Our Seas of Fear and Love

by Richard Shain Cohen

  “Give her the blood. I’m going to save her. The boy needs his mother.”

  Brigit wondered what it would be like to go through life saying, “My mother died in childbirth.” Yet, she stood there, admiring Erickson, realizing at the same time her hands were shaking. She wrapped them in her gown so others would not see while they stood watching the woman, keeping her warm, color beginning to return to her face.

  Brigit and Erickson smiled at one another. “You did a fine job, Doctor.”

  Intently he looked at her, then at her gown with large bloodstains. He wanted to hug her, to feel her close to him. She watched his reaction, knowingly, and placed her hand on his arm. He felt a thrill, relaxation, put his hand on her arm, “Thank you for your help,” turning to avoid her notice of his pleasure.

  Sometime later he came to her station after seeing a patient. “Hi. Brigit, I wonder if you’d go to dinner with me Friday or Saturday night. I’m off this weekend. We could go to one of those nice restaurants on Newbury Street or downtown.”

  She hesitated, telling herself she did not want to get mixed up with another man, especially one with whom she worked. Yet she wanted to be with one, to smell, to feel him, hear his restful voice. She wanted love, but she would not allow herself to fall into another Gregory situation.

  “Yes. That would be wonderful, Doct . . .”

  “Hold on. Call me Thomas. Tom, whichever you use. Outside work we’re friends. O.K.?”

  She smiled. “O.K.” Brigit was happy.

  “Where do you live?” She told him, gave him her phone number if anything changed.

  “Seven-thirty all right?”

  “Fine. See you then. Thank you.”

  When he left, pleased, she thought, I haven’t bought anything new for a while. I’ll buy a new dress, have my hair done this week instead of my usual time, get a manicure. Why not? He’s a nice guy. Maybe a little flirting.

  The next day she went to her hairdresser. Her hair no longer fell to her shoulders but was in the cut of the time, shorter in back, gathered so it swept from her forehead and bunched by a gold band she bought before her hair appointment. Manicured and confident she went to the stores, looked through dresses, picked at one, another, finally found a light blue off-the-shoulder that had a red cape attached to show her bare arms and her bust, and had a broad skirt that came to her calves and which would swirl as she walked. She also bought a new pair of shoes. Telling herself she was being extravagant, she also said she didn’t care. She was going to enjoy and show herself to this man and the public.

  He brought the usual corsage, and when he saw and heard her, he was certain he would keep after and marry her.

  It was a usual courtship in ways. They danced, went to cocktail lounges, and though she did not usually drink, she did with him, but only one each time. There were also the usual goodnight kisses. For one date, eventually, he asked if she would like to see his home in Belmont and eat there.

  “You never told me you had a house. Were you married?”

  “No. I inherited it from my folks and live alone. I think you’ll like it and the neighborhood.”

  “How come you inherited the house?”

  “Well, my dad was a M.D.”

  She interrupted. “Good heavens. Everybody's dad is a doctor. Mine is just a mere farmer.” She did not mention, ‘a wealthy rancher-farmer.’ “Anyhow, what then?”

  He laughed. “Well, I'm an only child. He wanted me to stay in Boston, so I did. I wanted to practice in New Mexico where I was in the Air Corps until shipped over to Europe.”

  “New Mexico! That's my home,” she about shouted. Well they had something almost in common. ”Belmont. It must be something.”

  He laughed. “No. It’s on one of the streets below the hill, but, yes, it’s nice.”

  “Well, I’ll cook. How about it?”

  “Great.” He hesitated,” If you want to stay over,” but before he could say more, she interrupted.

  “How can I stay at your house?” He surprised her, both pleasingly and a bit sadly that he would confront her so soon with what she considered a sexual invitation.

  “Brigit. I didn’t mean it that way. I have so much space. I just thought you could bring some clothes, and we wouldn’t have to rush.” His smile and slight movement of his head were, as she suspected, an invitation to bed. He wanted to sleep with her, to see her. In fact, were she honest just now, she wanted to make love other than in the car as they had begun to do. The bump disappeared.

  “Thomas, take that smirk off your face.”

  “I’m not smirking.”

  “I’ll cook and stay. I want to see the house.” Brigit was beginning to feel love for him, but she was not in love, hadn’t that exhilarating feeling. She knew she would never care as she did with Gregory.

  They drove up a quiet street, tree-lined, brick houses with gardens set in back. Inside, left was a stairway up, a living room off to the right, a dining room off of it and beyond, a sunroom. There were bookcases, a TV and stereo, a collection of classical music. Beyond the sunroom was a bedroom, his, with its own bath.

  She did like it. “It’s lovely, Tom.”

  He had thought he would wait until after dinner but couldn’t help himself.

  “It could be yours too, Brigit.”

  He did not surprise her. She turned to him as though he had. “What do . . . .”

  “I was going to wait to see how you cook,” he laughed but was suddenly serious. “Come here.” He led her to the sofa, took her hand, and seated her. Beside her, he leaned a bit toward her. “Brigit. I do love you. I want you to be my wife.”

  Though she expected this when he invited her, she still caught her breath and felt a pleasing sensation course through her. She was not in love. Did she love him enough to marry, feel warmth and comfort, certainty? “Tom, I must be honest. You know . . . .”

  “You don’t have to say anything about before.”

  “Well. I care for you very much. I think we could be happy, but do you want me that way?”

  “Go get ready in whatever you wear for cooking and we’ll talk more. Is she saying yes or no? It is yes if I push just a bit, not push, gently persuade. I have to have her.

  After dinner through which he played some romantic Tchaikovsky, they went back to the living room. Standing just a few inches above her, he looked down, at her bust shown more advantageously by her bra, her bare shoulders for which he reached. She felt warm when he touched her, liked the feel of his hands. “I love, you, Brigit. I’ll be a good husband for you.”

  “I know,” she answered quietly. She softly, still thinking of her lack of intense emotion, told him, “I’d love to be your wife.”

  He took from his pocket a diamond ring, raised her hand, and placed it on her finger.

  This has happened to me before. But he’s so kind, loving. The ring, It’s beautiful, and he does love me. I feel enough toward him to wear this.

  She put her arms about him, pulled him to her, kissed him long, hard. “We’ll have a wonderful home. My goodness. You’re giving me everything at once.”

  “You’re worth everything here and more.” They kissed again, long. His hand wandered to her breasts, and they kissed more. She pulled away. “The dishes,” she laughed.

  “‘Nuts.’ Isn’t that what General McCauliffe said?”

  Later in the night, after an evening of foreplay, as she started upstairs for her room, she stopped. She had already decided she would be in his bed as she knew he wished. “Why am I going up here?” she turned. He watched.

  “Come on, dear. My room’s nicer.”

  She undressed before him, so he could admire her body. She watched him and liked his nakedness. They fell on the bed together; and once inside her, she felt him ejaculate, she having an orgasm soon after. Satisfying one another, she sighed, “Simultaneous equation.” It would be a good marriage Brigit assured herself. The sex was good, but it was his kindness and warmth that would protect them.

 
In the morning, she put on her nurse’s uniform, embarrassed that neighbors might see them, then trying to tell herself she didn’t care, as they drove to the hospital. They went in separately, as though that would prevent people from noticing. After rounds he would go to his office.

  ~

  The wedding took place in August in Las Cruces among her pleased and happy family. As she had with Gregory, she took him to Cloudcroft, to Albuquerque, to El Paso, but she could not bring herself to take him to Taos.

  In Cloudcroft, as they made love, she looked at him. “Tom. I’d like to have a baby. Would you mind if we had one soon?”

  He hesitated. “We’re . . . .” and he stopped. He could not deny her. “If you wish,” but there was a sadness in his assent. He thought quickly. “Could we wait a few months?”

  “Yes, dear. But not too long. O.K.? I so want a child, and I know you would love it.”

  They had decided after the wedding and seeing New Mexico they would go to the Virgin Islands for a week. It was there she became pregnant, in early September. It would be a May baby. They would at least have that much time to themselves. He was happy, and she looked forward to watching her belly grow and feeling the baby inside her. Perhaps life would, after all, be happy, good, satisfying. Yet, she could not entirely forget Gregory as much as she tried. By the sixth month she left work, had bought an entire wardrobe of maternity clothes, chatted with neighbor women and became friendly with some to whom she could talk more freely about the baby and how she felt.

  Her pregnancy was uneventful except for the usual discomforts, the excitement of the first movements, and the anticipation of early May, 1955. She knew what to expect, hoping but not believing that would make it easier for her. It ought to be an uneventful birth to which she looked forward. She did ask Thomas that the doctor not be a close friend, not wanting to expose herself to someone they knew. He promised her the head of the department with whom he was friendly but no one to whom he was particularly close.

  Late in the afternoon she called Tom and asked him to take her to the hospital. The contractions were becoming more frequent. In the hospital, the labor continued longer than expected. She thought of patients who had been almost uncontrollable in their misery and promised herself she would be calm and quiet as possible. She wanted the labor to end, to see the baby, hold it. She had decided to breast feed at least for a few months, to feel the child close to her, to love it. She was about to give herself and Thomas a new life. In the delivery room she did moan, at one point yell out, “Push. Push, Brigit. It’s almost here.” Then she heard the first cries and wearily smiled. “Here’s your son,” a nurse with whom she had worked presenting him to her. “Oh, Doris, a boy. Look at him. Let me hold him. Tom will be so happy.” She hadn’t wanted him in the delivery room, fearful of embarrassing him. A son. Mine. The baby I’ve wanted for so long. We’ll give you a good life, young man. How about if we call you Robert Thomas Erickson, my handsome one?

  The months went by. Within a year, 1956, Robert was walking. On her way back from a visit to the pediatrician, she decided to stop at the delicatessen in the town. She drove under the railroad bridge that was now for trolleys. Beyond was a large stone bearing the date of the town’s founding and beyond that rows of stores on either side of the street. When she went into the store, she stopped suddenly. She was aware the Hurwitzes lived in Belmont. The town newspaper had announced a gathering at their home for new museum pieces donated by Deirdre and her partner. Brigit stopped, thought of walking out and returning later, but Deirdre had already seen her.

  Without hesitation, Deirdre confronted her with a large, forced smile. “What a handsome little fellow. What's his name?” pretending they were strangers. Brigit felt herself shaking slightly, her anger appearing from desire to protect her son from this viper. Frostily she answered, “Robert.” She quickly picked up the package she bought and Robert, abruptly turned away. You fucking fake bitch. I hope you both suffer. That fool, trusting her. You obviously have kept him from Maine.

  Deirdre called after her, as though they were friends. “Take care, dear. He’s a handsome boy. Oh, by the way, Brigit,” drawing out the name distastefully and hopefully to hurt her, “I’m having another one.”

  Outside, having ignored ‘another one,’ it occurred to Brigit that perhaps Deirdre truly was a fake, that hopefully there was something terribly unusual about all these museum pieces she was donating. Anyhow, somehow she would avoid both of them. Still shaking somewhat and very angry now, she wanted to go back and confront her with, “Do you want me present in the delivery room for the next one?” She didn’t though and quickly walked to the car, sitting in the driver’s seat, catching her breath. “Your day’s coming, bitch. I just know it.” Brigit apologizing to something or someone for her evil thoughts, drove home, looked at Robert with love, leaned over, kissed him, took his hand, and walked into the comfort and safety of her home.

  When Deirdre returned to her house, annoyed by Melinda bothering her, and helpless in another pregnancy, her mind was in a slight turmoil; she remembered an article she had read a month or two earlier. That was the problem.

  The newspaper had a story just come to light about an OSS lieutenant being accused of killing an OSS major in Italy while behind German lines. Eventually, on a technicality, he was acquitted. This took her back in time. She was thinking of Juliette and her rape by Germans, not one but two. Did she tell the truth? Was it possible it could have been OSS agents on a mission for which they wore German uniforms? She told herself this thinking was an absurdity. But why not, if the article she read was true? She had discovered that woman traitor, Diane, among them when she was in France, and the men just killed her.

  That night, asleep, she dreamed again of blood. Waking suddenly, she thought of the next baby. But then her mind returned to Juliette. The blood of the rape, the pain Juliette had described. She felt herself kissing Juliette on the mouth, the searing sensations that coursed to her nipples, to her sex. She acknowledged what she blocked in her mind. Juliette and she had slept together, arms about one another for comfort. Without thought but knowing what to do to satisfy one another as women, they had made intense, satisfying love.

  Would they have been shot had the men known? The bed had squeaked, and both quietly laughed about it, though fearful.

  Deirdre tried to calm her anxiety. Always blood? The war? Well surely. Fear of another child? Gregory would not help her when she told him she wanted an abortion. She avoided the word. How had she told him? He was terribly upset. I did use abortion. I asked him to take me to that doctor who rides around in that beautiful convertible. Greg told me he does abortions, that all the doctors knew it. But he was adamant, so angry he scared me. It was against the law. I was supposed to know better. His face. ‘It was so unnatural.’ He yelled that I would think of that when I knew he wanted more children. He kept screaming, ‘It’s illegal’ Well, hell, wars are illegal even when we say they aren’t. He scared Melinda. As far as I’m concerned, the hell with what he wants. Things shouldn’t be like that. It shouldn’t be. Why can’t I have a baby or not? It’s what I want. Gregory. So honest. I killed during the war. Blood. Lyon. That traitor Diane. She hated the sight of Diane’s falling, bloody body, the thought. No blood and placentas from her. That simpleton Brigit I met in the store. Loves being a mother. Obvious. Plus all the blood she has seen. Ha. But not in war. Why am I always dreaming of blood?

  In January, 1956, Deirdre gave birth to Pamela. In March, 1958, there would be another daughter, Kaitlin. A month later in that same year, Brigit would also have a daughter they named Kathryn.

  As for Deirdre, she was her usual unruly patient, demanding, crying out, damning Gregory and her body, that sexually attractive body that she had used to trap him, that could be used to entice others. She would not breast feed Pamela either. At home she constantly watched herself in the mirror, ate little, exercised so she would be admirable. Her hips were larger, her stomach softer, but she could still display th
at body and attract desire.

  For Brigit the birth of a daughter, Kathryn, was joyful. However, she did tell Thomas it would be their last one. He laughed. “Oh, I believe you’ll change your mind when I think of the family you come from.” Smiling, she pushed him while he sat by her bed. “Only if it’s a mistake. You don’t mind, do you dear?” He leaned over, hugged and lightly kissed her. “You and our children are enough for me.”

  She loved Thomas more but still had never been in love. Sometimes it seemed to her he was so much warmer than she. There was Gregory still in her mind, especially as she read about him and his work or heard of something else about Deirdre. Then she heard that Gregory was leaving the hospital research staff to become head of research in Maine, as he had always wanted. Somehow they waited. The man who had been there apparently had done something wrong. Gregory’s friend wrote, pleading with him to come home to this position. Brigit imagined the turmoil in his house, knew his wife reveled in the upper society associated with Belmont. While watching the children one day, she did think of Gregory with his children, knowing he enjoyed them and wondering what happened when he told his wife they were moving. She wanted to stop thinking about him and give all of herself to Thomas, but the effect of Gregory would never leave her. She would, however, always be loyal to Thomas and be thankful for the comfort and the children and husband who would sacrifice anything for her.

  ~

  “Deirdre, we have to talk. We’re moving to Maine. I was offered the job again and I’m taking it. It’s almost three years since they first asked and they won’t again.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We’re settled here. And you’re just making it harder for me to help the museum.”

  “The museum can get along without you, or you can travel down when you have to.”

  “You don’t need that job. And I don’t want to be stuck in Maine.”