by Nicole Maggi
“Abortion.”
My eyes flew open.
“We are so fortunate to have a mayor who is fighting to preserve the sanctity of life.” Pastor Charlie nodded toward my dad. “We here at Word of Life Church will be supporting him in the upcoming election.”
The back of my neck grew itchy. Among all the other things I notice now, I notice how often Pastor Charlie talks about my dad, how blurry the lines are between church and state. Dad talks about how there shouldn’t be a line between the two, that Christian principles should always be taken into consideration when making laws. Then he’ll talk about upholding the Constitution in the next breath.
We had a debate about this topic last month in American History. And I think those two things are mutually exclusive.
“Banning abortion in Colorado will be Hiram Rivers’s top priority in office, just as it is a top priority for all of us here at Word of Life.”
I couldn’t list the states in my head anymore; Pastor Charlie’s voice had gotten in and there was no getting it out. My legs trembled. I held my knee to make it stop. We were pressed so close in the pew that Mom or Bethany would surely notice.
“It is a source of deep shame that one of the state’s last remaining abortion clinics is right here in our beloved town.” Pastor Charlie’s gaze swept across the congregation. Was it my imagination or did he stop on me for an instant? “They may claim to care about women’s health, but we here at Word of Life know the truth. We know what goes on behind those closed doors. It is a factory of death. The floors are covered with the blood of innocent babies, and everyone who works there is an instrument of Satan.”
Unlike the campaign rally in Woodview, everyone here nodded along. The judgment surrounded me. In the row in front of us, where the Bellows family sat, Mrs. Bellows raised her hand to the air and gave a loud “Amen.”
“Many of you are doing God’s work by talking to women as they approach this clinic, educating them about what really happens inside.” Pastor Charlie offered a smile, nodding at a few people in the pews. “And while this work is important, it is time that we take further steps toward preserving the sanctity of life. It is not enough to convince women not to go into these clinics.” He grasped the edges of the lectern and leaned forward, his mouth so close to the microphone that his voice reverberated off the walls. “We must prevent the people who work in these clinics from doing Satan’s work.”
All my body’s warmth drained away and left me freezing cold. He may have couched it in flowery words, but I knew what he was saying. I knew what he was inciting people to do. My mind flashed to the news footage from the clinic in Minnesota, the black body bags being rolled out the front door on stretchers…
He wants that to happen here.
He wants that to happen to Lise’s mom.
When Lise told me about her mom, it seemed like an abstract danger. But today it became a concrete threat. I’m so scared for her, for her mom—more scared than I was sitting in that church with HIM so close by.
Even God can’t keep evil out of His own house.
After the service, I tried to escape fast, but the crowd was thick and we were stuck in our pew. Mrs. Bellows stopped Mom to talk to her about Hannah’s bridal shower, and I couldn’t get around her. Pastor Charlie moved down the aisle, greeting people, clapping Dad on the back when he passed him. My dad was in full networking mode, pressing flesh with anyone in reaching distance. A lot of people offered to help out on his campaign, and he directed them to his website—where they could volunteer and donate money.
We finally made it into the aisle.
And I came face-to-face with HIM.
There were people all around me. I couldn’t turn away.
He smiled at me.
I stared at him. I wanted to claw that smug, satisfied smile off his face, leave him scarred like he’s forever scarred me.
He leaned into me. His hot breath was on my neck. “I had a great time at your house at Christmas,” he whispered, so quiet only I could hear. His hand touched mine. To anyone around us, it probably looked like he was shaking my hand and maybe giving me a friendly peck on the cheek. “I hope we can do it again sometime.”
Then he was gone so fast I started to doubt it had even happened.
But it did. I’m writing about it because it happened.
Not only does he remember, he remembers it HIS way, not mine. He thinks I liked it. He thinks it was consensual. And everyone else will too. They’ll believe him, not me.
What I’m writing here in these pages—this is the truth. No matter what anyone says, I know what’s true, and it’s all right here in black and white.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
March 5
Dear Ms. Tilson,
It is March. This month our Women of the Bible calendar features Judith and Holofernes. Judith does not appear in the Bible, but in the Apocrypha, a sort of Bible companion book. The painting depicts her at the exact moment of slaughtering Holofernes, the cruel general who has imprisoned her city. Her knife is at his throat and there is blood everywhere as she saws his head off.
My favorite part of this painting is that it was done by a woman. There’s a little note about the artist underneath the Biblical text crediting it to Artemisia Gentileschi, daughter of the famous Renaissance artist Orazio Gentileschi. (Why they had to mention her father at all, I don’t know. Didn’t she paint it all by herself, without his help?) I looked her up in one of the Art of the Western World books in the school library this afternoon. Artemisia was famous in her own right, second only to Caravaggio in her time. But she wasn’t only famous for her art.
She was famous because she’d been raped and her father took her rapist to court. At the time, most girls would’ve kept their shame silent or their families might have sent them to a convent to lessen the disgrace. Instead, her father fought for her…and won.
Knowing this, I stared at the painting for a long time when I got home today. I wondered, was she thinking about her rapist when she painted it? Did Holofernes bear the face of the man who violated her? Was she painting her revenge through Judith?
I think she was. I think she poured everything that happened to her into her art.
I want to paint like that someday.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
March 6
Dear Ms. Tilson—
This afternoon, Rowan came over and we hardcore made out on the couch. Like half my clothes were off and half his clothes were off, and his hands were all over me. I wanted them all over me. At one point, he pulled away and reached into his backpack that was on the floor next to the couch. He pulled out a condom.
“Do you want to?” he asked, his voice all raspy.
I wanted to. I wanted to take off the rest of our clothes and be totally naked with him. To feel his skin against mine and have him inside me. I wanted that.
I was about to say yes, when suddenly Mellie’s voice was in my head.
How can I kill something with a heartbeat?
Condoms are only effective about 97 percent of the time, so there was a 3 percent chance that I could get pregnant with Rowan. Maybe it was only 3 percent, but was I ready if I had to deal with that?
I sat up and put my head in my hands.
Rowan sat up too. “It’s okay,” he said.
(I told you he was a good guy. The best kind of guy.)
I looked up into his face and touched his cheek. “I’m not ready. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. This isn’t something you have to be sorry for.”
I kissed him hard, long, and deep, breathing “thank you” into his mouth. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for not being a dickwad like Jason Bellows or the asshole who raped Mellie.
Then we did some stuff I had never done before. It wasn’t sex, but felt just as intimate.
I super enjoyed it, but that’s all I’m going to tell you.
By the time my mom got home, we were fully clothed and doing our homework at the kitchen table like a pair of perfect students. Rowan stayed for dinner, and after dinner he did the dishes. If I didn’t love him before, I definitely do now. But I am really glad we didn’t have sex. Because if I can’t deal with what could come afterward, then I’m definitely not ready.
After he left, my mom turned to me. “Did you two have sex this afternoon?”
I swear to God, I almost died. How did she know?! What kind of mom superpower is that? My jaw hit the floor, and I sputtered for a few seconds. Then, because I never lie to my mom, I told her the truth. I told her about almost doing it, then choosing not to, and how Rowan respected my choice. I told her about the not-sex stuff we did, even though it made me totally red in the face to talk about and I couldn’t look at her while I told her.
Mom took my hand when I was done. “Thank you for being honest with me, Lise.” She squeezed my fingers. “I think you made the right choice, but when the time comes, I trust you to know what you are doing.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
We hugged it out. She was about to get up from the couch, but I stopped her.
I told her about Mellie.
“That poor girl,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. “She probably feels so alone. Especially…given who her family is.” She sighed. “I have to be honest. I don’t like the idea of someone so close to Hiram Rivers knowing about me.”
“I know, Mom. But I couldn’t not help her.” My throat was tight. It gets that way a lot when I think about Mellie.
“Of course you couldn’t,” she said, touching my knee. “I’m proud of you for helping her. And if you say she won’t tell, we have to trust that she won’t. We just need to be extra vigilant. I’ll make sure Jasmine knows.” She chewed her lip. “At any rate, whatever night she can get away, I’ll see her. Just shoot me a text during the day and I’ll get Daphne to pick you guys up.” She got up from the couch. Halfway to the stairs, she turned back to me. “Lise.”
“Yeah?”
“Does she know about the forty-eight hours?”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t know. She was so scared that I had been afraid to ask her. “I don’t think so, Mom.”
“We’ll talk about all her options when she comes in.” She climbed the stairs, disappearing down the hallway at the top.
Her options. What did that even mean for Mellie? Once she heard about the forty-eight–hour law, she would freak out.
It wasn’t fair. I wanted to throw something, smash it against the wall like it’s the patriarchy.
Everyone worries about their precious boys, their lives ruined if they’re accused of rape. Never understanding that it’s the girls who have ruined lives now—internal scars that will never heal, sometimes a baby forced on them that they never asked for. But somehow, it’s all our fault.
Abstinence only, they teach us in school. But if we don’t put out, we’re prudes. And if we do, we’re sluts. There are too many rules to follow, and I can’t keep track of them all. I’m still just a girl, but I’m starting to feel how hard it is to be a woman in this world.
It feels like there’s a brick wall we have to break through to be considered equal to men, and every time a crack becomes wide enough to fit through, it gets cemented over.
I want to be one of the women to help break through that wall, then protect it so no one can cement it shut again, and me and Mellie and Cara and all the other girls—yes, all, even Delia—can get through.
—Lise
March 6
Night
Dear Ms. Tilson,
Today at lunch Lise found me in the cafeteria annex. We got a few looks, mainly because people don’t usually sit together in the annex. The annex is for losers who have lost all their friends and have to sit by themselves.
“Where’s Cara?” I asked.
Lise shrugged. “I told her I’d be sitting with you. She was cool.”
I wonder what that’s like, having friends who are cool when you do things your own way once in a while. I pushed my fork through my mac and cheese. When I chose it on the lunch line, it looked delicious, but now the smell was turning my stomach. I took a swig of water instead.
“How are you feeling?” Lise asked.
“Nauseous. All the time.” I glanced around and lowered my voice even more. “I can’t believe people do this voluntarily.”
“No argument from me.” Lise took a big bite of her hamburger. I almost gagged. When she was done chewing, she spoke again. “I talked to my mom—”
My stomach did a little flip-flop. “You told your mom?”
Lise’s face scrunched up. “Oh, Mellie, I’m sorry. I did. I had to in order to let her know—”
“No, no, it’s okay. I mean, it’s not like she wasn’t going to find out.”
“Yeah, that’s true. She said she can see you whenever you’re ready.”
I nodded, again looking around to make sure no one was listening. They weren’t. Most of the kids had on headphones anyway.
“Probably after hours would be better,” Lise went on. “Do you think you could get away in the evening, like seven?”
“I…I don’t know,” I said. “I’d have to come up with a really good reason. It might be hard.”
“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
“Okay,” I whispered. My heart was beating fast, like millions of tiny hummingbird wings. As long as I just talk about it, it’s not real. Making a plan feels too real, too fast. But I can’t wait much longer.
I already have a bump.
Hannah had a wedding dress fitting this afternoon, and I had to go get my maid of honor dress fitted at the same visit.
Hannah chose her dress several months ago, and they had to order it. Me and Mom and Bethany were all with her when she chose it, and we all cried when they put the veil on her, just like on all those wedding dress shows on television. It seems so far out of the realm of memory now.
Bethany and I are co-maids of honor, and our dresses are slightly different from the ones that Delia and Ruth will wear as bridesmaids, and Joanie, who’s the flower girl. The dresses are the most beautiful shade of pink—dusty rose, it’s called—with a princess skirt and three-quarter–length sleeves that are trimmed with floral embroidery. I remember feeling so pretty and important the day we picked these dresses out.
Today as Hannah was being fitted in one dressing room, I was pulling on my maid of honor dress in another. Like Hannah’s wedding dress, our dresses were specially ordered, custom-sized to fit our measurements.
“How’s it going?” Hannah called from her room.
“Great!” Bethany called back from her room on the other side of me.
In the middle of them, I was silent. I could barely get the dress on. I was able to get it over my hips but it would only zip a few inches. Sweat trickled down my neck and armpits as I tried to force the zipper. It wouldn’t budge.
“Okay,” said Vera, the seamstress, in her Russian accent, after finishing with Hannah. I heard the curtain slide open. “Let’s see how the beautiful maids are doing.” Before I could stop her, Vera stepped into my room. Thankfully my mother was in Hannah’s room and not sitting on the couch on the other side of the curtain where she could see me.
I spun to face Vera, my arms twisted behind me, clutching both sides of the zipper. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my reflection in the mirror, my hair mussed and stuck to my sweaty face, my eyes wide and scared. She took one long survey of my body, and I saw my own panic reflected in her eyes.
She knew. She works with women’s bodies all day long; I shouldn’t be surprised she knew.
“Please,” I mouthed to her, shaking my head, more hair falling across my face.
“O
kay, good,” she said loudly. Swiftly, she clipped the curtain to the walls so that no one could come in. Then her deft hands pushed mine out of the way and worked up and down the dress, ripping open seams, pinning and folding fabric so that within a matter of minutes, the dress was fitted to me. She raised the waistline just enough to hide the slight bulge of my belly, widened the neckline to allow for my swelling breasts. When she was done, she stepped back and examined her work. “Voilà,” she said softly.
My chin trembled. Tears spilled onto my cheeks. “Thank you,” I whispered, so quiet that only she could hear me. She put her arm around me and drew my head to her shoulder, letting me sob silently for a moment.
“It will be okay,” she breathed into my ear. Then she slipped out of my room and into Bethany’s, leaving me alone to compose myself before my mother came in to pick me apart.
I can’t rely on the Veras of the world to hide me much longer. I can’t just think about doing something. I have to do it before everyone knows.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
March 7
Dear Ms. Tilson,
In between all the nausea, I crave things. Deep intense cravings that wake me up in the middle of the night. Two nights ago, I tiptoed downstairs and ate all the Fudgsicles. Joanie is the only one who eats them, and the next night, when my mom went to get one for her after dinner, there was a huge crisis in the kitchen when she discovered they were all gone. Joanie threw a tantrum, Mom accused all of us of eating them, and I lied so well I should’ve won an Oscar.
I didn’t throw up the Fudgsicles. Mom’s roasted chicken with potatoes and carrots? That only stayed down about fifteen minutes after dinner.
Today during your class, Ms. Tilson, the gnawing started in my gut, eating away at me until by the end of school it was a full-on craving, so strong I couldn’t think about anything else. I literally couldn’t remember my locker combination because this craving had taken over my brain. You know Marie’s? They make the best carrot cake in the world. Dense and moist and with cream cheese frosting that’s inches thick, exactly the way carrot cake should be. I could not stop thinking about it. I could taste it in my mouth. I needed it.