A Mother's Trial

by Wright, Nancy

  The Hutchisons had moved shortly after her death to Hillsborough, in County Down, Northern Ireland, where his father took up the produce business in nearby Belfast. His father was a rigid man with a rigid set of beliefs and an iron hand, and he hadn’t had much time for mothering Jim.

  Jim moved from group to group, smiling, greeting, hearing the latest gossip. What different sorts of people these Marin County people were from the kind he had grown up with, he thought. Not that his family hadn’t achieved wealth and standing. But growing up in Ireland was a different type of experience because being Irish was different. It was because he was a proper Irish lad, with a typical Celtic wanderlust and spirit of adventure, and because nothing held him closely to home that at the age of fifteen he had done a properly Irish thing and run away.

  He had gone to Liverpool, crossing at night on a terrible old ship, he remembered; a week later it had sunk. He often used that story when he counseled runaways. “If you’re going to run away, don’t put it off for a week!” he’d joke gently.

  He had met another runaway on the ship, who had taken Jim with him to some friends he knew in Liverpool, and they had stayed a while and then gone down to London and become regular Edwardian teddy boys, living in Chelsea and bumming about. In those days one could sleep all night in Hyde Park and nobody would notice. But he had managed to live in that fashion for quite some time, an outsider. And during all that time, he never gave a thought to religion.

  Then one day in 1957, after nearly five years spent aimlessly on the London streets, a woman came up to him as he stood at the window of Selfridge’s Department Store and took him home with her. Jim never knew why she did it. Ethel Allingham was a devout Baptist, though, and somehow she decided to save this nineteen-year-old scruffy Irish boy. She kept him with her for the next four years—a mother to him, never forcing her religious beliefs on him, but quietly introducing him to a field he found that interested him. He became a nurse.

  Jim made his way to the little group surrounding the Phillipses. His pearl-gray robe and black stole with its white pennant-and-cross insignia of the Methodist Church flowed loose behind him. The robe was particularly beautiful, more decorative than most, but Jim found no harm in that. It was not the outer trappings that made the man, of course, but lovely things had their place in life. He enjoyed his own extensive collection of Waterford crystal and the Royal Doulton figurines that he displayed at the parsonage—many pieces in the collections were gifts from friends or members of the congregation. People had always liked to bring him things; they knew the pleasure he took in their gifts.

  When he had arrived at Aldersgate in 1972, there had been a membership of perhaps thirty families. It was a church in trouble, the bishop had told him, and because Jim had successfully increased church membership in other parishes—a green-thumb pastor he liked to think of it—they’d sent him here to Terra Linda from a congregation in central California. He had spent some money to put in a new sound system, and was working to have a sanctuary—which he thought was very important—and in the past three years he had been able to raise the membership to over three hundred. Now he and the board were trying to conclude an arrangement with Kaiser Hospital, to finance the construction of a new church up on the hill in exchange for the deed to the building the church was currently using. Then they could have their sanctuary and a new church as well.

  Jim stopped by the Phillipses.

  “Oh, Jim, can we take a picture of you with Tia—for her baby book?” asked Priscilla.

  “Of course, Priscilla.” He posed, smiling. “How is she doing, then?” he asked.

  “Oh, fine. She’s had a continuous bout of ear infections, just like Jason had when he was young, and then an abscess on her thigh. But everything’s all cleared up—the doctor gave her a clean bill of health on Friday,” said Priscilla.

  “She does seem such a serene child, doesn’t she?”

  “She is.” Priscilla laughed. “Such a difference from the boys! She’s just a little lady.”

  “And do the boys like her? How are they adjusting to a little sister?” Jim worried about this sometimes because he thought the Phillips boys were terribly rough, and that Priscilla and Steve encouraged this. In fact when Priscilla had asked him to write a preadoption reference to Catholic Social Service, he had hesitated to recommend the family for placement of a little girl. After some soul-searching, he had finally written in the reference that he didn’t feel the family was ready for a baby girl—that the boys were still very wild—but that perhaps later things would be calmer around the home. It was the only time he had ever written a negative reference, but it had not been strongly negative, and apparently the adoption agency had decided that the home life was satisfactory because the adoption had gone forward.

  “Oh, the boys just love Tia. She’s only been here six weeks, but she is a real member of the family already,” Priscilla said.

  “I’m glad, Priscilla.” He patted the little child, smiled at Steve, and moved on. Tia was a pretty girl, he thought, very fragile looking with pale skin and those enormous dark eyes. Priscilla had confided in Jim one of the first times he had stopped to see the baby that she believed Tia might be part Caucasian.

  “Maybe that’s why her mother abandoned her,” she had said. “You know, in Korea, mixed-blood babies are just the worst kind of outcasts. I figured it out, and it would just work mathematically: Tia’s mother might have been the daughter of an American GI stationed in Korea during the war. And that would make Tia one-quarter American!”

  Perhaps it was true, Jim thought. The idea seemed to please Priscilla. Steve would probably like the possibility that Tia had white blood. Secretly Jim had always been a bit surprised that Steve had agreed to this adoption. He was basically a redneck, Jim thought, with all the accompanying racial prejudices. But Priscilla had been so strong about wanting a little girl, and Steve would come around to whatever she wanted. That seemed to be the pattern in the family.

  Those two had an immature sort of relationship—Jim had noticed it the very first time he had met the Phillipses, back in July of 1972, when he had first been assigned to Aldersgate. The Phillipses were already church members, and one of the first things Jim had done upon becoming the new pastor was to visit with the members in their homes. Priscilla and Steve were living on Los Gamos Road in a three-bedroom town house then. Priscilla had seemed much the brighter of the two, the more dominant, Jim remembered. On the other hand, Steve appeared more religious. Both had already been quite active in the church. Priscilla served on the Social Concerns Committee and was a member of the executive board of the United Methodist Women. Steve talked about joining the church board of trustees, which he had later done.

  But what Jim most particularly noticed about Steve and Priscilla was their constant competition for his attention. Steve would say something and Priscilla would jump right into the conversation and argue against him. It sometimes seemed that Steve compensated for her dominance with his wild talking. If something crossed his path, he was always going to blow it up or blast it. Then Priscilla would come in and try to draw attention back to herself. Often she’d tell a story about Erik’s or Jason’s latest fearless exploit or horrible accident. It seemed as though something was continually happening to her boys—and she’d always let the church know. Either she’d stand during the service to report the incident or she’d call in and ask for prayers or concern. When anything was called in, it was announced from the pulpit or called around to the congregation.

  And of course Jim was especially interested in the accidents or medical problems of his parishioners because of his own medical background, which was quite extensive. He had trained in London and Liverpool, working for several years on the neurological unit at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary after earning his R.N. By then he had had his conversion.

  Jim eased himself back through the crowd in front of the low rectangular Eichler-built church and entered the building. It was not an attractive church. Originally
it had been a recreation center, and it still resembled one, with the two long sides of the rectangular building constructed entirely of sliding glass, and nearly all the rest of the exterior done out in drab gray cinder block. The interior floor was a honeycomb of speckled gray-on-white linoleum squares found in many institutional buildings. The seats were the cheap metal sort—there were no pews. The altar was the nicest part. There were brass candlesticks and vases of flowers, and both his own chair and the one for the lay reader were lovely polished mahogany. But the large wooden cross on the wall could not disguise the cinder block behind it.

  Off to the left of the altar was his own office. There were files spread out on his desk, and several tapes from last month’s services—which he kept for the shut-ins who could not attend—piled loosely on one corner. He took off his robe and stole and carefully hung them up.

  He had some counseling to do later—a young couple whose marriage was in trouble. He had had firsthand experience with that problem, as his own marriage had ended seven years before in annulment. The Church of England, of course, did not recognize divorce, so an annulment was necessary. But he strongly believed that his painful experience had made him a better minister and a better counselor. As he said, it was like the cross becoming the resurrection: you utilize the very thing that is painful and difficult. He had majored in Pastoral Psychology at the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, and he enjoyed counseling. He felt it was an essential part of his purpose.

  Right now he had Christmas to think about, only four days away. The church would be crowded, the children jittery with excitement as they gathered for the service. He smiled at the image. In a few years little Tia would be among them. He liked to think of the children he baptized taking their places in the Christian community, being confirmed, and then finally becoming members themselves someday. He doubted he would be around even to confirm Tia, as it was unusual for a Methodist minister to remain above five years with any one congregation. Still, he had started her on her way in her Christian life. She would be all right.

  5

  Evelyn Callas finished her examination of the ten-month-old Asian infant. Gross examination revealed a normally developing, well-nourished female child. Her rectal temperature of 99.6 was normal. Evelyn turned to the mother.

  “Now, Mrs. Phillips, Dr. Shimoda called me a few minutes ago and gave me a brief history on Tia. Can you tell me what prompted you to bring her into E.R. tonight?”

  “Well, she’s been sick really ever since we got her from Korea four months ago. She’s had recurrent otitis media and urinary tract infections, and a persistent rash. Once she had an abscess on her thigh. She’s been on antibiotics practically the whole time, and she had some diarrhea from that. She has a urinary tract infection right now, and Sara has been treating her with different types of antibiotics—Ampicillin and Gantrisin and Furadantin. And she also still has an ear infection.”

  “And what happened today?”

  “Oh, I brought her into the clinic for her regular follow-up appointment. I had told Sara the last time we saw her about Tia’s violent vomiting and diarrhea. Then today I told her that Tia’s been vomiting the whole week. Yesterday she had some fever, and she’s been real cranky—not like herself all this past week. Today she refused her lunch and dinner and she wouldn’t take her bottle. And then at five o’clock she started crying loudly, and when I went in to her she stopped crying all of a sudden and then kind of stared into space.”

  “Did she roll her eyes up? Did she change her position at all?”

  “No. She didn’t jerk or anything. She just looked blank. But then about a half an hour later she did it again.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, she just stopped crying all of a sudden, like before, and looked off into space.”

  “Was she pale or flushed?”

  “Kind of flushed. The first time she was pale.”

  “And then what happened?” asked Evelyn.

  “Well, she seemed pretty much okay until about nine-thirty tonight. Tia has a jump chair and I’d put it in the kitchen and she was holding her bottle, and suddenly she fell back and dropped the bottle. I picked her up and she seemed all right. But then she did it again. So I immediately called Sara—Dr. Shimoda—at home, and she said it sounds like a seizure and to bring her in.”

  “How long did this last staring episode last?”

  “Oh, about a minute—maybe half a minute.”

  “Did she jerk or roll up her eyes? Did she seem to be holding her breath?”

  “No. It was exactly like before—sort of staring into space. But her arms did fall away from her sides when she dropped her bottle.”

  Evelyn made some notes in the baby’s chart. Then she glanced back through the outpatient history, quickly scanning the past entries. This child had a very thick chart considering she had only been a patient since November, she thought. Here it was the second of March, and Tia had already been into the clinic—Evelyn counted quickly—twenty-five times. Persistent low-grade infections—mostly ears and urinary tract—both of which could prove difficult to cure. Well, maybe they could sneak in a bilateral myringotomy while she was here to drain some of the fluid that was causing the otitis media. They’d have to admit her for the seizure activity, she decided. Sara wanted her admitted and Evelyn agreed. The baby would need both an ENT and neurology consult.

  “Mrs. Phillips, I think we’d better admit Tia for observation,” Evelyn said.

  “Yes. Sara indicated that you’d probably want to do that.”

  “We’ll have the pediatric neurologist, Dr. Leider, check on the seizure activity. He roves around the different Kaiser facilities and is here on Thursdays. And we’ll have a specialist from Ear, Nose, and Throat talk with you. He may want to recommend a myringotomy and PE tubes, a very minor surgical procedure where tiny plastic tubes are inserted through the eardrums to drain off the fluid back there and keep the canals open so infections won’t keep developing. It’s nothing to worry about at all. We’ll try to get all this straightened out at one time and it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Will I be able to stay with her?”

  “We do encourage the parents to stay with the children as much as possible. And if there’s room up there on the ward, you can sleep over. I think we’re pretty crowded up there tonight. But we do like to encourage the parents to help with as much care as they feel comfortable with. It seems to make it much easier on the kids.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m a social worker, and I know about what happens to institutionalized children. You do think Tia will be all right?”

  “I certainly hope so. There’s no reason to be alarmed yet, Mrs. Phillips. Tia really looks quite well. Now, you’ll need to take this to the admissions office. Then we’ll get Tia squared away in a bed on the pediatrics ward.”

  Evelyn quickly arranged for the admission of Tia Phillips. She seemed a sweet child, she thought. Possible encephalitis, of course. Leider would want to do a lumbar puncture. And the mother was a sensible sort. She had given a very clear history. It made everything much easier when the parents were clear on what had happened and could describe it accurately. In Pediatrics, especially, you had to rely so much on what the parents told you. It certainly helped if they knew what they were talking about, and this mother seemed sharp.

  Evelyn could go home now. She was on call the rest of the night but she didn’t have to stay at the hospital: they would phone her if they needed her.

  Before she left, she took the elevator upstairs for a final check on Tia Phillips. Because the ward was so crowded, the nurses had put her crib in the hall, but they’d find her a room tomorrow. Evelyn could see that her patient was awake and taking her bottle, so she didn’t go over. The parents were there with her—Mrs. Phillips and a big bulky man with her who must be the father. Evelyn waved at the nurse and then stepped back into the elevator. The baby’s case did not seem serious, Evelyn thought. It was likely that Tia Phillips’s hospital stay would
be a short one.

  6

  Priscilla smoothed Tia’s thin black hair one more time and arranged her new pink and white party dress for the picture. Then she took some of the toys Tia had received for her birthday—the shape sorter and the Fisher-Price floating family and some others—and placed them around Tia’s feet.

  “Smile, Tia!” And she did, grinning her open-mouthed little smile as the picture was snapped. Priscilla considered this a major occasion, and she had invited Tia’s social worker from Catholic Social Service, all the other patients on the ward, the doctors and the nurses, and of course Steve and Erik and Jason and her own mother. Tia was having a good day, showing off for everybody, smiling and waving and saying hi, Priscilla noted proudly. Everybody commented on what a cute child Tia was, how normal she acted. “It’s a real tribute to you, Priscilla,” somebody said. And that was true, she felt, because in spite of everything, Tia was a normal child; she was a happy child, even after two straight months of hospitalizations—first in Kaiser-San Rafael, then here in Kaiser-San Francisco, then back to San Rafael, now here again.

  Dr. Applebaum came up to Priscilla, smiling widely under his large black mustache. She liked Mike. He was young and cheerful and very smart, and he explained things to her.

  “Oh, Dr. Applebaum, doesn’t she look cute?”

  “She sure does. One year old today! How’s the party been going?”

  “Just fine. There’s her cake over there. Have you had a piece yet?”

  “No, but I’ll make it over there in a minute.”

  “I sure wish Tia could have a little taste—it’s her birthday, after all!” said Priscilla wistfully. It was impossible, of course, she knew that. Tia hadn’t had anything by mouth since the middle of April and it was already May seventh.

  “She’ll just have to save it all up for her second birthday!” Dr. Applebaum said, smiling at her. “We’ll get her on solids one of these days, Mrs. Phillips, you’ll see.”