Our Seas of Fear and Love

by Richard Shain Cohen

  She wiped her cheeks, forced a smile. I’ve won.

  “But you know how I feel. And I’d be the head of the projects up there. I guess they’d wait, but I can’t put them off too long, maybe a year, two at the most or that will be lost, and I don’t want to lose the opportunity to work and live there. I know you’ll enjoy being back in Maine. But,” he hesitated, disliking giving in, “we’ll stay here. Promise me, though,” and he stopped. He’d wait, but . . . Brigit would never have acted this way. Why am I thinking about her? They’re so different. But Deirdre had a point. I have to think of her too. We’ll look at the house, and if we like it, done. I can’t stand arguments like we just had. They’ll wait for me. But there’s got to be a limit.

  Later that night, while Gregory was at his desk working at a paper he was writing, Deirdre went to the bedroom. She undressed before her mirror, stood naked, looking at herself, the slight bulge in her stomach. She had become pregnant in March. Here it was a warm July night. She gazed at herself, her firm, straight, full breasts, fondled her nipples so they would harden and present a more alluring picture of herself. I won’t breast feed. I just won’t ruin these, have them start to droop. They’re too beautiful, tantalizing. What they do to the drooling men. Don’t they wish they could see them and me now? Except for my belly. Accept it, girl. You’re pregnant. That won’t last.

  As she was looking at the bulging, she began to feel sorry for herself. But people will fawn over me for this, the women. Crap. No. I won’t ruin this body. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back.

  She looked at her dark pubic hair. Ran her fingers lightly through it, rubbed lower to feel the pleasing sensation, moved them lower, thinking of the pain and blood to come, grimacing. She shook her head, spoke aloud, “You can have all this, Greg, when I let you or surrender to it myself. Mutual satisfaction. He is a good lover. But . . . .” She didn’t finish. She was thinking of Étienne. How he showed me to enjoy myself and how a man should please. We could enjoy ourselves without worry. Do I want him to see me this way? Oh hell. Accept it. You’re pregnant. The way Gregory runs his hand over my stomach. He’s so pleased. Why aren’t I? He’s a good husband. I made the right choice, the moneyed family, the prestige to go with E’s and my ventures. How I found out about him the first time I saw him at the Ritz. He intrigued me. That Brigit he was with. So dull. She must have been a good lay. But I never counted on pregnancy, though I worried about it if I was never careful. And here I am. She looked at herself again, studying her body. I’ll be that way again, like I was before. She laughed. Seductive Deirdre. That doctor. Yeah. He appeals to me. He gets to see us women; spreads us. Does he think of us only as specimens? I could show him. Any man. I’ll always do the choosing. What made me this way? Forget it. I am what I am come hell or heaven.

  Just then Gregory came in. “You’re up sort of late. Let’s get in bed. I’m tired. You know, Deirdre, I not only love you but that you’re giving us a child. I know we’ll love it and be happy. Forgive me, dear, for fighting.”

  She turned to him, somewhat embarrassed that he found her still undressed. “I know. I’m sorry too. It will all work out. I promise you, dearest.” She walked slowly toward him, took him by the arm. “Hug me, and get undressed. Like what you see? Let’s do it. You see I’m ready and want no more fights like tonight.”

  In the morning, after he had gone to his hospital office, she drove to Belmont, saw the For Sale sign, went home and called the agent. She made the appointment for early evening, called Gregory. “Dear, I went and saw the house from the outside? I made an appointment. We could see it and then go out to dinner. O.K.?”

  Resignedly, “Sure, dear. I’ll pick you up about 5. O.K.? How about eating at that French restaurant on Newberry Street?”

  “Great. See you.” She felt as though she could prance throughout the day. She took her afternoon nap. She was in France. There were explosions. She screamed. Blood was running down her face and between her legs. Étienne appeared, wiped away the blood, kissing and calming her, leading her to a ragged sofa where he lay down on her. Another explosion. It blew them off the sofa. Gregory was in the doorway. Deirdre woke.

  She was perspiring, wiped her neck, her face. She got up and went to the bathroom, pulled a towel from the rack, held it, while she had to sit on the toilet. She decided to take another shower. She would take her time, choose a dress and jewelry, make up her face. The dream would disappear. But would the idea of it ever? The war had done something to her, she convinced herself for now. That’s why she was the way she was. She trembled, peed some more. She spoke to herself. “We’ll go see the house, I know he’ll like it, especially when he sees me and how happy he’s making me. That horrible dream. It’s as if I drowned in blood.”

  ~

  In August, 1953, they settled in the Belmont house. Deirdre was now six months pregnant, felt the baby move, watched the joy on Gregory’s face when he felt the child. Now Deirdre was happy. She had her house and would have a beautiful child, despite her misgivings. She shopped for the latest fashions in maternity clothes, dresses and skirts with blouses, color being important to match her skin tone. She was pleased with herself, her address, honestly proud of her husband about whom people, particularly the women she met in the neighborhood, talked, asked about his work. It was now important for Deirdre to learn as much as possible about his research that would eventually take him near the top of his field.

  As the months passed, she thought of the increasing acceptance by the neighbors, her correspondence with Étienne, the coming child, what it might be like, still annoyed by her distending.

  December seemed to approach quite fast. Deirdre watched herself swell, taking greetings from neighboring women with graciousness, accepting their apparent excitement. “Oh, it must be so soon. How exciting.” “Greg and I can't wait.” But when she was home, she would look at her swollen body, often angrily. “I can't stand looking at you. Whoever said pregnancy was joyful? When the hell are you coming out,” looking at her stomach and trying to avoid the mirror. “Greg says I'm beautiful and hopes it will look like me. Bull. Who cares?” she caught her breath. “What am I thinking? I'm cursing myself and whatever’s coming out. Oh, hell. Who cares? The wonder of being a woman.” She lay on her chaise, tears starting to appear from her self-pity. “I'll never again be the siren I was.” She laughed loudly, almost hysterically. “Siren. My desirable, enticing body. Étienne. No.”

  A short time later she felt a twinge. Pain. She pushed herself up. She was alone but for the maid. She’d call Greg. “Damn it. I asked him not to go to work today. I was right.” Another pain. Now they were less than ten minutes apart. She called Andrea. “Get the car. Hurry. Call Dr. Hurwitz too.”

  The hospital was in Boston, close to Gregory’s lab. In agony, she cried out. A nurse tried to comfort her. In a small room, she lay waiting for the doctor. The pain became more excruciating. She yelled more loudly. The head nurse softly talked to her. “You’ll be in the delivery room soon. Try to relax. Take deep breaths. It will help some.” After a bit, when she was about to lose her patience, and remembering Deirdre was a doctor's wife, she left, shaking her head, looking up, her eyes wide with question. This woman, constantly screaming her pain, may have been more interested in herself than in her coming child. Deirdre would listen to no one, refused the nurse's relaxation advice. The doctor was now there, ordered Deirdre to the delivery room. He gave her a sedative. Gently, “Now Mrs. Hurwitz, push. It's coming. You're fine. Push.” The head appeared, the body, the first cries of Melinda, a baby who would only physically resemble her mother.

  They cleaned and wrapped the baby, showed her to Deirdre, later laid her next to Deirdre’s breast. Deirdre looked at her, smiled snidely, whispered weakly, “You gave me so much pain and trouble. But you belong to me. Oh, you curled a finger on mine. But you’re not going to suckle my breast for long, girl.”

  Gregory, smiling, finally saw them both. He kissed Deirdre. “I love you, dear. You’ve
given us this beautiful girl.”

  Deirdre watched Gregory’s face. “Perhaps you’d like to go through all the pain.”

  “Stop that,” he told her softly. “We’re going to love her and give her everything we can – but not spoil her, mind you. I thought of a name. Melinda. Do you like it?”

  “Yes. It’s fine.” She managed a smile, thought, smiled more sincerely, “It’s fine, Greg. And she’s all ours. We made her. Perhaps we ought to get another maid, someone who can look after her when I’m busy.”

  “Well, it’ll be expensive, but if that’s what you want, we’ll manage.

  “I wanted to wait, but I have to tell you. I bought you a present.”

  “Ooh. What?”

  He took from his pocket a small velvet box. “Just look.” It was a jade ring in a platinum setting. “For our first child. Maybe the next one we’ll call Jade.”

  “Our next one,” she answered loudly. “This was terrible. Men should feel it. You got all the joy. I got all the agony.”

  He stared at her. “You don’t mean that. You’ll love watching her grow. Knowing you, you’ll spoil her.” Yet, the way she answered. She’s been through a lot. She’s weary. I’ll get someone else in the house to help her. She deserves it. When he left, he could not stop thinking of what she said.

  The war in Korea continued off and on despite the peace talks. Neither side would achieve its goal. But in Belmont there was an apparent peace. Melinda was almost standing, wanted to walk. Gregory enjoyed watching and playing with her. Deirdre bottle fed her at first, then sat and fed her baby food but often having Andrea feed the child.

  Also about this time, having recovered from illness, Joseph McCarthy began to stumble politically as Democrats on the Committee refused to participate, leaving the Republican hearings with vacant chairs. Then there was Joseph Welch who famously stated, “Have you no sense of decency . . . ?” bringing applause and the beginning of the downfall of the alcoholic, diabolic, calamitous McCarthy who had even tried to destroy one of Gregory’s colleagues. Eventually, in December, the Senate censured McCarthy.

  They celebrated Melinda’s first birthday, obviously a bright child, walking, mouthing words.

  Yet, Joseph McCarthy caused a rift in the family that at first Gregory ignored but which Deirdre knew was there, telling herself she would never let this man go despite whatever else she might do.

  Gregory, like many, had followed the hearings on television, when he could, especially because of a colleague McCarthy accused of being a communist. It hit the Boston newspapers front pages. There was a belated apology but marked the researcher a communist for some. One woman in the Senate stood out, the only one in that body, Margaret Chase Smith whom even Democrats like the Hurwitzes admired. The damage McCarthy wrought was destructive of reputations and justifiably his own, though later some people would after his death remake him an American hero.

  This was a battle that occurred in Gregory’s house. Deirdre thought McCarthy a self-sacrificing American attacked by ignorant people. He was protecting the United States.

  Gregory would lose his temper listening to her praise, and she would accuse him of disloyalty. Two veterans, a man and a wife, a family fighting over a man Gregory loudly told her was a charlatan.

  Then, along with the political wrangling, she announced to Gregory several months later, “I’m going away. I have to help take care of some museum business.”

  “Where?”

  “Probably Greece. I’ll let you know.”

  “What do you mean, you’ll let me know?”

  “Because I don’t know yet exactly what country.”

  “That Frenchman.”

  “He’s not ‘that Frenchman.’ His name’s Étienne. You’ve met him.”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  She smiled, pleased. “You’re jealous.”

  “Jealous, shit. I don’t like the bastard understand? And you’re leaving Melinda to a maid.”

  “Oh shut up. You act like I’m deserting my child. It’s necessary. I support you. You support me, or else . . .”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else, oh I don’t know.” She forced tears. “I don’t want to argue. I won’t.” She cried now, loudly. “You don’t want me to get us money too. And I’m helping you in your work as I get to know the right people.”

  “WHAT? What right people?” I advance through my brain and the people who benefit from what I do. Don’t you ever talk to me again like that.”

  Still crying loudly, she ran from the room, wiped at her face, smiled, then erased it, realizing she would have to be more tender. Tonight, bed. She went to the bedroom, hesitated, went to Melinda and kissed her, hurried back to their room, brushed her hair, lightly perfumed herself, changed into a lace sheer black negligee. Maybe I’ll take this one with me on the trip.

  ~

  Brigit had moved to an apartment nearer the hospital where there were trees and large grassy areas, where people even had gardens in which they could plant vegetables. There were pools of water that flowed from underground. The open space reminded her of the skies she would see at home, the brightness of the night sky, where she could view stars and watch the phases of the moon. Nor did she have to fear walking along the paths in early evening or during the day. It was her escape and hope that she wouldn’t see Gregory. Her apartment was in a smaller building, cozier with a living room, dining room, kitchen and two bedrooms. She wanted to erase any trace of Gregory except that she kept some of the jewelry he gave her. Most of the time she would avoid wearing it, yet occasionally she could not help herself. Putting it on, a ring, earrings, a necklace, at first brought tears but later memory alone that came from the touch or feel or remembering when he had given a piece to her. She just could not bring herself to send it to one of her sisters.

  Too, from the apartment she could walk up a broad avenue for about half a mile to be at work. There were two schools nearby from which she could hear the joyfulness of the children and wonder when she might someday have one of her own. Yes, she missed the thought of a man beside her at night, lying spooned together. The thought of somehow getting even with Gregory occurred to her, and she would accuse herself of wicked thoughts and not getting on with her life. She had heard people talk of his marriage and the new house. She had also heard that Deirdre took trips abroad with a man to purchase museum pieces. Did Gregory mind? Apparently not. When she heard this, she hoped he was married to an adulteress, that he would suffer as he had made her. Then she would again become angry with herself for her thoughts.

  One day they did meet as he was walking from the lab to the hospital. Both attempted cordiality, but she saw his face redden while she felt nothing but anger when they said hello. He tried to stop her for a bit to find out how she was, where she was living, if she were still on the birthing floor. She answered, then walked away trembling, her heart beating faster. But looking in his eyes, she knew that he could never forget her, that there was something bright in them that told her he still loved her. She tried to hide her feelings, but he must have known. Perhaps there would always be aside from remembrance, love that would linger and occasionally come to the surface with sadness.

  She did not wish to go out with anyone else. She couldn’t. Not for sometime. Yet, there was the ob/gyn doctor, Thomas Erickson, with whom she often worked and who was always attracted to her, rather in love with her though he hid it, had been since he first met her. Often he would think about her, watch her as she worked with him, for him even in gloves, her lovely hands, her face when she took off her mask. He would wonder what she looked like dressed for an evening out. As others in the hospital had heard about Gregory and Deirdre, so had he. Eventually, there was a day – she had changed to the 7-3 shift – when one of the patients was having a placenta previa birth. The placenta was covering the cervix. Erickson wasn’t sure he could save the patient and baby by C-Section because she had had one before. They worked quickly together, she anticipating what he would
want or need. The mother was hemorrhaging.

  “I’m not going to lose her, Brigit. Give her blood.”

  “I already ordered more, in case.”

  The woman loudly moaned, despite the sedative. Slowly her moans faded. “I’m not going to let her die.” Erickson was desperate. “Terrible. This placenta previa. Goddamn. I can't operate,” he repeated in despair. “She's already had one by Caesarean.”

  Brigit interrupted, forcing herself to hide her turmoil of emotion. “I've read the chart. This is a bad one. She's been bleeding before. What are you going to do?”

  “Well, I've been treating her all along. Had her on bed rest. She began in the second trimester. Now look. I told her everything. My God, Brigit, she could die.”

  Before saying more, he noticed Brigit's face, wondering what she was thinking.

  How I wanted a child with Gregory. Still want one. What if it were I? Would I want to die to have a child? But we could both die. This poor woman. The Caesarean. How's he going to stop the hemorrhaging? I have the blood ready. How I love being a woman, and this is what we have to endure. And betrayal. Thank goodness I didn't get pregnant. Oh, this poor woman. The BABY! Stop thinking. Only saving them now. Concentrate on assisting Erickson.

  Brigit watched him, the perspiration that she wiped away. The blood arrived, and she started the IV. The baby moved out more. He was able to grasp and turn it. The blood was slippery and getting in his way. Brigit leaned over him, touching his shoulder. She asked if she could do something and reached to help him, her hands and his coming away with blood, holding the baby with difficulty until another nurse took and cleaned it. The blood still flowed from the mother. “Give her another transfusion.”

  Brigit’s face was wan, her voice sorrowful. “Dr. Erickson, her heart is slowing.”