What God Wants

God doesn't want you to kill babies and neither does your 10-year-old step-son. That's what he tells you when you are headed west on Lombard street, in the sleeting rain, in the steady gray, in the impenetrable monochrome of a Portland winter.
        I am in the middle of a sentence when he says this. I am suddenly stuck on repeat. I try and begin my sentence over and over again and all I hear is, "Kate, stop killing babies." My husband glances over from the driver's seat. My step-son begins humming.
        I remember saying things at ten like "Dad, you don't have a singing voice," just because I knew that he felt vulnerable about it. I wasn't trying to be mean, I just saw a soft spot and pushed to see what would happen. I remember feeling excitement mixed with dread and regret.  I remember not meaning it, just watching to see what would happen. Would he cry? Would I get in trouble?
        When I hear this, I don't immediately say anything to Micheal. I give my husband a slight nod to indicate that I am fine, but my eyes well up with tears. "Kate, stop killing babies," I hear it again in my mind.
       Micheal is dealing with my miscarriage in his own way.  Maybe he's angry with me.  He was on his way to being an older brother when I lost the baby. When we told him about the pregnancy, he had spent weeks singing and dancing.  He had been effervescent. We were becoming a family on a new level, and everything between the three of us felt different. It was made all the more special for Micheal because the baby's due date was the same day as his birthday.  In his mind they were twinned.
       Realizing where we are, I remember the billboard we have so often passed so I say, "Oh, did you see that billboard? The one that says, 'Stop killing babies"--God'?" For a brief, unmistakable moment, I hate the Christians ferociously.  We'd passed the billboard many times and even commented on it, Micheal and I talking about what it meant and why it would be posted for the public to see.
       "Yes," he replies, and then says it again, "Kate, stop killing babies, God." Maybe he laughs a little.
       I nod,"Mhmmm...., that's a funny billboard, huh?"
       It's hard not to leap to my own defense, about how I loved that child and didn't have a choice. But I don't. This is Micheal's moment, a moment in which he is articulating some sense of loss, his loss. To overshadow it with more explanation of the love we had for the baby, for the inevitable and irreparable moment in which we lost her is not the point, so I remain quiet.
      My tears are quiet too. They keep coming. I look out the window.  The Satin Sugar silo, solid and white, is glowing eerily in the gray light. The railroad cars are standing in sendentary queue, cold and remote.
       We each sit quietly for a while, making our separate ways through this.