Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  “I’m fine. I’m a big girl, okay?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  It wasn’t how she had planned to greet Becca after being apart for almost four months. Get a grip, Meg. Get a grip. Thank goodness no one else could hear the anxious voices clamoring inside her head whenever her overactive imagination got the best of her.

  “I’m so happy to see you!” Meg exclaimed. A nose ring? She tried not to stare. And her hair was so short! Becca had worn her hair short for years because she didn’t like her curls, but this blunt, spiky cut made her look so much older. And her skirt! It barely covered the essentials.

  Get a grip.

  “Do you want to come upstairs and visit?” Meg asked as Becca took off her dark jacket to reveal a blouse that was—well, revealing. What kind of flimsy fabric was that? And in winter? Is this how young people dressed in London? What about Irish wool cardigans and—

  Becca yawned. “I can’t stay too long. Let’s just sit here.” She gestured toward the lounge area.

  “I’ve got some food I brought for you upstairs, the things you said you couldn’t get here.”

  “Cool! Thanks! I’ll get it later.”

  Meg sat down beside her on the sofa, noting just how snug and short the skirt was when Becca tucked her feet beneath her. Becca had always enjoyed fashion, and they’d had their share of disagreements over the years about what constituted appropriate attire. No way Meg would have let her out of the house in something like this. Mother would have had a conniption. But they weren’t in Kingsbury, Becca wasn’t a teenager, and Mother’s censure only echoed in Meg’s own head.

  Meg cleared her throat.

  Becca tugged on the hem.

  “So your flight was good?”

  “No problems, once we got off the ground. I’m looking forward to a good night’s rest, and then I’ll be ready to go.” Meg paused, trying to figure out where to set her gaze without staring conspicuously at Becca’s clothes or piercing. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

  “Class from eight until noon and then another study group after that.”

  No breakfast, no tea. Meg hoped her face didn’t reveal how deflated she felt.

  “I’ll be free for dinner, though.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s pretty crazy for me the next couple of days, but then I’ve got the afternoon off on Friday, so we’ll plan some sightseeing for then, okay?” Becca yawned again. “If you want to spend tomorrow morning at the British Museum, we could meet there for a quick lunch. It’s right near campus.”

  Yes.

  Yes. See? That would be good. “That sounds great,” Meg said. “I’ve been studying the travel guides, and it looks like I could spend days there.”

  “Cool. I’ll call you when I finish class.” Becca was already making motions like she was getting ready to leave, and they’d only just sat down together.

  Get a grip.

  No.

  Let go. Let go of the expectations, the disappointment, the fear.

  Inhale. I can’t.

  Exhale. You can, Lord.

  “I’m guessing you won’t let me call a taxi for you.”

  “Right. I’m good.”

  “You could stay here tonight—”

  “Mom.” Not scolding, but firm. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

  How was she supposed to mother a daughter with wings? Maybe some things were easier from a distance.

  Inhale. I can’t, Lord.

  Exhale. Please help.

  They chatted a few more minutes about classes and exams and papers before Becca rose and put on her jacket. If only she had a long coat to conceal the short skirt!

  Meg mustered her most cheerful smile. “Call me when you get home?”

  “Mom!” This time her tone had an exasperated, disgusted edge.

  “Okay—sorry. Just be careful. Please.” Meg kissed the top of Becca’s head and immediately started fretting again.

  Her hair smelled like smoke.

  three

  Charissa

  When John called at two o’clock Tuesday afternoon, Charissa knew it would be about their offer on the house. At her father-in-law’s suggestion, they had offered full price first thing that morning. “Don’t play games over the sake of a few thousand dollars,” he’d advised. “It’s priced fairly. If you’re happy with it, give them what they’re asking for, especially if there are other potential buyers.”

  As soon as John said, “Hey, Riss!” she knew it was good news. The house was theirs. John was buoyant when he picked Charissa up on campus just after five o’clock. “Can you believe it? We’re gonna have a house!” If everything went according to plan, they could be moved in by the middle of January. “I’ve got a great idea,” he said as he pulled out of the library parking lot. “Let’s go get pizza and drive over to see it again.”

  That did not sound like a great idea. She was another day closer to paper and presentation deadlines, and she’d felt nauseous all day. But she was trying hard not to be self-centered. Trying really hard. So they picked up pizza from his favorite place and drove to the house, where they ate in the car.

  “The front window there—that should be the baby’s room, don’t you think?” He had the Pizza Depot box open on his lap, and the smell was overpowering. She’d had to use three napkins to blot a single greasy slice.

  “Can you close that?” She crinkled her nose. Since it was too cold to crack the window open, she maneuvered the dashboard vents and boosted the airflow.

  John took another piece and closed the lid, the oil dribbling down his hands and chin as he curled the slice into his mouth. She passed him a napkin.

  “I already asked Dad if he can help us remodel the master bath. I think we can replace the dark cupboards and linoleum for cheap. Tim’s done all that work on their house, and he said he’d help.” Charissa covered her nose and mouth with the edge of her sleeve. “You don’t want any more? You hardly ate anything.” She shook her head. He looked hard at her. “I’m sorry, hon. The smell?”

  “I don’t know how you can stand that stuff. It’s disgusting.”

  “You want me to put the box in the trunk?”

  “That won’t help.” She turned up the fan again. But the hot was too hot and the cold was too cold and the windows were fogging up and her Milton paper still wasn’t perfect and the end of the semester was only a couple of weeks away and her jeans were already feeling tight around her waist even though she shouldn’t be gaining weight yet and they didn’t have money for a gym membership and—

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” John said.

  Charissa bit her tongue before she said something sarcastic.

  “I just thought—” He tossed the pizza box into the backseat.

  She arched her eyebrows. “Thought what?”

  “Never mind. Just—” He flipped on the headlights and put the car into reverse. “Forget about it.”

  Now John was mad at her.

  Great.

  Just great.

  “No. You know what?” He threw the car back into park and turned to face her, elbow on the steering wheel. “I just thought it would be nice, you know, to come and see the house we just got. To sit here together and dream a bit about what it will be like once we’ve moved in. But no! You can’t even be excited about this. First the baby, now the house! You’ve stolen all the big moments away from me, you know that?”

  Charissa looked away from him and stared out the window, the white lights in the trees taunting her with their blithe twinkling.

  John threw the car into reverse again, gunning the accelerator once they were out of the driveway. They didn’t speak to one another the rest of the night.

  The next morning Charissa sat in Dr. Allen’s class, listening to him describe the requirements for their final paper in his Literature and the Christian Imagination seminar. She ought to have known that, unorthodox as he was in his approach to teaching, Dr. Allen would demand something mo
re than a typical literary analysis. Now, on top of everything else she was trying to manage, she would have to write an “integration piece” as part of the final assignment, addressing her spiritual formation this semester by answering these questions:

  How has the literature you’ve been reading this term affected your faith?

  What insights have you received regarding your life with God?

  Identify and discuss some of the obstacles that hinder your responsiveness to the Spirit. In what ways is God inviting you into deeper life with him?

  What is your prayer?

  Give her any kind of research project, and Charissa could easily achieve the highest possible marks. But Dr. Allen had been challenging them all semester to “read receptively” as well as critically and analytically, and this meant paying attention to things she’d never paid attention to before. His methods had been both provoking and enlightening.

  “Be as specific and detailed as possible,” Dr. Allen was saying. “Cite examples from the literature, and describe how and why it has resonated with you or provoked you. Give details about the ways your spirit has been opened to the work of God because of what you’ve been reading. And be sure to write what’s true about where you are with God right now, not about where you wish you were. Be authentic. God meets us as we look honestly at where we’re growing, where we’re resisting. I’m not interested in being impressed. Just tell the truth.”

  Just tell the truth.

  Like what?

  Like how every day she saw fresh evidence of her own sin?

  Like how every day she saw how inconsistent she was in her faith, how lukewarm she was in her longings, how stubborn she was in her desire for control?

  Is that the kind of paper he wanted?

  Weeks ago she’d had what she’d considered to be a seminal supernatural encounter with Jesus as a result of reading George Herbert’s “Love (III)” poem. She had caught a glimpse of Love bidding her welcome, even in all her sin. She had caught a glimpse of Jesus longing for intimacy with her, of Jesus embracing her and drawing her near. In that moment when poetry became a portal for prayer, she had experienced passion and longing like never before. The newness and unfamiliarity of that sort of intensity had been exhilarating. She’d thought it had been life-changing.

  Now that seemed like a lifetime ago. In many ways, it was. The twenty-six-year-old woman who’d had that encounter with God was the graduate student who thought she had life ordered in a predictable trajectory of achievement. Now she was pregnant. That’s where the “deepening intimacy” journey had led her.

  How ironic.

  Just yesterday she’d read John Donne’s “Annunciation” poem about the incarnation, about Jesus yielding himself “to lie in prison” in Mary’s womb. “Thou hast light in dark, and shutst in little room, Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb.”

  Immensity cloistered.

  What a masterful pairing of words.

  Maybe that phrase could be the launching point for the integration piece. Perhaps she could compare and contrast Mary’s obedient surrender to the formation of the Son of God within her womb against her own resistance not only to the formation of physical life within her, but to the formation of Christ’s life in her.

  Yes. That was probably the sort of reflection Dr. Allen was looking for. He often described spiritual formation as a yielding and trusting “yes” to God, as creating sacred space where the life of Christ could flourish and grow.

  Light in dark. And shutst in little room.

  Very little room.

  And—could she articulate this tension honestly?—she still wasn’t sure she wanted a life apart from hers taking on its own form within her, physically or spiritually. To take the metaphor further, was she ready to say a fully surrendered yes to the kind of Life that would change everything? Or did she prefer a less intimate, less intrusive Presence whom she could follow from a comfortable distance?

  She scribbled some notes on the instruction sheet and slid it into her binder. At least she had a starting place for writing her paper. No doubt Dr. Allen would be thrilled, both with her wrestling and her insights. At least that was something.

  Wasn’t it?

  Maybe she should make another appointment to see him. She’d already had several helpful conversations with him about her internal conflict and how the pregnancy was affecting her studies.

  “It’s a grief process, Charissa,” he’d said last week when she visited him in his office. “Before you’ll be able to see any of the new gifts being given through the life of this child or through your call to motherhood, you’ll need to be able to name what has died. Your plans. Your ambitions. Your vision of how life would be. These spiritual and emotional deaths are no less significant than the physical ones, but they can be harder to name. The important thing is that you don’t pretend you aren’t feeling conflicted about this. God invites us to be honest in our praying, even when the honesty sounds ugly.”

  And self-centered.

  John was right. She was so self-centered and selfish. And she wasn’t sure it would ever be any other way, no matter how hard she tried.

  “Hey, congrats on the house, man!”

  John looked up from his computer screen and fist-bumped one of his coworkers. “Yeah, thanks, Mark. I’m pretty psyched about it.”

  “So what’s the schedule? When are you guys moving in?”

  “Pretty quick. We’re supposed to close in six weeks. Now I’ve just got to coordinate all the inspections and everything.”

  There would be a ton of work to do in the next couple of weeks, and Charissa sure wasn’t going to be much help.

  Maybe all pregnant women were difficult.

  John decided to talk about it with his college roommate, Tim, over lunch. “So when Jenn was pregnant, did she, like, feel sick a lot?”

  “All the time,” Tim said. “For a few months at least. And she had all these weird food cravings that changed all the time. Like, I remember going out to buy her cashews late one night because she said she had to have cashews. So I got her this huge container and brought it home, and she ended up crying that she didn’t want them.”

  Erratic and unpredictable food cravings. He’d have to remember that one.

  “And then one night she just had to have chocolate pudding, and I found chocolate pudding, but it was the wrong kind, and she lost it.”

  “Sounds rough,” John said.

  “Yeah. But it gets better. At least, it did with Jenn. She didn’t like being pregnant, but she loves being a mom.”

  Right! That made sense. John had never considered distinguishing pregnancy from motherhood. Maybe Charissa would start getting excited once the semester was over. Or if she never enjoyed being pregnant, maybe she’d warm up once the baby was born. After all, who didn’t melt at holding a newborn? Especially your newborn?

  “Everything okay with you guys?” Tim eyed him suspiciously.

  “Yeah, everything’s good. She’s just got the whole morning sickness thing—except not just in the morning—and I was wondering, you know, if it’s normal.”

  John decided not to mention Charissa’s apparent lack of enthusiasm over the house. He didn’t want to give Tim any ammunition for being critical. Tim had never been a huge fan of Charissa, even though he had continued to be a loyal friend to John. He’d even been their best man. But he had always thought that John deserved better, and he’d said so frequently before they were married.

  There were days—several of them over the past couple of months, in fact—when, if he was completely honest with himself, John would agree. And now that he had voiced this latest disappointment to her, he would no doubt suffer the consequences by enduring her favorite form of anger: icy resentment and passive aggression, which could last for days.

  At three o’clock John shut down his computer and packed up his desk. Time to pick her up for their first prenatal appointment with the new doctor. He hoped there wouldn’t be other couples sitting together in t
he waiting room, oozing enthusiasm and tenderness. “I’m heading out, Susan,” he informed his manager. “Charissa’s got her appointment.”

  “Hope it goes well.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in early tomorrow morning to make up the time.”

  “Don’t worry about it, John. This is a big moment for you. For both of you. Just enjoy it.”

  You don’t know my wife, he thought. He shuffled across the parking lot, kicking at loose pebbles.

  Charissa could feel the estrogen in the air as soon as she set foot in the brand new, state-of-the-art maternity care center adjacent to St. Luke’s Hospital. While she waited for John to park the car, she studied the window displays in the gleaming gift shop near the entrance. Headless mannequins with enormous bellies sported the latest fashions in maternity wear, while others had dolls swaddled to their chests in papoose-style wraps. And then there were the lactation accessories. She did not want to breastfeed. There was something vulgar and primitive about the immodesty of the liberated breastfeeding woman, flaunting her right to nurse in public. As a child Charissa had seen a lactivist cradling her infant on a park bench in Chicago. She’d watched with repulsed fascination as the baby latched onto an enlarged, dark, wrinkled nipple, which the mother had smilingly manipulated into its groping mouth.

  She hated the word nipple.

  Hers hurt.

  She found a bench where she could sit without being assaulted by maternity images and waited for John.

  He had been quiet during the fifteen-minute ride from the university, no doubt still feeling the sting of her latest wound. Even though she knew she should apologize for—how had he put it in the car last night? Ruining his life?—she couldn’t bring herself to form the words. He knew when he married her that she wasn’t the overly exuberant, emotional type. She had her father’s temperament: cool, reserved, self-controlled. John really should have more sympathy for the stress she was under, especially now that her whole body was being affected by a kidney bean–sized embryo exerting its power and presence by making her sick.