Clean Hands

When the news broke in late June that Roe v. Wade had been overturned, I initially brushed it aside, thinking it held no relevance to me. After all, I wasn’t dumb enough to get pregnant, and my relationship with James was far from ready for those responsibilities, considering we were both only seventeen. On the other hand, my parents reacted to the news with sheer exuberance, almost throwing a celebration at our local church. Their reaction solidified their belief that I would never get pregnant and would maintain my purity, just as they had always intended. From a young age, they had dressed me in white, filling my room with the fragrance of lavender, and ensured that everything around me exuded a sense of purity and cleanliness. They went so far as to name me Mary, after the Virgin Mary, clearly expressing their desire for me to embody the traits of a nice Catholic girl, which I did... until July.

On July 4th, James and I went to our first-ever church party. Surprisingly enough, the “religious” church kids knew how to party. The party was by the lake, a bonfire filled with handles of absolut vodka, with red solo cups littering the dirt. James and I had never drank before, but since James had attended sleepaway camp last summer, he had become a seventeen-year-old striving for rebellion. Two years ago, he would have practically “shed his blood for Christ,” but since meeting such a variety of kids at camp with struggles different than his own, he came to realize the superficiality of the Catholic church and started to consider himself an atheist. The party was the “perfect opportunity” for him to “try new things” and “experiment before college!” Naturally, after three swigs of vodka, he got dumbfoundedly drunk; I laughed as he tumbled all over the beach, his light eyes becoming consumed with the dark black of his pupils. “Try some Mary, please,” he giggled, the infamous peer pressure and temptation my parents had constantly warned me about. I usually wouldn’t have, but it was so enticing, his dark brown hair swaying with the wind and my longing to let loose for once. That was the first mistake I made that night. The alcohol-infused me with wild, uncontrollable exhilaration. Wistfully, by midnight the four shots of vodka had worn off, and I was supposed to head home to my best friend Ella’s. However, I couldn’t draw my eyes away from James, who was still out of his mind running around, having the time of his life. I watched as he ripped his clothes off and jumped into still water, causing a sequence of waves. As I watched him slip into the waves of oblivion, I turned my back on Ella and sprinted into the water as if I was running a 50-meter dash. The only light being the blue moon, we embraced the tranquility of the water, our bodies intertwining as we shared a thousand kisses. “Even so, the tongue is a little member and boasteth great things,” James roared. After twenty minutes of sobriety, a rush of emptiness hit me; I longed again for the feeling of intoxication. I had “sinned” once that night, creating an indescribable ecstasy that surpassed any other experience, going against my parent’s Catholic agenda for me. Why not sin again? In the midst of haze, head empty, I whispered into James’ ear, “Let’s do it.” He knew what I was referring to, the sin at God’s sight. Our act of flesh was obvious, sexually immoral, impure, and pure debauchery. Despite leaving the slim possibility of becoming one of God’s “holy people” that night, I had become full-fledged. An individual, apart from the church and my parents, feeling closer to James than I had ever before. Luckily I felt little remorse for my decision to lose my virginity until August 28th of 2022.

It was a scorchingly hot Thursday in Collete County, Texas, when Ella and I were in the County plaza, the heat combined with the mystery stabbing aches in my back was unbearable; I looked down at my white Abercrombie and Fitch tank top moistened by sweat and fiddled with its seams, I wondered why my usually A cup sized breasts looked so much bigger than usual, anyways I shrugged it off. Ellas phone buzzed, the kind of buzz that you can easily differentiate; the classic Fox News ring. “Oh, girls can’t get abortions in Texas anymore,” Ella uttered monotonously, “good thing you and Jame used protection, right.” I looked down at the pink of my nails and picked at my raw skin. I had continuously lied to my best friend. I hid the truth; I couldn’t worry her. I was too caught up in the moment at the time to even think about protection, consumed by my own self-absorption and oblivious to the potential consequences. “I have to go to the bathroom again,” I said frantically before sprinting to the bathroom. I sat on the sweaty black seat and whipped out my phone, searching for pregnancy symptoms. Better Health Channel: backache, frequent urination, and breast changes. My heart raced like a wild stallion, pounding against my ribcage. The symptoms mocked me from the glowing screen, each word taunting my parent’s biggest fear. Shaking, I typed to Ella: sorry, I had to go home. James came to pick me up:( Another lie, I slummed my way to the convenience store, each step screaming, “You f****d up!” The dimly lit aisle practically highlighted the woman’s care section; it called my name. Mary! Not so virgin Mary! How are you pregnant “through the powers of the Holy Spirit?” I became the embodiment of a cautionary tale, the lead role in an advertisement highlighting exactly what not to do, an unfortunate muse for my teen church group. I slid my fingers across all of the options $7.99- $21.99 dragging my fingers like I would across the lockers at school. Finally ending on the cheapest option, I headed for the register. The cashier named “William” wore a cross necklace 4 inches long, bulky and gold. “You’re gonna have a beautiful baby,” he winked; I couldn’t help but cringe at his comment.

My bathroom: my cluttered sink, a cascade of empty lotion bottles scattering across it. The bright pink My Little Pony toothbrush cup upright billeting my entire adolescence. I closed my eyes and was transported back to my trip to Cottle Convenience in 5th grade: standing with my mom in the store, choosing a My Little Pony cup. The innocence of that moment clashed with the weight of the pregnancy test in my hands, causing me to gag. I found myself pacing back and forth, hardly mustering the courage to pick up that test—this little white and pink stick determining my future. As I turned that test over and saw those two lines in my trembling hands, the weight of that June day when Roe V Wade was overturned suddenly seemed to affect me, how ignorant I was before. Suddenly I didn’t care about the “life” inside of me; I wanted it out. College, James, and my future slapped me in the face.

That night, sitting in my colorless room, the smell of Aunt Frannie’s floor cleaner overwhelmed me. My three-year-old red-lined, white sheets invited me to sit. With an OshKosh B’gosh hanger in my hand, I removed my white Gap cotton briefs, my fingers grazing its gentle fabric. Spreading across the bed, wincing, I shoved the sharp end of the cool hanger between my legs. A thousand needles were being driven into the delicate walls of my uterus, the sharp edges of the hanger scraping against tender flesh like I was cutting into a rare sirloin steak. Warm blood danced across my bed sheets. My cries echoed in the room, the same cry experienced by thousands of other American women. Jabbing myself with the hanger repeatedly, a crimson wave rolled down my legs onto my sheets matching the sheets lining, the metallic smell spreading like a wildfire. My eyes wandered aimlessly, their movement akin to the spinning wheels of my father’s Ford F-15. Hit by a crushing wave of dizziness, the discomfort grew unbearable, forcing my vision to blur and whirl uncontrollably. Then Moses stretched out his hand over my bed, and that night the Lord drove my 110-pound body back with a strong east wind and turned it into dry land. My fetus divided, and I fell to dry ground, with a wall of water on my right and on my left.