*Fiction — December 1, 2022
Baptisms for the Dead
{
}
.firstcharacter {
float: left;
font-size: 100px;
line-height: 60px;
padding-top: 4px;
padding-right: 8px;
padding-left: 3px;
padding-bottom: 0px;
margin-bottom: 0px;
}
The problem was this: Abi was on her period. And this problem—like always, with periods—was one of timing, as this particular month, Abi’s period coincided with the Santa Susana California Mormon Youth Congregation’s bi-annual trip to do baptisms for the dead.
Abi and her best friend, Jenn-Meredith, sat cross-legged on the brown shag carpeting of Abi’s bedroom floor, conspiring.
“The blood is going to leak out,” Abi insisted. She had knobby wrists, thin lips, and a full, surprisingly throaty voice.
“You don’t trust me?” Jenn-Meredith asked.
“I didn’t say that. I never said that.” Abi picked at the brown shag.
Jenn-Meredith, a thick-bodied girl with confident, beady eyes, said, “Look. You’re going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine. Did you do like I said? Did you find the underwear?”
From a pile of clean laundry, Abi plucked a pair of white cotton underpants; the waistband was pink, with skinny wiggles of elastic shooting out the edges. Jenn-Meredith sighed. She snatched them and gave the pink a little tug. Another potential problem.
Baptisms for the dead were performed in the Los Angeles Mormon Temple. Mormons, as you know—you’ve seen the nametags, the white shirts and ties—are proselytizers. Of the belief that all humankind must be offered the opportunity for baptism into (specifically!) The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. If you haven’t been baptized? This is a disqualifier for eternal glory. But what if a person dies prior to encountering those aforementioned white shirts and ties? Before accepting The Book of Mormon as revelation and making one’s own baptismal covenant? The Lord is no respecter of persons, true, but He isn’t a jerk about it. And so He, in His infinite wisdom, allows baptisms to be performed posthumously.
Performing baptisms posthumously did not mean—however exciting it would be—dragging some poor corpse into the waters of baptism. No; baptisms for the dead were carried out by proxy. A baptized member of the Church, untangling the threads of a family line, might discover a great-great-great-great grandmother who had never been baptized. Following this discovery, the name would be entered in the Church database, an account created listing the ancestor’s name, date of birth, place of birth, any spouse, and a letter for each necessary ordinance: ‘B’ for baptism, ‘C’ for confirmation, ‘S’ for sealing to parents, and sealing to spouse. After which a member of the Church could attend the temple and be baptized for and in behalf of the deceased. It was a leg up towards salvation.
“Pink?” Jenn-Meredith snickered. She didn’t care for rules, and so the fact that baptismal ordinances required the participants to wear white underclothing—all white, Sister Lavender had specified in Young Women the previous Sunday; both bra and panties—mattered little.
Abi—who loved rules, and hated breaking them—bit her lip. “This is the only white pair I have that’s tight enough. Do you think they’ll notice?”
Jenn-Meredith shrugged; at thirteen, she had an entire year of life experience on Abi. Plus, she had already done baptisms for the dead twice.
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “Those jumpsuits are thick.”
“But is it, like, okay? Does breaking the rule, I don’t know, like, void the baptism?”
Jenn-Meredith shook her head. “Abi. Heavenly Father gets it. And if He doesn’t? Heavenly Mother knows. She’s like, the mother of all living or whatever. So you know she’s had like trillions of periods.”
Abi tossed the underwear aside, returning her attention to the larger of the two problems: her period. During last Sunday’s lesson on Baptisms, Sister Lavender had been very specific when addressing the new Beehives—the name given to twelve-year old girls—who would be attending for the very first time. The Mia Maids (girls aged fourteen to sixteen) and Laurels (age sixteen to eighteen), all of whom had done baptisms for the dead before, loved knowing something others did not, and looked delightedly bored as Sister Lavender reviewed the details.
“Dress like you would for church,” Sister Lavender had said, “and bring extra underwear. Don’t worry about hair dryers. They have extras there. And bring a bag, you’ll want a bag. For your wet clothes.”
Sister Lavender, Abi noticed, seemed to be tasked with discussing sometimes-uncomfortable bodily issues. Abi had only been in Young Women’s a short while, but already she’d experienced Sister Lavender’s lesson on chastity, during which she handed Abi a cupcake she had just licked. (Abi gathered she was not to allow anybody to lick her before marriage, but privately lamented the waste of a perfectly good dessert.) Then, as everybody was about to be dismissed for Sunday School, Sister Lavender added: “And you can’t go if you’re on your period, so. If you’re, um, on your period? Let me know?”
How embarrassing, Abi had thought, and scurried off to join her fellow Beehives, satisfied that her body would never do anything so foolish. But Abi’s body had failed her. And only the day before the baptisms! Her body couldn’t have waited just one more day?
“Why don’t you just, you know. Tell her?” Jenn-Meredith had asked, when Abi revealed her shame. But telling Sister Lavender required admitting to another adult the humiliating truth of her maturation; telling her mother had been bad enough, and Abi lived with her. And then, once she confessed, she’d be forced to stay home. Everyone would know. They’d smell the blood on her, those sharks. No—disguise, while not ideal, was the only option.
Abi was still adjusting to the business of menstruation; in her entire life, this was only her second period ever. She barely knew how to tell herself what was happening, let alone communicate these new plumbing issues to another human being. “Oh! Oh. Oh,” Abi’s mother had said after Abi mumbled the news, “Well.” And she had regarded her daughter with a mixture of pleasure and betrayal. After an awkward pull into the crook of her shoulder—as if Abi’s mother knew a hug was perhaps expected but not natural—she said: “We should go to Mervyn’s.”
Abi was still adjusting to the business of menstruation; in her entire life, this was only her second period ever. She barely knew how to tell herself what was happening, let alone communicate these new plumbing issues to another human being. “Oh! Oh. Oh,” Abi’s mother had said after Abi mumbled the news, “Well.” And she had regarded her daughter with a mixture of pleasure and betrayal. After an awkward pull into the crook of her shoulder—as if Abi’s mother knew a hug was perhaps expected but not natural—she said: “We should go to Mervyn’s.”
And so Abi and her mother had gone to Mervyn’s, where, after haunting the linoleum clearance aisles, she was gifted nylon stockings and a purse. Abi had anticipated the nylons, since her mother thought church required something a bit more formal than bare legs; the purse was extra. But really, it was all—the purse, nylons and period—new. Her body an unpredictable amalgamation of leaks and twists, Abi was overcome with the sense that her body was something less comfortable, less beautiful than she had hoped. She thought of the Bible story with Jacob, pulling at the tent flap to reveal, instead of the desired Rachel, the hated Leah. She had expected puberty to bestow upon her a certain quiet, smooth roundness. Instead, Abi found womanhood more a rough, squeaky jab.
“I think—I am positive this will work.” Jenn-Meredith said, punching her palm with an assertive fist. “But are you sure you don’t want to give the tampons like, maybe one more shot?”
Jenn-Meredith was partial to neckties, Leadership Club, and Johnny Cash. She’d been the first of Abi’s friends to term herself feminist—a classification Abi’s mother regarded with an alarm normally reserved for the contagious. And while Jenn-Meredith was resistant to anything overtly feminine, she was also the first to have a boyfriend—this detail Abi guarded jealously—a thin, sweet-eyed, non-Mormon boy named Kelly, who Abi was almost certain Jenn-Meredith had chosen (whether subconsciously or not; who could say) for the delicious reminder of Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue.”
Abi grimaced. “Noooo no no,” she said. “And I don’t believe you use them. You actually use those things? They’re so…hurt-y.”
The previous hour had found Jenn-Meredith coaching Abi’s first attempt at tampon usage through the locked bathroom door—Try lying on your back, maybe one leg up in the air, what if you get it wet first, did you look at the diagram? It had been confusing for them both. Jenn-Meredith, whose family maintained an open bathroom door policy, had offered to demonstrate, but Abi—whose family definitely did not, and unsure whose vagina Jenn-Meredith intended to utilize—had demurred. Kotex fold-out instructions open on the bathroom floor, Abi placed the cotton tampon tip against what she was fairly certain to be the correct hole and gently pressed. The cardboard plunger bit into the soft pink between her legs—ouch—and came back somehow both bloody and dry. No, thank you.
Jenn-Meredith bounced to a crouch. Like a football coach or TV evangelist, she spread out her hands to make a frame.
“Listen,” she said, “Here’s what you do: wear the too-small underwear—yeah, those ones, with the pink, who the crap cares—and one of your mom’s pads. She has the overnight kind, right? Good. So the too-small underwear, that’s gonna, like, suck the pad to your body, right? So when you step in the font and get all wet, no blood can leak out.”
“But how do you know this?” Abi’s eyes narrowed. Normally she was not a questioner, but ten years of friendship had earned Jenn-Meredith a level of trust that welcomed inquisition (she had, after all, volunteered a live tampon demonstration).
“Easy,” said Jenn-Meredith. In Leadership Club she had earned the nickname “The Bouncer;” whenever a debate tipped in her favor she had the tendency to jog in place beside her desk, and now, amid piles of Abi’s clothes and books, she hopped up and down, up and down. “That’s so easy. Babies? Babies go in pools with their moms all the time. Babies wear diapers, Abi. And the babies have whatever those things are, little swim bottoms, that hold the diaper. And you never see like, rivers of pee around a baby. Do you?”
Abi had to admit that she did not.
And so the plan was hatched: wear the outgrown underwear with the oversized pad; following baptisms, go as directed to shower stalls; remove jumpsuit, but not underwear; casually return, towel-wrapped, to locker room; deposit wet underwear and pad in extra bag. Finally, towel wrapped around her waist, Abi would quickly, neatly shimmy on the dry underwear and pad.
That dry pad was the trickiest part—how to crotch the maxi unobserved? Abi and Jenn-Meredith practiced for a full hour. She had only one practice pad, since three were all she could swipe from her mother’s bathroom cabinet (any more would appear too suspicious). Unwrap, slap, shimmy. Re-fold. And they were loud, those maxi pads. The wrapping, the wings—and they all had sticky strips that made a plasticky ziiiiiiip when ripped. The trick was to go snail-slow; Abi couldn’t get her time below a minute.
On the day of baptisms for the dead, Abi’s mother drove her to the Santa Susana First Ward Chapel. Abi’s mother was tall, with large, grapefruity breasts that Abi had taken to observing in the manner of a wildlife preservationist; as the car slowed to a stop at the corner of Cochran and Stearns, Abi noted that the breasts appeared to be engaged in a friendly, near-imperceptible bounce.
On the day of baptisms for the dead, Abi’s mother drove her to the Santa Susana First Ward Chapel. Abi’s mother was tall, with large, grapefruity breasts that Abi had taken to observing in the manner of a wildlife preservationist; as the car slowed to a stop at the corner of Cochran and Stearns, Abi noted that the breasts appeared to be engaged in a friendly, near-imperceptible bounce.
“Be sure to look at the portrait of the Savior hanging over the font,” said Abi’s mother. “Because the portrait of the Savior is the most lifelike. You know—”
Abi nodded, interrupting. “Prophet Spencer W. Kimball described to the artist exactly how to paint,” she finished.
“He described every detail,” said Abi’s mother, “Right down to the expression on His face.”
They drove down Cochran, past Joann Fabrics. The maxi pad, dish-sponge thick, gave Abi the sensation of sitting higher than normal. Abi realized with a tiny jolt that she had never intended to reveal herself, and felt the gravity of her own weakness. Lies like these were sins of omission. Default lies. But what about a lie for the Lord? She was giving one of the deceased an opportunity to accept the gospel; surely this at least watered down the sin? Joseph Smith, after all, had lied about polygamy—there had been a Young Women lesson on that, too—the saints had been unprepared for such a startling revelation, and he had done what was necessary to obey the Lord’s command. The minivan pulled into the chapel parking lot. In Abi’s stomach, a pit of nervousness bloomed.
The young women were assigned cars: Jenn-Meredith was with Sister Nelson, and Abi would be riding with Tram Lavender. In addition to giving chastity-related lessons at church, Sister Lavender was First Counselor in Young Women’s: a child-sized Vietnamese woman, so tiny that once, during a Young Women game of hide-and-seek, she had dazzled the girls when she slid out from underneath the foyer sofa. She was known for her high, helium-filled voice—and for being married to Brother Lavender, the tallest man in Ventura County; the mechanics of their physical relationship had for Abi an alluring mystique. Jenn-Meredith once told her that husbands and wives could do it standing up, and Abi imagined that during sex, Sister Lavender had to climb him like a ladder.
Normally, Abi would have been ecstatic to ride with Sister Lavender. Hers was the car to be in—she kept a stash of emergency fruit snacks in the glove compartment, favored the phrase “crap on a cracker” when stuck in traffic, and it was rumored that on the last Young Women temple trip, she had sung all the lyrics to Beastie Boys’ “Shake Your Rump” in that cartoonish voice of hers—but among the other girls assigned to ride with Sister Lavender was Michelle Bacon. And Michelle Bacon was bad news.
Michelle Bacon had been in television commercials. She skateboarded; owned two pairs of Doc Martens. Her mother redecorated seasonally, and when Nancy Reagan had visited Hillside Elementary School while on her Just Say No! To Drugs campaign, Michelle had beaten out Abi for the opportunity to escort Nancy around campus. All this had, until recently, been grounds for envy. But last month—on the second day of Abi’s first period, as she exited World History awash with the sensation that a tiny rodent was attempting to claw its way out of her abdomen—Michelle Bacon had shouted: “Hey! Abi Arvil! I think you’ve got some blood on you.” Abi had rushed to the bathroom where, shamefaced, she dabbed toilet paper at the bright, wet, Rorschach-y splotch of red on the seat of her capris.
“But maybe she just wanted to, like, warn you,” Jenn-Meredith had responded, when Abi sought comfort.
Abi shook her head. “But everyone was there. It was right after class. You know, they could all hear her.”
Jenn-Meredith looked puzzled. “But what if she didn’t say anything? Do you want to not know?”
“I guess not,” Abi had mumbled. She would have absolutely preferred Michelle’s silence. Did the truth always need to be pointed out? Fat bald men looked like billiard balls, but nobody walked around shouting that out all the time.
In Sister Lavender’s Suburban, the girls were all beautiful and singing. The windows were rolled down, and Abi wished she were the kind of girl who looked romantic and wild as her hair whipped about her face—like Chantelle Griffin, who sat with perfect posture in the middle row, her breasts a round and perky shelf. Abi had noted Chantelle’s breasts a few weeks earlier—September 8, 2pm: Chantelle looks like she has one big boob straight across. This looks nice. Research sports bras?
In Sister Lavender’s Suburban, the girls were all beautiful and singing. The windows were rolled down, and Abi wished she were the kind of girl who looked romantic and wild as her hair whipped about her face—like Chantelle Griffin, who sat with perfect posture in the middle row, her breasts a round and perky shelf. Abi had noted Chantelle’s breasts a few weeks earlier—September 8, 2pm: Chantelle looks like she has one big boob straight across. This looks nice. Research sports bras?
Michelle Bacon was rolling her shoulders back and pumping out her chest to the beat of Beastie Boys’ “You Gotta Fight For Your Right.” Abi thought it inappropriate and exciting to listen to such a song on the way to the temple. You wake up late for school, man, you don’t wanna go / And your mom threw out your best porno mag.
“If you were a song, which song would you be?” Michelle asked, her shoulders dipping. What sort of a song would Abi be? She wondered if that was the same thing as the sort of song you could be. Abi did not have a radio. Her parents valued classical music, and truthfully, Abi didn’t mind so much—her heart belonged to old musicals. She watched Kiss Me Kate and Singin’ in the Rain over and over, imagining how it might feel to make out with Gene Kelly or Howard Keel. She knew this was wrong—it was not the sort of thing that would connect her to the beautiful Beastie Boys-singing girls around her—and so she tore pictures from Seventeen magazine to tape on her bedroom door. Pictures of skinny, grinning, bare-chested muscle-boys rollicking in the surf. Age-appropriate, but they lacked the forbidden allure of Howard Keel in tights and eyeliner. Abi’s mother had a picture of the Savior hanging in the entryway; whenever her Relief Society friends came over, they ooohhed and ahhhed. Abi thought her Seventeen magazine surfers no different; they were a way of demonstrating a certain false but socially necessary sameness.
“If I were a song, I’d be, um—I’d be Madonna? ‘Like a Prayer?’” Abi said.
“Ha!” Michelle Bacon snorted.
Sister Lavender was laughing too, quietly, from the front seat. “Well played, Abi,” Sister Lavender said, finding Abi’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “You’re a funny girl.”
Abi tried her best to look knowing—yes, I intended to be funny—although she had chosen “Like a Prayer” because everybody seemed to like Madonna, and it happened to be one of the only song titles she could remember.
The entrance to the Los Angeles Temple was on Temple Way, just off Santa Monica Boulevard. Abi thought this was just like what the Prophet and General Authorities were always saying—how one should be in the world, but not of the world. The front doors were heavy, brassy, and motion-sensored, facing a shallow rectangular reflecting pool. When visiting the grounds with her family, Abi had seen cheerful couples walk in, temple bags over their shoulders, as the doors whooshed gentle gusts of holy air conditioning out into the hot Los Angeles afternoon. But today, they used a different entrance. “This is the one for baptisms,” said Sister Lavender, guiding Abi and the other girls down a succulent-lined pathway to the back. “You’ll use the big entrance when you get married. Or go on a mission,” she added as an afterthought.
The entrance to the Los Angeles Temple was on Temple Way, just off Santa Monica Boulevard. Abi thought this was just like what the Prophet and General Authorities were always saying—how one should be in the world, but not of the world. The front doors were heavy, brassy, and motion-sensored, facing a shallow rectangular reflecting pool. When visiting the grounds with her family, Abi had seen cheerful couples walk in, temple bags over their shoulders, as the doors whooshed gentle gusts of holy air conditioning out into the hot Los Angeles afternoon. But today, they used a different entrance. “This is the one for baptisms,” said Sister Lavender, guiding Abi and the other girls down a succulent-lined pathway to the back. “You’ll use the big entrance when you get married. Or go on a mission,” she added as an afterthought.
Inside, the Temple was cool, hushed and cheerful. The group walked up to a long teak reception desk, behind which stood a small white-haired woman with thick drawn-on eyebrows and sharp red lips: Sister Saunders. Abi liked her; when she smiled, her eyes and mouth matched, which was not always the case. Behind her were racks and racks of white jumpsuits; sturdy cotton with elasticized waists. Sister Saunders counted all the girls in the group and handed them each a jumpsuit. Abi felt a small gush issue into her pad.
“Reverently, girls,” said Sister Lavender. She and Sister Nelson refereed the dressing room as the girls changed into their jumpsuits. The dressing room was not quite as hushed as the rest of the temple; some of the girls poked at each other, and Michelle Bacon whispered the lyrics to Salt n Pepa’s “Shoop” as she shimmied out of her dress. Her bra and panties were a surprisingly gentle lavender, dotted with tiny white daisies. Abi realized she hadn’t considered how she would change into her jumpsuit; surely all the other girls would notice the giant lump of pad in her underwear. Jenn-Meredith leaned over. “Jumpsuit first,” she whispered, pulling on her jumpsuit underneath her dress before shimmying the dress over her head. Abi copied with jerky, imprecise movements; she nearly fell over when her left big toe snagged the fabric.
After putting on her jumpsuit, Abi went to the bathroom to do damage control. She and Jenn-Meredith had considered the bathroom as an option for pre- and post-baptismal changing; but the stalls were located next to, and not inside the locker room. They had both agreed that such behavior might be found suspicious. Abi pulled down her underwear and examined the pad. She took a clump of toilet paper and dabbed; she held another wad between her legs. When she was satisfied that she had collected as much blood as possible, she pulled up her underwear and zipped the white jumpsuit. The underwear was on its last legs—she’d heard a tiny rip as she worked them past her thighs.
Sitting in the baptismal waiting area, Abi rocked back and forth.
Sitting in the baptismal waiting area, Abi rocked back and forth.
“Something the matter with your butt?” Michelle Bacon whispered, eyeing her warily. “Nothing,” Abi whispered back. She wished she were cheeky, like Michelle. She wished she were the sort of girl who could retort. But when Michelle looked sideways at her, pursing her lips, all Abi could say was, “My butt is fine”, which felt both untrue and uncool.
The baptismal font was white stone, the size of a small doughboy swimming pool, and lined with aqua colored tile that made the water look Bermuda-blue. It rested upon the backs of twelve white marble oxen; these represented the twelve tribes of Israel. The stairway leading up to the font was also white stone, and tucked neatly to the side was a small desk and three chairs; one for the person in charge of names, and two for the witnesses.
The witnesses were Brother Stewart, Young Men’s President, and Brother Brinkerton, First Counselor. On baptizing duty was Brother Mendoza, Young Men’s Second Counselor; he waited in the font, waist-deep. The Young Men were sitting in the left-hand pews arranged by age, just like the Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels: Deacons, Teachers, and Priests, waiting their turn for baptisms. They wore white jumpsuits identical to those given to the Young Women, and every so often one leaned forward, making fish lips in the girls’ general direction. Abi wanted to like them, but they looked small, wormy. She tried imagining the older ones, the Priests, in Howard Keel’s Shakespeare tights—maybe a little eyeliner—but the effect was less sexy and more embarrassing, like walking in on someone in the bathroom.
The Young Women lined up at the font’s entrance. Abi was after Michelle Bacon and before Jenn-Meredith; she was glad there were several girls before her so she could observe. Chantelle was first. As she stepped down into the water, Brother Mendoza held out his arm; Chantelle gripped it with one hand, the other self-consciously pressing down the white balloon of her jumpsuit. Brother Mendoza’s arms were blanketed in thick black hair; Abi pictured him in eyeliner, too. She found this to be more successful than with the young men; between her legs, a pleasant ache pulsed. Then—oh, no—another burst of blood.
The temple worker sitting at the desk placed a rectangular pink card onto a projector, and it appeared, magnified, on a small TV screen set just above the font, with a name, date and place of birth. Brother Mendoza raised his right arm to the square, and, after repeating the baptismal prayer and reading the name on the card, dipped Chantelle back into the water. Then the man at the desk, pulling a pencil from above his ear, took the pink notecard, circled the letter B—for baptism—and Chantelle dripped her way up the stairs and to the locker room to change.
Abi looked over at the waiting area, where two Deacons were engaged in a reverent thumb war. She felt a small, hot sploosh and stood up straighter, sucked in her tummy; she tried to create as much distance between her body and the pad as possible. She imagined her maxi pad to be one of the Nazi cops in The Sound of Music; her period, Julie Andrews hiding behind a tombstone.
Another Beehive waded into the font; Michelle Bacon was on deck. Abi silently scolded her body: Behave yourself. The girls in tampon commercials were always happy, cartwheeling; periods were their best friends. The maxi pad commercial girls were more somber, but hopeful; their periods were that stable, boring friend. The one you could count on to show up at your party. Abi’s period felt less like any sort of friend and more like an unpredictable toddler. Michelle Bacon turned around for no discernible reason, coolly regarding Abi. “You have something,” she said, pointing at Abi’s groin. “Right there.”
Over. It was all over. Abi looked down to see two squares of toilet paper, statically clinging. She snatched at them, delighted. She was suddenly flooded with love—for the toilet paper, which was only an innocent bystander and not the treacherous bloodstain she’d so desperately feared; for Michelle Bacon, who was not, after all, so terrible. Why had she feared Michelle? Michelle was a daughter of Heavenly Father, selflessly helping Abi remove unwanted toiletries from her person.
Michelle stepped down into the baptismal font, and Abi shuffled up to take her place at the font’s edge. The floor was covered in a heavy plastic mat, perforated with tiny holes to prevent puddles from forming. Abi watched Michelle take Brother Mendoza’s arm and generously thought she looked like Kathryn Grayson in Kiss Me Kate. Something about her eyes, which were wide-set and lively. Yes, lively—not mean; not volatile in the slightest. Abi thought, Maybe I’ll invite her over sometime. They would become friends. Michelle could teach Abi how to skateboard.
Michelle was having trouble in the font; her knee kept poking past the water’s surface. Which was a problem, as baptism was an ordinance meant to mirror the Savior’s experience as precisely as possible. Christ was baptized by immersion. Each disobedient poke of Michelle’s knee required Brother Mendoza start again. The priesthood holders did their best to be patient, but Abi thought she saw a tiny eye-roll from Brother Mendoza as he once again raised his right arm to the square.
Abi felt another squish: big, sticky and wet. Maybe if she squeezed her legs together. Maybe that was the key. Not stretching away from the pad, as she’d been doing. How elegant; how simple. She pressed her arms at her sides and tried, ever so casually, to give her underwear a gentle hike. She wanted the sensation of a ponytail pulled so tight she could feel her eyebrows stretch. But she couldn’t pull her underwear high enough; she felt a tiny pocket of swampy air between the pad and her labia; the damp warmth of skin just following a bath. Maybe if she pretended to be adjusting her jumpsuit—quickly, she grabbed the elastic waistband and yanked. She couldn’t be sure if what she heard was a rip in her underwear or the squeak of pad against fabric, but as Michelle Bacon exited to the locker room, Abi felt the thick, squelching mass of maxi pad against buttocks. She waddled down into the font.
The temple worker placed a small pink card onto the projector: Abish Reed, born 1789, England. My name, thought Abi, as she stood in the font. Was this other Abish present? Awaiting her opportunity to accept membership into the Lord’s one true church? The sharp scent of chlorine filled Abi’s nostrils as she took Brother Mendoza’s arm. Above the font hung the painting of Jesus with John the Baptist. Distracted by the blood rivering out of her, she had nearly forgotten her mother’s reminder. The story went that during the construction of the Los Angeles temple, a painting of Jesus had been commissioned. The artist, seeking exactness, had requested an audience with the Prophet, Spencer W. Kimball. Sitting before the artist, President Kimball had closed his eyes, describing the Savior’s appearance in detail: his height, the color of his hair, the thickness of his arms, the expression on his face.
The temple worker placed a small pink card onto the projector: Abish Reed, born 1789, England. My name, thought Abi, as she stood in the font. Was this other Abish present? Awaiting her opportunity to accept membership into the Lord’s one true church? The sharp scent of chlorine filled Abi’s nostrils as she took Brother Mendoza’s arm. Above the font hung the painting of Jesus with John the Baptist. Distracted by the blood rivering out of her, she had nearly forgotten her mother’s reminder. The story went that during the construction of the Los Angeles temple, a painting of Jesus had been commissioned. The artist, seeking exactness, had requested an audience with the Prophet, Spencer W. Kimball. Sitting before the artist, President Kimball had closed his eyes, describing the Savior’s appearance in detail: his height, the color of his hair, the thickness of his arms, the expression on his face.
Abi expected to be overcome with emotion upon seeing so true a representation of the Lord; to feel a bracing of her testimony. Instead, as she took in the Savior’s muscled forearms, flowing hair, and full, sensitive mouth, Abi realized with dismay: Jesus was hot. Hotter than those squirrelly Deacons, or even Brother Mendoza. Just, unquestionably hotter. She cradled her hands in Brother Mendoza’s, closed her eyes, and listened. “My dear Sister, Abish Arvil,” Brother Menoza said, “I baptize you for and in behalf of Abish Reed, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.” Knees clamped, Abi pinched her nose and fell back into the water.
It was strange: surrounded by wetness, Abi found herself able to identify different types of wet. The wetness of the font was soft—the temperature of tepid bathwater—but between her legs the wetness was hot, viscous, pulsing; Abi had worried that her underwear would bubble out just as her jumpsuit had, but instead it suctioned to her body and, for the first time since standing in line, she relaxed. The Lord was aware. Even the fall of the sparrow was within His gaze. It was just like Jenn-Meredith said. She would be fine.
Gush.
This gush was significantly more substantial than prior gushes; she hadn’t known such a gush was even possible. It felt as though a tiny water gun was actually inside her, gleefully squirting. She waited for the gush to stop. Brother Mendoza had given a talk in church about waiting upon the Lord, Abi remembered; he had said, Sometimes in order to test our faith, the Lord waits to help us until the very last moment. But—
Gush gush gush! Rather than cease, the gush had become even gushier; Abi struggled to keep her legs together as she brought her body back to standing. She was consumed by the terrified admiration one feels in the face of a natural disaster: a tsunami, a volcano. Abi wondered if the volcano ever frightened itself; if the volcano ever thought, hey! I didn’t know I could do that! As its boiling rivers of magma swallowed people whole. She pulled at Brother Mendoza’s arm, which was too slack for support. He extended his hand for a shake; he shook hands all wrong. A limp fish of a handshake—gush gush gush—the sort that seems to actually retreat from human contact even as skin meets skin. He smiled down at her. She did not return the smile; she did not like him. In fact, at that moment, she was fairly certain she had never actually liked anything. There was no good in the world. Only the Gush—a creature of hot, evil dampness that stalked its jumpsuited prey.
Slowly, Abi moved towards the steps of the font. Chill air-conditioning bit through her wet jumpsuit. She looked at the waiting area, hoping to see a spirit—perhaps the Abish for whom she had been baptized would be there, to show her acceptance of the gospel—but there was only a Deacon, who reached into the chest area of his jumpsuit and poked two fingers out, tenting the fabric. Oh, no—were her nipples poking out? Abi’s attention shifted from groin to chest; for a moment, she was like one of those stressed moms she saw at church, herding multiple kids. Her period and nipples each a child wailing for attention, Abi too distracted to devote appropriate time to either. Briefly she dipped her head, eyes scanning chest: smooth. Then—throat and belly flashing with a cold, sour nervousness—she allowed her gaze to rest on the water of the font. Was she safe? Or had she inked up the font with her menstrual blood? The water appeared aqua; her stomach warmed.
In the locker room, Abi entered the shower stall: a square tiled room with several communal spouts. No privacy—she needed speed. She peeled off the white jumpsuit. With an anxiety normally reserved for test day, she turned it over to examine its back. Please, Abi thought, Please please.
In the locker room, Abi entered the shower stall: a square tiled room with several communal spouts. No privacy—she needed speed. She peeled off the white jumpsuit. With an anxiety normally reserved for test day, she turned it over to examine its back. Please, Abi thought, Please please.
The jumpsuit was clean. A soft, grateful sigh escaped her lips. As she removed her bra it fell to the tile floor. Bending to retrieve it, she heard a distinct riiiiiip as her underwear split; the pad, soggy with blood and stinking of chlorine, dangled between her legs. For a brief moment, Abi wondered if this was what it felt like to have a penis. A dark russet drop blobbed onto the tile.
Abi removed the pad from her underwear, briefly swiping the ripped panties over the tile floor. It took two passes to coax the blood into the waterlogged fabric; satisfied, she sandwiched the pad between her legs and wrapped the towel around her chest, tucking the underwear between her breasts. The room smelled strongly of bleach; with a criminal’s sharp eye she examined the stall for any evidence and then, legs pinched, waddled into the locker room.
Michelle sat on the bench, tying her shoes. Jenn-Meredith stood at the counter, blow-drying her hair. Chantelle and a few other Laurels were at the mirror, applying mascara.
“Did you know that Roseanne Barr is Mormon?” Michelle asked, turning to Abi.
“No,” Abi said. “I didn’t know that.” One of the Laurels turned from the mirror. “No she’s not,” she shouted over the hum of the blow-dryer. It was Milena Pitts. Abi admired Milena’s breasts for their gravity-defying properties. “She’s not Mormon,” Milena repeated, walking over to Abi. “She has abortions.” Abi was both grateful to be included and incredibly annoyed; all she wanted was a little privacy. The chance, unobserved, to remove the bloody slug from between her legs and replace it with a clean dry pad. Jenn-Meredith, whose parents were the only Democrats in the Santa Susana congregation, yelled: “Women should be able to choose what happens to their bodies!”
It was as if a match had been lit. Jenn-Meredith unconcernedly continued to dry her hair as the other girls crowded in.
“Abortion is a sin!” said Corinne Tipton. Her breasts were little lazy flaps.
“My mom’s doctor said she shouldn’t have babies because she could like, die, but she had me anyways.” This was Betsy Torres, who had not spoken since the car ride. Her voice—like her breasts—was surprisingly gentle and full.
Abi was surrounded. Her clean pad and underwear sat at the bottom of her backpack. When she’d practiced changing pads, Abi had focused on speed, not stealth. While the other girls shouted—Babies are so cute! Babies have rights too! We can control our bodies by not having sexual intercourse!—she focused her gaze at Jenn-Meredith. Help me, she telepathed, widening her eyes in the direction of her backpack. Casually, she unzipped the pack and began fussing about: Pretend like you’re looking for chapstick. Pretend like you’re looking for chapstick. With bone-creaking slowness, she began to peel back the pad’s wrapper.
“Nobody knows when human life begins!” Jenn-Meredith shouted. Michelle glowered. There had been a Young Women’s activity on chastity and the sanctity of life; a representative from the local anti-abortion league had shown the girls pictures of deconstructed fetuses. Horrible pictures; blue veins snaking through translucent arms. Michelle had an older sister who had given a baby up for adoption; she appeared to have a particular beef with Jenn-Meredith’s statement. “It’s fertilization,” she said. “When the sperm thing swims into the egg.” The other girls quickly piped in—Dead things don’t, like, multiply their cells; it doesn’t matter if we know when life begins because duh, Heavenly Father told us not to have abortions; what if Adam and Eve had abortions, we wouldn’t even be here. The locker room filled with the burnt-toast smell of the blow dryer and the loud, anxious whir of young female voices.
Jenn-Meredith looked at Abi. You’re welcome, her eyes said.
As the girls argued, Abi let her towel fall to her waist and quickly, gratefully, snapped her bra into place. Carefully, she tucked the ripped underwear between the towel and her waist and then, satisfied in the security of each, dropped her dress over her head. That towel-around-waist trick was a good one; it worked just as well the second time. The girls continued to argue, their voices dropping to stage whispers after Sister Lavender poked her head in, wittily singing “ta-aaake tiiiime to be holyyyyy.”
Michelle turned to Abi. “What does Abi think?” she asked. Abi looked up, her face guilty. Her towel fell to the floor; swiftly she kicked it beneath the bench, where it lay in a lumpy puddle. Her period—that slumbering volcano—roared to life. Gush. Abi pinched her legs tighter.
To be asked her opinion—this was what Abi dreaded most. The problem was one of allegiance. Was it better to be allied with oneself, or with others? The correct answer—the church answer—was, of course, oneself. She frowned; her hands, buried in the backpack, steadily fixing the dry pad’s sticky strips to her clean pair of underwear. The other girls had taken to repeating previously stated beliefs: commandment, blessing, abstinence. Only Jenn-Meredith dissented; as she fastened her sports sandals she frustratedly appealed to the girls’ scientific understanding. “But you don’t know, nobody knows—how would you like it if somebody else controlled your body—none of you get it!” She ripped and re-fastened the strap of her sandal for emphasis. How Abi loved Jenn-Meredith; she wanted to be Jenn-Meredith. So bold, so unconcerned with the opinions of others. She didn’t need anybody’s approval.
Abi didn’t want to need approval, especially not from Michelle Bacon, but—“I think—I think it’s a sin. Abortion is a sin,” Abi said. She glanced over at Jenn-Meredith. They had been friends for eleven years, ever since, as toddlers, their mothers were called to serve together in the Mormon women’s group called Relief Society. In all that time, never had Abi openly disagreed with Jenn-Meredith. Now, as Abi watched her friend angrily bouncing, face contorted with betrayal, she realized she had been wrong—it wasn’t that Jenn-Meredith didn’t need anybody’s approval. It was that, up until this moment, she’d always been able to rely on Abi’s. In the flash of Jenn-Meredith’s eyes, in the violence of her bounce, Abi saw the truth of that need; it made her feel an uncomfortable mixture of pity and revulsion.
A hum of agreement settled upon the locker room. Michelle Bacon looked approvingly at Abi. Corinne Tipton spritzed Elizabeth Arden Sunflowers cologne over her hair. Normally Abi loved the smell of Sunflowers—she was saving her babysitting money to buy her own bottle—but now, the citrusy floral combined with Jenn-Meredith’s glare to nauseating effect. And then: gush. With the weariness of a mid-race marathoner, Abi realized that while the dry pad was ready to go—good and stuck to her clean underwear— she still had to remove the wet pad from between her legs, unnoticed, and slide on the clean underwear and pad. Again, unnoticed. All while ensuring that no drops of blood found the floor. And she’d just alienated her ally.
The girls were nearly ready. A few remaining young women trickled in, hair dripping. Baptisms were finished; Abi needed to hurry. But the locker room had quieted, all the energy from Jenn-Meredith’s outburst gone. And with no discreet way to transfer the bloody pad to her extra bag—those overnight ones were huge; wadded up, it would be the size of a softball—she needed another distraction.
The girls were nearly ready. A few remaining young women trickled in, hair dripping. Baptisms were finished; Abi needed to hurry. But the locker room had quieted, all the energy from Jenn-Meredith’s outburst gone. And with no discreet way to transfer the bloody pad to her extra bag—those overnight ones were huge; wadded up, it would be the size of a softball—she needed another distraction.
And then, a miracle. “Well, but did you know,” Corinne Tipton said, tucking the Sunflowers bottle into her purse, “That Roseanne Barr is from Utah?” Once again, the locker room erupted. So maybe she is Mormon? Roseanne Barr takes birth control. Did she take the missionary discussions? Roseanne Barr had, like, so many divorces. Marie Osmond is Mormon, but she got a divorce. Girls gathered bags of wet clothes, arguing over which celebrities were or were not Mormon (Steve Martin! Butch Cassidy! Arthur Killer Kane! Who even is Arthur Killer Kane and who did he kill?). Here it was: her last chance.
Glancing at the other young women, Abi discovered a flaw in her plan: to stuff the wet pad in her extra bag required reaching between her legs to retrieve it. Too conspicuous. She knelt down, as if to pull something from her backpack. She released the towel from around her waist, shifted to a straddle, and, like a woman squatting in birth, opened her legs. The pad settled on the towel in a wet, barely perceptible plop. With a queasy thrill—someone would surely find it; would it be reported? Could the pad be traced back to her?—she folded the towel around the dirty pad, kicked it under the locker room bench, and slid her clean, freshly padded underwear up.
Would the bloody pad stain the towel? Maybe. Probably. She reminded herself that by the time someone discovered it, she would be safely in the van along with the other young women. Plus, putting that bloody napkin in her backpack—that was asking for trouble. All it would take was one girl—Abi, do you have chapstick? Don’t worry, I’ll grab it. Oh my gosh gross, what the heck is this—to destroy her. As she stood, her eyes caught Jenn-Meredith’s: narrowed and wet with anger. Abi’s first impulse was to look away, but she needed Jenn-Meredith’s silence. Jenn-Meredith knew what lay buried within Abi’s towel. Abi offered a sweet, dumb smile. Jenn-Meredith glared.
A series of metallic tha-thunks echoed as Sister Lavender opened lockers, checking for any forgotten bags. Most of the young women stood by the exit, ready to load up the vans; there remained a few girls still hastily slathering on body lotion and executing messy, damp French braids. Abi approached the locker room mirror and picked up a comb, dragging it through the wet tangles. There was no time to blow her hair dry, but that didn’t matter. All that remained was for her to dump the towel in the laundry and leave. She planned to walk out last, as an added precaution—the best criminals left no witnesses.
“Girls,” Sister Lavender called out, “I still see some towels on the floor.” She gestured to Jenn-Meredith, who had taken a seat on the bench beside Abi’s backpack. “Is that Abi’s towel? Jenn-Meredith, can you please grab that?”
Abi froze.
“Sure,” Jenn-Meredith said. She leaned over, and then—
It would be years before they discussed what happened next; after Jenn-Meredith’s third baby—stillborn—and after Abi’s husband moved out, taking up with that emergency room nurse; the one who never drank water and refused to wear a seat belt. Not that they would avoid the topic. What had transpired that day would seem to them inevitable, and therefore undeserving of analysis. It was funny, Abi would think, the way you could look back and see the lurking themes of your life: passivity, shame, a tendency towards confrontation. Love that survived betrayal. Maybe those were the real spirits, the ones that were possible to see.
Jenn-Meredith picked up Abi’s towel. She held it aloft with both hands to the side, like a bullfighter. With a sticky thwap, the wet pad fell to the tile. Sister Lavender, who had stopped to fuss with her hair in the mirror, turned. And just as she turned—just as Abi was certain of her social and celestial doom—Jenn-Meredith scooped up the pad with the towel. With a final pointed glare at Abi, she tossed it into the hamper. Unaware, Sister Lavender exited.
As they walked towards the door, Jenn-Meredith turned to Abi.
“Gotcha,” she said.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.