Rocket Girl

by George D. Morgan

  But that change and that life was still years away. For now, Mary had much bigger concerns than which suit was trump.

  Ever since the end of World War I it had become fashionable to “send girls away” when they became pregnant, a sociological phenomenon whereby a young, unmarried pregnant woman would be put on a bus and sent to live with a friend or a family member hundreds of miles away. This was done in order to, supposedly, prevent shame from infecting some good family name or staining some employer (or institution of higher learning). Meanwhile, back home, everyone would pretend the girl was on a trip, away at college, visiting family, or some other fools-nobody code phrase. All it really did was create more fodder for gossipy tongues. The fact that cover stories never prevented aftermath gossip was testament to the fact that gossipy tongues were, and always had been, a potent, unstoppable force, invincible to any power that might be foolish enough to try to thwart their process. Every month or so at Ray High School, and later at DeSales College, a co-ed would simply vanish. There on Tuesday, gone on Wednesday. And the students would start to whisper.

  Did she have a boyfriend?

  They did it in a car.

  I heard she was raped.

  That's not what I heard.

  I always knew she was a slut.

  Whispers, whispers, whispers.

  Mary had never considered such a fate would ever befall her, yet here she was, having a date with twenty-eight. Now she had to seriously contemplate the possibility: would she become a card-carrying member of the Sent-Away Club?

  Sent-Away? No, that's not it.

  The more Mary thought about it, the more she realized girls weren't really sent away—they were hidden away. It was all about hiding things—hiding pregnancies, hiding babies, hiding adoptions, hiding people, hiding shame, hiding reputations, hiding one's face, hiding the past, hiding the future, hiding the truth. Yes, truth. The “Sent-Away Generation” was really the “Hiding-the-Truth Generation.” Hiding truth, all in the name of saving one's golden reputation. All of it based on some flawed presumption that it was possible for a chalked-up slate to be utterly cleaned. Forever. Mary looked over at a chalkboard nailed to the library wall. Someone had thoroughly cleaned it with soap and water, yet chalky streaks and residue remained, forever marring the original slate that had come from the factory, clean and pure.

  The pretense of all this was that the past was not the past—that one could make the past disappear by denying its existence. The past was all just some bad dream that could be easily erased by buying a bus ticket to Aunt Kathy in Kansas. If no one back home knows you were pregnant, then that means you were never pregnant. If no one knows you had a baby, then the baby doesn't exist. Ignorance is bliss.

  His name was Patrick—a cute, athletic Irish boy. Mary fell for him immediately. Patrick was everything she was looking for in a boy—handsome, smart, and Catholic. They met in English Composition 102 at the end of the second semester. It started the way a billion prior human relationships had begun; he smiled at her, she smiled back.

  They began dating, if that was what it could be called. Neither of them had much money, so a date would often be nothing more than strolling around the block, hand in hand. He had a sense of humor and treated her like a lady, both of which she was especially appreciative of. After a lifetime of enduring merciless teasing and endless taunts from her older brothers, after nineteen years of never hearing the words “I love you” from her parents, after wetting her pillow night after night and praying to God to deliver her the smallest morsel of human kindness, Patrick arrived on cue. So desperate was she for a gentle word, a soft touch, a warm embrace, that her otherwise-analytical mind shut down and she surrendered to him whole. She fell hard, like a dry-docked ship's anchor hitting cement. He pulled her into his vacuum, and she offered no resistance.

  Even after Mary had dropped out of DeSales and started working for Plum Brook, they had continued their relationship, as best they could. Sandusky was only thirty-five miles from the college, but due to wartime gas rationing, their opportunities to be together were limited.

  One day Patrick said, “I love you,” and before long Mary noticed her facial complexion was changing. Nausea became frequent, and each day began with a ceremonial vomiting of her breakfast coffee.

  Owing to the dangerous chemicals being used and manufactured, Plum Brook Ordnance had an infirmary on the premises. One day Mary decided to see the nurse.

  “You're in a family way,” she said, using the Victorian euphemism for pregnancy. The nurse gave Mary a few words of advice and a small pamphlet, none of which registered past the shock barrier.

  The next day, Mary went to work at her usual station, testing and analyzing nitric acid shipments, her face blanche and hollow. Her manager asked if she felt okay, and she managed a “yes.” At lunchtime she tried to call Patrick, but his landlady said he was out. The next weekend she bought a bus ticket to Toledo and waited for Patrick to get out of class. They took one of their hand-holding walking dates, and she told him of her condition. At hearing the news he let go of her hand, said a few things she could not fully grasp, and walked away.

  That was the last time she ever saw him.

  Despite growing up in a large family, Mary had always felt alone in the world—a testament to the fact that loneliness is not cured by crowds. Now, deceived by insincerity, duped by counterfeit promises, and impregnated by the sperm cells of deception, Mary was more alone than ever. She tried to assuage her anger, her sorrow, her guilt, by redoubling her dedication to work. She volunteered for extra hours, but the nausea got worse, and after two weeks she had to reduce her schedule to less than full-time.

  “Will I be sent away?”

  Several months had passed since Mary began wearing loose-fitting dresses. But things were steadily progressing, and fat-girl dresses could only take you so far.

  “Will I be sent away?” she asked again.

  The nurse seemed puzzled by the question. “Sent away? Sent away where?”

  “You know. Because of my baby.”

  The nurse smiled. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.” At that moment, for some odd reason, Mary wondered where she would be when she turned twenty-eight.

  “Twenty-two. So you're an emancipated adult. Who would or could send you away?”

  “You don't understand,” said Mary. “Where I come from you're not an adult until you get married and start having children.”

  “Well,” said the nurse. “You're halfway there.”

  At DeSales College Mary had attained something she had longed for from her earliest memory: independence. But that independence had come with a price: the acceptance of a $500 scholarship from the Parent Teachers Association back in Ray, plus an incentive scholarship from the Sisters of Notre Dame. Dropping out of school to assist with the war effort was one thing, but if the PTA and the nuns heard this latest news, they might want their money back. If Aunt Ida kicked her out of her house over it, Mary might be forced by financial necessity to return to the family farm—a new form of hell.

  The nurse set down her stethoscope.

  “When girls your age get sent away, sometimes it's by their parents. Sometimes it's by their pastor. But do you know who frequently does the sending?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “The girls themselves. Many of the young women your age who get sent away to wait out their pregnancies send themselves away. They don't want to face the judgment of their friends, their families, their coworkers. If you get sent away at your age, it will be because you did the sending.”

  Mary asked, “How often do girls do that?”

  The nurse thought that over, then said, “A lot. Especially with the Jews and Catholics. Are you Catholic?”

  Mary nodded, and the nurse made a few notes on her clipboard.

  “It's interesting you would bring this up. I had a patient in here last week with the same problem as you. She was preparing to take a bus to an aunt's house in Texas to
have her baby. She said something kind of funny—called herself a member of the “Sent-Away Club.”

  That's when Mary realized she hadn't seen Kathleen McNulty since Friday.

  The nurse handed her a prescription. “Come back next month and we'll see how you're doing.”

  A month before, the protective jumpsuit required for her job had gone from too large to too small. It had become too tight and Mary was forced to requisition a larger size. Already several of the other girls had begun making remarks, pointed and anointed with innuendo. Mary had been working at Plum Brook Ordnance for about a year. She had already discussed with her supervisor that she might need to take a leave of absence soon. He had tried to dissuade her, of course, since Mary Sherman had quickly become one of his best chemical analysts. She would be hard to replace, even on a temporary basis. When Mary refused to give him a reason, the reason became apparent, and so he agreed.

  When her due date was less than a month away, Mr. Hollingsworth insisted the time had come for her to take a leave of absence to have her baby.

  “I have to know something,” he said. “I have to know whether you will be back.”

  “Of course I'll be back,” she said. “Why wouldn't I?”

  “How are you, as a single mother, going to raise a child and still put in ten to twelve hours a day here at the plant?”

  For family Mary had only Aunt Ida, and they did not get along well. Mary realized that if she were to raise a child, she would have to give up her job. If she gave up her job, she would have no means of support. Without any means of support, she would have to return home—to the Sherman farm.

  Never. I will never live there again.

  And so Mary began the process of giving her child up for adoption. She sought help from a local Catholic charity, who referred her to a church-run hospital in Philadelphia. Mary arranged with Plum Brook for a two-month leave of absence, then spent a little money and purchased her first decent suitcase. As she prepared for the move to Philadelphia, she could not get her mind off of how dreadfully she had strayed from the course she had set for herself back in Ray. This pregnancy was not supposed to happen—this child was not her destiny.

  On the morning she was to leave, Mary penned a letter of gratitude to her aunt, making it clear she would return in two months. At the end of the letter she wrote: Please don't tell my parents.

  This time when she boarded the bus she sat in the back seat. As the bus started forward, Mary turned around and waved a tearful good-bye to an empty parking lot, watching with wet eyes as Toledo, Ohio, vanished into the horizon.

  Why? Why would my mother travel 550 miles from Toledo, Ohio, to St. Vincent's Hospital in Philadelphia to have her baby? She would have passed dozens of perfectly well-suited hospitals along the way.

  I continue my online searching and finally uncover two solid explanations.

  It turns out that St. Vincent's Hospital was not just any hospital; it was a hospital owned and operated by Catholic Social Services, and it specialized in providing medical and adoption services to unwed mothers. My online search stumbles across dozens of blogs and posts filled with the longings of children grown to adulthood who were born at, and adopted from, St. Vincent's. In these blogs many of them plead for help in locating their birth parents. In other blogs, birth parents plead for help locating the children they gave up.

  One such post comes from a woman named Joan who is seeking her birth mother. The woman not only shares what little information she has of her mother but also speaks directly to her. As she addresses her biological mother, she explains that she loves her because, although “Mom” didn't raise her, she gave her life, a gift for which she will always be grateful.2

  The more I read, the more I realize St. Vincent's was some sort of birth-to-adoption factory. A post dated June 5, 2009, fills in some details about the hospital, where young women from across the nation would come to birth their babies. The post provides the location as being in southwest Philadelphia, specifically at Sixty-Ninth and Woodland Avenue. The blogger explains that the orphanage was at the same location, and that eventually the hospital was closed before a new wing, called St. Vincent's Home for Unwed Mothers, was constructed.3

  So, based on the information I garnered from various adoption websites, it would not be unusual in 1945 for a young, near-term Catholic girl to travel 550 miles from Toledo to Philadelphia to give birth. St. Vincent's was a Catholic hospital where unwed mothers-to-be gravitated from across the country.

  For no apparent reason, Mary awoke. Her eyes opened and she was surprised at how fully alert she was. Her bed was next to the window, and she pulled back the curtain to look outside. It was dark, with a gentle moon. She reached over to the end table and grabbed her watch. It was 2:00 a.m.

  Mary turned her body, sweeping her legs out and down. Pushing with both hands, she managed to sit up. She took a few deep breaths, placing both hands on her parturient belly. It would not be long now; her due date was only three days away. A wall clock ticked softly, and she checked it to make sure her watch was accurate. It was. She felt an urge to urinate and carefully forced herself to stand up.

  That's when the first contraction started.

  My mother, as discussed elsewhere in this book, was an expert at covering her tracks and blotting out the history of her life prior to getting married in 1951. She probably had no idea that a handwritten letter she wrote to the adoptive mother, Mary Hibbard, would be carefully preserved all these decades. Since the letter is the only record of my mother giving birth back in 1944, outside of the birth certificate, I have decided to publish the letter here.4

  Dear Mary:

  Am writing this letter—one for the public, and this one, which is restricted.

  Instead of coming right home from the hospital, I stayed there for three weeks after I got up, working for my keep, and the baby's care. It saved me quite a bit and it was better than being alone with nothing to do, as I worked with a bunch of girls, all there for the same reason.5 A lot of them are really O.K.

  The baby is now at Mrs. Coyle's, and I am to go back to work Monday. I would have stayed at the hospital longer but I thought Vernon was coming so I came home. He isn't here yet, darn him.6

  I got my insurance without any difficulty $206.50 altogether, which ain't hay. I would have been dead broke by the time I got back to work if I didn't get it.

  I went to see Sister Assumpta as soon as I got your letter. She said they couldn't handle the case, but the thing to do is to take the baby over to you, then you get an attorney to arrange things there. I can bring the baby over there any weekend, but would like to know about a week in advance when you want it, so I can make plans accordingly. Perhaps you'd better consult an attorney before I come.

  Mrs. Rau gave me some clothes for the baby (second hand) but they're mostly for an older baby. Some of them have the label of a shop in Glenview, Illinois, on them, which is the right direction, and far enough from Philly.

  I went back for my final checkup Monday and the doctor says everything's all right. I feel O.K. too. They made me stay in bed fifteen days and take about a handful of sulfa pills every few hours because I had a temperature. And I weigh exactly 111 pounds again and I'm afraid I always will.

  At first I thought the baby was chubby but after I saw the rest of her, I saw she's quite thin. However, she gained 1 pound, 4 oz. the first six weeks, she takes all her formula, and keeps it down, and she doesn't have any bone trouble. Mrs. Coyle says she's awfully strong. She put her on [her] stomach in the crib when she was seven weeks old and somehow or other she got way up into the corner. By the way, today's her birthday—she's eight weeks old.

  I was just interrupted by a call from Al for a date tonight.

  Be seeing ya',

  Love,

  Mary

  “Secrets are made to be found out with time.”

  —WIDELY ATTRIBUTED TO CHARLES SANFORD

  The convoy of American soldiers stopped their Jeeps and other vehicles al
ongside the slimy mud track that, according to the map, was a road. Most of the men were on foot, having marched 175 miles in nine days. They were members of the 104th Timberwolf Army Infantry Division of the 145th Regiment stationed in central Germany in an area known as Lippstadt. The men desperately needed rest, but since resting was not permitted, their sergeant ordered a “maintenance stop” for the Jeeps—which their orders did allow.1 The Jeep drivers opened the hoods of their cars, the mechanics made a show of working on them, and the rest of the soldiers did their best to find a soft rock or dry space on which to sit and take a breather.

  Medics attended to the wounded, of which there were many.

  One of those wounded was Private John M. Galione, a lanky Italian soldier who had grown up on a farm on Long Island. Pulling his pant leg up, he examined the gash in his leg where a piece of shrapnel from an exploding shell had ripped into his shin bone.2 The medics had patched him up, but the wound kept opening and bleeding—the result of having to march more than 15 miles every day. The boot extended just above the wound, and the leather rubbed on it incessantly.

  It was spring in the alpine forests of Germany's Harz mountain range. Much of the ground was covered in two to three feet of snow, several inches of which had fallen the previous evening. Deep snow cups, together with an abundance of wet mud, gave evidence that the spring thaw was well under way. The date was April 4, 1945.

  Like everyone else in his unit, Galione kept a firm grip on his rifle. Although German soldiers were surrendering in droves, most of the country was still an active war zone. Adolf Hitler's suicide, and Germany's capitulation, were less than a month away, but that was a future still just a little too far away to see. Pockets of Third Reich loyalists were everywhere, steadfastly holding out for a last-minute miracle.