Harvesting The Heart Part 8

I ran my hands over the smooth graves, trying to picture the face of my mother. Finally, I came to a flat marker, and I lay down with my head upon it, crossing my hands over the life in my belly, staring at the ice in the sky. I stretched out on the frozen ground until it seeped into my bones: the rain, the cold, these ghosts.

More than anything else in the world, my mother had hated opening the refrigerator and finding the juice pitcher empty. It was always my father's fault; I was too little to pour for myself. It wasn't as though my father did it on purpose. His mind was usually on other things, and since it wasn't a priority, he never checked to see how low the lemonade was when he stuck it back inside the Frigidaire. Three times a week, at least, I would find my mother standing in the slice of cold air from the open refrigerator, waving the blue juice pitcher. "What is so d.a.m.ned difficult about mixing a can of frozen Minute Maid?" she would yell. She'd stare at me. "What am I supposed to do with a half inch of juice?"

It was a simple little mistake, which she fashioned into a crisis, and if I had been older I might have suspected the larger illness for the symptoms, but as it happened I was five, and I didn't know any better. I'd follow her as she tramped down the stairs to accost my father in his workshop, brandishing the pitcher and crying and asking n.o.body in particular what she had done to deserve a life like this.

The year that I was five was the first time I was truly conscious of Mother's Day. I had made cards before, sure, and I suppose I even had my name tacked onto a present that my dad had bought. But that year I wanted to do something that was straight from the heart. My father suggested making a painting, or a box of homemade fudge, but that wasn't the kind of gift I wanted to give. Those other things might have made my mother smile, but even at five I knew that what she really needed was something to take the ragged edge off the pain.

I also knew I had an ace up my sleeve-a father who could make anything my mind conjured up. I sat on the old couch in his workshop one night late in April, my knees folded up, my chin resting on them. "Daddy," I said, "I need your help." My father had been gluing rubber paddles onto a cogwheel for some contraption that measured chicken feed. He stopped immediately and faced me, giving me his complete attention. He nodded slowly while I explained my idea-an invention that would register when the lemonade in the pitcher needed to be refilled.

My father leaned forward and held both my hands. "Are you sure that's the kind of thing your mother would be wantin'?" he asked. "Not a handsome sweater, or some perfume?"

I shook my head. "I think she wants something ..." My voice trailed off as I struggled to pick the right words. "She wants something to make her stop hurting."

My father looked at me so intently that I thought he was expecting me to say more. But he squeezed my hands and tipped his head closer, so our brows were touching. When he spoke, I could smell his sweet breath, laced with the flavor of Wrigley's gum. "So," he said, "you've been seein' it too."

Then he sat on the couch beside me and pulled me onto his lap. He smiled, and it was so contagious I could feel my legs already bouncing up and down. "I'm thinkin' of a sensor," he said, "with some kind of alarm."

"Oh, Daddy, yes!" I agreed. "One that keeps ringing and ringing and won't let you get away with just sticking the pitcher back."

My father laughed. "I've never invented something before that will mean more work for me." He cupped my face in his palms. "But it's worth it," he said. "Aye, well worth it."

My father and I worked for two weeks in a row, from right after dinner until my bedtime. We'd run to the workshop and try out buzzers and alarms, electronic sensors and microchips that reacted to degrees of wetness. My mother would knock from time to time on the door that led to the bas.e.m.e.nt. "What are you two doing?" she'd call. "It's lonely up here."

"We're making a Frankenstein monster," I'd cry out, p.r.o.nouncing the long, strange word the way my father had told me to. My father would start banging hammers and wrenches around on the workbench, making an awful racket. "It's an unsightly mess down here, May," he'd yell, laughter threaded through his voice like a gold filament. "Brains and blood and gore. You wouldn't want to see this."

She must have known. After all, she never did come down, in spite of her gentle threats. My mother was like a child in that respect. She never peeked early for her Christmas presents or tried to eavesdrop on conversations that would give her a hint. She loved a surprise. She would never spoil a surprise.

We finished the juice sensor the night before Mother's Day. My father filled a water gla.s.s and dipped in the thin silver stick and then slowly suctioned away the liquid. When less than an inch was left in the bottom of the gla.s.s, the stick began to beep. It was a high, shrill note-downright annoying-since we figured you'd need that kind of prodding to force you to replace the juice. It didn't stop until the water was refilled. And just for desperate measure, the top of the stick glowed blood red the whole time it was beeping, casting shadows on my fingers and my father's as we clutched the rim of the gla.s.s.

"This is perfect," I whispered. "This will fix everything." I tried to remember a time when, every day at four o'clock, my mother had not been chased into the bedroom by her own shadow. I tried to remember weeks when I had not caught her staring at the closed front door as if she was expecting Saint Peter.

My father's voice startled me. "At the very least," he said, "this will be a beginning."

My mother went out after Ma.s.s that Sunday, but we barely noticed. The minute she was out the door, we were pulling the fine linen and the fancy china from the closets, setting a table that wept with celebration. By six o'clock, the roast my father had made was wading in its own gravy; the green beans were steaming; the juice pitcher was full.

At six-thirty, I was squirming in my chair. "I'm hungry, Daddy," I said. At seven, my father let me lie down in the living room to watch TV. As I left, I saw him rest his elbows on the table and bury his face in his hands. By eight, he had removed all traces of the meal, even the ribboned package we'd set on my mother's chair.

He brought me a plate of beef, but I was not hungry. The television was on, but I'd rolled over on the couch so that my head was buried in the pillows. "We had a present and everything," I said when my father touched my shoulder.

"She's at her friend's place," he said, and I turned to look up at him. My mother, to my knowledge, had no friends. "She just called to tell me she was sorry she couldn't make it, and she asked me to kiss the most beautiful la.s.s in Chicago good night for her."

I stared at my father, who had never in my life lied to me. We both knew that the telephone had not rung all day.

My father bathed me and combed through my tangled hair and pulled a nightgown over my head. He tucked me in and sat with me until he thought I had fallen asleep.

But I stayed awake. I knew the exact moment when my mother walked through the door. I heard my father's voice asking where the h.e.l.l she had been. "It's not like I disappeared," my mother argued, her words angrier and louder than my father's. "I just needed to be by myself for a little while."

I thought there might be yelling, but instead I heard the rustle of paper as my father gave my mother her present. I listened to the paper tear, and then to the sharp gasp of my mother drawing in her breath as she read the Mother's Day card I'd dictated to my father. This is so we won't forget, This is so we won't forget, it read. it read. Love, Patrick. Love, Paige. Love, Patrick. Love, Paige.

I knew even before I heard her footsteps that she was coming to me. She threw open the door of my room, and in the silhouetted light of the hall I could see her trembling. "It's okay," I told her, although it was not what I had wanted or planned to say. She crouched down at the foot of the bed as if she were awaiting a sentence. Unsure what to do, I just watched her for a moment. Her head was bowed, as though she was praying. I stayed perfectly still until I couldn't do it anymore, and then I did what I wanted her to do: I put my arms around my mother and held her like I couldn't for the life of me let go.

My father came to stand at the door. He caught my eye as I looked up over my mother's dark, bent head. He tried to smile at me, but he couldn't quite do it. Instead he moved closer to where I held my mother. He rested his cool hand on the back of my neck, just as Jesus did in those pictures where He was healing the crippled and the blind. He kept his hold on me, as though he really thought that might make it hurt any less.

When I was little, my father wanted me to call him Da, like every little girl in Ireland. But I had grown up American, calling him Daddy and then Dad when I got older. I wondered what my child would call Nicholas, would call me. This is what I was thinking about when I called my father-ironically, from the same underground pay phone I had first used when I got to Cambridge. The bus station was cold, deserted. "Da," I said, on purpose, "I miss you."

My father's voice changed, the way it always did when he realized it was me on the phone. "Paige, la.s.s," he said. "Twice in one week! There must be some occasion."

I wondered why it was so hard to say. I wondered why I hadn't told him before. "I'm having a baby," I said.

"A baby?" My father's grin filled the s.p.a.ces between his words. "A grandchild. Well, now, that is an occasion."

"I'm due in May," I said. "Right around Mother's Day."

My father barely skipped a beat. "That's fittin'," he said. He laughed, deep. "I take it you've known for a while," he said, "or else I did a poor job teachin' you the birds and the bees."

"I've known," I admitted. "I just figured-I don't know-I'd have more time." I had a crazy impulse to tell him everything I'd carefully hidden for years; the circ.u.mstances I sensed he knew about anyway. The words were right there at the back of my throat, so deceptively casual: You remember that night I left your home? You remember that night I left your home? I swallowed hard and forced my mind into the present. "I guess I'm still getting used to the idea myself," I said. "Nicholas and I didn't expect this, and, well, he's thrilled, but I ... I just need a little more time." I swallowed hard and forced my mind into the present. "I guess I'm still getting used to the idea myself," I said. "Nicholas and I didn't expect this, and, well, he's thrilled, but I ... I just need a little more time."

Miles away, my father exhaled slowly, as if he were remembering, out of the blue, everything I hadn't had the courage to say. "Don't we all," he sighed.

By the time I reached the neighborhood where Nicholas and I lived, the sun had set. I moved through the streets, quiet as a cat. I peeked into the lit windows of town houses and tried to catch the warmth and the dinnertime smell that they held. Because I misjudged my size, I slipped against a hedge and fell flush against a mailbox, which was lolling open like a blackened tongue. On the top of a pile of letters was a pink envelope with no return address. It was made out to Alexander LaRue, 20 Appleton Lane, Cambridge. The handwriting was sloped and gentle, somewhat European. Without a second thought, I looked up and down the street and tucked the letter into my coat.

I had committed a federal offense. I did not know Alexander LaRue, and I did not plan to give him back his letter. My heart pounded as I walked as quickly as possible down the block; my face flushed scarlet. What was I doing?

I flew up the porch steps and slammed the door behind me, locking both locks. I shrugged off my coat and pulled off my boots. My heart choked at the back of my throat. With trembling fingers, I slit the envelope open. There was the same sloped hand, the same spiked letters. The paper was a torn corner from a grocery bag. Dear Alexander, Dear Alexander, it read, it read, I have been dreaming of you. I have been dreaming of you. Trish. That was all. I read the note over and over again, checking the edges and the back to make sure that I hadn't missed anything. Who was Alexander? And Trish? I ran up to the bedroom and stuffed the letter into a box of maxipads in the bottom of my closet. I thought about the kinds of dreams Trish might be having. Maybe she closed her eyes and saw Alexander's hands running over her hips, her thighs. Maybe she remembered their sitting on the edge of a riverbank, shoes and socks off, feet blurred in the water by a frigid rushing stream. Maybe Alexander had also been dreaming of her. Trish. That was all. I read the note over and over again, checking the edges and the back to make sure that I hadn't missed anything. Who was Alexander? And Trish? I ran up to the bedroom and stuffed the letter into a box of maxipads in the bottom of my closet. I thought about the kinds of dreams Trish might be having. Maybe she closed her eyes and saw Alexander's hands running over her hips, her thighs. Maybe she remembered their sitting on the edge of a riverbank, shoes and socks off, feet blurred in the water by a frigid rushing stream. Maybe Alexander had also been dreaming of her.

"There you are."

I jumped when Nicholas came in. I raised my hand, and he looped his tie around my wrist and knelt on the edge of the bed to kiss me. "Barefoot and pregnant," he said, "just the way I like 'em."

I struggled into a sitting position. "And how was your day?" I asked.

Nicholas's voice came to me from the bathroom, interrupted by the splash of the faucet. "Come and talk to me," he said, and I heard the shower being turned on.

I went to sit on the toilet lid, feeling the steam curl my hair over the back of my neck where it had fallen from my ponytail. My shirt, too tight at the bust, misted and clung to my stomach. I considered telling Nicholas what I had done that day, about the cemetery, about Trish and Alexander. But before I could even run through my thoughts, Nicholas turned off the water and pulled his towel into the stall. He knotted it around his hips and stepped out of the shower, leaving the bathroom in a cloud of fresh steam.

I followed Nicholas and watched him part his hair in the mirror over my dresser, using my brush and stooping so that he could see his face. "Come over here," he said, and he reached behind him for my hand, still holding my eyes with his reflection.

He sat me down on a corner of the bed, and he pulled the barrette from my hair. With the brush, he began to make slow, lazy strokes from my scalp to my shoulders, fanning my hair from the nape of my neck to spread like silk. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, letting the brush catch through damp tangles and feeling Nicholas's quiet hand smoothing the static electricity away a moment later. "It feels good," I said, my voice thick and unfamiliar.

I was vaguely aware of my clothes being pulled away, of being pushed back on the cold quilted comforter. Nicholas kept running his hands through my hair. I felt light, I felt supple. Without those hands weighing me down, I was certain I could float away.

Nicholas moved over me and came inside in one quick stroke, and my eyes flashed open with a white streak of pain. "No," I screamed, and Nicholas tensed and pulled away from me.

"What?" he said, his eyes still hooded and wild. "Is it the baby?"

"I don't know," I murmured, and I didn't. I just knew there was a barrier where there hadn't been one days ago; that when Nicholas had entered me I felt resistance, as if something was willing him out just as strongly as he wanted himself in. I met his eyes shyly. "I don't think it's all right-that way-anymore."

Nicholas nodded, his jaw clenched. A pulse beat at the base of his neck, and I watched it for a moment while he regained control of himself. I pulled the comforter over the swell of my stomach, feeling guilty. I never meant to scream. "Of course," Nicholas said, his thoughts a million miles away. He turned and left the room.

I sat in the dark, wondering what I had done wrong. Groping across the bed, I found Nicholas's discarded b.u.t.ton-down shirt, glowing almost silver. I pulled it over my head and rolled up the sleeves, and I slipped underneath the covers. From the nightstand I pulled a travel brochure, and I flicked on a reading light.

Downstairs, I heard the refrigerator being opened and slammed shut; a heavy footstep and a quiet curse. I read aloud, my voice swelling to fill the cold s.p.a.ces of the colorless room. " 'The Land of the Masai,' " I said. " 'The Masai of Tanzania have one of the last cultures on earth unaffected by modern civilization. Imagine the life of a Masai woman living much as her ancestors did thousands of years ago, dwelling in the same mud-and-dung huts, drinking sour milk mixed with cow's blood. Initiation rites, such as the circ.u.mcision of adolescent boys and girls, continue today.' "

I closed my eyes; I knew the rest by memory. " 'The Masai exist in harmony with their peaceful environment, with daily and seasonal cycles of nature, with their reverence for G.o.d.' " The moon rose and spilled yellow into the bedroom window, and I could clearly see her -the Masai woman, kneeling at the foot of my bed, her skin dark and gleaming, her eyes like polished onyx, gold hoops ringing her ears and her neck. She stared at me and stole all my secrets; she opened her mouth and she sang of the world.

Her voice was low and rhythmic, a tune I had never heard. With each tremble of her music, my stomach seemed to quiver. Her call said over and over, in a clicking honey tongue, Come with me. Come with me. Come with me. Come with me. I held my hands to my belly, sensing that quick flutter of longing, like a firefly in a sealed gla.s.s jar. And then I realized these were the first felt movements of my baby, reminding me just why I couldn't go. I held my hands to my belly, sensing that quick flutter of longing, like a firefly in a sealed gla.s.s jar. And then I realized these were the first felt movements of my baby, reminding me just why I couldn't go.

chapter 11

Paige To my disappointment, Jake Flanagan became the brother I had never had. He did not kiss me again after that lost moment at the drive-in. Instead he took me under his wing. For three years he let me tag along right at his heels, but to me even that was too far away. I wanted to be closer to his heart.

I tried to make Jake fall in love with me. I prayed for this at least three times a day, and once in a while I was rewarded. Sometimes, after the final bell of cla.s.ses rang, I'd come out onto the steps of Pope Pius and find him leaning against the stone wall, biting on a toothpick. I knew that to get to my school, he had to cut his last cla.s.s and take an uptown bus. "h.e.l.lo, Flea," he said, because that was his nickname for me. "And what did the good sisters teach you today?"

As if he did this all the time, he would take my books from my arms and lead me down the street, and together we'd walk to his father's garage. Terence Flanagan owned the Mobil station on North Franklin, and Jake worked there for him afternoons and on weekends. I would squat on the cement floor, my pleated skirt blown open like a flower, while Jake showed me how to remove a tire or how to change the oil. All the while he spoke in the soft, cool voice that reminded me of the ocean I had never seen. "First you pop the hubcab," he'd say, as his hands slid down the tire iron. "Then you loosen up the lug nuts." I would nod and watch him carefully, wondering what I had to do to make him notice me.

I spent months walking a fine line, arranging for my path to cross Jake's a few times a week without my becoming a pain in the neck. Once, I had got too close. "I can't get rid of you," Jake had yelled. "You're like a rash." And I had gone home and cried and given Jake a week to realize how empty his life could be without me. When he didn't call, I did not blame him; I couldn't. I showed up at the Mobil station as if nothing had happened, and I doggedly followed him from car to car, learning about spark plugs and alternators and steering alignment.

By then I knew that this was my first trial of faith. I had grown up learning of the sacrifices and ordeals others had survived to prove their devotion-Abraham, Job, Jesus Himself. I understood that I was being tested, but I had no doubts about the outcome. I would pay my dues, and then one day Jake would be unable to live without me. I swore by this, and because I had given G.o.d no alternative, it gradually became true.

But being Jake's sidekick was a far cry from being the love of his life. In fact, Jake went out with a different girl every month. I helped him get ready for his dates. I'd lie on my stomach on the narrow bed as Jake picked out three shirts, two ties, worn jeans. "Wear the red one," I'd tell him, "and definitely not not that tie." I covered my face with a pillow when he dropped the towel from his hips and shrugged into his boxer shorts, and I listened to the slip of cotton over his legs and wondered what he would look like. He let me part his hair with the comb and pat the aftershave on his burning cheeks, so that when he left I would still be surrounded by the strong scent of mint and of man that came from Jake's skin. that tie." I covered my face with a pillow when he dropped the towel from his hips and shrugged into his boxer shorts, and I listened to the slip of cotton over his legs and wondered what he would look like. He let me part his hair with the comb and pat the aftershave on his burning cheeks, so that when he left I would still be surrounded by the strong scent of mint and of man that came from Jake's skin.

Jake was always late for his dates. He'd tunnel down the stairs of his house, grabbing the keys to his father's Ford from the pegged knot on the end of the banister. "See you, Flea," he'd call over his shoulder. His mother would come out of the kitchen with three or four of the younger kids hanging on her legs like monkeys, but she would only just catch the edge of his shadow. Molly Flanagan would turn to me with her heart in her eyes, because she knew the truth. "Oh, Paige," she'd say, sighing. "Why don't you stay for dinner?"

When Jake came home from his dates at two or three in the morning, I always knew. I would wake up, miles away from where he was, and see, like a nightmare, Jake pulling his shirt from his jeans and rubbing the back of his neck. We had this connection with each other. Sometimes, if I wanted to talk to him, all I had to do was picture his face, and within a half hour he'd be on my doorstep. "What?" he'd say. "You needed me?" Sometimes, because I felt him calling out, I would phone his house late at night. I'd huddle in the kitchen, curling my bare toes under the hem of my nightgown, dialing in the pencil-thin gleam of the streetlight. Jake answered at the end of the first ring. "Wait till you hear this one," he'd say, his voice bubbling over with the fading heat of s.e.x. "We're at Burger King, and she reaches under the table and unzips my fly. Can you believe it?"

And I would swallow. "No," I'd tell him. "I can't."

I had no doubt that Jake loved me. He told me, when I asked him, that I was his best friend; he sat with me the whole summer I had mononucleosis and read me trivia questions from those Yes & & No game books that come with magic pens. One night, over a campfire on the sh.o.r.es of the lake, he had even let me cut his thumb and press it close to mine, swapping blood, so that we'd always have each other. No game books that come with magic pens. One night, over a campfire on the sh.o.r.es of the lake, he had even let me cut his thumb and press it close to mine, swapping blood, so that we'd always have each other.

But Jake shrank away from my touch. Even if I brushed his side, he flinched as if I'd hit him. He never put his arm around my shoulders; he never even held my hand. At sixteen, I was skinny and small, like the runt of a litter. Someone like Jake, I told myself, would never want someone like me.

The year I turned seventeen, things began to change. I was a junior at Pope Pius; Jake-out of high school for two years-worked full time with his father at the garage. I spent my afternoons and my weekends with Jake, but every time I saw him my head burned and my stomach roiled, as if I'd swallowed the sun. Sometimes Jake would turn my way and start to speak: "Flea," he'd say, but his eyes would cloud over, and the rest of the words wouldn't come.

It was the year of my junior prom. The sisters at Pope Pius decorated the gymnasium with hanging foil stars and crinkled red streamers. I was not planning to go. If I had asked Jake he would have taken me, but I hated the thought of spending a night I had dreamed of for years with him humoring me. Instead I watched the other girls in the neighborhood take pictures on their front lawns, whirling ghosts in white and pink tulle. When they had left, I walked the three miles to Jake's house.

Molly Flanagan saw me through the screen door. "Come in, Paige," she yelled. "Jake said you would be here." She was in the den, playing Twister with Moira and Petey, the two youngest Flanagans. Her rear end was lifted into the air, and her arms were crossed beneath her. Her heavy bosom grazed the colored dots of the game mat, and between her legs, Moira was precariously reaching for a green corner circle. Ever since I had met her three years before, I had wanted Molly as my own mother. I had told Jake and his family that my mother had died and that my father was still so upset by it, he couldn't bear to hear her name brought up. Molly Flanagan had patted my arm, and Terence had raised his beer to coast my mother, as was the custom of the Irish. Only Jake realized I was not telling the truth. I had never actually come out and said this, but he knew the corners of my mind so well that from time to time I caught him staring at me, as if he sensed I was holding something back.

"Flea!" Jake's voice cut through the romping music of the television, startling Moira, who fell and caught her mother's ankle, pulling her down as well.

"Jake thinks he's the king of England," Molly said, lifting her youngest daughter.

I smiled and ran up the stairs. Jake was bent over in his closet, looking for something in the mess of socks and sneakers and dirty underwear. "Hi," I said.

He did not turn around. "Where's my good belt?" he asked, the simple question you'd put to a wife or a longtime lover.

I reached under his arm, tugging the belt from the peg where he'd placed it days before. Jake began to thread the leather through his khaki slacks. "When you go to college," he said, "I'm going to be lost."

I knew as he said it that I would never go to college, never even draw another picture, if Jake asked me to stay. When he turned to me, my throat ached and my vision grew blurry. I shook my head and saw that he was dressed for a date; that his grease-spotted jeans and blue work shirt were puddled in a corner under the window. I turned away fast so that he wouldn't see my eyes. "I didn't know you were going out," I said.

Jake grinned. "Since when haven't I been able to get a Friday-night date?" he said.

He moved past me, and the air carried the familiar scent of his soap and his clothing. My head began to pound, surging like a tide, and I believed with all my heart that if I didn't leave that room I was going to die.

I turned and ran down the stairs. The door slammed behind me, and the wind picked up my feet for me. I heard the concern in Molly's voice reaching out, and the whole way home I felt Jake's eyes and their questions burning into my back.

At home, I pulled on my nightgown and fell into bed, drawing the covers over my head to change the fact that it was only dinnertime. I slept on and off, waking with a start just after two-thirty. Tiptoeing past my father's room, I closed the door, and then I went down to the kitchen. Feeling my way through the night, I unlocked the door and I opened the screen for Jake.

He held a dandelion in his hand. "This is for you," he said, and I stepped back, frustrated because I could not see his eyes.

"That's a weed," I told him.

He came closer and pressed the wilted stem into my hand. As our palms touched, the fire in my stomach leaped higher to burn my throat and the dry backs of my eyes. This was like being on a roller coaster, like falling off the edge of a cliff. It took me a second to place the feeling-it was fear, overwhelming fear, like the moment you realize you've escaped a car accident by precious inches. Jake held my hand, and when I tried to pull away, he wouldn't let go.

"Tonight was your prom," he said.

"No kidding."

Jake stared at me. "I saw everyone coming home. I would have gone with you. You know I would have gone with you."

I lifted my chin. "It wouldn't have been the same."

Finally, Jake released me. I was shocked by how cold I became, just like that. "I came for a dance," he said.

I looked around the tiny kitchen, at the dishes still in the sink and the muted gleam of the white appliances. Jake pulled me toward him until we were touching at our palms, our shoulders, our hips, our chests. I could feel his breath on my cheek, and I wondered what was keeping me standing. "There isn't any music," I said.

"Then you aren't listening." Jake began to move with me, swaying back and forth. I closed my eyes and pressed my bare feet against the linoleum, craving the cold that came from the floor when the rest of me was being consumed by flames I could not see. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. This was what I wanted, wasn't it?

Jake let go of my hands and held my face in his palms. He stared at me and brushed his lips over mine, just as he had three years before at the drive-in, the kiss I had carried with me like a holy relic. I leaned against him, and he twisted his fingers into my hair, hurting me. He moved his tongue over my lips and into my mouth. I felt hungry. Something inside me was tearing apart, and at my core was something hot, hard and white. I wrapped my arms around Jake's neck, not knowing if I was doing this right, just understanding that if I did not have more, I would never forgive myself.

Jake was the one who pushed away. We stood inches apart, breathing hard. Then he picked up his jacket, which had fallen to the floor, and ran out of my house. He left me shivering, my arms wrapped tight around my chest, terrified of the power of myself.

"My G.o.d," Jake said, when we were alone the next day. "I should have known it would be like this."

We were sitting on overturned milk crates behind his father's garage, listening to the hiss of flies sinking into puddles left from the rain. We were not even kissing. We were simply holding hands. But even that was a trial of faith. Jake's palm enveloped mine, and the pulse in his wrist adjusted to fit the rhythm of my own. I was afraid to move. If I even took too deep a breath, I would wind up as I had when I had run into his arms and kissed him h.e.l.lo-pressed too close for comfort, lips burning a trail down his neck, with that strange reaching feeling that started between my legs and shot into my belly. For the first time in three years I did not trust Jake. What was worse, I did not trust myself.

I had been brought up with stricter religious values than Jake, but we were both Catholic, and we both understood the consequences of sin. I had been taught that earthly pleasure was a sin. s.e.x was for making babies and was a sacrilege without the bond of marriage. I felt the swelling of my chest and my thighs, heavy with hot running blood, and I knew that these were the impure thoughts I had been warned of. I did not understand how something that felt so good could be so bad. I did not know who I could ask. But I could not help wanting to be closer to Jake, so close I might squeeze through him and come out on the other side.

Jake rubbed his thumb over mine and pointed to a rainbow coming up in the east. I was itching to draw this feeling: Jake, me, protected by the bleeding strands of violet and orange and indigo. I remembered my First Communion, when the priest had put the dry little wafer on my tongue. "The body of Christ," he had said, and I dutifully repeated, "Amen." Afterward I had asked Sister Elysia if the Host really was the body of Christ, and she had told me it would be if I believed hard enough. She said how lucky I was to take His body into my own, and for that precious sunny day I had walked with my arms outstretched, convinced that G.o.d was with me.

Jake put his arm around my shoulder-creating a whole new flood of sensations-and wrapped his fingers in my hair. "I can't work," he said. "I can't sleep. I can't eat." He rubbed his upper lip. "You're driving me crazy," he said.

I nodded; I couldn't find my voice. So I leaned into his neck and kissed the hollow under his ear. Jake groaned and pushed me off the milk crate so that I was lying in the wet crabgra.s.s, and he brutally crushed his mouth against mine. His hand slipped from my neck to my cotton blouse, coming to rest under my breast. I could feel his knuckles against the curve of my flesh, his fingers flexing and clenching, as if he was trying to exercise control. "Let's get married," he said.