Free The Rising: Antichrist Is Born by Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins Page B

think the technicality of its being someone else’s child would make a difference.
    Marilena couldn’t bring herself to unfold her whole plan, the idea of a brief pragmatic affair. The concept remained so bizarre to her that it was impossible to put into words. Oh, she knew there were men who would sleep with any woman for any reason. Even a plain one like her. But what kind of men were they? What genes might join hers in the creation of a new life? Those from a drunk, a scoundrel, a rounder, someone who slept around?
    A sperm bank was the answer. She would have an idea of the background, nationality, profession, even IQ of the donor. But Marilena was not even prepared to speak of that to Sorin. It was not her pregnancy or where it originated that would matter to him. It would be the issue of bringing a newborn into their lives.
    And if he forbade it? If he left her? How would she support herself and a baby when she would be out of work for a time? And when she returned to work, how would she afford child care? Despite the fact that this was a longing of the heart, Marilena could not let emotion get in the way of the practicalities. Frankly, she didn’t imagine herself a working mother anyway—at least not outside the home. Surely with her gifts she could find work that could be done via the Internet.
    Ideally, though, staying with Sorin, not having to move, his supporting them—that made the most sense. But would he agree?

Chapter 6

    Ray Steele felt like a fool. Here he was, one of the cool fourth graders, and yet he was being a baby.
    His mother had dragged him along on an errand run. Normally he didn’t mind, because she mostly let him wait in the car. And when she did ask him to save her some time by running into one store while she dashed into another, it was only to be sure they were home in time for dinner and the stuff he wanted to do that night.
    Today she had asked him to pick up batteries in the hardware store while she went to a gigantic home-interiors warehouse. Ray was then to wait in the car. “I shouldn’t be more than half an hour,” she said.
    “Half an hour!” he said. “Come on, it’s not really gonna take that long, is it?”
    She ignored him, and while that infuriated him, he knew it was the best way to deal with his new attitude. Deep down what he really wanted was for his mom or dad to engage with him, argue with him. When they were indifferent or gave up—like when his dad would conclude, “Oh, no one can even talk to you”—Ray immediately regretted being so obstinate. He wanted anything but to be ignored.
    But the way his mother did it was effective. She wouldn’t say anything nasty or express exasperation. She merely pretended she had not heard him. That kept the back and forth from escalating to where Ray would realize how ridiculous he was, respond in anger, and say stupid things he couldn’t take back. He had even made her cry, which made him feel like an idiot.
    Sure, she was an old mom, and she was old-fashioned. She still called him Rayford most of the time. At least that was better than Raymie, which is what she had called him until he was about six. She had even made the mistake of recently calling him that in front of his friends, and he feared he would never hear the end of that.
    But Ray knew his mom really cared about him and loved him in her own way. He didn’t dwell on it, but if pushed he would have to admit that life would be awful without her in his corner.
    Ray found the batteries and opted for self-checkout. He tossed the bag onto the front seat and stretched out in the back, trying to avoid being noticed in that old car by anyone he knew. He slouched, reading Extreme Sports magazine. Ray preferred the major sports, but he also enjoyed watching skateboarders and bikers and snowboarders on TV, so the magazine was all right. Still, he nodded and dozed, finally tossing the magazine aside.
    He awoke with a start, sweating as the sun toasted him through the