Shattered Dreams

by Irene Spencer

  “God!” I cried, “Don’t do this to me! Please, God, don’t do it!” But I just knew he wasn’t listening.

  I heard Charlotte’s sobs first, then Aunt Rhea’s. Aunt Sylvia told me what I already knew. “She’s gone, Irene! Yes, she’s gone!”

  I was too paralyzed to cry. I just lay there in shock, numbly watching Aunt Sylvia clean up the bed, rolling me from side to side to put a clean sheet under me. Then I watched Charlotte dress my dead baby in a long-sleeved undershirt as though to keep her warm. Over that, she put on a tiny white satin dress that I’d made from scraps. It had delicate pink roses embroidered on the yoke.

  Charlotte scanned the room for a place to lay her out. She covered the wooden lid of the toy box with a receiving blanket, placing Leah’s tiny lifeless body on it. “What else do I do?” she asked Aunt Sylvia helplessly.

  “Watch me. I’ll teach you how to lay someone out,” she whispered as she tore two narrow strips from one of the new flannel diapers. Placing one under the baby’s chin, she pulled her little mouth closed, tying a bow on top of her head. Then she crossed Leah’s little hands on her chest, saying, “Hold these in place while I tie them.” She searched in her purse for two small coins. “Look, Charlotte, her eyelids are half open. Push them closed like this. Now place a coin on each eye. When rigor mortis sets in, you can remove them, and her eyes will stay closed. At the same time, take the cords from her hands and head; her mouth will stay shut, and her hands will stay in place on her chest.”

  I watched in disbelief. I could barely endure life; I was in no shape at all to deal with death. It just couldn’t be happening to me. I lay there in silence as emotional numbness overtook me.

  Later I heard a pickup coming closer through the drizzly night. It had to be Verlan. Charlotte stepped outside into the dark to meet him. I could hear the excitement in his voice. “Was it a girl?” he asked. Then there was silence, followed by rapid footsteps that seemed to batter my poor heart all the way to the door. He stepped inside quietly. I could see his intense grief through the dim lamplight. He knelt beside my bed and gathered me in his arms. Seeing my expressionless face, he remembered my premonition. “How did you know?”

  “I just knew,” I answered. “I just knew.”

  He buried his head in my chest, sobbing like a child. “Why wasn’t I here? I missed her by twenty minutes! Irene, you’re too young for this!” he cried.

  Getting up from his kneeling position, he walked over to the toy box, glancing at our little Leah. I watched his tears fall as he immediately returned to lie down beside me on the bed in his damp clothes. He held me as though he feared I’d be snatched away, too.

  I couldn’t say anything. I could only lie there, still as a corpse myself. Verlan wept the tears I could not. I watched his anguished body heaving, convulsing with deep sobs, until he finally fell asleep. A few minutes later he awoke and stumbled back over to the toy box to examine our baby more closely. He stroked her silky brown hair, touched each delicate finger. He shook his head, sighing deeply as he noticed that her fingernails were already turning black.

  Then he returned to my bed, caressing me and crying softly until slumber again relieved his grief. I watched his rhythmic breathing as the empty lamp flickered a time or two and then went out, as did the light in my heart.

  When a rooster crowed the next morning, Verlan awoke to our harsh reality. It was 6 A.M., and he had much to do to prepare for the funeral. Borrowing a pick and shovel, he hired two Mexicans to go to El Valle and dig the grave. We didn’t have a vehicle of our own, so he took the workers in the Spencers’ pickup. He stopped along the way at the presidencia to notify the authorities of our baby’s birth and death. He’d already sent a twelve-year-old Mexican neighbor off on horseback to take a note to Joel, five miles away at the LeBaron ranch.

  On receiving the heartrending news, Joel notified the other family members. He then gathered up some tools and nails, saddled up his horse, and left for Spencerville. It was about 10 A.M. by the time he arrived at our hut.

  From my bed, I numbly watched Joel through the screen door as he selected the best pieces from a pile of warped, wet boards for the coffin. He measured the unplaned pine; then with a dull handsaw, he cut each board to the proper size. I watched every move he made as the coffin took shape. Each nail he drove in I envisioned being pounded deep into my own throbbing heart.

  After Joel made the lid, he hammered nails into each corner, but he inserted them only halfway through the wood so that later, when Leah’s body was inside, the lid could be nailed down tight. He carried the rough little box into the kitchen, where Aunt Sylvia helped Charlotte pleat my white flannel diapers and tack them into place to form a lining that would cover the knotted boards and protect Leah from pine splinters.

  When he got back to the adobe hut, Verlan picked up our little Leah and placed her in my arms for the last time. I looked at her precious, ashen face. I didn’t blink, couldn’t blink. I stared hard and long at my baby. The years would hopefully lessen the pain, but her beautiful features would always be there, indelibly etched in my mind.

  After my final look, Verlan picked her up and gently put her in the rustic casket. It was past noon. He knew he had to get going. The Spencers’ truck pulled up. Delfina, Anna, Floren, Ervil, and all fourteen of the Spencers came into my room. They huddled together, ten of the children sitting on the foot and sides of my bed. No one knew what to say, but the adults moved single file past Leah’s casket. Joel offered a prayer. Then Floren and Verlan guided the lid into place on the casket, and Joel pounded the nails on through, making sure the lid was down tight.

  Verlan motioned for Floren and Ervil to carry the casket outside to the truck. Single file, the rest of our family and friends followed them. Charlotte and Aunt Rhea were waiting in the cab of the truck, purposely leaving me alone with Verlan.

  He took a blue receiving blanket from the dresser. “I’m taking this with me. I want to cover the casket with it.” He kissed me several times, not wanting to leave.

  We were interrupted by Karen, an eleven-year-old sister of mine and Charlotte’s, who arrived with Aunt Rhea the day before. “I’m going to stay with you while everyone else goes to the funeral.”

  Verlan left with the blanket, but he’d hardly shut the door behind him when he whirled around and came back in to me, crying. He held both my hands in his. “I’ll make it up to you, Irene. I promise!” I could only look at him with no emotion.

  IT WAS DARK when Verlan walked in with a small cardboard box he placed on my bed. “How’s my sweetheart doing?” he asked, kissing my cheek. “You can’t believe how God works things out.” I waited for the story he was clearly dying to tell.

  “I’m sorry we’re back so late,” he said. “When we got to the graveyard, the men didn’t have the hole deep enough, so it took us awhile to get it to the required depth. I jumped into the grave, and Joel and Floren lowered the casket down to me. Charlotte handed me the little blanket, and I spread it over the box. For some reason, I didn’t want her to be cold.” He sighed.

  “Then Joel and Ervil pulled me out. Flying gravel hit the wooden casket with loud thuds, but soon it was all covered. When the grave was completely filled, my brothers stomped the dirt down firmly.” He paused. “Please don’t feel bad, Irene. I just wanted you to know I did the best I could. We made a nice little mound on top with the remaining dirt. I measured from both cemetery walls, so we won’t lose her grave before I can afford a sack of cement to make a good marker for it. Be sure to help me remember that it’s three long steps from the north wall and seven steps from the east wall.”

  He stopped to see if I was taking it okay. All I could do was lie there and stare up at him.

  “I promise, Irene, I’ll make her a headstone. Now, let’s get happy, get our minds on other things. I’ve got a surprise for you! God touched Juan Fernandez’s heart for us. I had everyone stay in the truck while I went into his mercantile store. I was embarrassed because he’d cut off our c
redit last month after I charged oil, cotton, and the flannel for the diapers. I told him I knew we owed him forty dollars, but I’d pay him interest if he’d just give in this once and extend our credit. I told him about our baby’s death and that I needed to get something for you. He couldn’t have been nicer. In fact, he sent you his condolences.” Verlan patted my hand and continued, “I hid the box under Charlotte’s feet in the front of the pickup. I didn’t want Delfina and the others to see what I’d bought. I don’t need to be criticized for buying luxuries.”

  Charlotte entered my room and sat on the foot of my bed. “Are you ready for this?” Verlan asked excitedly. I tried to appreciate his efforts, but I really didn’t care about anything. I doubted I’d ever smile again.

  When I didn’t answer, he urged me, “Please cheer up, Irene.” Then he reached into the box with both his big hands and brought out six bottles of Coke. “These are all yours,” he said. Then he scattered eight American candy bars across the bed. He had the biggest grin on his face, just waiting for my reaction.

  I picked up a Baby Ruth and a Butterfinger, rubbing my fingers over them in disbelief. It was illegal to sell such American products here. These items had been smuggled in. “You actually bought this contraband?”

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding his head, hoping for approval. “I did it just for you. And that’s not all! There’s something else.” He handed me a shoe box.

  Did I dare open it? Was the box some sort of deception, camouflage for something else?

  Too excited to wait for me, Verlan took the lid off, pulling out a pair of beautiful black patent leather shoes. Never had a gift been more appropriate or more meaningful.

  My numbness vanished. The pain I’d been clinging to dissolved, and my tears gushed freely. God may have forgotten me, but Verlan hadn’t.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Three months after Leah’s death, I got to go home to Utah to visit my family. Seeing the gorgeous, snowcapped Wasatch Mountains again helped to heal me just a little from my long ordeal in Mexico. Seeing my mother helped even more. She wept as she lamented how much I’d been through over the past year and the fact that she hadn’t been there to help me through my baby’s birth and death. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the rest of my sufferings. In part, I still felt so foolish about charging off and marrying Verlan despite all my family’s well-founded warnings that I would terribly, terribly regret doing so.

  Over the first two weeks of my visit, I gained several pounds. Alarmed, Mother complained about my constant eating. I knew I couldn’t tell her why. How would she believe that I’d gone for over a year without tasting peanut butter, jam, margarine, Jell-O, tuna, mayonnaise, or so many of the other things I used to take for granted. At Mother’s house, I couldn’t help gorging luxuriously on raisins, nuts, fresh fruits, and ice cream. I was afraid I might not ever see such sumptuous goodies again.

  The result was fairly disastrous. One night I awoke with my side killing me. The pain shot clear down to my knees. I couldn’t wait until morning to see a doctor, so Mother rushed me in the dead of night to see Uncle Rulon, whom my family went to for medical as well as spiritual emergencies.

  “It’s your appendix,” Uncle Rulon concluded. “It’s about to burst. You need an operation immediately. I’ll find you a surgeon.”

  I told him I couldn’t be operated on because I had no money to pay an American hospital bill. Besides, I was now Verlan’s responsibility. I’d had Leah without Verlan there, and that was hard enough. I meant for him to be with me through all other medical crises I might have to endure. I left Uncle Rulon’s office against his strong advice and made plans to return to Mexico.

  But the prospect of cutting short my vacation devastated me. I longed for more time with my family. Even more fervently, I longed to escape life in Mexico. Circumstances there were too unbearable. Now, faced with having to run right back to those circumstances, I found myself entertaining unthinkable things. The pain in my side didn’t help.

  A divorce could settle everything. Then I could start a new life back here in Utah. I could eat what I wanted, wear normal, twentieth-century clothes, and maybe even hook up with Glen again. Almost as soon as the vision formed, I felt ashamed for concocting such a wicked plan. How I wished I had someone wise and objective I could go to for counsel.

  Maybe if I prayed harder, I’d feel better about going back. I rationalized that Verlan was honest, upright, good looking . . . and he loved the Lord, after all. I just wished I could believe he really loved me.

  I remembered a lecture on faith I’d once heard. Any religion that doesn’t require the sacrifice of all things earthly doesn’t have the power to lay hold of things eternal, the lecturer assured us. I’d given up everything material. Was I now willing to sacrifice my feelings also? I wanted a celestial glory, didn’t I? Then I shouldn’t complain. Of course I had to return.

  The Cox family, from Cane Beds, Arizona, offered to take me with them to Mexico. I rode the thousand-mile trip in the back of a three-quarter-ton pickup with only a canvas over the top. With nine people aboard, it was almost impossible to relax on the mattress. The chill of the November night, plus the pain in my stomach, kept me awake and worried that my appendix would rupture any minute from all the endless jolting. Once we got to the Mexican border, we went from highways to dusty, ungraded dirt roads for the final two hundred miles to the LeBaron ranch.

  On my arrival, Verlan, Charlotte, and I left immediately for Casas to find a doctor to perform the operation. When we arrived there late in the evening, we were told that Dr. Hatch had gone deer hunting. Doctors Salas and Fregozo would have to do the operation the following morning.

  I was admitted to the clinic on Thanksgiving Day. Almost immediately, Charlotte and Verlan took off with a friend, Ossmen Jones, to eat Thanksgiving turkey. I couldn’t believe he’d leave me among strangers at a time like this. It seemed I could never be alone with my husband when I really needed to be. Charlotte was present at my wedding to place my hand in his. Worse, she’d been around after my baby died so Verlan and I couldn’t even mourn in private. Now, when I desperately needed Verlan to reassure and comfort me, he was off with her again. I’d never had an operation, never even been in a hospital. It seemed to me my life was in danger, and on top of that, I felt abandoned and alone. I was seventeen and petrified. In lieu of my missing husband, I wanted my mother.

  To prep me for surgery, the nurse painted my stomach and my legs down to my knees with disinfectant. Then Arturo Muñoz, the young Mexican English-speaking anesthetist, arrived on the scene. He didn’t look a day over twenty. He put a rubber band around my left arm and thumped my vein with his finger until it bulged out enough to insert a needle. He shot some fluid in and asked, “Do you feel sleepy?” Before I could say a word, I was out cold.

  I THOUGHT I COULD hear voices. I listened again. Yes, Verlan was talking to me. “Irene, Dr. Hatch is here to see you.”

  The light was too bright, almost blinding. I squinted until I could focus on the doctor, but he looked odd to me. At first I thought I might be imagining the scratches and cuts all over his head and face. His eyes were swollen and bruised. “Oh . . . Doctor . . . Hatch,” I said, still all drugged up, “what . . . happened . . . to . . . you?”

  He patted my arm reassuringly. “I went hunting, and my horse fell off a cliff with me still on him.”

  I grasped his arm, trying unsuccessfully to sit up. With a concerned, pathetic look, and to Verlan’s great embarrassment, I said, “Oh . . . the . . . pooooor . . . horse!”

  I CARRIED LEAH FOR nine months, and throughout that time Verlan and I kept the law of purity. He hadn’t made love to me once during my pregnancy. Nor had he done so afterward, while we were grieving. Counting the three plus months since Leah’s death, it had now been a full year since I’d had sexual intimacy. A part of me was dying. In that sense especially, I felt Verlan was still more a stranger to me than a husband.

  My incision from the appendectomy h
ealed slowly, but my fights with Verlan were hot and constant. When he’d come to bed, we’d always argue about sex.

  “You’ve read too many steamy novels,” he’d lecture me. “Besides, you’ve been too sick. I don’t know if you’re over the toxemia.” Toxemia—a condition in which one’s blood carries a dangerous level of toxins—was what they’d decided had gone wrong with Leah’s birth. “You may get it again if you get pregnant. The doctor said for you to wait at least a year. You know we can’t practice birth control. That’s a sin second only to murder! So we’ll just have to abstain. Please be patient, Irene. I wish you’d believe I love you.”

  I felt such a loss without my baby. I longed to hold another child in my arms. At the same time, I needed a little physical love before I conceived again. I prayed God would understand. One January night, in complete despair, I demanded that Verlan make love to me.

  “I think you bring suffering upon yourself, Irene,” he retorted. “You have too much sex on your mind. You must overcome it, or you’ll never be happy.”

  “Please, Verlan. Please!” I begged.

  “Well, let’s pray about it first,” he said. So we got down on our knees and held hands by the side of the bed while Verlan prayed yet again about having intercourse with me. I wondered if God really wanted to hear such prayers. Since he’d given us our free agency, why did we have to get his permission for every little move we made? Besides, if God by chance gave us the okay to proceed, I didn’t want to have to think about him peeking in on us again.

  We got back into bed, and I waited. And I waited some more. I wondered if perhaps God spoke, but Verlan just never heard. Impatient, I finally asked, “Well, are we going to do it?”

  “No. I have to wait until I feel good about it,” he said matter-of-factly and turned over to go to sleep.

  Hours later, I awoke to Verlan’s advances. He whispered, “Irene, I dreamed we had a beautiful, dark-haired baby. Now I feel good about this.”