Keeping Lucy (ARC)

by T. Greenwood

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  For my daughters

  Acknowledgments

  To all the cooks in this crazy kitchen, I am so grateful.

  Thank you to my early readers and friends, Jillian Cantor and Amy Hatvany, who never say “no” to reading those early terrible drafts and helping me navigate revisions and other sundry crises. To Neal Griffin who answers the call whenever law enforcement steps into the story, to Carlene Riccelli for all things Massachusetts, and to Tabatha Tovar who helped bring Lucy to life on the page.

  I am indebted beyond repayment to my agent Victoria Sanders, and her team: Bernadette Baker-Baughman, Jessica Spivey, and Allison Leshowitz. I am also brimming with appreciation to all the incredible people at St. Martin’s: George Witte, Sally Richardson, and Lisa Senz. To Jessica Zimmerman, Alex Casement, Sarah Grill, Erica Martirano, and Brant Janeway. To my editor April Osborn, whose editorial advice changed everything, and to Greg Villepique who tidied it all up.

  Thank you as well to the librarians, booksellers, and readers for continuing to carry, promote, and read the books I write.

  Lastly, my heart, as always, expands and contracts for those people who love me no matter what: my parents, my extended family, Patrick, and our girls, Mikaela and Esmée.

  The Moon for all her light and grace

  Has never learned to know her place.

  —Robert Frost

  We’d never know how high we are, till we are called to rise;

  and then, if we are true to plan, our statures touch the sky.

  —Emily Dickinson

  It might be miles beyond the moon,

  Or right there where you stand.

  —“Never Never Land,” from the musical Peter Pan,

  lyrics by Betty Comden and Adolph Green, music by Jule Styne

  Prologue

  Dover, Massachusetts

  October 1969

  Later, she would blame the moon. That full, blood moon that pierced the night sky like a bleeding bullet hole.

  Of course, Ginny had heard the old wives’ tales, about hospitals filling with pregnant women on the night of a full moon. Her mother had called her just that morning and warned her to pack her overnight bag. Ginny still had two weeks to go, but Shirley had insisted she be ready. That baby won’t wait for you to find your slippers, she said. Ab had seemed doubtful of Ginny’s mother’s predictions but cheerfully complied, loading the small blue train case with Ginny’s night clothes, toothbrush, and tiny receiving blankets into the back of the Galaxie before they drove to his parents’ house for her baby shower that afternoon.

  And sure enough, just as the shower was coming to an end (the paper plate hat covered with bows firmly affixed atop her head, the pristine bibs and layettes folded and stacked), she felt the first pains. Then, only moments later, as her mother-in-law Sylvia’s housekeeper cleared the empty cups and half-eaten finger sandwiches from the coffee table, she felt the hot rush between her legs. As Sylvia’s friends and their daughters bustled about, gathering their pocketbooks and coats, Ginny sat motionless on the sofa, praying she’d only tipped over her punch. But Rosa had already cleared away her crystal punch cup, and Ginny’s bottom was soaked.

  Mortified, she’d remained silent for ten minutes as the shower guests motioned for her to No, no, stay put, bending over to her to kiss her cheeks and say good-bye. And, What a lovely shower. And, Let us know as soon as the baby arrives! She sat still as stone and sodden as her best friend, Marsha, leaned over and whispered, I heard that screwing will get things started, if you’re ready to get that baby out. Ginny had blushed and swatted at Marsha’s arm but then embraced her tightly.

  “Thank you for coming,” Ginny whispered. “I hope it wasn’t too terrible.”

  Marsha had come all the way from their hometown in western Massachusetts, enduring nearly three hours of cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches and silly shower games with women who usually held nothing but disdain for girls like them; even Ginny’s own mother had refused to make the trip, citing some vague ailment as an excuse.

  It was a Sunday, and after dropping Ginny off at his parents’ house, Ab had taken Peyton to see a matinee of Peter Pan. He was only four, and Ginny had worried he was too young and squirmy to sit through a whole movie, but when she glanced at her watch, she saw that the film was likely over and expected they’d be back any minute. She’d asked Ab to please come straight back to the shower as soon as the credits rolled to rescue her.

  “She’s just trying to be nice,” Ab had said of his mother.

  “I know. But I hardly even know these women.”

  “You should at least try,” he said. “They’re our neighbors, too.”

  They’d moved to Dover from their tiny house in Cambridge as soon as Ab graduated from law school when Peyton was three. He’d started working for his father’s firm in the city before he’d even passed the bar. The down payment on the home in Dover was a graduation gift from his parents. The fact that the house was only a half a mile away from his parents’ house didn’t seem to bother Ab, despite all their early dreams of a quiet, simple life, raising their children in nature rather than in these stuffy suburbs. “Come on, Gin. It’s not so bad. I grew up here,” he’d argued. “And I turned out okay.” But it had been two years, and she still felt about as welcome in this world as a skunk at a lawn party.

  Her abdomen cramped, and she gasped, causing Sylvia, who was wiping a paper napkin feverishly at a watermark left by Marsha’s cup on the end table, to look up.

  “Virginia?” she said. “Are you okay?”

  Only then had Ginny dared to stand, using the armrest for leverage. She glanced nervously down at the spot where she’d been sitting, confirming it was, indeed, not simply a puddle of strawberry and ginger ale punch.

  “I think my water broke. I’m sorry about the sofa.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Sylvia said, forcing a smile as she glanced at the wide stain on her divan and then glanced out the window and nodded her head. “Full moon tonight. I supposed we should have expected this.”

  Ginny felt a surge of hopefulness—for the first time, Sylvia and Ginny’s mother agreed about something, though, sadly, neither one of them would ever know.

  Ab arrived only moments later, Peyton slung over his shoulder like a tiny sack of potatoes and fast asleep. Rosa appeared like magic to take him upstairs to the guest room. Ab looked frazzled but excited as Sylvia relayed the news of the impending baby to him, and he led Ginny out to the car, the canvas top still down.

  It was cool out, just a few weeks until Halloween. The ground was littered with fallen leaves, and the grand homes in the Richardsons’ neighborhood were alight in an autumnal glow.

  Ab grinned at her as he opened the passenger door. “I hope he waits until we get to the hospital.”

  “What makes you think it’s a . . .” Another contraction seized her, and she trailed off, grabbing onto the open car door to steady herself. When the pain had passed, Ab situated her in the passenger seat, then hopped into the driver’s seat, his grin wide and dimples deep. “We’re having a baby tonight!” he said and howled at that blood red moon punctuating the sky, peeling out of the circular driveway onto the road that would take them to the hospital.

  When the next contraction came, she glanced up at the moon and made a wish, as if it were a star. “Please, let everything be okay.”

  But later, at the hospital, as she surfaced from the ether stupor, her throat
raw and her stomach roiling, Ginny knew that something was terribly wrong. The room was quiet. There was no sound of an infant’s healthy wails, only the hush of whispers between the doctor and nurse who stood, heads bent together like schoolgirls.

  The doctor came to the bedside, and she felt a wave of nausea, acid burning her throat. He had a gentle face, but his voice was firm.

  “Mrs. Richardson, I know you’re feeling groggy still, but I need you to listen to me.”

  She nodded, and it felt as though her head weighed a hundred pounds. There was fire between her legs. Everything ached.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She opened her mouth to cry out, but as she did, she retched and covered her mouth with her hands, vomiting into her palms.

  “Oh, dear,” the nurse scolded, coming over. She grabbed a cloth diaper from a stack on a rolling table and handed it to Ginny, who wiped at her mouth and her hands and tried to sit up.

  “Mrs. Richardson, it’s important you understand . . .” the doctor started. “Your daughter . . .”

  “My daughter?” Ginny cried, the words burning her throat. A girl. “Is she okay?”

  The nurse moved toward a bassinet across the room. Ginny watched through rheumy eyes as she briskly lifted the small bundle and cradled it in her arms before heading to the door.

  “Please, give me my child,” Ginny snarled, barely recognizing her own voice, and the nurse stopped, looking at the doctor for direction.

  He took a deep breath and nodded, and the nurse returned to Ginny’s bedside and reluctantly handed her the parcel.

  The baby was not crying; she was still and silent in her arms. Dark eyelashes like a doll’s. She was beautiful. Lucy, she thought. Like a radiant bit of light. Ginny peered into the face of her child, her daughter, feeling overwhelmed with nothing but love. Her chest ached with it. The doctor’s words felt far away, as if he were speaking under water.

  “Mrs. Richardson, this condition, it comes with many, many challenges,” he said as though he were speaking to a child. “Heart defects, hearing and vision problems. Thyroid malfunctions.”

  Defects? Ginny shook her head. No, the baby was perfect. She knew this, even through the hazy ether scrim.

  “She may never talk. She will never, ever live on her own. She will never be a normal girl, Mrs. Richardson. You must understand.”

  “You’ve made a mistake,” she said in disbelief, peering at her perfect child.

  She touched her finger to Lucy’s soft, round cheek.

  The doctor continued, relentless. “She’s mongoloid. Which means severe mental retardation. She’ll be feeble-minded, no more intelligent than a dog. The hardship she will bring to your family—women never realize the impact that raising an imbecile has on a marriage. On the other children. You must think of your son.”

  “Where is my husband?” she said, wincing at the fire between her legs.

  “After you’ve had some rest, after the anesthesia fully wears off, it will be clearer. I’ll speak to your husband. Now get some sleep,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.”

  When he left the room, the nurse leaned over Ginny to take the baby, but she held on tight.

  “Please let me hold her,” Ginny pleaded. “Just a little longer.”

  “Blood moon tonight,” the nurse said, shaking her head sadly, a look of pity on her pinched and bitter face. “My grandmother said never, ever look at the blood moon when you’re pregnant.”

  Another wave of nausea rolled in Ginny’s stomach, and she held back tears. She stroked the soft skin of the baby’s cool cheek.

  “Did you look at it?” the nurse asked, reaching for the infant again. Ginny’s arms felt weak, her eyes heavy as she fought sleep. “Did you look at the moon?”

  Ether dreams. Like Alice falling down that rabbit hole, tumbling, end over end. Sleeping and waking, waking and sleeping. Somersaulting between wakefulness and consciousness, tumbling through a fitful slumber.

  When she woke again, she couldn’t tell if it was dusk or dawn, but the room was filled with a sort of dreamy half-light. For a moment, she thought the chirping was of a bird, but realized then, it was the sound of an infant’s cry.

  Her baby. Her little girl. Where had they taken her? She struggled to remember what the nurse had said, something about the moon. The blood moon. Her voice filled with accusation. And she recalled the softness of Lucy’s cheek. The flutter of her eyelashes. Or had that been part of the dream? That twilight sleep the doctor had promised as the needle slipped into flesh, that delicious amnesia. The forgetting. But she recalled, she remembered his words like the prick of that needle, the sting of bees.

  “Well, I see someone’s finally awake,” the nurse said cheerfully as she entered the room now. Thankfully, it was not the same nurse, not the one who’d offered her prophecy. Her curse. “Good morning!”

  Morning. That glow was from the sun, not the moon.

  “My baby,” Ginny said, her words like dry puffs of cotton in her mouth.

  The nurse’s face was gentle, her eyes kind. She reached for Ginny’s hand and squeezed it. “The doctor will be in to see you in just a little bit, sweetheart,” she said. Then she handed her a pack of ice. “Put this between your legs. It will help the pain. You’ve got quite a few stitches.”

  “Lucy,” she said. “I need to see my baby.”

  “Can I get you some breakfast? Maybe some grapefruit juice and buttered toast? Coffee?”

  Ginny shook her head, though her stomach rumbled angrily.

  “Is my husband here?” she asked, wondering where he could be.

  She thought of Ab waiting in the other room, pockets stuffed with the last of his father’s Cuban cigars he’d been keeping in the glove box of their car for this occasion. She thought of his wrinkled trousers and messy hair. He’d probably made friends with every other waiting father, maybe even sharing one of those precious Cubans. She wondered if he’d slept at all, if he’d eaten. A daughter. He’d chosen the name William for a boy, convinced he was about to have another son, but she’d decided on Lucy. She’d known all along it was a girl.

  She tried to smile; this nurse seemed friendly enough, maybe she would bring her daughter to her. “Ab—my husband—he wanted another boy, of course, but I told him it would be a girl. I just knew. Do you have children?”

  The nurse sighed, her eyes glistening. “I’ll get you some Cream of Wheat, a little butter and maple syrup. It’ll settle your stomach. Sometimes the medicine can make you queasy.”

  An hour later, when the Cream of Wheat had congealed in the bowl and her coffee had grown cold, Dr. Wells arrived and brusquely examined her before folding his arms across his chest. Bedside manner was best left to the nurses, she supposed.

  “Please, where is my husband?” she asked. It had been so long since she’d seen him. Not since they’d whisked her into the delivery room. “I’d like to go to the nursery now,” she said, sitting up. The tray with her breakfast tipped over, and the bowl clattered to the floor. “Is Ab with her?”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Richardson,” the doctor said. His voice was gentle, but his hands were firm as they gripped her arm and pushed her back onto the scratchy pillows. “I think maybe you need to get a little more rest. Nurse?”

  The nurse reappeared like magic, holding a syringe this time and smiling apologetically as she plunged it into her arm.

  When Ginny woke again, it was dusk. Ab was sitting at her bedside, holding her hand and smiling sadly. He was wearing his favorite tweed jacket and a chocolate-colored sweater beneath, the same clothes he’d had on the night before. His eyes were soft and warm and sad. She felt such relief seeing him finally that she let out a little cry.

  “Where is she?” she said, sitting up, wincing at the pain in her bottom. It felt as though someone had taken a baseball bat to her tailbone. The ice the nurse had given her had melted. She was swollen and sore, and she nearly cried out at the pain. “Where is the baby, Ab? Why won’t they left me see her?”

&
nbsp; Ab squeezed her hand, stroked it with his thumb.

  “Gin,” he said and held her hand to his cheek, which was warm and scratchy. Unshaven. He looked as though he hadn’t slept.

  Suddenly, there was a brisk knock at the door and her father-in-law, Abbott Senior, pushed the door open and leaned into the room.

  Startled, she clutched at the thin blanket to cover herself.

  “Hello, Virginia. You look well,” Abbott Senior said to her but nodded at Ab, who squeezed her hand again.

  “Why is he here?” she whispered.

  Ab took a deep breath. “Dad knows the state mental health commissioner personally. He’s a friend from Harvard.” He looked to his father for affirmation, confirmation, something, then turned back to her. Ginny’s skin prickled. His eyes were imploring, but what did he want?

  “He’s found a place for her,” Ab said, nodding.

  Abbott Senior, still standing, tall and somber as always, nodded. “It’s called Willowridge School. Out near where your mother lives, actually. She will be loved and cared for there.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We will care for her. I will care for her.” She shook her head, trying to understand what they were telling her, but the words felt loose, like pearls slipping off a string.

  “Gin . . .” Ab’s chest heaved, squeezing her hand. “The doctor says there could be a problem with her heart. These children, sometimes they don’t live but a couple of years.”

  “This is all a terrible mistake,” she said, yanking her hand from his and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed to get up. Her head felt swimmy and she could still taste the acrid acid of vomit at the back of her throat. “Let’s just go see her. I’ll show you.”

  “Virginia, please,” her father-in-law said, approaching the bed. “Dr. Wells says you need to rest.”

  “I need to go see my baby,” she said to him, bending over to search for her slippers. “Have you been to the nursery?” she asked Ab.

  He closed his eyes, ran his hand through his disheveled hair. “She’s not there.”