Keeping Lucy (ARC)

by T. Greenwood

  Inside, she followed Penny down a hallway, through an empty reception area, and on to a shorter hallway, studying the crooked seam at the back of the woman’s hose.

  “That’s the nursery,” Penny said, gesturing to a room to the left with at least a half dozen rows of cribs, inside which twenty or so infants appeared to be in varying states of distress. The walls practically reverberated with the sound of their crying. Inside the nursery, she saw a solitary nurse in her whites, sitting in a rocking chair, feeding the bundle in her arms.

  Ginny’s breasts tingled with heat, and her arms flew reflexively to her chest, pressing against them. The shock of her body’s response surprised her. When she pulled her arms away, she could feel her blouse was wet with milk beneath her jacket. Her milk had dried up nearly two years ago; the doctor had given her medication to trick her body into believing there had been no baby. But biology was clearly stronger than any chemical deception, even after all this time.

  Ginny felt her stomach turning. Her daughter was here? Somewhere in this strange steerage of human infancy?

  “Where is she?” Ginny asked. She didn’t know where to fix her gaze, her eyes searching desperately for the child she’d only seen once, only held for a few moments.

  “Oh, no,” Penny said, clucking her tongue. “She’s with the older children. Follow me.”

  They passed through another set of doors to a long hallway, which ended at another empty waiting area: a vacant reception desk, a battered brown couch, and a sign hanging crookedly on the wall saying that visitors were not allowed beyond this point. The black-and-white linoleum floor was filthy and scratched, and the smell was oppressive. Like rotten meat. Like excrement.

  “Oh, dear,” Ginny said, her eyes stinging.

  “No real ventilation’s the problem; can’t open the windows. You’ll be surprised how fast you get used to it, though,” Penny said. “Stay here. I’ll go get her.”

  Penny disappeared through the swinging door. Ginny heard her footsteps grow fainter and fainter on the other side. She looked around the small room. Glanced out the barred window. Eight hundred residents lived at Willowridge, but there was still not a soul outside. She wondered if she should sit and wait or continue standing. She opted to sit, hoping to quiet her trembling knees.

  When she heard a piercing scream, she startled. When it came again, she jumped to her feet and looked around the empty room, feeling helpless. It was not the sound of an infant this time, but a child.

  She went to the door, peering through the round smudged glass window: a porthole. A portal. The light behind her reflected brightly in the glass, so she cupped her hands around her eyes, though she still couldn’t see much but a corridor on the other side.

  At the next howl, she pushed the door open gently; peering behind her to make sure no one would see her trespass.

  The hallway was long, with closed doors lining each side. Nervously, she began to walk slowly down the corridor, noting that each door was secured shut with a padlock. The walls were filthy, and the smell was pervasive. She covered her mouth and nose with her hand, her eyes burning.

  This time the cry sounded animalistic, primal. Her steps quickened. Her wooden Dr. Scholl’s sandals echoed loudly against the tile. She didn’t know where she was going or what she would do when she got there, but her body moved forward despite any reservations she had.

  Finally, near the end of the corridor, she saw an open door. Quietly, she walked toward it and placed her hand on the jamb to steady herself. It was a bathroom, likely the origin of that smell. But instead of stalls, there was a line of ten toilets next to each other. Just as she’d seen in the newspaper. At the farthest commode was a little girl, kneeling on the floor, howling.

  At first, she thought the girl might be sick. She began to move toward her, to offer help, but then she realized the child wasn’t vomiting, rather scooping the water from the toilet and drinking it in her cupped hand. Crying all the while.

  Ginny stumbled backward, her breath catching. Regaining her composure, she stepped slowly toward the girl.

  “Hello there,” she said, her own voice sounding strange to her.

  The girl looked up from the bowl, her eyes wild and scared. She was emaciated, her milky eyes bulging with fear. She was all angles, elbows jutting out, hips and knees bent sharply.

  Despite her good sense telling her not to, Ginny went and squatted down next to her on the grimy floor.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” she said. “Are you thirsty?”

  The girl looked at her, her eyes unfocused.

  “I can get some water for you,” Ginny said softly. “I can find someone to get you something to drink.” She reached out and gently touched the girl’s shoulder, but when she did, the girl fell backward onto her bottom and scurried away from her, pushing herself backward into the corner.

  “I’m sorry,” Ginny said, her heart tolling in her chest. “I’m sorry.”

  Ginny scrambled to her feet and hurried back to the door, peering out into the desolate hallway, unsure if she should leave the child here or try to get her to come with her. But to where? Penny had said that there was only one attendant on duty. Maybe the nurse in the nursery? But no, she was the only nurse in charge of all those babies. She wouldn’t be able to leave her station.

  She needed to find Penny. She raced down the hallway, nearly running into a young man who was exiting one of the rooms. He was tall and thin, with a thick beard and thick glasses, an intense gaze behind them.

  “Ma’am?” he said.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, her heart pressed against her racing heart. “There’s a girl—”

  “You’re not supposed to be back here,” he interrupted. “This area’s for staff and residents only. Didn’t you see the signs?”

  “I just, I heard someone crying . . . there’s a girl . . . in the powder room,” she started but the ridiculousness of the term struck her like a punch. She gestured down the hallway from where she’d come and then turned back to him.

  Behind him, at the far end of the corridor, she saw the dark silhouette of a woman, carrying something.

  “You need to go back to the waiting area,” the man said, reaching for her elbow. His bony fingers dug into her skin.

  “Excuse me!” she said, her voice tight and high. She yanked her arm away and she began to walk briskly toward the woman. Perhaps she could help.

  It took a moment for it to register that this was Penny. And the shadow she was holding was Lucy.

  Ginny couldn’t move. While her body had brought her here, now it seemed rooted in place. She was unable to even lift her arms from her sides.

  “Mrs. Richardson, what are you doing back here?” Penny said, smiling but stern, as she approached.

  “I told her,” the man said and then scolded her again. “Visitors aren’t allowed back here.”

  “It’s okay, Robert,” she said. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Robert scowled.

  “Go on,” Penny said, and he finally disappeared back into the room from which he’d emerged.

  Ginny couldn’t take her eyes off the child, the two-year-old little girl, clinging to Penny, her face pressed against Penny’s chest, her small body trembling.

  “Lucy,” Penny said sternly. “This is your mother. She’s going to take you for a visit today.”

  The little girl, face still turned, shook her head.

  “Come on, now,” she said, pulling her gently but firmly away from her body. “Be a good girl.” Lucy cautiously turned to look at Ginny.

  Of course, Ginny knew her. How could she forget this child’s face? She would have been able to pick her out of a crowd of a million little girls; of this she was certain. Her hair was a mop of golden ringlets. Ginny ironed her own curls straight now, but when she was a little girl, she too had a lion’s mane. Lucy’s forehead was broad, and her eyes wide set and almond shaped, of course, like all children with Down syndrome, but they were also the most beautiful amber, her eyel
ashes long and dark. The dimples in her round cheeks belonged to Ab. Her tongue protruded slightly through Cupid’s-bow lips.

  “Hi, Lucy,” Ginny said softly, her body flush with warmth. “Would you like to come with me on a visit?”

  Lucy tilted her head curiously.

  “She doesn’t talk,” Penny said.

  “Oh?” Ginny said, peering up at Penny. Then she looked back down at Lucy and smiled. “Well, that is just fine. You don’t need to say a word if you don’t want to.”

  “Okay,” Penny said. “We should be getting back. I don’t like to leave my desk unattended for long. Here you go,” she said and started to pass Lucy to Ginny. Lucy let out a little cry.

  “It’s okay,” Ginny said, the words struggling past the lump in her throat. She put her hands under Lucy’s arms, lifting her. Lucy’s body stiffened reflexively, resisting Ginny’s touch. But once she had her securely on her hip, Lucy’s tiny hands clung to Ginny’s neck, her legs circling her desperately.

  Ginny was surprised by how heavy she was. She hadn’t carried Peyton for at least a year, but her body remembered this delicious burden.

  “May I?” Ginny asked, her voice cracking. “May I take her now?”

  “You’ll need to sign her out in the main office. But yes,” Penny said.

  “Is there anything I need to know?” Ginny asked. “About her health issues?”

  Penny looked confused.

  “Her heart, I understand there is a defect?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Again, she looked at Ginny blankly.

  Confused, Ginny started to ask if maybe they should consult with the school’s doctor before she took her, but just as she was about to suggest this, they walked past the bathroom, the little girl still sitting in the corner. She had her bony knees to her chest now and was rocking back and forth.

  “There,” Ginny whispered to Penny. “That’s the child I was concerned about. She was drinking . . . from the toilet. Should you let someone know?”

  “Oh, that’s Miriam. She’s fine. She’s just being difficult.”

  “Oh,” Ginny said, feeling sick. “Does anyone know where she is?”

  “Of course. Robert knows; he’s on duty,” Penny snapped. “Come on now.”

  Ginny signed the logbook in the administration building, and though Penny searched through Lucy’s admission file, she couldn’t find anything regarding a heart defect. As far as Ginny could tell, Lucy might be a little delayed physically and developmentally, but she didn’t appear sick. Could this have been a mistake?

  “Remember, you’ll need to have her back Monday by five o’clock,” the woman said. “Enjoy your holiday weekend.”

  Marsha was still parked in front of the main administration building when Ginny emerged, holding Lucy in her arms. Lucy sucked in her breath and shivered as the breeze blew through the air. Ginny wondered how often the children were allowed outside; Lucy’s skin was pale, almost translucent, as if it had never seen the sun.

  Marsha’s window was down, and she was smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled up into the air. Ginny could see Peyton in the backseat, his face pressed to the glass, studying them. Marsha put out her cigarette and leaned out the open window, waving.

  Lucy dug her fingers into Ginny’s neck as she began to descend the steps.

  “I won’t let go,” she said, and as she made her way slowly down the stairs so as not to scare Lucy, she felt tears on her cheeks. “I promise, I won’t let you go.”

  Eight

  September 1971

  Lucy was afraid to get in the car. Ginny tried, at first, to put her in the backseat next to Peyton, but she only clung harder to Ginny. Her eyes filled with terror, and she wouldn’t let go of Ginny’s neck.

  Peyton looked aghast at Ginny, as if she were trying to put a wild animal in the backseat with him. Ginny had a momentary flash of anger and indignation. This is your sister, she thought. Your flesh and blood. But then she chastised herself. He was six years old, and he had never seen this other child before. Never laid eyes on her—sister or not.

  “It’s okay. Just hold her on your lap up front,” Marsha said.

  Ginny nodded and circled around to the passenger’s side, slowly lowering herself into the seat with Lucy still clinging to her. Lucy buried her face into Ginny’s neck and trembled. They had Peyton’s old safety seat in the garage at home, but the Dart only had seat belts. She supposed it would be okay if she just adjusted the seat belt across them both.

  “Well, where should we go?” Marsha asked brightly, as if this were any other weekend outing.

  Ginny shook her head, attempting to shake away what she had just experienced inside that dormitory. The smell, the keening, that poor child drinking from a filthy commode.

  “Away,” she said, shaking her head rapidly as tears burned trails down her cheeks. “Just away from here.”

  Marsha nodded and put the car in gear. Lucy startled a bit when the engine came to life, and clung to Ginny, but she turned her head and her eyes widened in both fear and wonder as they rolled down the long driveway. And soon her body began to relax, and Ginny pressed her tightly against herself.

  They drove quietly, no one saying a word, not even Peyton, who was generally a real chatterbox. Like Ab, he was almost always effusive. Boisterous. He was a child so full of life and wonder, but now he sat quietly in the backseat, staring out the window. Marsha looked up at the rearview mirror.

  “How about Mountain Park, Pey?” Marsha asked.

  “We haven’t taken him there yet,” Ginny said, turning to look back at him. “Would you like to go to a special park?”

  Peyton nodded, but then leaned his head against the window again.

  The back of Ginny’s throat ached. He’ll be okay, she assured herself. Though maybe she should have dropped him off at her mother’s instead of bringing him here. Of course, this would be confusing. A shock even. Why hadn’t she thought this through? He was just a little boy; how could she expect him to process any of this, when she herself hardly knew what to feel, what to say, what to do?

  “Mind if I put on some music?” Marsha asked.

  “Please,” Ginny said, suddenly desperate to fill that silent void.

  Marsha reached for the radio knob and turned it on. “Joy to the World,” which had been playing nonstop all summer, came on the radio, and Ginny turned around to see Peyton smile a little. Ab had taught Peyton all the words to this song; Ab made fishy faces and swimmy hands and danced around the living room, Peyton mimicking behind him.

  “Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea,” Marsha sang, reaching behind her and tickling Peyton’s feet.

  Peyton was clearly resisting the urge to sing along. Ginny looked back at him and made fishy lips, and his mouth twitched as he tried not to smile.

  Marsha wiggled in her seat, shoulders jumping up and down with the music. She pulled the visor down to shield her eyes from the bright sun ahead, and then looked over at Ginny.

  Lucy had sat up and was pressing her palms to her ears, but she didn’t seem upset. Slowly, she lowered her hands and leaned forward a little, pushing her chubby palm against the speaker, as though trying to touch the music. Her breath quickened and she squealed. The sharp sound of her voice startled Ginny, but Lucy was smiling. Smiling and squealing, wriggling in Ginny’s lap now.

  “Oh! Turn it up!” Ginny said, and Marsha reached for the knob again, but the song had ended and the DJ came on hocking mattresses. Lucy scowled.

  “It’s okay,” Ginny said. “There’ll be another song in a minute.”

  Sure enough, when the commercial ended, James Taylor came on, singing “You’ve Got a Friend,” but now Lucy’s mood shifted. As he sang those sweet sorrowful notes, promising that no matter the season, all you had to do was call his name and he’d come running to see you, Lucy started to cry. Was it the words? Or was it just the soft, gentle music? She didn’t look sad, so much as moved. Had she ever even heard music before? Ginny knew there had
been no lullabies for Lucy. No one singing to her.

  Ab and Ginny’s house was always filled with music. All kinds of music. The Rolling Stones and Bach. Folk music and rock music and jazz. Ab had a zillion albums; there was always something on the hi-fi. Ab liked to sweep Ginny up off her feet and dance her around the living room. Once, when they’d tripped, he’d joked that this must be where the expression “cutting a rug” came from. They’d made sure that Peyton had toy instruments: drums and tambourines and a maraca. He liked to shimmy and shake along with them. Ginny never felt quite as happy as she did in those moments when her whole family was sharing a song. Ab wanted Peyton to take piano lessons as soon as he started school.

  School. Peyton was starting first grade in just a few days.

  Ginny clutched Lucy tightly and whispered the lyrics into her hair, “Winter, spring, summer, or fall . . .” and soon she’d stopped crying. And then her body became heavy in Ginny’s lap. She was asleep.

  Marsha clicked the radio off. She reached over and tucked a stray strand of Ginny’s hair behind her ear. Her face was filled with concern. “You okay?” she asked, and Ginny nodded, though her heart felt cleaved.

  Nine

  January 1964

  Dance with me, Ab had said, reaching for Ginny’s hands and pulling her up the stairs of the old Summit House onto the wraparound porch.

  It was late January, snowless but cold. He’d just gotten back to campus after winter break, and he’d driven her to the top of Mount Holyoke, parked under the stars. During the day, the view was of the mountains and valleys below, the winding Connecticut River snaking between them. But tonight, there was nothing but inky darkness stippled with light.

  He’d left the keys in the ignition and tuned in to a local station. He told Ginny that his mother, Sylvia, in her younger days, had been a singer. Before she met Abbott Senior, she’d left her small town in Vermont and moved to New York, where she sang with the house band at Nick’s Tavern in Greenwich Village before a brief stint on Broadway in Much Ado About Nothing. But then she’d met Abbott Senior, gotten married, and had his brother Paul and him in quick succession. Now she only sang with the church choir.