Page 2 of Penance

Mercy

I t’s hot in here.

It’s so hot in this house, and I don’t know why.

I swallow hard, my head swimming and my stomach churning.

The sunlight is streaming in through the window, specks of dust swimming through the light and floating towards the floor. I focus on them to give myself something to hold on to—something to keep me distracted from the churning in my belly.

I hear a loud bang and jump, turning in my seat to look over at Mother, standing at the kitchen counter in her housedress.

Her hair, once the same dark auburn as mine, but now more grey than anything, is pinned up properly and perfectly as it always was.

One of the heels on her shoe is crooked, like it’s fixin’ to break.

I wonder if she knows.

Sitting beside me, Dad clears his throat and shakes out the newspaper, his beady little eyes flicking over to me as I right myself in my seat and try to give him a smile.

Try and fail.

I swallow hard.

It feels like something is crawling up my throat, and I’m fighting to keep it down.

Why did I feel so… sick?

“You okay, pumpkin?” he asks, folding the paper once and slapping it down on the table. “You’ve been jumpy all morning.”

“Fine,” I say, gulping.

I can’t tell them.

I think my apartment is haunted… or something. Things keep getting moved, and I can feel something watching me.

I can’t tell them that.

My mouth is watering.

I can feel bile sloshing in my throat and sweat standing out on my forehead.

I am not fine, but I can’t let them see that.

“You sure?” he asked. “You look a little green.”

Just as I open my mouth to speak, Mother walks over to us, a steaming pot of her town-famous Sunday Stew, still bubbling as she sets it down on the table in front of us.

“Alright!” she says cheerfully. “Dig in!”

I can smell it.

I can smell the beef, and it makes my stomach flip.

The room spins as I fight to stand up out of my chair. My stomach heaves, and I gag, hard. Saliva floods my mouth, and I fight to swallow it back when my stomach clenches again.

Nope.

No, bad idea.

“Lord, help me,” I whisper, and I make it as far as the kitchen sink before I can’t hold it anymore.

My eyes are watering, my stomach clenching and every muscle tight as what I did manage to force down this morning comes right back up, splattering my mother’s perfectly polished porcelain sink.

The smell of acid is strong in the air as I struggle to swallow, fighting the demon crawling up my throat.

Oh god.

I threw up.

I threw up in the sink. Mom is going to be so mad.

“Good heavens!” My mother’s terrified voice climbs over the sound of my hammering heart and I feel her hands sliding into my hair and pulling it back, at the base of my skull. “Mercy, what’s gotten into you!? Are you sick?”

“Now, Janet,” my dad says, and I can hear the creak of the chair as he climbs to his feet. “Let’s just calm down.”

But there is no calm.

There is only confusion swirling inside me.

Is it something I ate?

Was I sick?

I had cereal for breakfast, and I skipped dinner last night.

I retch again, and now the saliva in my mouth overflows and drips down my chin. The contents of my stomach rise up into my mouth, and I barely have time to register what’s happening before I’m spilling my guts into the sink one more time, but it’s barely drool and bile this time.

I didn’t have much to give.

My stomach is aching.

My hands are shivering as I clutch the edge of the porcelain.

I can feel cold sweat beading on my forehead and dripping down the bridge of my nose.

The questions bounce around my skull as my mother hauls me back, away from the sink. Dad picks the pot of stew up from the table as Mother leads me past and out of the kitchen.

I’m sick.

Something is wrong.

“Sit down,” Mother says, pushing me down onto the couch. “Sit here. I’ll call Dr. Thompson. Just sit here.”

I can see dad riddling around in the cabinets as mom steps across the room, moving into the hallway to find her phone.

I never threw up.

Not even when I was sick.

I can only remember a couple of times I did as a kid.

What was wrong with me?

The glass door whispers shut behind me, sealing off the sounds of the world outside. I stand in the hollow quiet of the doctor’s office, my hands shaking, but not from the cold. The stagnant air wraps around me like an unwelcome embrace, and the scent of antiseptic gnaws at my gut.

Thankfully, I was able to convince my parents to let me go alone.

My stomach flips again.

I wrap my arms around myself, and I try to focus on the sterile environment—the stark white walls, the chairs lined up with military precision, the glossy magazines untouched on the side tables. The receptionist’s smile does little to ease the nausea brewing within me.

After I sign in, I shuffle to one of the chairs in the corner, my fingers shaking as I grasp onto the silver cross dangling around my neck. I barely have time to sit down before I hear the door leading to the back creak open.

“Mercy Clarke?”

I look up to see the nurse smiling at me from the open door across the room, her eyes as blue as the sky outside.

That was fast.

I pick myself up off the chair and shuffle after her, one arm wrapped around my churning stomach in hopes that the nausea will go away.

It doesn’t.

Every step is too much, and I have to struggle to keep it down.

“When was your last period?”

Her voice is a lifeline, and I cling to it. She stands there, smiling at me, her eyes carrying a softness that feels almost out of place in the clinical surroundings.

“Uhm,” I muttered, thinking hard.

When was it?

I couldn’t remember now.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling stupid. “I can’t remember.”

“That’s fine!” she assures me, giving me a soft smile as she hands me a little orange cup and a tiny wrapped up sanitary wipe. “Are you on birth control?”

I shake my head.

“Let’s get a urine test, and then I’ll meet you in room three, okay?”

I follow her, and each step feels like a mile.

I do as she asked, giving the sample and bashfully handing the cup back to her as she waits outside the room.

She guides me into the room, explaining that she will be back, and closes the door. The examination table looms like a monster in the corner, covered in crisp paper that crinkles under my weight as I hop up onto it and wait.

I don’t have to wait long before Dr. Thompson walks in.

She’s a tall, thin woman with short brown hair, lightening to silver at the edges.

Her smile is always tight and unfeeling, but she’s nice enough despite that.

Her hands are gentle as she takes my vitals, but the pressure of the cuff on my arm feels like judgment.

It’s tight. I don’t like it.

“Your blood pressure is a bit high,” she says.

“Is that bad?”

“It can be normal with stress.”

“Stress,” I echo.

Could that be the cause of all of this?

“So,” she says, picking my folder up from the table in the corner of the room. She flips it open. “You’re here for some unexpected nausea.”

I nod, my fingers shaking as I reach up and push a strand of hair behind my ear.

“This will be an easy enough case, I think,” she says with a smile. “You’re pregnant.”

I just look at her.

I don’t panic. My breathing doesn’t speed up, and my heart doesn’t start pounding. I just stare at her, even as a chill scuttles down my spine. There’s no way I heard that right.

No, that can’t be. Not me.

“Th-that’s impossible,” I stammer. “There’s no way.”

My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms until it hurts.

“Sometimes, even with precautions, life finds a way,” Dr. Thompson says, that damn smile still on her face.

“But I haven’t taken any risks. There must be a mistake. Retest. Please.”

“Mercy,” she begins gently.

She clears her throat. She looks uncomfortable.

I can’t blame her, I am too.

“We did ask about birth control when you came in, and you said you weren’t on anything. Do you use condoms?”

She seems so confused.

I blush, feeling the heat in my cheeks crawling all the way up to my forehead.

“No,” I say, trying to force a smile. “I’m not married.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. I can almost see the judgment flicker across her face before she regains her composure. With a small sigh, she reaches for a tissue and hands it to me. I accepted it with a tight-lipped smile.

“Regardless of your marital status, the test results are quite clear. It’s nothing new.

We see this all the time. Mistakes happen, and it’s actually quite common,” she says, choosing her words carefully, as if afraid to set off a bomb.

“I understand this may come as a shock, but we need to discuss your options.”

I lean back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, the sterile scent of the hospital room making my head swim. The bright, florescent lights glare overhead, beaming down on me like God’s light, except they are harsh, and I felt no love from them.

“No, I don’t think you do understand,” I say, balling the tissue she handed me into my fist until it was small—as small as I could make it, and almost as small as I felt. “I am not married. I was saving myself for marriage.”

Her professional facade falters for a moment before she quickly composes herself. She adjusts her glasses and peers at me intently.

She doesn’t believe me.

She thinks I’m lying.

“I’m a virgin.”

She stops, blinks at me, and clears her throat.

“I understand, Miss Clarke,” she says. “But sometimes, things happen beyond our control.”

I shake my head.

“I-I can’t be pregnant,” I stammer, feeling the panic starting to settle in my chest. “There must be some mistake. You mixed up the results, or… or something.”

“Let’s sit down and talk about this, Mercy. There are options we can explore,” Dr. Thompson offers.

Options?

I shrink away.

Options?

Like murder .

If there’s really a baby in me, she wants me to kill it. She wants me to—

What about Mary? Would they have tried to abort Jesus?