Autumn Music
Page 8
Cut the ties. The doctor’s summation was as lucidly uncompromising as the figures in Rory’s ledgers, the pluses and minuses as rigid, the logic as ruthless. In the red column, inevitable costs – fiscal, medical, social and family wellbeing. In the blue column – the immediate attraction of a currently healthy baby. Further than this, he had neither information nor experience other than the reliable information that most families chose negative risk.
Her family refused to choose. The decision was hers, hers alone. Not so simple. Beth, who’d visited before the fateful diagnosis, already loved the cuddly baby brother she’d prayed for. Send him away and what would they tell her? Keep him and what would they tell her when his difference manifested itself? Monica promised prayers. Rory and Katherine promised acceptance – whatever she decided. Simple.
But true? Her mother would welcome any baby. Until he grew up and became what they’d warned he would become. Would her mother still love him when his features betrayed his condition and his intellect fell short of others? Of course she would. As for Rory, would he be able to keep his promise to accept a flawed child? Rory was an accountant, a perfectionist. What would actually happen when the baby’s physical appearance departed from the norm, when his intelligence proved to be inferior, when the cost of maintaining his health negatively tipped the balance of figures in his ledger, when imperfection fell too far below tolerable standards?
If these were the only questions. They weren’t. Even if she could be convinced the baby would fare better with his own inexperienced family than with specialists, there were the questions related to the wider family: Beth’s friends, Katherine’s friends, Rory’s associates, the members of the choir, even strangers. She was learning unwanted lessons. She had changed. She was already suspicious of attitudes. Was that smile false, this advice biased, that gesture condescending, this conversation insincere? Nothing seemed to be what it appeared to be. She wore suspicion as easily as a raincoat in winter. Middle age was looming, her mental and physical stamina unpredictable. The debit column was potentially unacceptable.
How could the promising future have so speedily disintegrated? Yesterday had been sure, no need for questions. Today that was all there were – questions. She knew almost nothing about handicapped babies. She’d never thought about the possibility of bearing a handicapped child, not even when mourning the lost baby. Until this last week.
In the dark morning hours, when the hospital was hushed and sleep impossible, her mind raced unchecked. Stretching memory, she recalled whispers in dark corners, no answers when she’d questioned teachers about the inexplicably abrupt disappearance of a fellow student. She remembered an aunt mourning a baby sent away for ‘his own good’, a long-forgotten funeral oration for ‘A beloved little angel mercifully called home by a loving God’ and Father Doherty’s maudlin prayers for ‘A special child of God’.
There was one certainty, the consoling knowledge that no matter what happened, Katherine would be helpful. Although her mother was domineering and unduly pious and sometimes embarrassing, she was also strong and loving and resilient and loyal and supportive. In her role as Rory’s mother-in-law, regardless of what she might suspect about the inner machinations of the marriage, Katherine had been scrupulously careful not to meddle; an invaluable asset. Katherine’s role in their lives could well be a foundation on which to build a hopeful future for her son.
What about Rory? Whatever her decision, his reaction was unpredictable. Until the decision was actually acted on, she’d not know what he’d do. He probably didn’t know what he’d do. Because he didn’t know himself. Rory believed he could cope, whatever her choice. She knew differently. An old lesson, but well learned.
He’d left it to her, sure. He wanted to take no responsibility for the future. He’d decided to play the part she’d allotted him. Dutiful father of his son. Or stalwart supporter of his wife who’d rejected their son.
Whatever her choice, Rory aimed to act accordingly, without accepting the responsibility of choice. He’d opted out. Consequences could not be laid at his door. His career high on his list of major considerations, he was accustomed to coming home to a stable family. With her, he’d listened to the doctor’s lecture and abdicated responsibility. He’d never overtly reject his son. He expected her to do it for him.
Shame! Unfair. He was, like Katherine, loving and loyal, and long-suffering and patient and reliable. He had not earned censure.
Setting her son to her breast, she fondled the warm smooth cheeks and stroked the silky-fine hair. The sounds of his strong suckling was solace and heartbreak. The silver crucifix was in the bedside locker, alongside the rosary. But the crucifix was an ornament, the rosary a necklace.
She’d packed her case, fed the baby and was waiting for Rory to take them home when the conscientious doctor tried for the last time.
“All set, Mrs McClure?”
“I’m waiting for my husband.”
“How’s the little fellow today?” He inspected the baby, asleep in the bassinet by the window.
“He’s good.” The doctor didn’t need to be here. He’d completed his examinations yesterday. There were no problems.
“You’re still happy with your decision, Mrs McClure?”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing’s different, Mrs McClure. I have a duty of care. If you should change your mind?”
“I won’t.”
“So long as you understand. He’d be well cared for. There are places.”
“Lunatic asylums.”
“Not at all! There are competent people who will care for your son. You can visit. If that’s your wish. You need to accept the situation. He’s retarded.”
“He’s a baby!”
“His future is inevitable.”
“He’s mine, Doctor.”
“Of course. I do appreciate your feelings. However, you have no experience. Think of the child. Consider his best interests. He should be reared by people familiar with his particular problem.”
“I can learn.”
“As you wish.” He left the room.
Father Peters was waiting at the open door of the small suburban church. Smiling benevolent welcome, he ushered the christening party from the bright summer sunlight into the shadowed church. With her were Rory, Beth, Monica in her black habit and Katherine carrying the baby dressed in the family’s traditional white christening robe.
Following the elderly parish priest whose Sunday homilies put everyone to sleep, they prepared to walk down the centre aisle to the altar.
“All right, Tess?” Rory steadied her.
“Go ahead.”
Reaching the altar steps, Father Peters looked at his watch. “Shall we wait a few moments until your guests arrive, Rory?”
“Everybody is here, Father.”
“I don’t understand. Where is the family?”
“This is all the family who’ll be here, Father.”
“I’m sorry.” The old man was gently confused. “My memory is not what it used to be. Or have I misunderstood? I thought you’d spoken of your brothers, Rory. Of Tess’s large family.”
“No misunderstanding, Father. I’m afraid our families disapprove. They won’t be coming.”
“Oh?” The priest remained bewildered. “Both families? Of what do they not approve?”
“It’s the baby. Should I have told you the problem?”
“Told me what problem, Rory?”
“The baby…” Rory began. “I’m sorry…I can’t…”
In his grandmother’s arms, the baby whimpered.
“Rory? Tess?” Receiving no reply, the discomforted priest looked to the nun. “Can you help us out here, Sister?”
“It’s up to them, Father.” The black veil bowed, as though in prayer. Monica was carefully neutral.
Katherine impatiently rocked the baby but did not interfere. Beth, sensing the priest’s disapproval, clung to her silent father.
“Monica,” Rory pleaded. “Will you? Please.”
Monica straightened. “The baby is handicapped, Father. He has Mongolism.”
“I see.”
“The families think he should have been placed in special care.”
“I should have been told. Yes, indeed. I should have been told.”
“It’s been very hurtful, Father,” Katherine mourned. “In times like this, families should support one another. I told them. We should rally. We should…”
Tess interrupted, “We’re ready, Father.”
Again, Father Peters consulted his watch.
“There’s no need to wait, Father. We’re all here.”
“My dear Tess,” he frowned. “You misunderstand. I really think I should have been acquainted with these special circumstances.”
“He’s a baby, Father. He’s here to be baptised.”
“And his godparents are?”
“As we told you. My sister and my mother.”
“You did indeed.” Father Peters’ wizened face closed. “Nevertheless, I rather think we need a little more time. These commitments should never be lightly entered into, especially so in this case. So many inconsistencies! The child is handicapped. Your sister has taken Holy Orders. Moreover, if I may be brutally frank, in the event of the unthinkable, your mother is no longer of an age to care for a young child.”
Rory bridled, “They know what they’re doing, Father.”
“Perhaps. Even so, young man, I have a responsibility. If I’d been informed…” Father Peters gestured to the rows of vacant pews. “Why don’t we all sit a while.”
Monica took Beth’s hand in hers. “Beth and I will take a little walk.”
“What’s wrong?” Beth whispered.
“Father Peters is going to tell Mummy and Daddy what to say. Why don’t you and the baby walk with us, Mum?” Monica attempted to usher Beth and Katherine with the baby to a distance.
Katherine protested. “I want to hear! He’s not really telling them what to say, Beth. He’s…”
“Mother!”
“This is ridiculous. It’s unnecessary.”
“He should have been told.” Monica excused the cautious priest. “He should have been given the opportunity to counsel them.”
“Rot!”
“Leave them, Mother. For Beth’s sake, if for no other reason.”
Katherine surrendered. The small group retreated to the back of the church.
Seated beside them in the front pew, Father Peters acknowledged, “You are quite right, of course. Your baby will be baptised. He is indeed a special child. A child of Christ.”
“Thank you, Father.” Rory was dutifully grateful.
“However,” Father Peters worried, “I have the clear impression you have not clearly thought this through. You are asking so much of those two exceptional women. Before they make their vow to care for and protect your baby, I am obliged to ask – have you thought about the future? I repeat, your mother is not young, Tess. Your sister is committed to her vocation.”
“We should have told you about him,” Rory placated. “When he was first diagnosed, we should have told you.”
“This is pointless,” Tess argued.
“I am obliged to speak.” Father Peters remained stubbornly adamant.
“For which we thank you, Father.” Rory was embarrassed. “We do appreciate your concern.”
“Are you truly sure? Both of you? Do you truly want to keep him? Do you, in fact, unequivocally accept the tremendous burden this child will place on your home? On your marriage? On your daughter?”
“He is our son, Father.”
“That is not my question, Tess.”
“It’s my answer.”
“And what is your answer, Rory?”
“The same. Whatever Tess says, I go along with.”
“I see. Then I ask again.” Formally adjusting the green stole, Father Peters intoned, “Do you, Rory, as the father of your family, unconditionally undertake to accept the responsibilities of rearing this child in your home?”
Rory, responding in kind, staidly chanted, “I do.”
“As you will.” Prayerfully folding his thin white hands, Father Peters briefly contemplated the tortured crucifix above the altar, then beckoned the family to join him at the baptismal font. “Let us begin…”
Katherine placed the sleeping baby in Monica’s arms. The dead black robe embraced the glistening white christening gown. Beneath her stiff white coif, Monica’s beautiful face was radiant.
Tess watched, not listening, willing herself not to think and failing. Beth’s christening had been so very different. The wooden church in the mountains had been bursting with friends and relatives and laughter and good wishes and promises for the future.
Not today. Today, other than Monica and her mother, the relatives had turned their backs. With the comforting exception of Gerry, far away in Western Australia, polite impersonal cards of non-acceptance or insultingly lame excuses had bluntly communicated majority disapproval. The family, sisters and brothers and in-laws and cousins and uncles and aunts, disapproved. Handicapped babies belonged in places for handicapped babies, particularly so in consideration of the specific nature of this baby’s handicap.
As practising Roman Catholics, it could not be the christening the family was objecting to but its circumstances. Christenings were occasions for happiness, for celebration, for a show of family unity. There was no family unity.
Beth should not be seeing this.
She swayed.
“Steady,” Rory whispered.
“I’m all right.”
In Monica’s arms the baby slept.
From above the altar the dying Saviour’s tormented face looked down on the family and Father Peters proclaimed, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I name you – Sean Patrick.”
“You can’t keep this up, Mrs McClure.”
She straightened Sean’s bonnet.
“Look at yourself.” Sister Adams’ starched breasts sat on her broad desk. “You’re worn out.”
She settled the sleeping baby in his pram.
“Tess – Mrs McClure – you’re not as young as you were. These sleepless nights are taking their toll.”
“I’ll live.”
“But will…?” Sister Adams suggestively paused.
“You mean Sean. You mean – will Sean live?”
“This last infection has set him back again. He needs constant nursing!” The health centre supervisor clucked rebuke. “He must have round-the-clock attention. How long can you cope?”
“We’ll manage.” She wheeled the pram towards the door.
“Every infection leaves him more vulnerable. He’s losing ground.”
She opened the door. Impatient young mothers, anxious to take their place in the sister’s office, were watching.
“Full-time care. You may want to rethink that, Mrs McClure.”Sister Adams imperiously pressed the buzzer on her desk. “Next please!”
Standing aside for the incoming mother and pusher, she wheeled the pram through the waiting room and away from the health centre.
“He had such a happy day, Rory. I wish you could have come home early.”
“Stop harassing, Tess. He’s too young to understand. Why do you have to make such a fuss?”
“Birthdays are always important.” She frowned into the midnight-darkened bedroom. He should have seen their children together. Beth had loved the party, the cake and the two candles and the balloons and the new toys and ice cream. She’d loved playing with her adored baby brother and she’d taught him to clap his hands while they sang happy birthday. He’d even tried to sing along. He loved music.
“You should have seen him,” she whispered. “He tried to sing. He ac
tually tried to sing. He kept wanting me to light the candle so he could blow it out again. You should have seen him.”
“Do you mind? I’m too tired.”
“I thought you wanted to know.”
“It’s been a long day.”
The wide space in the middle of the double bed was chill.
“Rory?” She switched on the bedside lamp.
His back was stiffly hunched, his head buried in the pillow.
“Rory!”
The muted light from the pink-shaded lamp created an illusion of warmth. She switched it off. Since Sean’s birth, Rory had become even more distant, always busy, always too tired or too preoccupied or too disinterested to even attempt polite small talk. Late meetings, distant conventions, business contacts, promotional tours, social duties, church obligations, kept him from his family for increasingly long hours.
When she finally slept, it was the restless sleep of frustration.
The alarm woke them. He silenced it and pulled the blankets over his head.
She dragged on dressing-gown and slippers, woke Beth and returned to the bedroom. “You’ll be late.”
He grunted, threw back the blankets and started for the bathroom.
“Rory. We have to make time to talk.”
“Not now, Tess. I’ll be late.”
“Good! Good lad!” The youthful suburban clinic doctor, having safely steered Sean through another bout of bronchitis, replaced his stethoscope. “Well done, young Sean! Strong lungs, this one, Mrs McClure. Strong lungs. Though we never can be sure, can we?”
She strapped him back into his pusher. “I’m so frightened he’ll get pneumonia, Doctor. Do you think he’ll grow out of it?”
“It’s an unknown, I’m afraid. As is so much with these kids.”
“Don’t tell me to send him away again!”
“I have a duty of care, Mrs McClure. To both of you.”