The Tree of Knowledge

My name is Kit Hargrove.

No, my name is Kit Wilson. I’ve been married for almost a year now and still haven’t quite adjusted to the name Wilson. Or to being married.

I’m seventeen years old with green eyes, light brown curls, and long limbs. Back when I used to be allowed to leave the house occasionally I had a nice tan, but that’s faded now to a pale white with lots of little brown freckles. Years of rock climbing as a primary form of recreation has given me the kind of toned body you usually see on swimsuit models. But without the boob job. Apparently, I’m kind of a knock out. I wish I wasn’t.

If I wasn’t so pretty, my dad wouldn’t have been able to get quite so much money for me when he took it upon himself to sell me to a husband. If the price was lower, maybe my dad wouldn’t have sold me at all, or maybe Jace would have been able to afford me. But toned abs and long legs led me to a rich husband. One who’s over forty years older than me with a pudgy pink face and a receding hair line. And fat. And sadistic.

Who, of course, I honor and submit to with willingness and joy. I find joy in submitting to my husband as he does to the Lord.

Or at least I try to.

I’m afraid he knows my attempts at joy are sometimes less than successful. I’m afraid that God knows. I’m afraid I’ll go to Hell because I cannot police my thoughts.

Ryan chose not to beat me when we got home from the stoning. He was understandably distracted by Rebecca going into labor. Now we’re at the hospital, Mara and I each holding one of her hands as she screams. Epidurals have been extinct since the Revelation. Rebecca will “bear her children in anguish”.

Ryan stayed just long enough to instruct the doctor to call his cell as soon as his daughter is born. He’s out celebrating with his friends getting shit faced drunk while we’re here dealing with the screaming.

As much as I don’t really like Rebecca, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. Here she is, going through all this for a man who doesn’t even bother to be present for it. I’ve never seen her so visceral, the pain and effort filling her mind at the expense of everything else. Fighting to bring this baby into the world, she is somehow both powerful and pitiable. I squeeze her hand tighter and say, more to myself than anyone present, “I can’t believe Ryan took off like that.”

SMACK

Somehow, in the midst of full swing labor, Rebecca finds the strength to reach up and slap me across the face.

“Don’t’ talk about our husband like that!” she spits at me. “You’re a disgrace to womanhood!”

The pity is gone now.

I’d take my hand back from hers, but she’s squeezing it so tight I physically can not get it back.

I am a disgrace to womanhood. Can I be a disgrace to womanhood at seventeen? Am I a disgrace to seventeen year old child brides? Am I going to Hell for that thought?

I’m supposed to be witnessing the miracle of birth. All warm fuzzies and happy crying and squealing babies. But all I see is pain and sweat and terror.

I hope I don’t get pregnant.

God, please forgive me for wishing that. It was wrong. Children are a blessing from God. “Happy is the man who has a quiver full of them.”

Only all I can think of is what it might feel like to go through this myself and I’m pretty sure if she screams like that again I’m going to bolt from the room.

You know, if I can get my hand back.

Rebecca is a mess of IV’s and pain and she’s just exhausted. I don’t even like her (I’m sorry. I love my sister wives.) and I’m still prepared to risk a beating to smuggle her a cheeseburger. The doctor won’t let her eat, just in case of an emergency C-section.

This fucking doctor, he’s watching the clock. He’s talking to the nurses about the stuffed Cornish game hens his wives are making for dinner. Scalloped potatoes. Roasted asparagus. They’re even having Black Forest cake for dessert.

Thinking about his dinner.

Statistically speaking, most “emergency” C-sections are performed at 5:30pm and 9pm. 9pm, because the doctor doesn’t want to be there all night. And 5:30pm because-

“I don’t like how long this is taking.” the Doctor tells Rebecca. “I’m concerned it may be an indication that something is wrong. We’re going to have to perform an emergency cesarean section.”

She’s been in labor five hours.

“Don’t you think it’s a little soon?” I ask.

The doctor looks at me like I am so very small. And I feel so small. A seventeen year old girl child with no voice.

“’A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. Do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man. She must be quiet.’” he quotes.

They’re wheeling Rebecca out in a flurry of activity. I am alone in the room before I reply, “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”