When they got to the town, it was late. They’d have to spend the night and pay taxes the next day. The couple knocked on the door of every hotel in the whole town. No place had any room. They knocked on the doors of houses, offering money in exchange for shelter. No one had any room. It was cold and dark. Finally, the couple came to the last house in town. “I don’t have any room in the house,” said an old man, “but you can sleep in the stable with the animals.”
“Hmph,” said Mary. A few months ago, she’d been showered with wonderful gifts, candy and gems, and now she was supposed to sleep on a bed of hay with some piglets?
“Oh, Mary,” Joseph said. “It will be okay. We have each other!” He took the blanket out of their bag and wrapped Mary in it. He fluffed the hay and lay her down on it. “My sweet Mary,” he said.
“Wait a second,” Mary said. She winced and put her hand on her stomach. Something burst inside her and she was wet. She looked down and saw the wetness. “Joseph,” she said.
“Oh, Lord,” said Joseph. He jumped up. “Wait here, Mary. I’ll find someone to help us. Don’t worry, my love! I’ll be back!” Joseph rushed off.
Mary exhaled audibly. “Come back quick!” she tried to say, but her voice was so quiet she could barely even hear herself, so there was no way Joseph heard her.
The sky opened up and the golden angel descended. Mary was breathing in and out frantically. Her body was about to explode, rip in half, open up like the sky just did. Would she survive the childbirth? Would Joseph find help in time? Mary knew the Lord would protect the baby, but she didn’t know whether he would spare her life as well.
“Oh, relax,” said the angel. “Don’t be so dramatic. The Lord will let you live. He is grateful to you for your service, Mary.”
Mary glared at him. She hated that angel, with his stupid golden skin and perfect symmetrical features. Mary felt herself begin to open. It was excruciating. “Ow!” she screamed. She arched her body and threw her head back. “Ow!”
“You need to push,” said the angel.
“No, thanks,” said Mary. She wanted to hold it in. If she let it go, she’d rip in half, she knew it. She’d die.
“Push,” said the angel.
“You’re trying to trick me,” she said. “You don’t care about me. All you care about is this baby. Once he’s born, you’ll have no more use for me. You’ll forget me.”
“Oh, Mary,” said the angel. “The Catholics won’t forget you. Thousands of years from now, they’ll still put your face on candles they light while making wishes. The Protestants will sort of forget about you, though, I guess that’s true. Actually, what’s interesting is, there will be more about you in the Quran than the Bible. The Quran will have a whole chapter about you.”
“What?” said Mary.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just push!”
Mary closed her eyes and let out a scream. Into that scream she put all of her anger at the angel, at the Lord, at the people who ruined her house and called her a slut, at her father for selling her to Joseph, at Jesus for hurting her so much right now with his gigantic, awkwardly-shaped body forcing itself through a tiny tunnel. At herself for being so weak.
“Just get it out of me!” she screamed. She pushed as hard as she possibly could, and then she pushed harder.
“Good girl,” said the angel.
Mary roared.
When Mary came to, she saw Joseph hovering over her, holding a baby. Beside him was another man, who Mary supposed was a doctor. The baby was quiet.
“She’s awake!” said Joseph. “Mary, do you want to hold him?”
Mary shifted herself up a bit. She could feel a wet mess beneath her, inside her, on top of her. Everywhere, a mess of blood and shit and other fluids and snake cords and pieces of slimy flesh to be tossed away, garbage. She took the baby from Joseph and looked into his eyes. She wondered if the baby had special abilities, being a deity and all. She looked around for the golden angel, but he was gone now. The baby’s eyes looked very intelligent, like he was an adult person inside an infant’s body, like he could already read and hear and understand human language. It freaked her out. She felt the baby was trying to deceive her. “I’m your mother,” she said to the baby. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Haha?” said Joseph.
Mary glared at Joseph, then handed the baby back. She realized she was a very strict, harsh mother. She said, “I’m going back to sleep now,” and closed her eyes. No one bothered her the rest of the night.
Mary, Joseph, and Jesus had to stay in the stable for a few days, because Mary was not well enough to travel.
“I’m never going to have another baby,” Mary said, nursing Jesus in the stable.
“Mary!” said Joseph. “You mustn’t say such things.”
“It hurts so horribly, Joseph,” she said. “You could never understand.”
Joseph sighed. “Oh, Mary,” he said. “I’m sorry it hurts. But you know we have to have children! That’s what married people do.”
“But I don’t think I can survive another one,” she said. “The angel protected me this time, but they don’t need me anymore. I’ve served my purpose. The Lord has already written the story of Jesus, a plan for how he’s going to save all of mankind. This is where I exit the story. Other people pretty much take the reins from here on out.”
“What do you mean?” Joseph asked.
“I mean I never asked for any of this,” said Mary.
Joseph’s eyes filled with hurt. Mary really must try to be nicer to Joseph. But it was true, she hadn’t asked for any of this, and she didn’t want any of it. She was almost thirteen now. It was time for her to take her life into her own hands.
Just then, three magnificent men arrived on camels. They had long, silver beards, wore purple and gold robes, and jeweled crowns glittered on their heads. “We followed the Star of Bethlehem,” said the men. “We have come to see the King.”
Joseph bowed to the men, then picked up the baby Jesus and showed him off. The men oohed and aahed. “We’ve brought gifts,” said the magnificent men. They handed Joseph some gold, plus some pointless herbs or something. Mary stayed quiet this whole time, hoping the men would leave soon.
Later, the men were gone and the baby was asleep. Everything was dark and peaceful. Donkeys and piglets munched quietly on pieces of hay. “Tomorrow we can journey back, I think,” said Joseph.
“Yes,” said Mary. “I think I’ll be well enough in the morning.”
“Get a good night’s rest,” said Joseph.
“You too,” said Mary. They both shut their eyes.
Mary waited in darkness for a very long time, turning things over in her mind. When she was as sure as she’d ever be that both Joseph and the baby were asleep, she gently stood up. She went to their bags. She took everything out of both, then put all her things in one. She took half the gold the fancy men had brought, and left the other half for Joseph. It was a lot of gold. She felt very lucky, holding it in her hands. She put the gold safely away in her bag. She grabbed an axe from the wall. She’d need a weapon, traveling alone. Yes, she was abandoning a helpless baby, but he was with Joseph, and Joseph could raise the baby better than Mary could. She still felt like a child herself. Perhaps Joseph would find himself a different wife to help him. She’d leave now on the donkey she and Joseph rode in on. She’d reach her parents before Joseph possibly could. She’d tell them that she loves them, but she must leave, she must go to another town and start over. “You can come with me if you want,” she’d say to her parents. “In fact, I’d prefer it if you did come with me. We’re not safe here. Our lives will never be the same. I never asked for any of this. Will you come with me?” And maybe her parents would say yes, or maybe they’d say no because they’re old and they’ve lived in that village their whole lives and they’ve never known anything else and that’s a
lways been okay with them, and they’re too tired to try anything else now, they’re ready to settle in and die. Maybe Mary would have to go on her own. She’d use the gold to get a place to stay, and she’d find a job helping some people herd their sheep, and make clothing out of the sheep’s hair, make houses and beds and coffins out of sheep’s hair, so they can wrap up their lives in sheep’s clothing, make them look like something they’re not.
THE HOUSE
Cara’s mother always makes Cara do things that should get her in trouble—spit off bridges, sneak into the Employees Only closet, feed old bread to animals at the zoo. “Don’t tell your father,” she says, and Cara doesn’t, because she doesn’t want to get in trouble. Cara’s mother is an actress at the theater and she steals costumes and fake fruit from the prop closet. She says you’re not guilty if you don’t get caught. But when Cara’s father comes home from the office and asks about the new centerpiece, her mother says they were having a sale at the craft store. Then she makes a face at Cara like, “Shh...our little secret!”
But I don’t want it to be our little secret, Cara thinks, because it’s not fun. At school Cara does everything right: she makes a cubicle out of her folders during spelling tests, she doesn’t cut in the lunch line, she gets stickers on all her assignments. She has nightmares where she’s at school, but she can’t find her shoes. It’s against the rules not to wear your shoes.
Cara’s mother loves to explore the new, empty houses being built nearby. She takes Cara on walks after dinner, once all the construction workers have gone home. She makes Cara wander through the half-built rooms, rooms that will soon hold babies’ toys and Thanksgiving dinners, but are, for now, drafty brown boxes. The stairs feel unstable.
Her mother never listens when Cara doesn’t want to do something. She always says, “Calm down, honey. You’re just like your father. Everything is fine. Have a little fun!” But it’s not fun. It is never fun. Cara likes Checkers and math. Cara’s father likes math, too; he says he uses it at work. Her mother thinks math is boring. She likes costume parties, dancing, and wine.
Today on their afternoon walk, Cara and her mother come to a house that doesn’t look half-built. The walls are sealed together and the house is painted, with a garden and a car in the driveway. In the half-built houses, you can walk right through the empty frames, and there are certainly no gardens or cars. Cara’s mother wants to go inside this house anyway.
“Mom, this is someone’s house. Someone lives here,” Cara says.
“Don’t be silly,” her mother says, dismissing this comment with a wave of her hand, walking up the driveway and leaving Cara behind.
“Mom, we can’t go inside,” Cara calls. “That’s not allowed. Can we please go home?”
Cara’s mother looks at her. “Sweetie, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, opening the door.
Cara rushes after to try and stop her, but her mother waltzes right in, opening her arms and spinning around in the space, thinking up a story of the house’s future inhabitants like she always does. “A mom and a dad and a girl and a cat!” she says, running her hands along the walls, on which, Cara sees, pictures hang. Inside the house, it is warm.
“Mom, I’m telling you, somebody lives here. Just look at the pictures!”
Cara’s mother hums as she opens all the cupboards, as if looking for something to cook.
Cara tries not to touch anything herself; she heard the police can catch criminals with their fingerprints. “Mom, we’ve got to leave before someone calls the police.”
Cara’s mother acts like she cannot hear Cara’s words. She keeps humming and spinning, wiping her fingerprints all over the walls and stomping loudly on the floor. This is hopeless, Cara thinks. She wants to leave, but she’s not sure of the way back, and it’s dangerous to walk around alone in the evening. Waiting for this to end could take forever, plus the residents could come home any minute. Or come downstairs.
Cara takes one last glance at her mother, who is now chopping potatoes on the kitchen’s island, not even using a cutting board. “Potato salad tomorrow!” her mother says, seemingly to herself. Hopeless, Cara thinks again. Cara decides the only thing to do is go upstairs and see if anyone’s home. She could at least explain that none of this is her fault.
“Hello?” she calls up the stairs, but no answer. “Is anyone home? I’m not a robber, I’m just a little girl.” She grips the banister and walks slowly up the stairs.
There is a long hallway with four doorways, three on the left and one on the right. The door on the right is closed, which makes Cara think it is a bathroom. She does not want to open that door. Cara cranes her head through one doorway on the left, a bedroom, but no one is inside. No one behind the second bedroom door either. And no one behind the third, but Cara goes inside the room anyway, because it is the last one.
There is hardly anything in the room. Just some shelves holding books that must weigh a million pounds each, like her father’s, plus a desk and a chair. On the desk is a gold watch and a computer. Cara loves watches. Her father collects them, and one time he took the back off of one and showed her all the gears clicking inside to keep time, like a tiny mechanical heartbeat, the heartbeat of a robot.
Cara is overcome with the urge to take the back off this watch, but she mustn’t, because this is someone else’s house, and besides, she doesn’t know where the tools are. She would also like to have the watch for herself, but she would never steal. Instead, she moves her hand as close as possible to the watch without touching it, and then her ear, and then her nose.
“Cara!” someone says behind her, and she jumps. She looks back and sees her father. “Dad!” she says. Never has she been so relieved.
“Cara, what are you doing in here? Were you about to steal my watch?”
“I didn’t even touch it!” Cara says. Then she realizes he said, my watch. “And it’s not yours!”
Cara’s father takes off his glasses, closes his eyes and rubs his temples with his hands. “Oh, Cara,” he says, sounding tired. “We’ve been over this so many times.”
Cara’s mother appears behind her father. “What’s wrong?” she asks, kissing his cheek. When he doesn’t answer, her eyes move to Cara, and then to the watch.
“Oh, Cara, not again,” she says. She looks back at Cara’s father, and he nods.
“Again,” he says. “Why don’t you go downstairs and finish that new potato salad recipe for tomorrow. I’ll talk to Cara.”
“But Mom can’t possibly follow a recipe!” says Cara. “She doesn’t like anything with rules! She makes me break into houses, she steals from the theater, she leaves restaurants without paying…” Cara is breathing very hard and she feels her face getting hot. “She cheats when we play Checkers and she called my teacher a dimwit!”
Cara’s mother shoots her a hateful glare before spinning out of the room.
“Cara,” her father says, putting his glasses back on and looking her straight in the eyes, “you’re really a pain in the neck.”
Doctor's office paperwork
New Patient Intake Form
Instructions: Please answer the questions, then return this form to Sally, the woman at the desk.
Name:
My Japanese great-grandmother immigrated to California. She shed her birth name, Kino, and replaced it with Mary. She married a white American Navy man. He went off to fight in World War II, while Mary and her two young children were taken to a Japanese Internment Camp.
Now, my middle name is Mary, not Kino. I never met this woman—she died before I was born. Nobody thinks “Japanese great-grandmother” when they hear “Mary.” They think “mother of Jesus” and also “Virgin.” Don’t even get me started on the Virgin Mary.
Caitlin, my first name, is the Irish form of Catherine, which means Purity. So far, it’s looking like I’m a double virgin.
Vance, my
English last name, means “dweller of bog” or “one who lives near the marshland.”
As far as I know, I am not Irish or English. I don’t know “what” all I am, besides Japanese and German. My family did not keep records. Some of them never asked their parents what they “were,” and then they died. Others were so crazy that I didn’t know whether or not to trust what they claimed. “You’re related to the Last Samurai,” my grandma used to say. Why is Tom Cruise in that movie? “You’re related to a Blackfoot princess,” my grandma used to say, while we watched Disney’s Pocahontas. “And a Welsh princess, too.” Once I save $200 I will get 23andMe, maybe. But it doesn’t seem very legit.
Caitlin Mary Vance: or, “Bog-Dwelling, Double-Virgin Mother of a Non-Japanese Male Deity.”
Birthday:
I tend to sleep my birthdays away.
I identify with SOME of the qualities associated with my astrological sign: I am curious, adaptable, and nervous. I am inconsistent, indecisive, restless. Cerebral, gentle, and affectionate. I contain two personalities in one. I forever seek a missing other half that in fact does not exist. I make too many wishes.
However, I do not feel like the life of the party. Aren’t Geminis supposed to be the life of the party?
Contact Information:
You can find me reading in the pink chair with high walls like a womb.
Emergency Contact Information:
While in the midst of an emergency, I tend not to answer the phone.
Please list any health problems that you and/or members of your blood family have:
Brain cancer, lung cancer, COPD, heart disease, stroke, clinical depression, OCD, bipolar disorder, seizures, body dysmorphia, PTSD, insomnia, alcoholism, drug addiction, agoraphobia.
The Paper Garden Page 6