Chapter Twenty-Two

 

The first time it happens I think it must be some kind of joke. Logan's friends maybe, or a rival baseball team with too much time on their hands with summer break.

I stand in the yard, trying to work it out in my head when Travis comes out to get the newspaper and sees it, too: red paint splashed all over the driveway like blood. We turn and see it spattered on the door and the siding, smears of it forming the words baby killer, and it hits us in the gut that this is no prank.

It's a message.

"Keep the kids inside," he says, pushing me toward the house. "I'm calling the cops."

When the two officers arrive they do a quick search and find two paint cans in the bushes near the back of the garage but nothing else. One takes out a notepad and jots down something. I recognize him from our sister Baptist church across town.

"When were you last outside before the paint appeared?"

"It didn't 'appear,'" I seethe. "Someone threw it there."

"Last night," Travis says, laying his hand on my arm. "About 10:00."

"Did you hear anything suspicious after that? During the night, maybe? Anything that woke you up?"

"No," Travis answers, then looks at me. I shake my head.

"Can you get fingerprints from the paint can or something?" Travis asks.

"Probably not, but we'll try. Most likely whoever did this doesn't have a record to have prints on file anyway."

"Why do you say that?"

He shrugs. "Just a hunch. Crimes like this aren't usually done by criminals with records. They're done by people who feel morally obligated."

"You saying this is morally right?" Travis voice is low and growly, the way he gets when he's really angry.

"I'm saying they think you are morally wrong. It's not about destroying property. It's about making a point." He flips his notebook closed like he's putting the matter to rest.

"So you're not doing anything?" I say.

Again he shrugs. "Not much we can do."

Travis and Logan spend the morning trying to scrub the paint off. When hose and soap don't work, they pour some toxic chemical on it and go at it with the outdoor broom. Logan don't ask where it comes from or what it means, but I figure he knows. He don't complain, neither, about giving up band practice for cleaning. When I go to the store I buy him a tub of Twizzlers and put them on his bed.

The next day our mailbox is bashed in. The policeman don't even flip open his notebook for this one. "It might not have anything to do with you. Looks like kids just playing pranks after drinking a bit too much."

"But no one else's mailbox is beat up," I point out.

"Well, it's hard to ID the bat that might've done this, so I think you're just gonna have to buy yourself a new mailbox and figure out why you think y'all are targets."

Travis and me look at each other, then back at him. He looks at us like he's waiting for us to say something, admit maybe that we are the baby killers, but Travis clamps his hand over mine and nods tersely. "Maybe you're right, Officer. Maybe it's just kids."

The cop waits a second, and seeing we ain't talking more, gets in his car and drives away.

 

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I Google "Jack Van Der Campen" and "embryonic stem cell" and within seconds there are over ten thousand hits. I let my eyes wander over the titles and their descriptions, but I don't click on them. Just the words in their brief summaries are enough to make me sick to my stomach. It don't take many pages to realize he's not just the face on the posters, he's the face of embryonic stem cell research. Aborted fetuses. Invitro embryos. Experiments and research and test tubes and mice. He's neck up in everything bad about stem cells, and I shut down the computer before the third page. I don't care, I tell myself. This is different. I don't let myself think about how many babies died for him to learn what he needs to make Ashley well. It's not the same, I say to myself.

 

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Turns out we'd've been better off not fixing the mailbox, 'cause hate mail starts showing up. Not the stamped kind that comes through the post office. It's the kind that's written in cut-out magazine letters and folded without envelopes. No one threatens us. At least not with bodily harm or anything. It's more along the lines of "you will burn in hell." Since it ain't God I'm scared of at this point, I tear up the letters and throw them away.

We don't call the police this time, 'cause we're pretty sure they ain't on our side. For once I wish we lived in some city up north, one of those places way outside the Bible belt with all those liberals and pro-choice democrats.

We don't tell Ashley, and it seems she don't notice. She don't leave the house much. She gabs on the phone with her friends and keeps up on the message boards with her new diabetic friends and in general keeps herself in her room. She's happy thinking life is a little normal again, so Travis and Logan and me all tiptoe around it, trying to make it that way for her.

We don't talk about it with anyone else, either. It's like if we said it happened, we'd be saying we're the ones--putting a big target on our backs or something, and so we don't. We act like it's normal to clean paint off the driveway and replace mailboxes and lightposts and windows, and fill in holes big as a grave dug in the front yard with its graphic paper headstone. We stop reporting it 'cause the police don't do nothing anyway.

There's only a few days left until we leave. Maybe when we're gone it'll all stop. I haven't seen nothing lately on the news about it, so it seems like it's just a local thing now, and I'm thinking it may just be kids, like the police said. A day passes with nothing, and then another one, and I think maybe this all will just go away.

 

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"Babs?" It's Janise, and I can tell from the way she says my name it ain't good. "I'm not sure you should go to church tomorrow."

"What?" I wave my hands to get Logan to turn down his video games and press one hand over my ear to hear better. "Yeah, we're going to church."

"I don't think you should," she says, louder so I can hear her plain as frogs on a summer night. I wave at Logan again, and he turns off the games, none too pleased, and sulks out.

"What's wrong?"

"There's a rumor going around. I heard it from some women in my church. I don't believe it, but people are talking."

I can't imagine what people in her church would be saying that would have to do with me and my church. I gather the remotes that are spread out around the room like they got legs and walked away. "So?"

"It's about the news story--the stem cell thing."

I catch my breath before realizing she don't know about Ashley. We haven't talked about the clinical trial and the upcoming procedure to anyone. Other than Donna Jean and Pastor Joel, I dodn't think anyone even knows Ashley needs more treatment. As far as everyone else is concerned, we got Ashley's diabetes under control and now she's home.

"People just like to get riled up. You know that. They probably got the news all wrong anyway."

"I don't think so, Babs. That doctor running the trials in D.C.--he's the baby killin' guy all right."

I squeeze my eyes shut and hold a finger to my temple, warding off a sudden migraine. "What does it have to do with them, though? Why do people here care so much?"

She's quiet a second, letting the clock tick tock like a bomb in the room. "They say someone from Collier Springs is doing it."

I freeze, not wanting to hear what comes next. It comes anyway.

"Some are saying it's Ashley."

I sink into the couch and take this in. They can't say it on the news. She's a minor. Dr. Jack has promised us that they can't say anything unless we tell them it's okay. But somehow someone knows.

"Babs?"

"We ain't done nothing wrong, Janise."

"I know that, honey. I do."

"We're just trying to take care of Ashley."

"I know that."

But I don't know that she does. If the folks in town think we're part of some stem cell research for a cure, they're gonna think what they want, which is pretty much what the news tells them to think: that there's something morally wrong with using stem cells. They won't get that this is different. That Ashley ain't using someone's unwanted pregnancy to get better. That she's healing herself. Who's ever heard of that before? Who would believe it if they heard it?

She waits for me, but my jaw is clenched so hard I can't speak.

"There are some groups around town really spun up over this. They're planning some big protest this Sunday. Near your church." She waits but I say nothing. "It's summer. Everyone's bored," she rushes on, as if I need an explanation. "And it's not like it's a big town. There aren't that many sick people here." She waits again. "Babs?"

"Yes?"

When she answers her voice is quiet. "It is Ashley, isn't it? It's y'all that are going to be in this research thing, isn't it?" My silence is the only confirmation she needs. "Oh Babs."

"I should go."

"Don't go. I'm not judging you. You know I don't care so much about that stuff. I'm just surprised is all. You and Travis. . .. Y'all have been so outspoken about it."

I want to correct her and tell her it's only Travis that's all hung up on this, but I'm smart enough to know this don't make me look better. "It's not like what they're saying."

"Well, of course not. It never is when it's your own child. I expect I'd do the same. You know, see the other side if it would save my kid."

"You mean you'd throw in your morals, too."

"I didn't say that. I'd never say that."

I hang up without saying goodbye. Ashley stands in the hall, watching, as I throw the phone on Travis's chair. "How long you been there?"

"Are we doing something wrong, Mom?"

I reach out and pull her into a tight hug. She's nothing in my arms but elbows and ribs. "Of course not."

She pulls away and I let her.

"Morgan's mom won't let me talk to her. And some of the other girls from school won't answer when I call. Are they afraid they'll catch it?"

How does a mom answer this? There probably are a few, Morgan's mom most of all, but after talking to Janise, my guess is it's much more than fearing they'll catch diabetes. A few suggestive news reports, a few protesters with signs, and we're the enemy. We're the baby killers. And the fact is, if it took that to save Ashley, I would've done it in a heartbeat. So the fact that we're not don't make me innocent.

"Stay here," I say, grabbing my purse.

It takes less than ten minutes to drive to the church, where I park illegally in a handicapped space and march directly to the kitchen. The hospitality committee is exactly where they always are this time each week, their gossiping echoing down the halls off the sanctuary, which might as well be called the sanctimonious. I forget which SAT week that one was.

They stop the gabbing as soon as I fill the doorway.

"The devil has arrived," I say, staring them each down. Yolanda. Gloria. Brenda. Vickie. Dina. Jen. Dot. Erin. Alicia. And two dozen angel food cakes. All their kindness of the past weeks flits through my mind, but I push it out.

"Babs! What are you talking about?"

"Isn't that what y'all are saying? It is Ashley. She's the one on the news." Looks pass between them, but no one speaks. "Are y'all part of the protest, too? Are y'all going to be marching down Main Street holding your signs with the rest of the holy-rollers? You going to be praying at the meetings that the government steps in and stops this insanity? You going to show up at Ashley's funeral and tell us how sorry y'all are that God didn't heal her?" I look at each of them, their eyes wide and surprised. "You don't think this is the miracle? We prayed, and this is what God sent us. And don't you dare fool yourselves into thinking if this was your son or daughter you wouldn't do the same thing."

I leave and no one follows me. I'm crying by the time I get to the car, and I can hardly see the road on the way home. I sit in the driveway a while, trying to get control before going back inside. When I finally open the door, I see Logan sitting at his drum set in the garage, watching.

"Lord Almighty, can't a woman have a moment alone around this house?" I grab my keys and march past him, thankful he don't say anything.

 

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Sunday morning I lay in bed as Travis and the kids get around for church. Logan and Ashley fight for the bathroom, and Travis burns the eggs, and everything seems so normal I almost make myself believe that we could walk into church like every Sunday since Logan was two. But I know it's not, and the thought of facing all those people thinking God-knows-what makes me crawl under the covers.

I can hear the clink of silverware as the kids eat.

Travis comes in. "You getting up today or what?"

"No." I haven't told him about yesterday, about Janise's phone call, about the women at the church and the news reports.

"Come on," he says, dragging the covers off me. "You hate being late."

"Go without me."

"No. This ain't no time to be missing church."

This is exactly the time to miss church, I think, but I sit up anyway. "Go on," I say. "Go eat. I'll be there in a minute."

We're good and late getting out, and by the time we get to church the parking lot is full. A small swarm of activists are milling around in the streets in front of the church. They aren't the reporter types-- more like the angry people who show up anywhere there is something to be angry about with hateful signs that say things like, "You'll burn in hell!" I think about telling them if they're so worried about hell perhaps their backsides oughta find a pew in a church somewhere on a Sunday morning rather than raising ruckus outside one.

I wonder if the group will grow when other churches begin letting out, and I don't relish facing that. I begin pulling the kids back to the car. "Let's go. We should get home."

"We can't avoid this forever," Travis says, stopping me with his hand on my shoulder.

"Are they here for us?" asks Logan.

"Cool," says Ashley, feeling more like a celebrity than a target.

Travis leads us through the stragglers, who jostle around us until someone shouts, "That's them!" Suddenly people are crowding around us.

"Are you the girl in the stem cell trial?"

"How are you feeling?"

"You don't look that sick!"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Did you know the doctor doing the treatment learned how to do this by using aborted fetuses?"

"How can you go to church and call yourselves Christians and still do this?"

I notice the lack of reporters. There's no local news crew, no ABC or CBS; I can't even find anyone that looks like a newspaper journalist. Travis pushes the flimsy posters away and makes a path that he shoves the kids through. I follow close, and I'm almost at the top of the stairs when someone yells over the din.

"Are you aware this procedure can kill your daughter?"

Travis whips around, as close to murder as I've ever seen him. "She's dying now, you miscreant."

He pushes us through the front doors and closes them behind us. The narthex is empty. An usher hands us bulletins, and we have to walk up halfway before we find enough seats for all of us.

"Miscreant?" I whisper, laughing.

"You're not the only one reading Logan's SAT book."

A few people turn to look at us, but there seems to be a concerted effort to keep eyes front. Four of Logan's buddies nod at him and he nods back, but he stays with us. Ashley's itching her stomach like crazy but she joins in the chorus, her voice high and sweet next to Logan's low throaty song. Travis puts his arm around Ashley and sings loudly and off-key, which he always says is pleasing to God 'cause if God wanted him to sing praises better he would of given him a better voice. I hold the bulletin in both hands and mouth the words. They're just words.

I go through the motions of the service, stand, sit, sing, pray, shake hands and smile, pass the offering, clap for the soloist, fill out the registration card. I do it because it's what I'm supposed to do, but my mind flits back to why we're here in the first place.

The memory of Donna Jean in the bathroom flits through my mind, and I let my eyes wander across the aisles until I see her, sitting straight as an Indian next to her very expensive and educated-looking husband. She's listening to the sermon. Not pretending, but really listening. It means something to her, something that is just out of reach to me.

Next to me is Travis, who would give up his own daughter for what he thinks God tells us about the value of life.

Last night I snuck the SAT book out of Logan's room to read while I smoked. I got stuck up on the word "elusive." The big black sky, the vastness of space, the stars flung there by a God who is bigger than all of it. A God who wants to love me, if only I'd believe. A daughter whose life hangs on the thread of possibility. One more insulin. One more steroid. One more trial. The answer's there, if only we could find it. Could there be a more heart wrenching word than elusive?

At the end of the service, Ashley begs to go see her friends, so Travis and me watch her scamper down the aisle. Most of them gather around her, but a few avoid eye contact and slip out the back door. Donna Jean comes to say hi as does Pastor Joel and baby Mary Ashley, but most people look away and busy themselves with other things. Pastor Joel presses Mary Ashley into my arms, and I feel the warmth of her tiny body against me. My chest hurts the way it did when I nursed my own, an ache to pour life into her and hold her close and keep her safe. She smells of milk and baby powder, and when I think I can't breathe anymore, I place her back in Pastor Joel's arms and rush out the back door myself.

Travis finds me on the bench in the gardens and sits without saying anything. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes. I haven't told him about the Google hits on Dr. Van Der Campen, but now I can't keep the secret anymore and it all spills out.

His puts his arm around me, and I finally melt into him. "Are all of them right? Are we doing the wrong thing?"

He puts his lips to my head; I can feel his breath in my hair. "What's done is done, Babs." At first I think he talking about us and the clinical trial, but then I realize as he talks, he's talking about Jack. "We all make mistakes. The best we can do is learn from them and move on. And it seems like Dr. Van Der Campen has done that. He's not testing embryos anymore. And Ashley isn't getting baby cells. She's getting her own."

"Everyone thinks--"

"Everyone thinks wrong. We know. That's all that matters."

We sit in the garden, quiet together, until Donna Jean comes looking for us and tells us the crowd is getting bigger outside, and we should take Logan and Ashley and go.

We don't stay for cookies and punch and socializing. By the looks of everyone not looking at us, there wouldn't be much socializing anyway. We find Logan on the stage looking over the drum set and talking with the praise band members, and Ashley's in the basement with a few friends. We go through the basement walk-up to get to the car and manage to get almost out of the parking lot before anyone sees us.

 

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