The Inconceivable Life of Quinn

by Marianna Baer

  He paused a moment and stroked one of his sideburns.

  “It’s also important to understand that God has given us all free will. The Blessed Virgin Mary said, ‘Be it done to me according to your Word.’ That was a yes to God. She made a decision, a choice. From the perspective of the Church, there has to be some communication, some consent, a yes in every relationship with God.”

  “Oh.” Quinn felt her swollen belly underneath her hands, and thought about these ideas and questions. Consent. Had there been a moment when she said yes? Maybe her decision not to have the abortion? And why would it be happening here, now, to Quinn? Although . . . she supposed that was the question she’d been asking herself all along—why her?

  “Does this make sense?”

  “I think so,” she said. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate you taking the time.”

  “My pleasure, Lydia.” He stared at her face. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? I feel certain I recognize you.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sure.”

  She walked toward the street; the rain had stopped. A yes. A decision. A choice. She started to run, her feet splashing in puddles, reminding her of her wet sneakers when she ran back to the cabin after swimming that night last May, filled with a sense of freedom, like she was now.

  She couldn’t piece together all of the different facts and opinions. Caroline, who thought Mary hadn’t even been a virgin. This priest, who said it was possible but seemed super skeptical. The people gathered outside the house, who had no doubt. The strange coincidence of Nicole having been in the doctor’s office that very day. Those blue drawings. Her troubles when she was a kid. Her feeling when swimming in that water. And, of course, you, she said, touching her stomach.

  When she got near home, the idea of going back inside her prison turned her feet into bricks. Talking to the priest had opened up gates inside her that she didn’t want to close . . . She finally felt the satisfaction of actually doing something. So, ignoring the voice inside her telling her how risky it was, she let herself run up the block that her house was on instead of heading to Jesse’s building. She approached the group from the other side of the street, keeping her wool hat low and the collar of her windbreaker zipped up over her chin. Only one man looked at her as she stepped up the curb and joined them. Her breaths were as fast and shallow as if she’d run a marathon, not just a few blocks. She reminded herself that they’d only seen her from a distance, through a window, if they’d seen her at all. She stood a little to the side and looked up at the house, seeing it as they did, jogging in place the entire time.

  “You a believer?” the man said after a minute. “Or a rubbernecker?”

  “Oh . . . just running by,” Quinn said, trying to think whether there was any way they’d recognize her voice. But no. People had heard her father talk, not her.

  “I wasn’t sure either,” another man chimed in. “But I figure, can’t hurt, right? Probably there’s some other story, but what’s it hurting, me trying to get a few prayers answered? Might as well try.”

  “You people are nuts,” a woman walking by said, shaking her head. “Haven’t you heard what’s really going on?”

  “Have you seen her?” an elderly woman standing with the group asked. “She glows. It’s amazing. If you saw her, you’d believe.”

  “You got to stay in the back and wait your turn, though,” the man in the plaid coat said to Quinn. “Some of us been out here all the time and we get the front spots. If there’s anything happening we get first on line. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Oh,” Quinn said, surprised by his aggressive tone. “Sure.”

  “People can’t just come in and expect to be first ahead of us. We’ve been waiting. There’s a way it works out here.” His face reminded Quinn of a hunk of raw beef.

  “Okay,” she said.

  A few people over, someone turned toward her. Nicole Anderson. Their eyes met. And Quinn could tell immediately—without a doubt—Nicole recognized her. Quinn’s blood froze.

  Nicole’s mouth got firm and she gave a little shake of her head—no.

  “Where you from?” the man in the plaid coat said, now sounding accusatory.

  “Um, around,” Quinn said, still focused on Nicole. No, Nicole signaled again.

  She was telling Quinn to leave, wasn’t she? She was telling her this wasn’t the time or place to talk, which, of course, it wasn’t. And just like that, fear rocketed through Quinn. Mumbling something about needing to get home, she took off, running around the corner onto PPW and around the next corner and through Jesse’s building. As she ran, she couldn’t believe she’d let that happen, that she’d actually been out there, among them. And was recognized. Nicole could have done anything once she realized.

  But all she had done was what was best for Quinn. Protected her, just like she’d said she would.

  Quinn made it into the kitchen without being seen, ran up the stairs and into her dark room and flipped on the light and—

  “Jesus!” she yelped in surprise, hand flying to her chest.

  Lydia was sitting on her bed, holding the note Quinn had left next to her pillow. She stared at Quinn, eyes hard. “You went outside?”

  Quinn swallowed. “I know. I just . . . I needed to get out, in fresh air. Please don’t tell, Lyddie. Please. You won’t, will you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  This was bad. So, so bad. Quinn saw her bag slumped next to her desk and squatted down. “I don’t know how much I have . . .” she said, searching through the pockets, finding a five, a ten, some crumpled ones . . . She smoothed them out into a stack and turned back to her sister. “Twenty dollars. It’s all I have. Please, Lyddie? I know you hate me, but I really, really, really need you not to tell them.”

  Lydia looked at the bills, her jaw tight. Finally, she stood up and met Quinn’s eyes again. “I don’t want your stupid money. I just don’t want you to go outside again. Promise you won’t.” Her gaze bored into Quinn, the same blue eyes as their father’s.

  “I promise,” Quinn said. Was that it? She gave her sister a small smile. “Thanks, Lyddie.”

  Without responding, Lydia pushed by her, even though there was room to walk around. At the doorway, she turned. “Why are you so stupid? Daddy told us they’re dangerous.”

  “I . . .” Quinn couldn’t explain that from the letters she’d read and from her interaction with Nicole, she didn’t feel in danger. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “That’s all.”

  NICOLE ANDERSON

  Nicole’s fingertips were pulsing, the way they did when her adrenaline kicked in.

  Quinn. Quinn had been right there.

  She scanned the group, nervous. Was it terrible that she was hoping no one else knew what had just happened? While she had compassion for all of them, and most of them seemed genuine and respectful, some of them scared her. A clique had formed, led by Samuel, that jerk in the plaid wool coat. The Entitled, she called them to herself. They acted like Quinn owed them something, and they were going to stay out here until they got it. Or until they took it.

  This morning, she’d found one of them going through the Cutlers’ trash under the stoop, looking for anything that Quinn might have touched. Nicole had told people over and over that stepping past the Cutlers’ fence was trespassing. But not everyone cared. They didn’t care about making this a sustainable situation—about being respectful and law-abiding so they didn’t cause trouble, and so as many people as possible could benefit—they just wanted to get whatever they could out of it. She’d heard them talking about stationing someone on the other street, in front of Quinn’s friend’s building, the one that the Cutlers used to come and go. She felt like things were slipping a little out of control and was glad that there was usually a police car nearby.

  Nicole didn’t want to worry about any of this now, though. Because Quinn had made contact. She had read the letter—her friend had said so when he gave back the money—and now she had made
contact. It was incredible. Nicole had worried so much about what she was doing and whether she was doing enough and whether the letter had been worded well and . . . everything! She felt so much responsibility. And to know that she might not be screwing up . . . That she might be worthy of this . . .

  Tempting as it had been to hug Quinn right then and take advantage of her rare closeness, Nicole knew she’d done the right thing.

  The energy out here was unpredictable.

  QUINN

  “Why haven’t we ever talked about the possibility that it could be an Immaculate Conception? Or Virgin Birth, whatever the term is,” Quinn said while pacing around Dr. Jacoby’s office.

  She probably wouldn’t have asked something like this before. But at this point, she had nothing left to lose. Her identity as Normal Quinn had floated so far away that it was now somewhere past the horizon, out of sight. Which meant she could say whatever she wanted.

  “You mean parthenogenesis?” Dr. Jacoby said.

  “No. Like, a God thing. Like the Virgin Mary.”

  Dr. Jacoby adjusted her glasses with a deliberate motion. “Is that something you’ve been considering?”

  “Even if I haven’t, isn’t it kind of weird that we haven’t talked about it, since so many people do believe it?”

  “It’s okay to tell me if you have been considering it,” Dr. Jacoby said. “I’d completely understand.”

  “Well, it’s just that I’ve been thinking about some things . . . like that night in Maine, the whole day, that swim . . . That whole memory is kind of . . . spiritual, you know? Like . . .” She went on to describe it in more honest detail than she had before—the emotional intensity, the almost supernatural beauty of the moon on the water . . . “What if that was all . . . God?” she said. “What if there really is a reason that the baby is here?” She tried to read Dr. Jacoby’s reaction, but as always, her face stayed frustratingly neutral.

  “Do you think that’s why you’re asking me this? Not because you actually think it’s possible, but because you want to believe that this all has a higher purpose?”

  “Of course. But does that mean it can’t be true?”

  “I think you know that I’m not going to tell you this is the answer, Quinn. But I also want you to know that it’s totally understandable that you’d want it to be.”

  Quinn sat down and stared outside at the almost-winter garden. This refusal to even consider it was exactly the attitude that might be keeping Quinn from finding the truth. Just like Nicole had said in her letter.

  “I don’t want to drop this if you want to explore it further,” Dr. Jacoby said. “But I do have an observation about the way you were just talking about that night in Maine.” She wove her fingers together. “Lots of aspects of the experience—the intimacy you felt with Marco, the heightening of your sensory perception, the feeling of being connected to nature and the universe . . . the way you’re describing it now, it all sounds like what could be a reaction to MDMA.”

  “What?” Quinn said.

  “Ecstasy is the common form. Users often have those responses to it, and it can cause loss of inhibitions, as well, which would explain both kissing Marco and the swim.”

  Quinn sat forward a bit, shifting both her position and her mind-frame. “Can it make you black out, like, a part of the night?”

  “It’s certainly not impossible. Do you know if anyone at the party was taking it?”

  Quinn shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” Dr. Jacoby said, “I think this is worth following up on.”

  Ecstasy. Dr. Jacoby showed her the description of the effects in a book, and it did sound like her experience.

  Not God. Drugs.

  Except, how did it explain the fact that she’d felt that excitement and hyperawareness from the moment she’d woken up that day? And if something happened on the beach that night, with Marco or someone else, didn’t it seem too convenient that she remembered everything around the event itself—running to the beach, swimming, running home, talking to Jesse—but not the event itself?

  Are you actually questioning this? Quinn said to herself. You want to believe it was God—something miraculous and supernatural—over this perfectly plausible explanation?

  She knew where the hesitation was coming from. She’d gotten attached to the idea that the pregnancy might have a special purpose, so some of her guilt would be alleviated. Like Dr. Jacoby had said when she suggested it. What she needed to do was face reality.

  She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to see Marco in person. Obviously, there was some reason Ben was avoiding her, so she couldn’t rely on him. (Although, she did leave him another voicemail, asking if anyone at the party had been taking E.) But, assuming she didn’t hear from him, she’d have to go see Marco alone. New Haven wasn’t a hard trip—she’d done it before with the Earth First members for a climate-change event at Yale. She’d take the F train, transfer to the 6, and take that uptown to Grand Central, where she’d get one of the frequent Metro-North trains to New Haven.

  Jesse came over the next day, and while she didn’t mention the plan to him, she sent him with a note for Sadie asking her to please find out what dorm Marco was in and any other information (class schedule, maybe?) and a map and whatever else Sadie thought Quinn might need for a trip to New Haven.

  Two days later, first thing in the morning, the doorbell rang. It was so early that Quinn had a surge of hope it was Jesse stopping by on his way to school with info from Sadie, momentarily forgetting that he came over through the kitchen now. She hurried downstairs, holding the railing, mindful of not risking falling and hurting the baby. Her mother had already opened the door. A man Quinn didn’t recognize—tall, heavyset, ruddy-cheeked—was stepping inside while Katherine apologized to him about the crowd out front. “They’re one of the reasons we need you, of course,” she said. Quinn backed up onto the stair landing, out of view, and listened. The man was here to consult with her parents about an alarm system for the house. He enthusiastically described a high-tech system, with entry codes you had to use to get in or out—a different code for each person who was assigned one. All comings and goings were logged, and her parents would receive messages by phone whenever anyone came or went. As soon as Quinn heard that the alarm wasn’t just to alert them to a break-in, but was going to alert them to a break-out, she knew: Lydia had told them. Fuck.

  “That sounds like the one we want,” her father said.

  Quinn sank down onto the stair. The very moment she left the house, they would know. Going to New Haven would be impossible. Going anywhere would be impossible.

  She sat for a moment and gathered her thoughts. This meant she couldn’t wait any longer, not even for the information from Sadie. She had to go now. Today. Before the alarm was installed.

  Without any further planning, she rushed through the same maneuvers as when she snuck out to talk to Father Bob: piled blankets to look like she was sleeping, darkened her room, put music on . . . A frantic energy filled her limbs as she did it all; she was already breathing heavily as she snuck back downstairs. But by the time she slid open the kitchen door, the energy had turned into the high-frequency buzz of panic. What was she doing? She didn’t know anything about Marco’s life at school, where he lived, nothing! What was she going to do, wander the campus, hoping to run into him? She didn’t even have a smartphone.

  She pressed a hand against her chest, her breaths too rapid, and looked out the door at the backyard, willing herself to be brave enough to run.

  But even if she did find Marco . . . what if she had a flashback when she saw him in person? It could trigger some awful emotional reaction, and she’d be there alone, freaking out. Or—even worse—he could hurt her again, to keep her quiet. The possible ways this could go wrong crashed through her skull. There was smart brave and there was dumb brave; this was definitely dumb brave.

  Reluctantly, she slid the kitchen door shut, feeling like she’d just closed the door to h
er own cell.

  Quinn couldn’t stop herself from storming up to her sister’s room and asking why she had done it, why she had told their parents, making this place even more of a prison than it already was.

  Lydia was sitting on the floor with her turtle, her hair in two messy braids she had obviously done herself. “I didn’t tell them,” she said, looking surprised. “I swear.”

  “So it’s just a coincidence they’re getting this maximum security system to trap me in here?” Quinn said, knowing her sister was lying.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t tell them.” She blinked her wide eyes.

  The denial made Quinn even angrier. “I can’t trust you at all, can I?”

  She crossed her arms and stared down at her. And as Lydia stared back up, her chin began to quiver. “I promise I didn’t,” she said. “I know I told that Peter reporter guy about you, I know I did, and I know I ruined everything. But I was just trying to help.” She spoke through sobs now. “I didn’t want everyone to keep lying about you. I ruined everything, and I know you hate me, but I didn’t tell about you going out. I promise. I didn’t.” Tears streamed down her face.

  After a moment of shock, Quinn knelt next to her sister and wrapped her shaking body in a hug. “I don’t hate you,” she said. “I love you, Lyddie. None of this is your fault. None of it, okay?”

  “It is,” Lydia said. “I shouldn’t have told him. None of this would have happened. It’s all my fault. Everything. I was just trying to help.”

  Quinn moved in front of her sister and held her by the shoulders. Lydia didn’t cry often, and when she did, it made her look so young. “Don’t you ever think that,” she said. “Please, Lyddie. I’m not sure why this has all happened, but don’t ever blame yourself. It’s not your fault. I promise it’s not.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lydia sobbed. “I don’t understand any of it.”