A Spark of Light(45)

It was good, Joe said. To get everything out in the open.

He had looked at her with his beautiful eyes, which no longer reminded Joy of seas she might travel, but of pale glaciers, an ocean of ice.

I should have told you. I would have if … His voice trailed off.

If what? Joy thought. What condition had to exist for her to be loved?

We’re going to Belize. Some place Mariah found that’s off the grid, so that we have nothing to do but talk. I’m taking a two-week leave of absence from the bench.

Mariah, Joy thought. That’s her name.

She thanked God for her prescription for Ortho-Novum.

A few weeks later she discovered she was one of the 9 percent of women who still got pregnant while using the Pill.

She had not let herself think about Joe. Telling him about the pregnancy might have been morally right, but to what end? He had made it clear that it was over.

But now, she gave herself a hiccup of space to imagine where he was at this moment, and what he was doing. She wondered if he had heard the news about a shooter at an abortion clinic. She wondered if she would be a casualty, if when the victims’ names were read by a reporter, he would grieve.

“You want to know why I had sex?” Joy repeated. “Because I made a mistake.”

“Babies are born flawless. They deserve the world.” To Joy’s surprise, Janine started to cry. She reached for Joy’s hands. “Babies are born flawless,” she repeated, “and they deserve the world. I’m not talking about … what you did today. I’m talking about you. I’m sorry that you got stuck in foster care. I’m sorry you didn’t feel safe. Just because you didn’t get that protection doesn’t mean you were born any less than perfect.”

Joy had not cried the night she stabbed a man.

She had not cried when she was taken away to a foster home.

She had not cried when she was told her mother had died of a broken neck after an “accidental” fall.

She had not cried when she was sexually abused or when she woke up in the pediatric psych ward, her wrists wrapped with bandages.

She had not cried when she found out she was pregnant.

She had not cried during this morning’s procedure. Or afterward.

But now, Joy sobbed.

—


OLIVE’S EYES WERE TIGHTLY SHUT, even though the closet was dark. She was trying to block out the heated conversation on the other side of the door by picturing Peg, the shape of her face, the smell of her hair when she just came out of the shower, the sound of her name in Peg’s mouth, blurred by her southern accent: Olive. Olive. I love.

“Are you afraid of dying?” Wren whispered, pulling Olive out of her reverie.

“Isn’t everyone?”

“I don’t know. I never thought about it until now.”

This girl was so young; younger, even, than Olive’s students. They had been wedged together on the floor of the utility closet for three hours now.

“I think what I’m afraid of,” Olive said, “is leaving everyone else behind.”

“Do you have a husband? Kids?”

Olive shook her head, unsure what to say. There were still places in Mississippi where she introduced Peg as her roommate. And she would never have walked down the street in broad daylight holding Peg’s hand.

“Not in the cards for me,” she murmured.

“Same for my aunt,” Wren said. “I never asked her if she was lonely.”

“You’ll be able to, when you get out of here.”

“If I get out of here,” Wren whispered. “My dad used to actually tell me to make sure I was wearing clean underwear. I mean, what a cliché, right?” She hesitated. “I’m wearing Friday.”

“Beg pardon?”

“It’s Tuesday. And my day-of-the-week underwear says Friday.”

Olive smiled in the dark. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“What if I get shot? I mean, it’s clean, but it’s the wrong day.” Wren laughed, a little unhinged. “What if I’m bleeding all over and the paramedics notice that—”

“You won’t get shot.”

In the dark, Olive could see the fierce shine of the girl’s eyes. “You don’t know that.”

She didn’t. To live was always a conditional verb.

There was a flurry of footsteps outside the closet door, and the phone rang. Both Olive and Wren held their breath. Olive grabbed Wren’s hand.

“I don’t wanna talk to you.” It was the shooter’s voice. It got fainter as he moved away again.

Olive squeezed Wren’s fingers. “Peg,” she breathed. “That’s the name of the woman I love.”

“The … oh, okay,” Wren replied. “That’s cool.”

Olive smiled to herself. Yes, Peg was cool. Cooler than she was, anyway. She made fun of Olive for not wearing white after Labor Day and for waiting a half hour after eating before she swam. Live a little, Peg would say to her, laughing.

Right now that was all Olive wanted to do.

“I just wanted to say her name out loud,” Olive added softly.

“At least you got to fall in love,” Wren whispered.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Wren ducked her head. “I don’t know. If I do survive, after this, I may never have sex.”