Immaculate

As difficult as it was to see myself on film—my expressions, the way the world responded around me—the interviews that followed were even harder to watch. Jesse had done most of the shooting without me in the room, so the footage was new to me.

“It’s hard to be in school sometimes because of what some of the other kids say.” Gracie was curled up in a ball on the sofa in our living room, her little fingers twisting the frayed blanket on her lap as she avoided looking up at the camera. “Like today . . .” She paused, and I could tell from the pink in her cheeks that she was trying her best not to cry for the recording. “Today someone asked me how I can still love my sister when she’s such a liar. They said I was just as bad as her for going along with everything, and that our whole family should just leave Green Hill. Even my best friend won’t talk to me, but you know what? That’s okay, because I don’t want to talk to her, either. I can’t be friends with anyone who is mean to Mina.”

“Are you excited, then? About the baby?” Jesse’s voice came quietly from behind the camera, prompting her.

Gracie’s eyes lit up. “Of course I’m excited! I’m going to be an aunt! I know that Mina is really young to have a baby . . . and that there’s been a lot of bad things happening because of it. But I think that this baby happened for a reason, and that it’s meant to be this way. And I also think that Mina is special. This baby will be special. I just want to be the best sister and the best aunt I can be, because Mina needs me. My family needs me.”

My mom came next, talking about how she had believed me from the very first second—trusted with her all-knowing motherly intuition—and how proud she’d been to watch me, my transformation from daughter into mother. My dad was more vague regarding what he believed or didn’t believe about my story, but he trembled as he admitted that he’d turned his back on me for too long. He’d let his own expectations get in the way of protecting and supporting me.

“I will never, ever abandon my own family again,” he said, staring unblinking into the camera, even as his voice broke and a stream of tears ran down his cheek. “Not for anything. Not even for a moment. I’ve learned a very valuable lesson from my role in all this.”

I looked over at him as the video played, at his face hidden behind his palms, hands kneading into his tired eyes, and I felt myself step toward him. I had already forgiven him that night on the porch. Or at least I’d said the words out loud then, because I’d wanted to wash it all off. I’d wanted to take us back to normal as quickly as possible. But I felt it again now—I really felt it. We—every one of us in that room—had learned lessons. We were all changed, and we were probably better people because of it. My dad wasn’t perfect, but he was trying his best. That was all any of us could do.

“I forgive you,” I whispered, wrapping an arm around his waist as I leaned into his chest. “It’s time for you to forgive yourself, too.”

He didn’t say anything back, but he didn’t have to. He hugged me, and we stayed like that, tangled up together, as the footage played on.

Ha

Jesse flipped the camera around to himself after that, and I tensed, surprised to suddenly see him staring out of the screen. I didn’t recognize the backdrop behind him, but based on the numerous overlapping movie posters tacked along the wall, I suspected it was his bedroom. I hadn’t realized, not until that moment, that I’d never actually been to his house and that our friendship was so conspicuously one-sided. The thought made the guilty knot in my stomach twist even tighter, and I watched his warm, adorably sincere face while he described Iris and that night we first met. He swore that even though we’d worked together through the summer, we’d never had a real conversation until a few months ago. We had been complete strangers at the time I would have conceived.

“I came to this school not knowing anyone, and Mina . . . she took me in. I may have only known her since this fall, so I can’t comment on her past here and her reputation through the years, but I know who I’ve seen—I know this Mina, today and now, and she’s one of the strongest, sweetest, most genuine and good people I’ve ever met.” He smiled, distracted, as he swiped a hand through his knotty curls. “I hate that our friendship has started even more rumors about her and the baby, and honestly, if I were the father, I’d be proud to admit it. Any guy should be with a girl like Mina. But I’m not, at least not biologically speaking. Emotionally, though . . . emotionally I already know that I would do anything to keep both of them safe. So maybe I’m protective like a father, and care like a father, but I’m not—I am not the father. And I don’t think we’ll ever fully understand who is.”

The film kept playing from there, artfully jumping through various scenes from the past few weeks: me taking notes on my faux birthing class DVDs, a trip to Dr. Keller’s office, my birthday night and our shocked reactions to the first news report, which I hadn’t even noticed him recording. But I could barely absorb any of it, not after listening to Jesse talk about me—not after knowing that he’d said those things before our fight, and probably wished he could take them back now, rerecord his statements about an idolized girl who didn’t actually exist.

A clip with Pastor Lewis brought me back, though, and I leaned forward for a better view of the screen. He looked stiff and uncomfortable behind his glossy wooden desk, as out of place in his own office as he had been that day in our living room. He was fidgeting in his seat, the leather squeaking slightly as he spun the chair in tiny half circles, left and right. But his light hazel eyes, solemn and wide, were fixed on the camera as he opened his mouth to speak. He talked about how he’d known me since the day I was born, baptized me in that same church eighteen years ago, and watched me grow up through Sunday School and choir, youth group and catechism classes.

“I won’t say that I believe unequivocally that Mina is carrying a baby conceived through some sort of divine intervention, because I can’t be sure of that. No one can be sure of that. But I will say that in our times, I think we’ve reached a sorry, sad state of cynicism. That we’ve stopped believing that miracles—any miracle, no matter how small or large—are inherently possible. We’ve become so obstinately certain that we can explain every last detail about the world around us, and I think that in doing so, we’ve lost some of the magic and the beauty that God intended for us to have in our lives. We’ve lost that humble, grounding belief that there are things and acts outside of our power to comprehend—that as men and women we still have limits in what we can perceive of God’s plan.

“So is it possible, could Mina actually be the virgin mother of a child who comes to us through some higher being? From God Himself?” He paused, knitting his hands together on top of the desk to steady himself, but his eyes never left the camera. “I think it is. Or at the very least, I think it’s outside of our right and our authority to question and criticize what is or isn’t God’s doing. This is not for us to judge. We ca