The Atonement Child (9 page)

It was late by the time they returned. Ethan wasn’t waiting at the dorm, but he’d left a message:
I’m praying for you. I know you’ll do the right thing after you think it over. Love, Ethan.
She knew what his prayers involved. In truth, they were probably not much different from her own.

Janet returned to her studies. Dynah opened her own books and tried to concentrate. She’d barely passed the English exam and knew her grades were falling. She’d lose her scholarship if she didn’t get her mind focused soon.

Another reason for having it over and done with.

She had to make a decision.
“The longer you wait, the harder it will be.”

“I’m done in,” Janet said, snapping a book shut and stacking it with the others on her desk. “I can only cram in so much biology at a time.” She gathered her toiletries and headed out the door. When she returned, face scrubbed, teeth brushed, and short hair brushed, she bid Dynah good night and went to bed. She was asleep almost immediately.

Dynah sat on her bed with her back against the wall, still reading, still trying to get the information into her head. She stared at the printed page feeling a hopeless lethargy grip her. What was the use of any of it? None of it made sense to her, and what did seemed useless information.

Lord, is it all right with You if I do this? There isn’t a word about it in the Bible. I’ve looked. But surely You wouldn’t want such a child. . . .

The telephone rang, startling her from her prayer. Her heart jumped, racing in apprehension. With Janet asleep, she had no choice but to answer.

“It’s Joe.”

Relief filled her until she looked at the clock and saw it was past midnight. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Are you okay?”

“I . . .” She started to lie and then closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Not really.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

She smiled wanly at the tenderness in his tone. “That’s all I’ve done most of today. Talk and talk and talk about it. It doesn’t do any good.”

Joe didn’t say anything for a moment. “I care about you, Dynah. I want you to know that.”

Her throat closed up. She would have given almost anything to hear the same tone in Ethan’s voice. Instead, she’d faced his anger and disgust, his demands that she do what he thought best. Best for whom? Best for what?

Is it best, Lord? Is this Your best? This rotten, miserable mess?

“I care about what happens to you.”

She could hear tears in his voice and struggled against her own. “I don’t know what to do, Joe.”

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he said gently.

He didn’t have to say what he meant. “Ethan said he thinks I should have the abortion.”

“I know what he says. That doesn’t mean you have to have one.”

“And if I don’t? What then, Joe? Will he still love me? Ethan says this isn’t God’s best for us. He said God wouldn’t expect me to have it.”

“Ethan isn’t God, Dynah. No matter how much you love him, he isn’t God.”

“So what are you saying, Joe? That I have to have it. Is that it? Ethan said that’s what you’d say.”

“Hang up on him,” Janet muttered, rolling over and pulling the pillow over her head.

“I don’t want to see you hurt more than you already are,” Joe said gently. “I care about you.”

Her eyes burned. “I know what you care about, Joe. Saving the unborn.” She pressed the Off button and threw the telephone into the dirty clothes hamper. Hugging her knees against her chest, she put her head down. The phone rang again.

Rage burst inside her, unreasoning and focused. On Joe. On his principles, his values, his morals, his strong foundation in Christ Jesus. All of which she had shared not so long ago and which now filled her with unspeakable confusion and anguish, guilt and despair. Joe with that old question, unspoken but emblazoned nonetheless: What would Jesus want you to do?

Jumping up, she pushed the portable telephone deep into the clothes. Snatching up her pillow, she pressed it down into the hamper, muffling the insistent ringing. When it didn’t stop, she grabbed her towel and went out the door.

Standing in the shower, she put her face into the stream of warm water, trying to drown the thoughts that rang in her head as insistently as the telephone had in her dorm room. She wished she had listened to the doctor. She wished she had gone back at two thirty this afternoon. She wished it were all over and done with and she wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

She started to cry—deep, wrenching sobs—and wrapped her arms around herself, the water pouring down over her in a baptism of pain. Would it ever be over? Would nothing ever be the same? And if she chose abortion, could she ever feel clean again?

Dynah called home the next morning. She knew she had put off speaking with her parents for far too long. The longer she waited, the harder it would be.

Her mom answered. “Oh, Dynah. Thank God. We’ve been worried sick about you.”

The sound of her mother’s voice made Dynah want to weep again. She wished she were home and could fall into her mother’s arms—but how could she without spilling her insides and the awful news with it? So she kept her voice warm and tightly controlled and said she was sorry. She said she hadn’t been feeling well. She said she hadn’t called because she didn’t want to worry them. She said she was so busy with classes and tests. And there was Ethan, making his demands of her. You know how men can be, Mom. It was all true. She was sorry. About everything. She was pressured. She didn’t feel well. Past exhaustion. Desperate. Despairing. And gripped by morning sickness.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Dynah? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I’m fine. Really, Mom. Everything’s fine.”
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

“Dynah,” her mother said in that gentle tone she always used when trying to draw her out, “you can tell me anything. You know that.”

“I know, Mom. Haven’t I always?” This was exactly why she had put off calling for so long. Her mother always knew when something was wrong. She had some second sense about her daughter. Maternal radar, she jokingly called it. But it was no joking matter, not this time.

“Are your classes going well?”

“Classes are going well.” Classes would go well with or without her presence.

“Ethan?”

“Healthy.” Biting her lip, she hesitated and then went on. “He’s still on the dean’s list. He’s teaching Bible studies two nights a week.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Bother me? Why should it?”

“I suppose his activities cut into your time together.”

“We still have time together. Every afternoon. Most evenings.”

“Are you having any second thoughts about getting married so young?”

“No.” Was Ethan having second thoughts? Second, third, and fourth thoughts?

“Dynah,” her mother said, her tone hesitant, even cautious, “are you and Ethan . . . well, are you getting a little more involved than you intended?”

Dynah frowned, wondering what she was talking about. “We’re engaged, Mom. We’ll be married in August.”

“Yes, and with our blessings.”

“You like Ethan, don’t you?” They had met him only once. They had flown back for that express purpose the moment she told them she was in love with a young man on campus.

“Your father and I like him very much. It’s just that . . . well, I guess we’re feeling protective.”

Protective.
The word jarred.

She had always felt protected, safe. Her mother and father had watched over her and loved her so well she had never had reason to be afraid. Now her life seemed permeated with fear. Fear of what happened. Fear of what she carried. Fear of what to do. Fear of the future and all its unknown pain and anguish. Unending fear. It stretched out ahead of her, a lifetime of it.

“Ethan’s a healthy young man,” her mother said. “Your father and I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be young and very much in love. Sometimes, well, sometimes spending so much time together can cause . . . temptation.”

Dynah knew her mother was testing, gently probing, trying to draw out reasons for her long silence. It was a moment before she understood what her mother was trying to say. She thought they were sleeping together. Shocked and hurt, Dynah closed her eyes. “Oh, Mom . . .”

“Honey,” her mother said, distressed. “I didn’t mean to upset you more than you already are. If that’s what’s wrong, you can stop it.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” Ethan couldn’t even bring himself to kiss her the way he used to.

“I know something’s wrong. I assumed . . . I’m sorry I assumed. Oh, honey, you’ve always called us every other week, and we’ve been playing telephone tag for over a month. We love you. If you and Ethan have gone . . . well, gone further than you intended, we can understand.”

Dynah sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and staring at the wall. “We haven’t.”

“Dynah, I—”

“We haven’t, Mom.”

“Okay,” her mother said slowly.

She sounded so unconvinced, Dynah felt driven. “I swear before God Almighty I have not slept with Ethan. It’s nothing like that.”
It’s a hundred times worse.

“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to assume the worst.”

The worst. Her mother couldn’t even imagine the worst. Thank God. Dynah didn’t dare even think what her mother would feel if she told her she had been raped, let alone tell her the awful news that she was pregnant. It would shatter her parents. It would destroy all their dreams for her.

But how could she not tell them? How could she hide what happened from them and spare them hurt? She was going home in June, spending the summer with them before she married Ethan in August.

In August she would be in her seventh month of pregnancy if she went through with it.

Horrified, she imagined herself standing before Ethan’s father, resplendent in his pastoral robes, as he officiated at their marriage. And behind them, a church filled with relatives and friends all wishing them well.

Oh, God! Oh, God, I couldn’t bear it.

And it came to her with cold clarity. She didn’t have to bear it. Her parents didn’t have to know. Nobody had to know. If she did exactly what Ethan wanted, she could protect her parents and his from knowing how truly terrible the world was.

“You and Ethan both have a strong set of values,” her mother said. “Purity is a precious gift to give one another on your wedding night.”

Purity.

Smashed and broken.

What gift would she have to give Ethan when she married him? A body scraped clean of a rapist’s begat?

Scraped clean but still ruined. She saw it in his eyes. Her parents and his need never know, but he always would.

“What’s the matter, honey?” her mother said. “Please trust me.”

“Oh, Mom. The pressure, the pressure’s so awful.”

“What sort of pressure do you mean?”

“Everything,” she said dismally. She couldn’t unburden herself and burden her mother instead. What good would it do? It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t make her forget the rape. It wouldn’t make this thing inside her disappear. There was only one way to do that. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it, Mom.”

“Of course, you’ll make it. You have everything it takes, honey.”

“You don’t understand.” How could she? And Dynah couldn’t explain.

“You’ve always expected so much of yourself. You’ve expected to do everything exactly right. Sometimes life gets in the way, honey. Sometimes you just have to do what’s necessary.”

“Necessary.”

“Prioritize. Remember how we used to talk about the ant that ate the elephant?”

Abortion first; then everything would fall neatly into place. Once it was over, she could get back to doing what she was supposed to be doing: finishing a year of college, keeping her grades up so she’d still have her scholarship next year, finishing plans for her wedding, looking ahead to a bright, happy future.

“Set your mind on getting through what you have to do,” her mother said.

“I guess,” Dynah said, rubbing her temple. She supposed that was what she would have to do. Set her mind on having the abortion. Set her mind on getting through it. Set her mind on going on with her life. Set her mind on keeping what she had done a secret forever.

“You can do it,” her mother said gently. “I know you can. Sometimes when you break things down into small pieces, they’re easier to handle than looking at the thing as a whole.”

Dynah’s eyes filled with hot tears.

“Have you spoken with a counselor, honey?”

She had spoken with the doctor and Ethan and Janet and Joe. Did they count as counselors? “No. Not really.”

“I always go to Pastor Dan when things seem to get squirrelly,” her mother said with a soft laugh. “Sometimes an objective eye can help bring things into focus.”

She couldn’t go to the dean or the pastor of the church where Ethan taught Bible study. Maybe Charlie’s pastor. No. Charlie did a lot of volunteer work at the church. He might see her there. He’d want to know why she hadn’t been on the bus. She’d have to find another church, another pastor, someone who didn’t know her or Ethan. Maybe she could go into Chicago.