When I come to, I see my father leaning over me. The flatlined machine is screaming.
“Turn that off, Laura!” Dad shouts. “Lacey, are you okay? Wake up, honey.”
I push myself up onto my elbows and look around. The IV is still taped to my arm. Randy Miller, in his doctor’s coat with a stethoscope hanging from his neck, is staring at me, open-mouthed. Laura Bergen is holding my left hand and stroking it. Kind of annoyingly, actually. I see Starla Joy standing by my side, one hand on my leg and the other holding her demon mask. She’s out of breath like she ran here.
I look down and see that my legs are splayed open and covered in bright red fake blood, as is the sheet that was white ten minutes ago. In front of me is Pastor Tannen, Jeremy in his demon costume, and Pastor Frist. Everyone is frozen. I must have fainted, but thank goodness I remember where I am—this is a scary waking-up moment. I take a deep breath.
“I’m okay,” I say.
And then Pastor Tannen starts clapping. His hands thunder together, and he looks around the room smiling, encouraging everyone to join in. Soon I’m in the middle of my own standing ovation.
“That was the best example of giving it up to God that I’ve ever seen, young lady,” he says. “Ted, you oughta be very proud of your daughter.”
Dad beams. “I am,” he says.
Pastor Tannen comes over to me, holding out his hand. I shake it.
“It’s a pleasure to know you,” he says. “I’ll be thinking of you when I cast my own Abortion Girl next year.”
“Thank you,” I say, still a little stunned and not sure how to handle this situation. How can I tell them that it wasn’t God that moved me to faint—it was my own doubts and confusion, and maybe the sight of that burger baby.
“I think that’s enough for Lacey tonight,” Dad says. “Joe, I’m gonna take her home if you don’t mind. She needs her rest.”
“Absolutely,” says Pastor Tannen. “We need to save that star power for the real shows next week.”
I give Starla Joy a weak smile and whisper, “I’m really okay,” in response to her questioning, worried face. My dad helps me down off the hospital bed. Jeremy slaps me on the back encouragingly as we walk through the doorway, but I don’t respond. When we get out to the car, Dad lays a dark maroon towel on the passenger seat so I won’t get fake blood everywhere.
“Dean says it’s washable, but your mother would kill us,” Dad says.
On the ride home, my father goes on and on about how great I was, how into the scene I got, and how he could see Jesus working through me to convey the horror of abortion. He calls me a vessel for God.
Six months ago, I would have swooned at those words. But tonight, I know they’re not true.
When I get home, I wash off quickly and get in bed. Now everyone thinks I’m this iconic star of Hell House. That’s what I wanted, right? My movie moment. How can I tell them that I fainted amid a swirl of doubt?
My sleep is fitful, and the next morning I wake up full of angst.
Part of me doesn’t want to break the illusion that my father and the pastors are under—part of me wants to be the Hell House star that Pastor Tannen raved about and held up as an example of godliness. I’ve wanted to step out of the shadows for so long, and now I have this light shining on me.
But a bigger part of me knows I have to be honest with Dad—I’m done skirting the truth.
When I come downstairs, Dad is preparing the usual seven a.m. pre-church morning pancakes—whole wheat now, since his cholesterol has been high—and Mom is at the table reading the newspaper.
“It wasn’t God,” I say quietly, slipping into my chair.
“What?” asks Dad, still staring at the frying pan.
“Last night,” I say. “I wasn’t channeling Jesus or anything. I was thinking about … other things.”
“And God came through you,” Dad says. “That’s a powerful meditation, Lacey.” He flips a pancake, smiling, and looks at Mom. She’s beaming too—he must have told her what happened last night. Or his version of what happened anyway.
“No,” I say again, louder this time. “It wasn’t God. My head was full of doubts—is full of doubts.”
“What are you talking about, Lacey?” Dad asks.
He brings over a pitcher of orange juice and a stack of dark brown pancakes. I reach for one and start to eat it plain, with my fingers.
“I don’t know,” I say, my mouth half stuffed with fluffy pancake.
“Chew, honey,” Mom says.
I finish my bite and swallow. Then I look at Dad and find my words.
“I don’t see things in black and white anymore,” I say. “The light and the darkness—they’re mixed.”
“Lacey, you’re not being very clear,” Dad says.
“Dad, do you think that Tessa’s going to hell for having sex before marriage?” I ask. “Because I don’t.”
I get goose bumps when I say that because it feels good to express what I think, maybe even better than being in the spotlight at church.
Mom’s hands fly up to her neck. “Oh, Lacey,” she says. “What are you talking about?”
Dad quiets Mom with a hand gesture.
“Lacey, I don’t know why that came into your head, but Tessa’s situation is a very unfortunate thing,” Dad says. He’s using his children’s pastor voice. “Still, you know that if she truly repents for her loss of purity and lives her life in the light from now on, God will forgive her.”
I stare at my orange juice.
“I don’t know, Dad,” I say. “Maybe you’re right. But I don’t know. I have to think about it more.”
And as I say that, I realize that I do want to think about it. I want to think about everything. I want to think about Dean, and who he is and what if he were gay? What would that mean for him? For his family? For the church? For me? And I want to think about Tessa and her choice to have premarital sex. What if she’s in love? Isn’t there love before marriage? I want to think about Ty’s accident, and how talking about it, and asking for forgiveness, was what he needed. I want to think about Ty himself, and the questions he’s brought to me. I wanted to give him answers—solid words and lessons I’ve read and been taught—but instead he gave me questions. And I am glad that I have questions.
“You shouldn’t have to think about it, Lacey,” Dad says. “You know right from wrong.”
I open my mouth to argue with my dad, to tell him that right and wrong aren’t two sides of a coin to me anymore—they’re complicated ideas. But then I close it again. I’m past fighting with my Dad. And he can’t stop me from thinking for myself.
My house is a house of answers, I think. There isn’t room for questions.
“Honey, if you ever have doubts, you know to return to your Bible,” Mom says.
“That’s right,” Dad says, reaching for the front page of the newspaper and not looking at me anymore. “First Corinthians 6:18: ‘Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a man commits are outside his body, but he who sins sexually sins against his own body.’ ”
I push away from the table gently. I’ve moved beyond being mad at my parents. They’re not bad people—they just already have their own answers, and they don’t have time for questions.
“Thank you,” I say, kissing Dad on top of the head. “The pancakes were great.”
“Where are you off to, darling?” Mom asks. “Service is at eight.”
I look back at the table—Dad is reading the paper now and Mom is standing up to clear the dishes.
“I think I’ll attend the second service at eleven today,” I say. “I need to go for a walk.”
Before they object, I spin on my heels and head out the front door.
They could stop me. They could talk this out with me more. They could ask me about what I’m feeling. But they don’t, and I know they won’t bring it up later either. They want to dam up the rush of my doubting thoughts with fast answers, and I’m sure they think that’s what they’ve done. My parents will never entertain certain questions with me. So I’m going to talk to someone who will.