The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  Two months had passed without either one of them calling, and as the days passed she realized the extent of her loss. She’d be behind the counter at work and think he was in the store. Her heart would flutter wildly for a moment until she realized it was someone else. How ironic. When she had moved out she hadn’t expected to be the one disappointed.

  She gazed out at the valley again. Joggers, cyclists, and dog walkers dotted the trails. The day hadn’t turned out as she’d planned. Instead of it being an exuberant housewarming party, Marie’s visit had tinged the afternoon with sadness. She thought about phoning Marie’s house and telling the girls she was sorry they hadn’t been able to come. Marie would arrive home and find two angry daughters waiting.

  A more mature response would be to wait until Marie was ready to unburden herself with whatever it was that was bothering her. In all fairness, she could understand Marie’s hesitation in talking about the baby with her. But if she was patient, Marie would come to her. She always did.

  Inside, she finished clearing away the dishes. Then she wiped the table, found a clean sheet of paper, and sat down.

  Dear Ron, she began.

  Another weekend without you. I was just out on my balcony catching the last of the day’s sunshine when I saw a handful of men playing baseball in the field by the old brick school (did you know that was once a home for unwed mothers? It was run by nuns, I think). Of course I thought of you immediately (because of the baseball, not the nuns). I guess you’ll be happy to know that even when you’re not here my thoughts easily turn toward you. Animal magnetism you’d probably say. Right? Grrrrr. But I was thinking about your eye–hand coordination (or lack thereof)! Remember that grounder you stopped with your jaw? I was so happy that you hadn’t lost any teeth because you’ve got a beautiful smile.

  But enough about your good looks. I know I was the one to put an embargo on face-to-face visits, but at this very moment I’m thinking that was a really stupid idea. I deserve a failing grade for that one.

  I miss you, Ron. These months alone have helped me to understand some things. Like how I haven’t appreciated you enough. Like how you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.

  She stopped writing. It was true, wasn’t it? Ron was her best friend. How had she not seen that before?

  I also don’t think you fully understand how crazy I was. I never did tell you about the baby clothes I used to buy and hide all over the house. Mostly they were infant sleepers, clothes so tiny you could hardly believe they’d even fit a baby. They were like the shucked-off shells of beetles that I’d find when I was a kid. Or abandoned turtle shells. I got into the habit of buying them because I thought it might increase my chances of getting pregnant. Even as I write this I feel stupid, but it made sense to me at the time, which just goes to show how crazy I’d become.

  I think it was the terrycloth material that really set me off. I just loved the soft nubby texture of those sleepers. They reminded me of my favourite pair of pyjamas when I was about seven or eight years old—a pair of one-piece purple velour pjs with attached feet. The bottoms of the feet were made out of a slippery white material, and I loved how I could run and slide across the kitchen floor. Finally I grew too tall and my toes started to poke out of the enclosed feet, so I cut them off and had my mom stitch a seam at the bottom of the pantlegs so they wouldn’t unravel. God I loved those pyjamas! When I rubbed the velour one way the purple became light, and when I rubbed it the other way it turned dark. I used to flatten out the material all in one direction and then use it like a chalk board to write things on.

  Those were good days. Maybe by buying the terry­cloth sleepers I was trying to capture some of that happiness for our child, the one we would have together.

  The light had waned in the small apartment. Elizabeth stopped writing and cleared the remaining dishes from the table. She welcomed the coming darkness, for then she could go to bed, place the flat of her hand on the empty pillow beside her, and imagine Ron’s warm body beside her.

  That’s enough for now. I’m going to bed. I really wish you were here.

  Love, your Lizzie

  She reread the letter. Much still needed to be said, but it was a start, wasn’t it? She could write another letter. And another. And maybe if he wrote back, between the two of them, they could remember enough reasons to piece their marriage back together again.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  April arrived with cool spring rains. The squirrels and the blue jays vied for peanuts at the feeder in Marie’s backyard. The robins’ return added a splash of much-needed colour to the branches of the pine trees. Spring cleaning began.

  Marie woke up. The neighbours’ dog began to bark. That was a good omen; the day was starting as any other. Except Barry had taken the day off. He’d risen and showered early. “I can’t sleep anyway,” he’d said. “You might as well stay in bed. I’ll get breakfast for the girls.”

  In less than two hours, a doctor would stick a long needle through her tautly stretched abdomen. A long needle, hollow like a quill, that would gently sip some of her amniotic fluid. Or puncture her like a balloon; there was always that possibility. She tried not to dwell on that part. She pictured a large glass vial slowly filling with bubbling liquid, smoke rising from the experiment, bells ringing, electrical currents running between two conductors, and a hunchbacked man shuffling from one experiment to another, his knuckles hairy and bloated as he reached for a vial. She’d always been afraid of needles. It wasn’t too late to change her mind.

  Barry called for her.

  Dr. Cuthbert had warned that many women experienced cramping after the procedure. She suggested that someone be with her to drive her home.

  “What about the possibility of miscarrying?” Marie had asked, remembering her sister’s ominous words. “How will I know if the cramping is normal or if it’s the beginning of a miscarriage?”

  “Well, let me start by saying that your chances of miscarrying are low,” Dr. Cuthbert reassured her. “However, miscarriages can occur, and they’re most likely to happen in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours. So take it easy for a few days. Put your feet up if you can, and if you find yourself bleeding at all, come in right away to see me.”

  Mis-carry. Such a stupid word. What happened to your baby? Oh, I took my eye off the ball. I fumbled the pass.

  Then she realized that miscarry rhymed with trisomy. Tri-so-me-fall-so-let-me-go.

  Downstairs at last, Marie had a quick cup of decaf and some toast. Then she put Nicole and Sophia’s lunches together.

  “How come you’re driving us to school today?” Sophia asked. “Why isn’t Daddy going to work?”

  “I have a doctor’s appointment,” Marie said.

  “Is Dad going with you?” Nicole asked.

  “Yes, he is. Now come on, let’s get our shoes on.”

  “Why is he going with you?” Nicole persisted.

  Marie looked into her daughter’s face. How mature she looked with her knit brow and her small, pursed lips. She wondered if it was every eldest child’s burden to carry the weight of her parents’ happiness on her shoulders.

  “He’s coming with me because I asked him to.”

  Nicole studied her mother. Her eyes lingered on her abdomen. “Mom?”

  “We have to hurry, Nicole. What is it?”

  “Are you going to have a baby?”

  Marie froze. Not yet, she pleaded. I only need another two weeks. She met her daughter’s eyes and wavered. Then she knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Yes,” she whispered. “I am.”

  Nicole pulled her face away and beamed. “Really?”

  Marie nodded and wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “When?”

  “Not until the end of summer. We’ve got a ways to go yet.”

  Then Nicole’s face clouded. “Why is Daddy going with you to the doctor? Is everything okay?”

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. We are just going to make sure everything’s fine.”

>   Sophia came into the kitchen, ready to put her lunch into her backpack.

  “Guess what, Sophia?” Nicole said. “You get to be a big sister after all! Mom’s going to have a baby!”

  The girls squealed and jumped up and down, surprising Marie with their instant ability to access happiness. She realized how muted everything had been lately.

  “Can I come to the doctor’s office too?” Sophia asked.

  “Not today, honey. Just Mommy and Daddy are going. You need to go to school. Come on, grab your school bag.”

  Barry had pulled the car out into the driveway, and Marie could hear him revving the engine. The sky was a blunt, shark grey, and a light mist was falling. She ushered her children out the front door, their backpacks dragging like stubby tails, then she hurried after them to the car.

  “Daddy, Daddy, we know!” Sophia shouted when she jumped in the car.

  Nicole beamed. “We can’t wait!”

  Barry looked questioningly at Marie, and she shrugged her shoulders to convey her innocence.

  “I knew it,” Nicole said. “I knew Mom was putting on weight, but I wasn’t quite sure about the baby until you said you were going to the doctor’s office. That’s when I guessed.” She was immensely pleased with herself.

  “Can the baby sleep in my room when it’s born?” Sophia asked.

  Nicole’s face suddenly registered horror. “I’m not going to have to share a room with Sophia, am I?”

  “What?” Sophia whined. “Am I going to lose my room? It’s not fair.”

  “Just hold your horses,” Barry said as he backed down the driveway. “One step at a time. Nobody’s going to lose a room, okay?”

  The doctor used ultrasound images to make sure the needle didn’t puncture the baby. That baby didn’t burst, Marie didn’t burst. Afterwards, Barry carefully helped her to the car.

  They buckled up silently. Barry’s hands splayed wide on the steering wheel. Outside of the parkade a light rain misted the windshield.

  “First we wait almost a month for an ultrasound,” Barry said, “and then we wait two months for amnio. And now we’re still waiting.”

  Marie reached out and stroked his cheek lightly. “Hang in there,” she said. “We’re in the home stretch.”

  Barry brought her hand to his lips. “How’re you feeling?”

  “My abdomen’s a bit tight. But the doctor told me to expect that. I think I’ll spend the afternoon in bed until the girls get home. I’m glad they don’t have dance today.”

  “I wish Nicole hadn’t guessed,” Barry said. “What if we don’t get good news? Then what do we tell the girls?”

  “That depends on what we decide,” she replied.

  Barry pulled into their driveway. “Wait there.” He rushed to her side of the car and helped her out.

  Marie stood slowly before stretching to her full height. Barry took her elbow and placed his hand firmly on the small of her back as he directed her up the stairs and into the front door.

  “I’m okay.” Marie laughed. “I’m not going to break.”

  “You can’t be too careful,” he said and placed his palm gently on her abdomen.

  She must have fallen asleep because the doorbell startled her from a dream. She gingerly made her way down the stairs, cradling her pelvis as if she were carrying her daughter’s fishbowl.

  A man stood on the porch holding some wrapped flowers. The rain had turned to a light snow. “Marie MacPherson?”

  “Yes.” She reached for the colourfully wrapped bundle and smiled. She hadn’t expected Barry to be so sweet.

  She carried the flowers to the kitchen and removed a crystal vase from the cupboard over the fridge. Then she unwrapped the paper: a dozen red tulips. Here’s to good news! the card read. Elizabeth.

  Good old Elizabeth.

  She had sent her tulips once before. They were the perfect apology flower, she maintained, because she thought of them as “two lips” meeting in a kiss. Then, she was apologizing for stealing Marie’s boyfriend. Well, not stealing, per se, but the flowers had been a definite peace offering. And the card had repeated Elizabeth’s case: I never dated him when he was with you! Honest!

  Elizabeth knew that tulips were Marie’s favourite flower.

  Marie cut the stems and placed the vase on the table in the front foyer. The flowers were beautiful, especially since the morning rain had turned to snow.

  She opened the front door to check the mail. Across the street, tiny green shoots pushed up through the thin dusting of snow on the neighbours’ lawn. The small poplar trees that lined the block still stood naked. It would be almost another month before they’d be covered in leaf again.

  A robin landed at the base of the pine tree in her neighbours’ yard. It cocked its head and stared briefly with an unblinking eye. She’d read somewhere that a robin’s hearing was so sophisticated it could actually hear worms moving beneath the grass. That’s why it sat so still at times, its head cocked to one side, its ear pointing down to the moist ground—it was listening for the worm’s slow meandering as it tunnelled through the densely packed earth.

  The robin resumed its hunt, hopping on spindly legs toward the leaf mulch at the base of the hedge.

  Marie saw her baby on the screen again, saw its head tilted to the side, and imagined its tightly cupped ears listening, listening to the snow falling.

  TWENTY-SIX

  1963

  Dr. Maclean sat at his desk and stared out the window to the open field. Empty. Always empty. Not even cows or horses to break the monotony or to add some life. The children were never let out to play here, and there was never any laughter.

  And given the situation with Carolyn, Dr. Maclean now understood that there was an uglier side to Poplar Grove than even he could have imagined. He saw dark, secret tunnels winding far below the building’s surface and shadows that darted furtively in and out of hidden doorways. He imagined his own babies at home, safe with his wife, who would meet with her friends and their children in neighbourhood parks to pass the time and allow the children to play.

  How long could he stay here now that the faults of Poplar Grove were so glaring? He couldn’t possibly defend the place against Mrs. Harrington’s rage because he shared her convictions that something awful had happened here. Carolyn had not been cared for, despite her still being alive. She had beaten the odds and stayed alive, and look where it had gotten her.

  The doctor raised a hand to his mouth and began to gnaw at his finger­tips. He had just started to bite his nails again. It was a habit his wife despised, yet he took great comfort in manually paring down the nails. Such a personal act it was. He’d never seen someone bite someone else’s nails to the quick.

  It was still early, but he stood up and stared out the window. The asylum bus would arrive just after lunch. Perhaps Mrs. Harrington would be on it. Perhaps this day would bring an answer to the baby’s future. Dr. Maclean could not explain his anxiety at keeping the infant at Poplar Grove. She was healthy and whole. She couldn’t possibly thrive here. And that glaring recognition caused him to extrapolate the condition of care to all of the inhabitants. No one could thrive here. Poplar Grove was a dead zone, a place where humans struggled to live while those around them hoped they would die. How could any parent or relative suffer anything but despair at visiting a child here?

  And to think that he was one of the people who apparently condoned this treatment. Carolyn’s pregnancy exposed the darkest side of human nature: the predatory desire to prey on weakness. Had she been raped? Could it possibly have been consensual? And if not, who else under his charge might have suffered similar indignities?

  His mouth moved to the next finger, and he chewed firmly to strip away the nail tips.

  Shortly after eleven o’clock, the front desk receptionist brought in a stack of mail. On the top of the pile was a letter in an unfamiliar script. He reached for it immediately and read the return address. Mrs. Donald Harrington. He pounded his fist on the desk. She w
asn’t going to come! He’d sent the letter five days ago and was expecting her to visit any time now. Instantly, he knew he’d made a grave error. Why hadn’t he looked up her address and visited in person? He could have told her about the child and reassured her that the baby appeared to be perfectly fine. He wanted to get the child out of this place. Get it someplace where she would receive love and attention. He’d offered to take the child home, but the board members had voted against it. He ripped open the letter and began to read.

  July 15, 1963

  Dear Dr. Maclean,

  Thank you for your letter dated July 12. I appreciate your desire to keep me informed, and I truly believe that you have the infant’s best interest at heart. I am both moved and reassured by your genuine display of kindness and I want to take this opportunity to thank you.

  However, I cannot impress upon you the emotional pain I’ve experienced by placing a mongoloid child in an institution. For the past dozen years I have visited faithfully to alleviate the guilt I suffered in leaving my baby to be raised by strangers even though every instinct in my body told me to bring her home. Over and again I was told it was the best thing for her, that she would be taken care of, and more of the same such nonsense. I see now that nothing could be further from the truth. I also see now that people like Carolyn are at the mercy of predators and are defenceless against them. Where there should be good stewardship, there is cunning deceit. I am alone in knowing that I could not protect my daughter from life’s cruel humiliations. I agreed to put her in Poplar Grove to lock her away from the brutal workings of a society in which she has no place; instead, I inadvertently left her to the lions. Indeed, by the time it occurred to me that she required protection it was too late.

  You may have noticed that I have not visited Carolyn since discovering she was pregnant. Likely you think me an unmoving, judgmental, and unforgiving woman, but you would be incorrect in this assessment. There are more details to this situation than you can begin to imagine, and it is too late for me to rectify the past. Consequently, I must continue to focus on the present and the future of my immediate family. It pains me to confess that my husband believes Carolyn to be deceased and my children do not know of her existence. While this now seems like a grave omission, I cannot rewrite our family history. Or, rather, I will not.