“While I’m in London—” Wade said, interrupting her reverie.
“I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“It’s only five days. Mama will be here. Will you be okay?”
She didn’t know. A constant anxiety kept her jumpy and unsure. She wanted the stability Wade represented close to her. Besides, who would rock Barbara Ann to sleep?
“While I’m gone, you can fix up Barbara Ann’s room, you know—curtains and things. Make it girly. She can be up here with us. We’ll be like a real family.” He lifted Margie’s hand to his lips.
Inexplicably, the gesture brought on a wave of nausea. In the bathroom, she sat on the edge of the tub and laid her head on the sink, the porcelain cool against her cheek. When the sick feeling passed, she returned to help Wade make up the bed. Together they transferred their clothes to their new, more spacious closet.
Margie felt best when she kept busy; while Wade traveled to London for work, she sewed a coverlet for the crib in a bunny print and matching cushions for the rocking chair. She replaced sheer panel curtains at the window with ruffled priscillas. While Mama hung pictures, Margie filled a bookcase with her childhood books and Barbara Ann’s baby toys.
At the end of the week, they stood back to admire their work. “Wade’s going to love this,” Margie said.
They finished their chores while listening to soap operas on the radio. Later, Margie fed the baby as Mama made dinner. Ladling leftover stew into bowls, Mama said, “Tonight’s my quilting guild. Why don’t you come with me?”
“I don’t know. The baby . . .”
“She’ll be fine. My friends would love to see her.”
Barbara Ann kicked her legs as if excited by the prospect.
“You want to go bye-bye, sweetheart?” Mama cooed, kissing her tiny fingers. “Look how bright she is. It’s almost like she knows what I’m saying.”
Margie sometimes got that feeling too, that Barbara Ann knew what she was thinking, especially when the baby’s expressive dark eyes locked onto her face. She hefted Barbara Ann to her shoulder and held her there as she poured glasses of milk and put crackers and bread on the table. “You go and have a good time, Mama. I’d just be a wet blanket.”
Mama spread a napkin on her lap. “I don’t like leaving you alone. I know you’re unhappy. Can’t you tell me what’s wrong? I don’t mean to interfere, but is it you and Wade?”
“No, Wade and I are fine. Dr. Middleton says it’s just the baby blues, and it’s not unusual. He says I’ll perk up soon. I’ll try not to be such a sad sack.”
Mama said, “I don’t know, Margie. It seems more than that to me.”
At seven o’clock, Mama left with her arms full of sewing supplies, and the house fell quiet. Margie wheeled the bassinet into the kitchen and placed Barbara Ann into it, hoping she would be content watching her new butterfly mobile, a hand-me-down gift from Billy. Giving it a spin to set it in motion, Margie turned to folding the diapers that had dried on a line in the basement. That task finished, she took the stack to the hall table. Returning to the kitchen, she sterilized baby bottles in boiling water and cooked oatmeal gruel. The pots, pans, spoons, bottles, nipples, caps, funnels, and the cheesecloth used to strain the mush cluttered up Mama’s usually neat kitchen.
Barbara Ann began to fuss. Margie changed her diaper and dressed her in a nightgown; she was struck anew by how much she resembled Max at three months. Her plentiful dark hair had not fallen out, as the maternity nurses predicted. To Margie’s eyes, the nascent widow’s peak and the dimple in her chin grew more prominent daily. Mentally shaking herself, Margie kissed her daughter’s perfect foot.
“You look just like your grandma Porter. Your daddy says so, and he ought to know,” she said aloud.
She felt her heart rate increase, her attempt at self-persuasion unconvincing. She felt heat rising from her chest to the roots of her hair, and within minutes her body was drenched in a cold sweat. She gave Barbara Ann her pacifier and replaced her in the bassinet, then lit a cigarette to slow the tide of anxiety—the feeling of imminent doom, the racing heart, the ragged breaths—that threatened to break down her carefully cultivated defenses.
Barbara Ann spat out the pacifier and began to cry. Margie jiggled the bassinet, telling the baby, “In a minute! In a minute!” She took a bottle of formula from the refrigerator and placed it in a pan of water to heat up. Barbara Ann’s protests and Margie’s anxiety level escalated. Without taking the time to test the liquid’s temperature on her wrist, she offered the bottle to the fussing child. In her haste, however, she neglected to tighten the cap: the heated milk cascaded onto Barbara Ann’s face. She sputtered, then howled, her little arms and legs alternately stiffening and flailing.
In tears herself, Margie picked up the drenched and furious baby and paced the kitchen with Barbara Ann on her shoulder, agitatedly patting her back. “Mommy’s sorry! Mommy’s sorry! Please don’t cry. I can’t stand it when you cry.”
She stopped long enough to remove the sodden nightgown and wrap Barbara Ann in a blanket. After warming another bottle—and testing the cap—Margie placed the baby on the couch in the living room and propped the bottle on a pillow. Sucking greedily at the nipple, Barbara Ann quieted, but kept her eyes open. Margie took a step sideways. Barbara Ann’s condemning gaze followed. Fighting the persistent wave of panic she knew would reduce her to jelly, Margie snatched a diaper off the pile on the hall table and draped it over the infant’s face.
Her hands still shaking, she looked around for something to do to calm herself. She opened the newspaper to the crossword puzzle, scrabbling for a pencil in Mama’s stationery drawer. Tucked at the back she found a packet of letters in her own handwriting postmarked “Manila, the Philippines, 1941,” those golden days of golf in the early morning, pool parties, and dressing for dinner. Curious, she opened the one on top.
Manila, Philippines
December 8, 1941
Dear Mama and Daddy,
It is early morning, my favorite time of day. If I sit real still, I can feel a breeze coming through my shutters, and it’s refreshing. I received your last letter and will watch for your Christmas package. I sent one to you too, and it should arrive soon.
Enclosed is a picture taken a week ago at a holiday dinner dance. It was at the Manila Hotel, and as Evelyn said, mucho swanky. Royce wore his dress uniform. Isn’t he handsome? We looked spectacular together. I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s very special to me.
Evelyn’s doing fine. She loves her job at the navy base. The other man is her fiancé, Max Renaldo. Mama, I despise that man. I know it’s unchristian to feel that way, but the man is just evil. I think she is making a huge mistake, and I don’t know how to tell her.
The picture was still in the envelope, two couples toasting the camera—Royce’s arm draped over Margie’s shoulder, and Evelyn cuddled up to Max. She stared for a long time at Royce’s face and in her mind she heard his voice say, I love you. I love us. Her tears flowed freely as she grieved over all the tragedy, so many young lives lost.
Her gaze shifted to Max and his mesmerizing eyes. When she touched the scar on her ear left by his bite, a shudder started in her chin and spread downward until her whole body trembled. With a shaking hand, she grabbed a pencil. “Rot in hell!” she hissed from between clenched teeth, stabbing at his image until she obliterated it. Hyperventilating, she staggered to the kitchen to find her cigarettes. Sitting on the floor with her knees tight to her chest, rocking back and forth and chain-smoking as she sobbed, Margie was shattered from reliving her worst nightmare. She wondered if she was losing her mind.
That evening, Wade returned home from his trip a day early. Letting himself into the eerily silent house, he found Barbara Ann left alone, asleep on the couch, milk dried around her mouth and a diaper covering her head. An empty bottle lay on the carpet. He whipped the diaper off her face, then touched her lips, relief filling his heart when she suckled. He found another blanket to tuck her in w
ith, then went to find Margie. He noticed a packet of letters on the dining room table; on the floor, a pencil lay beside a picture with one man’s face stabbed beyond all recognition.
He located Margie. She was still rocking back and forth on the kitchen floor, hugging her knees to her chest, her face mottled and tearstained, her dress damp and smelling sour. Whimpering, she lit another cigarette from the ash of the one she’d just finished. The ashtray near her feet overflowed with butts.
He glowered down at her. “What the hell is going on here?”
CHAPTER 27
Little River, 1946–1947
The next morning, Wade scheduled an emergency appointment for Margie and himself with Dr. Garber, the psychiatrist. Adamant about keeping it, he told her he couldn’t trust her alone with Barbara Ann anymore. Margie cried, swearing she would never hurt her daughter.
They arrived at the doctor’s office just as the previous patient came out, a flat-faced and shuffling old man presenting symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. Wade held the door for the man’s slim, white-haired wife as she steered him through it. The couple looked vaguely familiar, Margie thought.
Waiting in the reception area, Wade tapped his foot while Margie paced until Dr. Garber opened the office door.
A tall man, he filled the doorway. He wore a well-tailored suit, a starched shirt, and a paisley tie. His plentiful dark hair had grayed gracefully at the temples. He indicated he would like to speak with Margie alone first; Wade could join them later.
His office contained an antique oak partners desk, the requisite couch, a round table with four tub chairs, and two matching wingback chairs upholstered in a heavy floral-print fabric. The doctor directed Margie to the table, which held a file folder with her name on it. While he flipped through her medical history and Dr. Middleton’s report, she sat primly with her hands in her lap, surreptitiously picking at her thumbnail. He peered over half-glasses perched on the end of an aquiline nose. “You were a nurse in the Philippines?”
“Yes.” The word came out as a squeak. She tried to swallow, but her rhythm was off, so she clamped her teeth shut and tried to look nonchalant.
He handed her a cup of water from a dispenser in the corner. “My nephew, Vince Robb, was stationed at Camp John Hay.”
She remembered Dr. Robb. After the Japanese invaded, he and Helen had tried to escape to the mountains with the enemy right behind them. Both had been captured, and Helen eventually was sent to Santo Tomas.
“I met him once,” Margie said. “What happened to him?”
“He survived the Bataan Death March. He was shrewd enough to fill his gas mask with C rations and rice and pick up canteens of water off the dead. He spent three years at Cabanatuan working as camp doctor and living on fish heads and rice.”
“Lugao,” Margie said. “The watery fish soup. They made it in huge cauldrons. He told you about it?”
“He’s writing a book about his experience. It’s gruesome.”
“He’s okay now? Going on with his life?”
“No one gets off that easy. The human body determined to survive is a hard thing to kill. The mind, though . . . it’s more fragile.”
“Can’t you help him?”
“He’s coming along. Progress is slow.”
“Do you think you can help me?”
“I can’t promise that. I’ve worked with many veterans, and I’m a World War I veteran myself. One thing I’ve learned in my practice is whatever progress you make is entirely up to you. I can guide you, but I can’t bring you to wholeness unless you’re willing to work. You’ll have to be truthful. Sometimes it will be painful. You’re going to have to face things you may not want to.” His well-modulated voice was calming, and he appeared relaxed, sitting back in his chair with his long legs comfortably crossed. He balanced a leather notebook on one knee and held a gold pen in his right hand, poised to jot notes. “This is a safe place to talk, and I want you to say whatever comes to your mind. Start by telling me why you think you’re here.”
“I—I,” she stammered. She swallowed and tried again. “I’m having bouts of intense fear . . . anxiety. I try to control them, but I can’t. They started after Barbara Ann was born, and they’re getting worse.” She blinked rapidly. “My family doctor, Dr. Middleton, says it’s postpartum depression.”
“And you don’t agree?”
She felt herself flush. “I didn’t say that. How can you tell?”
“It’s not hard if you know what to look for. Little things give a person away—facial expressions, body position, hand signals, even voice inflections. Right now, I know you’re very uncomfortable.”
She held herself stiffly erect, hands folded, her face blank. “Yes, I am. You said this is a safe place to talk. How safe is it?”
“Our sessions are confidential. Without your consent, I can’t release any of your records, not to your husband, parents, or children—not even to law enforcement, nor would I. Before you leave today, I’ll discuss my confidentiality policy with your husband. Do you have any other concerns?”
“There’s this . . .” She took a sip of water. “I signed a pledge before I was discharged that said I couldn’t talk about what happened while I was in the Philippines.” She plucked at a hangnail. “And there are other things I don’t want anybody to know.”
The doctor nodded. “Most of my patients carry the burden of secrets they can’t disclose for one reason or another. I’m bound by law and professional ethics to honor your privacy. This pledge”—he strode to the file cabinet and pulled out a document, then handed it to her—“is this it?”
She read the first line: Restricted. Subject: Publicity in Connection with Liberated Prisoners of War.
“Yes, this is what I signed. I was sick at the time. The language was hard to understand. The doctor told me to sign it and keep quiet, and I have.”
“It’s a standard form the military requires all prisoners of war to sign upon release. Technically, it’s to safeguard sensitive information. The paragraph pertaining to you is right here, number 2a. It says persons released from liberated areas may relate their experiences, but only after clearance by the public relations officer of the War Department. Then it lists a number of things they cannot talk about under any circumstances, like the names of organizations or persons who helped prisoners escape.”
He threw the document on the table. “I understand the intent, but I’m angered by what I hear about how it’s presented. The POWs have to sign it at a time when they can barely think beyond their next meal. Most of them hear only one thing—keep quiet or face punishment. So they internalize all the horrible things that happened and it eats away at them.” He took a long breath. “My policy is that you tell me as much as you are comfortable revealing, and, in time, I hope to earn your trust. Before I bring Wade in, I’d like to teach you a technique you can practice at home to help you relax.”
He asked her to lean back and close her eyes and then led her through a series of mind-clearing and deep-breathing exercises. His voice flowed over her, smooth and slow. “In this meditative state, your mind is more receptive to suggestions . . . Let yourself sink deeper into the relaxation . . . deeper . . . and deeper.”
A pleasant feeling came over Margie as she sank into a deep relaxation. Her breathing became slow and regular and her body felt light, like it could float. Her hearing focused on Dr. Garber’s voice, which seemed to come from far away. He stated that though anxiety was uncomfortable, she was not in danger. She could control the symptoms by learning to evoke the relaxed state. He repeated the message and it became part of her thinking. Anxiety is uncomfortable . . .
She lay there enjoying a feeling of well-being until Dr. Garber’s voice intruded to wake her up. She opened her eyes and stretched.
“How do you feel?”
“Wonderful. Serene. Telling myself I’m not in danger will work?”
“Yes, it will. Anxiety is self-fulfilling, and you can counteract it. Later, when you are in the med
itative state, I’d like you to think positive thoughts: I’m calm, I’m loved, I’m loving, I feel pleasure. You can pick your own words. Practice this technique at home every day. The relaxed state will get easier to evoke the more often you do it. If you agree, I’d like to see you twice a week for a while. We have a lot to talk about.”
While at home, Margie deliberated on how much to tell Dr. Garber. He knew about the ravages of war, and how they could alter a person’s mind. Gruesome, he had called his nephew’s memoir. He assured her nothing she said would go beyond his office. That he was recommended by Frank, who seemed to be stabilizing, encouraged her. She desperately needed a release from the crippling guilt she felt. And she needed to protect Barbara Ann and regain Wade’s trust.
During her next session with Dr. Garber, Margie chattered nervously about her reasons for agreeing to continue therapy and the need for his strict confidence.
He reaffirmed his privacy policy.
She took a deep breath and said, “Before you can help me, there are some things you should know. During the liberation of the prison camp, I was raped by a doctor I knew in Manila.”
In a gush, a long moan spewed from her, and tears coursed down her face. Choked with emotion, she could hardly breathe and she doubled over to bury her face in her hands. The convulsing sobs seemed to go on forever.
Dr. Garber offered her tissues, then sat quietly while the episode ran its course. Afterward, she freshened her ravaged face in the washroom. Returning and still shaky, she said, “I’m sorry. That was totally unexpected.”
“How do you feel now?”
“Foolish.” In truth, she had a terrific headache.
“You shouldn’t. It was a visceral response to a horrendous degradation. If it makes you feel better, you should cry, kick, and scream. I bet you haven’t, have you?”
“No. What would be the sense of it? I’d be a raving fool. There’s more to this sordid story that has brought me to your office a withering mess.” She lit a cigarette and laid it out emotionlessly.
A Pledge of Silence Page 28