

AMERICA NEEDS A FAITH LIFT!

I’ve never seen so many forms of idolatry in one place! And we’ve barely gotten through the front door! As a contrast to the humorous exclamatory plaques, there are other more serious displays of faith: A foot-long wooden cross, a large mirror etched with an image of the Last Supper, an ichthus symbol. The Church and other plain sects strictly prohibit any such objects of worship. Crosses and other symbols or artistic representations of passages from the Bible are all too showy. I know these things exist, and that many devout Christians consider such displays a way of being bold for God. But I never, ever expected to see such things in
this
house. . . .

Oh my grace! Could it be?

“Praise the Lord!” chorus his father and mother.

Jondoe’s parents have God!

FOR ALMOST TWO YEARS I WAITED.

I kept my eye on the purity prize. I said no to Tocin. I stayed on the sidelines during group gropes, or stayed home and missed the masSEX parties altogether. I turned down offers from unaccredited worms and free-agent Sperms until they stopped asking. I watched amateurs turn into pros, accidents into possibilities. I watched my MiNet status fall from the “six-figure Surrogette” to a “virge on the verge.” I resisted the pressure to get an everythingbut. I strenuously avoided touching any member of the opposite sex, refusing so much as even a first kiss in the fear that any accidental skin-to-skin contact could—

A warm hand brushes my waist and I nearly leap across the room.

“AHHHH!”

“Dose down,” Zen says. “Get Lib on the MiVu! He’s got too much at stake in this to just let the whole deal fall apart, right?”

I nod mutely.

Zen is in his element now. This is where he excels: crisis management.

“Only Lib can tell you when Jondoe signed up with the Jaydens,” he says. “Only he can explain why you didn’t get the news and how Harmony wound up being your doppelbanger.”

I call up Lib on the MiVu.

“LIIIIIIIIIIIIB,” I shout. “WHEREVER YOU ARE. GET IN VIEW RIGHT NOW.”

I stare at his icon, willing it to animate already.

“LIIIIIIIIIIIB,” I call out, yanking Zen in front of me. “I’M IN CRISIS. I’M ABOUT TO BUMP WITH A FIVE-FOOT CHINO-CHICANO.”

Zen doesn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. “Five foot
eight
.”

I shoot him a look.

“Five foot seven and
a
half
,” he huffs.

I drag Ram into view. “FOR SERIOUS, LIB. I’M GONNA ORGY WITH AN ILLITERATE AGRI-
CULTY UNLESS YOU TRY TO STOP ME. . . .”

In an instant, Lib’s frozen icon comes to life, or as much life is possible when 95 percent of your face is made from synthetic skinfeel. He starts raving and doesn’t stop.

“WHY are you threatening the man who made you the hottest Surrogette on the MiNet? WHY haven’t you responded to any of my messages, gorgeous? I’ve been TERMINAL over here. How many hours has it been since insemination? Is it time to piss on the stick? I’ve already written the press release. It’s fertilicious. Knowing Jondoe, I bet you bumped it out on the first try! Though I certainly wouldn’t blame you, Miss Melody Mayflower, if you wanted a few do-overs.”

It’s only when he notices that I’ve got my arms around Zen and Ram that he breaks from his tirade. His eyes narrow as narrowly as his surgeries will allow.

“Who are these two . . . wor—?” He stops short of calling them “worms.”

“Oh, these two?” I say with feigned casualness. “They’re my top prospects for going amateur.”

Zen and Ram tense up on either side of me.

“WHAT?” Lib mops his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. “Where is JONDOE?”

“I have no idea where Jondoe is,” I say. “I never met Jondoe, Lib. I didn’t know he had signed with the Jaydens until I saw the news.”

Lib laughs high and hysterically. “You’re scamming me.”

“No, I’m not,” I say.

And that’s when Lib loses it.

“I SET IT ALL UP WITH YOU THIS MORNING,” he yells. “I SAW THE FOOTAGE. YOU AND JONDOE AT THE HOUSE, THE AVATARCADE, THE ALL-SPORTS ARENA, THE U.S. BUFF-A.
EVERYONE HAS!
”

“It wasn’t
me
, Lib,” I say, leaving it to him to figure out the rest.

His perma-tan pales as much as such artificially tinted synthetic skinfeel can pale, as he suddenly grasps the truth.

“I spoke to
her
this morning?” His voice is barely audible.

“My twin,” I whisper. “The only flaw in my file.”