PETRA
I love Octobers in New England.
The air is cool and crisp, with bright sunshine melting the morning mists on the polished glass facades of the shops and storefronts. The foliage turns all shades of warm browns and reds, while Halloween hangs on the horizon like a tantalizing treat.
On a slightly chilly Sunday afternoon, Sin and I meet at the local diner near St. Anselm Hall.
Cinnamon and pumpkin spice smells waft around us, and the delicious aroma of croissants and pancakes makes my mouth water.
To my utter delight, Sin has already ordered a bunch of baked goods for our table.
“You can pick what you like,” he says indulgently, kissing my forehead again while his strong fingers gently massage the back of my neck.
I blush and smile before leaning into his shoulder. Though I’m not the type for PDA, the baby has been weighing down on my back and hips like a bag of bricks, so it’s a nice relief when I lean into Sin’s warm, strong body.
Nestled in this cozy cocoon and surrounded by freshly baked tarts and pies, I put together the final drafts of our Art History project.
It is a multi-page essay on the use of perspective in the rare painting Sin had gifted me earlier.
Ms. Matthews had launched into rapturous exclamations when we’d first shown the painting to her.
“Can you see how he uses the impasto effect to highlight the break in the trees here?” and “How deft is that brushwork?”
With how long I’d spent staring at the girl walking down the wild, windswept moors, about to enter a dark, shadowy forest, the paper had more or less written itself.
“I think we’re getting an A+ for this,” Sin says in a satisfied tone as we finish up the draft and send it to Ms. Matthews.
“Really? I’ve heard she rarely hands those out,” I reply while trying to bite into a blueberry muffin at the same time.
“Trust me, I’ve got a feeling about this,” Sin replies with a sparkling grin as he rereads the paper for the umpteenth time.
Just then, my attention is drawn outside the large diner windows.
A procession of dark-clad figures moves down the street wearing solemn expressions and severe-looking costumes, like they walked out of the set of some documentary on the esoteric ways of some religious community.
I am particularly struck by the harsh lines on the faces of the elderly, how they look fierce and unwelcoming, as if resentful of those who do not walk the righteous road with them. And then there are the women, all wearing a thin veil made of lace that semi-covers their features.
“Sin, what’s with those people?” I whisper, patting him on the arm. “What’s going on out there?”
“Oh, that’s the Sunday service,” he answers casually, barely giving the group more than a glance. “They’re heading to church. It’s the Puritans.”
“They’re real,” Sin continues, leaning back slightly as he observes the group.
“But they’re not just a story; they’ve got their own little enclave.
They have self-appointed themselves the guardians of the town’s northern part, where they live in their own communities, completely cut off from everyone else.
It’s probably why you haven’t seen much of them. ”
Now the crowd is passing right outside the diner window where we are sitting. I see some children among the crowd. I know that I haven’t seen them in school. Do they even go to school?
“So, they really don’t interact with outsiders?” I ask out loud.
“Not much,” Sin explains. “They keep to themselves and have their own strict beliefs. My dad told me about this. If they even suspect you’re not a part of their community, they’ll avoid you like the plague.”
“I wonder what they think about what’s been happening around here. The deaths, mutilations—”
“Probably don’t care,” Sin cuts in smoothly, his tone remaining wholly unaffected by the news he’s delivering. “Or they’d just write it off as the consequences of living a sinful life. That’s how they think.”
“Gosh, that’s bleak,” I reply, shaking my head.
“That’s the thing about their beliefs,” Sin says in a strangely quiet voice. “They think they’re holier than everyone else. And that by remaining untouched by the rest of us heathens and barbarians, they can remain ‘pure.’”
“That’s fucked up,” I say, absent-mindedly nibbling on an almond cookie.
I glance back toward the window, watching the procession of Puritans, their black umbrellas bobbing in the wind like ominous balloons.
“You know Edwin was part of the church, right?” Sin says after a while.
When I sit up with a jolt and look at him in wide-eyed shock, he continues.
“Yeah, he was. I heard my dad saying something along the same lines the other day. It’s hard to accept that he was also a victim.”
“Bu-but we had that project together.” My words are as unsure as my thoughts. “He didn’t seem like . . .”
“. . . like he belonged to a doomsday cult that believed in raining hellfire and brimstone on all unbelievers?” Sin asks snappily before giving me a wan smile.
“I didn’t know him as well as you, but I know that he went to church with these folks on certain Sundays.
Seen him with my own two eyes,” Sin finishes with a deft little nod as he looks at the crowd outside and takes a sip of his Americano.
“Wait, what about Harry? Was he a . . . a Puritan, too?”
Sin’s expression turns serious, and his voice low. “As far as I’ve heard, he wasn’t practicing, but his family has ties to them. His mother’s family has been around for generations. So if there’s a connection there, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Wow, you think you know somebody,” I mutter under my breath as memories of Harry flash across my eyes: how we would crack jokes at the lunch table, how we took turns buying snacks for our library study sessions.
A whole lot of despair threatens to drown me under its bilious cloak, so I put my arms around Sin and bury my face in his neck.
Is it a matter of instinct or will?
Doesn’t matter, I tell myself. For now, I feel safe.
The next day, we attend a very important appointment together.
Bright golden light spills over the plush interiors of the local OB-GYN office’s waiting area.
I fill out some forms, and we sit chatting in a comfy chaise lounge among other clients.
A few minutes later, a woman in a stately navy-blue suit ushers us into the physician’s office and requests for me to wait for the doctor.
I sit on the examination table, anxiety buzzing beneath my skin. Sin sits beside me, his fingers interlaced with mine, and the mere touch of his fingers is enough to ground me.
Today’s the day we get to see our baby. I’ve been looking forward to this ultrasound, but then the bespectacled, kind-looking technician comes in with a warm greeting, “You folks look awfully young, but we’re here to help you, so don’t be worried.”
I suddenly feel a knot of nerves fraying somewhere inside me and look to Sin in blind panic.
“It’s okay,” he tells me in a bracing tone, while his hands massage my shoulders gently. “You’ve got this.”
I nod and lie down on the table, while the doctor puts gel on the head of the ultrasound wand and then on my distended belly. I shiver at the cold texture of the gel and squirm around a little as the technician probes my stomach with the wand, pressing and prodding some areas in gentle motions.
“All right, Petra,” he says after a while. “You’re almost five months along, so let’s see how your little one is doing.”
I glance at Sin, who is watching the screen with a look of awe. “It’s insane to think we’re about to see him,” he murmurs in a hoarse voice.
“I know,” I reply, and my own voice rises barely above a whisper. “I’m nervous but excited.”
As the technician guides the transducer over my skin, we finally get a clearer picture—an outline of the baby.
“There he is!” Sin exclaims with joy.
I lean in closer to the screen, trying to make out the features of the tiny figure.
It’s hard to discern much in the mass of white and black spots on the screen, but my hawk-eyed stare finally starts to see the lines of the baby’s body: the round head, small hands, and feet curled up close to the stomach.
The technician captures the image, and I can’t help but smile.
“It’s a boy,” the technician says.
“I can’t believe it.”
“Looks like a little champ already,” Sin adds, voice swelling with pride.
“Everything seems normal from what I can see. He’s in a good position,” the technician says. I feel myself relaxing and sinking deeper into the bed under me.
But something in Sin’s expression catches my eye. He’s staring at the technician’s face, so I turn to the man as well.
“What is it?” I demand in a voice quivering in fear.
The man’s brow furrows for just a moment as he moves the wand around before stopping and pushing on one spot.
“Nothing to worry about,” he says in a carefully modulated voice that immediately makes me worry. “Let me just check a couple of things here.”
Unease unfurls within me, but I try my best to brush it aside, focusing instead on Sin’s hand in mine.
I can see Sin’s reflection on the screen—his face is drawn and despairing.
“Wow, look at those little fingers,” I say in an attempt to inject some sense of normalcy into what is starting to feel like a living nightmare. “He’s perfect.”
Just then, the technician’s fingers pause. “Hmm. That’s odd,” he mutters, leaning in closer to the screen. “There’s something here, but I can’t see . . .”
Suddenly, the lights flicker, and the power goes out completely, plunging us into near darkness. The only light comes from the small screen, which is still displaying the ultrasound.
“What’s happening?” I ask, panic rising in my chest in fast waves.
“It’s just a power outage,” Sin whispers next to me, squeezing my hand. “We’ll be fine.”
But as the technician mutters to himself about backup generators, I start to feel a tightness in my stomach—a strange pulling, prickling sensation that makes me inhale sharply.
“Um, I don’t feel so good,” I say in a shaky voice. “I think I’m—” Before I can finish speaking, a sharp pain ripples through my lower belly, and I moan loudly and clutch at my stomach.
“Petra!” Sin cries out, his eyes darting all over me in urgent panic. “Petra, what’s happening? Talk to me! Are you okay?”
“It hurts, Sin. I think—” Another bout of tightening muscles, like my pelvis is trying to expel something . . . and then it hits me. “It feels like—” I begin in a stronger voice, but Sin is already looking to the doctor for help.
“Do something!” he yells fearfully.
“Umm, Petra, what are you feeling?” the doctor stammers. “Where does it hurt?”
“It feels like contractions!” I finally manage to hiss through gritted teeth. “I swear to God, I’m having contractions.”