Immaculate (34 page)

“They're in our driveway!” my dad yelled from the kitchen. “They're standing on our goddamn property! Why aren't the cops bombing them with tear gas?”

I stood up without deciding to move, my curiosity yanking me toward the front of the house. I had to watch them for myself, because the idea of not seeing the enemy, not knowing their exact moves as they made them, was even scarier than whatever image was waiting for me outside.

I stepped behind Izzy, and she shifted to make room for me in front of the glass panes, wrapping her arm around my waist as we watched together. Tana Fritz was leading the procession, megaphone to her lips as she repeated the same line, over and over, the words crashing against me harder and angrier each time: “Give up the truth and give up the baby, give up the truth and give up the baby, give up . . .”

Jesse and Hannah leaned in behind us. We stayed like that, as close to the glass as we dared to get, clumped into a quiet huddle for what felt like hours but must have been just minutes. There were two clear camps, two groups that edged closer and closer toward an invisible central barrier: the protesters, with their anti-Mina signs and sentiments filling the driveway and overflowing into the field that ran along the edge of Hopewell Lane, and the supporters, who were even bolder in their movements, pressing up above the driveway and into our actual yard, forming a sort of defensive line between me and my enemies. The cops were scattered and patrolling on all sides, yelling into megaphones and waving the mob off, but no one seemed to be obeying. There was too much power in their numbers.

I spotted Stella as she pushed farther toward where the protesters stood, her
OPEN HEARTS, OPEN MINDS FOR MINA
sign flapping high in her outstretched arms above her head. Her dark braided hair, threaded with strands of glowing copper, was loose around her face, and she looked fierce as she fought to scream over the megaphones. In a move that happened so fast I nearly missed it with a blink, Stella was on top of Tana as they both tumbled to the ground.

After a split second of stunned amazement on both sides, the two crowds merged, our front yard suddenly a clashing of two armies, poster sticks flailing, arms held up over faces in defense.

I flinched at the sound of a shrill, grating whimper before I realized that it was coming out of my own throat. I grabbed my belly, swallowing the urge to be sick all over the foyer floor.

“I can't,” I whispered, resting my palm against the cool glass. “I can't let people hurt each other over me. I can't just stand here and watch this.”

Before anyone could stop me—before I could stop myself—I twisted the lock and flung the door open, hurtling myself down the front step and onto the porch.

“Stop!” I screamed, my one voice nothing against the howling of the warring mobs. “Stop!” I tried again. “Just
stop
!”

One person noticed me, and then another, until word of my appearance snaked its way through the crowd. Fists and feet froze midfight, and faces tilted toward me, alone on the porch in my baggy maternity sweatshirt and plaid flannel pajama pants.

“Stop!” I yelled again, this time with all eyes on me. “Stop fighting over me. Go back to your own lives and let me live mine. I never asked for this. I never asked for your opinions. Let God—or some other higher power—do the judging here. You have no right to ask anything of me.”

“Mina, get back in here,” my dad called from behind me, his voice shrill and panicked. But before I could turn back to him, I watched as the crowd surged forward—my supporters first, excitedly chanting my name, and the anti-Mina protesters chasing close behind them.

There was a large man leading the pack, tall and broad, his silvery hair long and gnarled around the shoulders of his ratty black leather jacket. He was on the steps, and then the porch, and others were right behind him, reaching out toward me, touching my belly, yelling my name. Soon there were more people, more and more, and somehow I fell down—no, I was pushed—my back slamming against the wooden boards below me, and I looked up and saw faces, so many faces . . .

Iris
, that was Iris just above me, fighting back that man who was two or three times her size. She looked so strong, so furious.

And then in a blurry whirl of skin and lips and teeth and hands, clawing hands, everything stopped.

Everything disappeared.

• • •

I heard a faint rustling, a crisp, familiar sound that I tried to place. My eyes were still closed, but everything around me seemed bright, too bright, white and sharp and hot against my eyelids. I focused on the ground beneath me instead, hard and solid, with uneven grooves that pressed into my back. A breeze laced with pine and damp earth swept over me, and I knew. The tree house. I was in the tree house. But I was warm, and it was February, and none of it made any sense. How was I in the tree house?

I willed my eyes open, clenching my fists as I put all my energy into that one tiny movement. Light spilled in and I squinted, tears pricking from the brightness.

“I'm here, Mina.” A soft voice floated above me. “I'm here with you.” I tilted my head and saw a hazy form, a silhouette darkened by the sunlight pouring in from behind.

“I'm sorry that it all went so far, Mina. I'm sorry that you faced that kind of danger. I should have helped sooner. I know that now.” She sighed as she stepped forward, the details of her face filling in.

“Iris,” I whispered. My hand reached out, needing to touch her, to feel her skin beneath my fingers. She knelt down next to me, resting her warm palm—her wonderfully real, solid palm—on my forehead.

“I had hoped that I wouldn't have to step in, Mina. That there was enough good in this world to protect you without our help. I wanted to believe that. But it's obvious now that the world needs you and this baby more than we had even realized.”

“But why me, Iris? Why me? What can
I
do? I'm no one. I'm nothing.” I wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but I didn't have the energy for either.

She smiled at me as she reached to clasp my hand in hers.

“Why
not
you, Mina? That's the right question. Because you are so much more than nothing. You are so much more than you realize. No matter how scared you felt, or how alone, or how angry, you always chose this baby. Even before you could admit it to yourself, you
believed
in this baby. There are very few people who could have been capable of that. You possess so much more strength and resolve than you give yourself credit for.” She paused for a breath and squeezed my hand even more tightly. “Remember that
you
are special, too, Mina—you have never been just a simple carrier. You are very much an essential part of all this. Your life matters, too.”

I breathed in her words, letting them fill every dark, empty place where I had hidden away any of my lingering doubts. I valued this baby, of course I did—but I valued myself, too, and I deserved my own happiness. College, a career, goals for my future. And love. I deserved to let myself be in love. And that didn't make me selfish or flawed or destined to be a bad mom. It just made me human. It made me whole and full and alive.

I let the relief linger for another brief moment, a shimmering golden bubble floating within the grasp of my fingertips. But I needed to focus now—there were still so many questions, so much more I needed Iris to tell me before she left again.

“But what now, Iris? What do I do now?” I closed my eyes, the weight of so much emotion pressing down against me.

“You wait, Mina. You just take care of yourself and this precious baby for now. The time will come. You'll know when it does.”

Her voice was fading now, her hand seeming to melt away from my own.

“Have faith, Mina—in this child, but also in
yourself
. You must always have faith. Because faith . . . faith is what makes our lives worth living.”

chapter twenty

When I opened
my eyes again, I was staring at a tile ceiling, a strip of fluorescent lights beaming down on me. I turned my head, desperate, searching for Iris, until the details of the room clicked into place—the counter crowded with swabs and cotton balls, the collection of brown medicine bottles and shiny metal instruments, the slick crinkle of paper on the exam table beneath me.

“Mina?”

Dr. Keller appeared, hovering over me, her eyes lit up with relief.

“You're awake, thank God.” She reached a hand out, pressing her cool, smooth skin against my cheek. “You've been in and out for almost an hour now. Do you remember what happened?”

I shut my eyes and reached back toward Iris, the intense light that I could still feel, burning, radiating inside of me. She
had
been real. She had to have been real. I squeezed my hands into balls, fighting against the sudden emptiness I felt without her standing next to me.

But I realized as I squeezed that there was something in my right palm, the hand Iris had touched just seconds before. I released my fingers slowly and glanced down, trying not to draw Dr. Keller's attention.

It was a leaf. A bright green maple leaf.

Which was impossible, because it was February, and all the maple leaves had long ago fallen to the ground, shriveled into broken flecks of brown and black under the winter's snow.

But there it was, in my hand.

I had been in the tree house, warm and sunny.

I had seen Iris.

I wrapped my fingers back around the leaf. It was my secret, at least for now.

Strength swelled through me, filling every last piece of me with reassurances. Or maybe, it was as Iris had said—not just strength, but
faith
. A laugh and a sob both hit me at once, a hysterical choking sound that made Dr. Keller reach out for me in a panic.

“Oh no, Mina,” Dr. Keller said, squeezing my shoulder. “I should have said right away. The baby is fine. I've checked the heartbeat, and everything is fine. Your baby is safe and strong, and so are you.”

I'd known the baby would be fine, of course. Iris would have told me otherwise. But I was still overcome with relief to hear the words from Dr. Keller's mouth, to know without a doubt that my baby was still here with me, that we were fighting—and winning—together. Any other answer wouldn't have made sense to me. I couldn't begin to imagine my world without this baby anymore, what my life would look like without his or her fragile little spirit growing inside of me, making me a better and more whole person, making my life deeper and richer and
happier
—a kind of happy I wouldn't have understood before Iris stepped into my world and changed everything.

But there were still roadblocks to cross, questions to answer, before I could start feeling too content.

“What's happening?” I asked, trying to push myself up to sit. “How did I get here? Where is everyone else?”

“Your parents and your friends are in the waiting room, and will all be enormously relieved to know you're awake. From what I hear, your dad and Jesse managed to carry you back inside, and your friend Izzy drove her Jeep through the crowd and pulled around to the back of the house to pick you up. Most people were clearing out as soon as you went down, though. For as threatening and determined as they may have tried to sound, I suspect most of them hadn't planned on actual violence. But then again, most violence isn't planned, is it? The heat of the moment is a powerful force.”

She leaned down to lightly kiss my forehead. “You've been unconscious since you got here, but your vitals have been fine. No signs of premature labor. I was about to take you to the hospital, though, if you'd been unconscious much longer. You had us worried. It was like you didn't want to wake up.”

“No,” I said, my lips curling into a small smile. “I think I just wasn't ready.” Not until after Iris was finished with me.

“Mina.”

The door opened, and my mom peered in, her eyes red and swollen. “We thought we heard voices. Oh, thank God, you're okay. We were so scared. So scared.” She rushed over to me, sweeping Dr. Keller aside as she lifted me up into her arms. My dad came in after her, but Hannah, Izzy, and Jesse trailed behind, waiting at the door.

“Come on, guys,” I said, waving them in. “You're family, too. Don't be so silly.”

For the next few minutes we were all a tangle of arms and hair and tears, until finally, after everyone had been adequately squeezed and comforted, we were quiet again—thinking about what would come next. What
should
come next.

Dr. Keller coughed and edged her way to the center of the room.

“I want to propose something,” she said, her eyes fixed on me. “As far as anyone else knows, you were ambushed by a crowd and knocked unconscious, rushed away for medical assistance. No one else but the people in this room right now know that the baby is fine. What I'm suggesting, what might be easier for you, Mina, for everyone—is that we keep this our secret. We tell the rest of the world that you lost the baby. That you're leaving town to recover and mourn after everything that's happened. And then you escape. You go somewhere, find a safe place to hide out, at least for now. Have this baby in peace. Figure out the rest of the plan one day at a time. People can speculate as much as they like, but according to the record—according to what I'm prepared to tell the staff here and the press and whoever else asks—there is no baby, not anymore. I'll worry about the details. Let everyone who was involved in the protest today think that the blood is partially on their hands. It's the least of what they deserve.”

This wasn't a new suggestion, the idea of leaving, disappearing with the baby and starting over somewhere new. It was what I should have done straight after the shower, right when I'd first learned of the protest. But as I heard it all now, the details arranged out loud, each of Dr. Keller's words rained down on me like hot, biting pellets. A distant possibility had instantly become reality. The whole proposition was so sudden . . . but maybe so perfect, too—so much harder and somehow maybe so much simpler than anything else I'd already considered on my own.

“I . . .” I started and stopped, still too taken aback with the abruptness of it all. I tried to let the suggestion settle, to see if the parts all actually fit into a rational whole. Was it possible? Could I—could we—really pull this off? The idea that no one would have to know, that I could disappear, raise my baby in peace until . . . until when? Until Iris came back for us? Or forever?

“But what if I could never be Mina Dietrich again?” I asked, not able to look anyone in the eyes. My skin was hot and clammy, and I tugged at the neck of my sweatshirt for cooler air. “I can't ever really come back, can I? People—some people, at least—will always remember. Green Hill will always remember. I'll have to spend the rest of my life with a new identity.”

I could never go home.

Or at least, not if I kept the baby. And giving the baby up, giving my little miracle away to strangers—that had never been an option, and it still wasn't.

I would miss my family. I would miss Izzy and Hannah. And
Jesse
. I would miss Jesse. I'd miss all the things I hated most about Green Hill, too, all the annoying little small-town quirks—the way that everybody knew who everybody was and everybody knew everybody's business.

I would miss Mina, the girl I'd been, the girl I'd known, for the last eighteen years.

Because without my family, without Green Hill, without my past . . . who would I be?

“What do you think?” I asked, lifting my head up to face all of them. “All of you, I want to hear what you think I should do.”

My dad cleared his throat and we all turned to stare at him, waiting. “I think it's the only idea that makes sense right now. We all saw how crazy people can be when religion is in question, when basic beliefs are threatened. Maybe we'll come up with a better solution down the road, but for now . . . I think we get you out of Green Hill. I think we get you away from everyone.”

“But how will we disguise her? Where will she go that no one will recognize her?” my mom asked, her eyes darting between me and my dad. “Who will go with her?” Her skin looked suddenly so sallow to me, so lined with stress, and I realized with absolute certainty that something had to change—that I couldn't keep putting all of them through this kind of anxiety.

“I have family in New York City,” Jesse said quietly. “Brooklyn. An aunt and an uncle whose kids have all moved out. Mina could stay there, at least for a little while, until she can find a place of her own. New York seems like a good place to disappear, no?”

“Oh, I don't know,” my mom said, biting her lip as she wrapped her hands protectively around my wrist. “Mina, alone in the city, and I can't ask your family to take her in like that . . .”

“I would go, too,” Jesse said. “I was already planning on living with them this fall. When school started. I'll just move in a little earlier than expected.”

My head snapped up in his direction. But just as quickly he looked down at his feet, leaving me alone with the dizzying rush of the possibility of it—of me and Jesse, together, running away to New York City to start a new life.

“You can visit, of course,” he continued, “though I have a feeling people would try following you, at least at the beginning. I don't think Mina will have to do much—a different hairstyle, maybe, and a different name—but other than that, she'll just be another pregnant woman in New York. Another young single mom. My aunt homeschooled my cousins, so she can help us finish out school that way, and I can do odd jobs for now—work at a restaurant, apply for film crews. And then once Mina has the baby, well . . . we can figure the rest out then.”

I couldn't fight the feeling that this wasn't the first time Jesse had thought through his suggestion—it seemed too polished, too logical for him to have come up with it on the spot. Had he been thinking about this exact setup that day on the beach in LBI, talking about the future? Maybe if things had gone differently from there, if I hadn't said what I did on New Year's Eve . . . would we have had this conversation sooner? Before things had gone so far?

I would never know. But I could accept the offer now. I could walk into this new era, start my new life—and I wouldn't have to be alone.

“I think it makes sense,” I said, before anyone else could challenge me with a list of reasons for why it couldn't possibly work.

“I agree,” my dad said, clapping a hand on Jesse's shoulder.

“Me, too,” Izzy said. “But I'll miss you. At least it's only two hours away . . . I can visit. We can all visit.”

“And if I go to NYU . . .” Hannah trailed off, leaning in to hug me.

My eyes drifted from face to face, and in each expression I saw the same mix of fear and hope and acceptance that I felt pulsing through me, growing thicker and heavier with every breath. Maybe the plan was rushed, maybe flaws would snag us somewhere along the way, but this was the best we had. This was the only way forward I could see.

“Well, then,” I said, my gaze stopping on Jesse, my cheeks burning when I found his warm brown eyes finally meeting mine. “I guess we're going to New York City.”

• • •

Jesse's uncle Carl volunteered to drive us up to his sister's home in Brooklyn as soon as we could be packed and ready to go. We left in the middle of the night, the back of Carl's van filled with my new crib and stroller and all the presents from the shower. My parents had wanted to come up, too, but we decided it was for the best that they lie low, and keep the reporters and any lingering detractors or followers guessing about when and how I had left. Dr. Keller had executed her role in the whole scheme perfectly—in the interview that was looping over television and the Internet, she played the part of the devastated, infuriated doctor so well that even I could almost believe she was telling the truth: “A baby has been killed. A young woman is heartbroken, destroyed. Robbed of her child's existence. Because of senseless violence and ignorant hatred. I hope those responsible acknowledge their blame in this. I hope the country—the world—has learned a valuable lesson about the media's power of destruction.”

I had planned to stay awake for the drive, desperate to memorize every last detail of this monumental life journey. But instead I fell asleep before we were even out of Pennsylvania, my head propped too comfortably against Jesse's shoulder. I didn't open my eyes again until I heard the sound of Frank Sinatra's “New York, New York” blaring from the radio as we drove through the Holland Tunnel. Carl was grinning at me in the rearview mirror, bopping his head along to the beat—to the lyrics about leaving behind small-town blues, heading into the big city for a brand-new start.