The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  When she was finished, Elizabeth walked to the balcony and looked at the night traffic coming into the city from the south, looking for a particular set of headlights cutting through the darkness. She glanced at the river’s dark shadow. In another month it would be ice-free and flowing with spring runoff. But for now ice pans drifted silently down the middle of the river, the northern version of lily pads, while the banks remained hidden by ice. People could be like that too, she thought. They could suddenly expose a part of themselves you’d never known about, or reveal plans that surprised you. Elizabeth had certainly done that to Ron, many times. “Will you come with me?” she remembered asking him when their fertility doctor suggested they go to group counselling. Ron hadn’t been interested. He said counselling was for people who had problems in their lives, and, aside from not being able to have kids, they didn’t have any problems. But Elizabeth had persisted. So he went with her. For support, he said. As it turned out, he seemed to get more from the sessions than she did.

  That first night, the counsellor separated the men and women into two groups. Ron had arched his eyebrows cynically when he marched away with the other men. Afterwards, however, he talked with some relief about what they’d shared.

  “Give me PMS any day,” a sandy-haired man in his early forties had joked. “That’s nothing compared to the mood swings from the drugs my wife is on.”

  “I hear ya,” another man had added. “There should be safe houses out there for men whose wives are on fertility drugs.”

  Ron told her he’d laughed along with them, surprised that he wasn’t the only one caught in some bizarre cycle of emotions. Listening to the others, he said he felt as if he’d been walking around for years with his belt too tight and had suddenly been given permission to loosen it and breathe. He’d been all smiles and full of jokes when the evening ended.

  “Did you exchange phone numbers?” Elizabeth had asked sarcastically because her session hadn’t made her feel any better at all.

  In fact, she’d come away emotionally drained, the skin around her nose and eyes sensitive because of all the tissue she’d gone through. Again.

  She was supposed to be working on acceptance. She was supposed to learn to let go, to move on, to forgive herself.

  The buzzer rang.

  Ron was in the elevator, coming to her apartment.

  Then she was welcoming him inside, kissing him shyly on his whiskered cheek, and giving him a tour.

  Elizabeth could not stop the foolish happiness she felt in his presence. In the kitchen she poured them both a glass of wine. He stood behind her, his body like a second skin that had lifted off. He didn’t touch her but her flesh tingled as if he had lighted on every surface.

  And finally, the familiarity of his lips. His hands drawing every note from her body. Too long. It had been far too long.

  In the morning Elizabeth’s feet padded soundlessly over the plush carpet to the kitchen. She pulled some eggs, cheese, green onions, a red pepper, and some broccoli from the fridge and began preparing an omelette. The eggs cracked neatly against the sharp metal edge of the mixing bowl. She inserted her thumbs into the thin shells and spread them open. Dark yellow yolks hovered for a moment, and then dropped intact. She whisked them into a frothy foam and cut some vegetables. Then she sliced a thick piece of butter from the block and watched it sizzle in the frying pan before pouring the egg mixture in.

  A few minutes later, Ron came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She turned and kissed him, taking her time, enjoying the feel of his body against her. “I’ve worked up an appetite.” She grinned.

  Ron loosened the sash on her robe and slid his hands inside.

  “Mmm. Smells good.”

  The noonday sun shone in the balcony doors. A thick shaft of yellow light fell across the living room floor.

  They ate quickly and in silence, scraping their plates clean and pouring fresh coffees to take with them to the couch. Elizabeth pressed her back into Ron’s chest. His chin rested lightly on her head. They sat in silence for a few moments, comfortable in each other’s presence. A car alarm went off on the street below, high-pitched as a siren. The sound reverberated off the building and echoed down the valley.

  Elizabeth twisted her wedding ring on her finger. “I don’t even want to think about trying to get pregnant,” she said, suddenly serious. “If it happens, it happens. But no more trying, okay? I’m done with any more disappointment.”

  Dust danced in the sun’s shaft. The thick hairs on Ron’s arm glowed in the light. A door slammed in the hallway and Elizabeth heard laughter. It sounded fresh and optimistic.

  “When are you coming home?” Ron asked.

  The world opened up. She could be happy; they could be happy. Just as they were now. Ron stroked the side of her cheek. She leaned her face into his warm palm. She didn’t need anything else.

  Her mind wandered. She tried to tune in, to see where it had gone. A thought circled about as if on a carousel, becoming louder at times and then dropping to a whisper before gaining volume again. She strained to hear what the familiar voice was saying. Try again, it said. Maybe this time will be different.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. Would it never go away? She wiped the tear away before Ron could notice. Then she slipped from his grasp and stared outside at the valley.

  “What are you thinking?” Ron asked.

  “I’m thinking it’s such a beautiful day we should go for a walk.” She turned back toward the couch and smiled.

  “I’m thinking I should help you start packing,” he said.

  He stood and opened his arms, and Elizabeth walked directly into them.

  THIRTY

  MARCH 12, 1967

  This morning, Carolyn Harrington died of cardio-respiratory complications, four months shy of her twentieth birthday. As is the custom at Poplar Grove, her body will be buried in the graveyard on the grounds.

  The time of death is estimated at 3:30 AM. The nurse doing the morning rounds discovered Carolyn in her bed at 7:00 AM, curled into the fetal position. Her body was removed and an autopsy was performed.

  Had I known her time was so near, I would have held a vigil by her bedside so she would not have died alone. I could have told her that she’d brought love into the world. I could have told her that her daughter, now four years old, is a vivacious and precocious child who was adopted by loving parents and who will live freely in the world from which she herself had been barred.

  I could have told her many things, but beyond an intuitive knowledge that she was safe with me, she would not have understood. Carolyn never acquired speech.

  So I am deeply grieved that I was never able to convey my gratitude to Carolyn. Had our paths not crossed, my vision would never have been elevated above the metal grate of the most pedestrian curb. Had she not produced a “normal” child, I’m not convinced the stark contrast of her own existence would have been so tragically apparent. To the unseeing, her life was better lived in hiding. To me, her life was larger than most.

  Dr. Maclean wiped his eyes and closed the notebook. He heard his own ragged breath in the quiet room and sought a course of action. A door slammed down the hallway. He heard the intermittent drip of a leaking faucet at his sink.

  Out in the wild expanse of fields, unnoticed, the snow very slowly softened. And in the white expanse the poplar’s bark was darkened by the winter melt.

  In his office, Dr. Maclean heard the sound of geese flying overhead in the late afternoon sky, and suddenly the unhappiness of Poplar Grove was a burden too great for him to handle.

  And with this realization came a sudden clarity: Carolyn had held him here, but now his ties to Poplar Grove could be severed. Electrified by this buoyant sense of freedom and possibility, he signed Carolyn’s death certificate and put it in his out box.

  Then he pulled a blank piece of paper out of his desk drawer and began to write.

  March 12, 1967

  Dear Mrs. Harrington,

&
nbsp; It is with profound sadness that I inform you that your daughter, Carolyn, died this morning of cardio-respiratory complications. Simply put, her already compromised heart was further damaged by her pregnancy. I hope you find some solace, however, in knowing that she appears to have died peacefully in her sleep. As is the custom here, she will be buried in the graveyard on the grounds. I myself will see to the details.

  I am deeply grieved that we never had the opportunity to discuss Carolyn’s case further after the discovery of her condition. I blame myself, in part, for not trying harder to convey the particulars of the case to you. However, as promised, the infant was adopted into a good home, and I continue to follow her progress. She is a four-year-old bundle of enthusiasm and joy, and she has brought much happiness to her adoptive parents.

  I shall be leaving Poplar Grove in a short time to embark on a new field of inquiry dealing with Down syndrome, an interest ignited by the role your daughter has played in my medical journey.

  Should you wish to contact me, I am sure that all mail will be forwarded to my next address.

  Respectfully yours,

  Dr. Michael Maclean

  He signed the letter, slid it into an envelope, and licked the back flap. Then he found Carolyn’s file and wrote Mrs. Harrington’s address on the front. Adrenalin flooded his body. Finally he was taking some kind of action and focusing on work that would make him feel proud of his efforts. He put the letter on top of the signed death certificate in his out box, picked up his coat, and left his office. Although it was not yet officially spring, the sun’s rays reflected a gentle heat. Dr. Maclean raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. A red canvas appeared behind his closed lids, and on it he saw a map of his future begin to take shape.

  The next day he hand-delivered his resignation to Dr. Stallworthy, whose private practice was in Glenora, one of the wealthier neighbourhoods in Edmonton. His reception area was lavishly furnished. A large saltwater fish tank was inset into one wall. Dr. Maclean walked over and gazed at the impressive display of vibrantly coloured fish inside—black angelfish, yellow and orange fish with stripes and antennae and bulging eyes. It was both marvellous and sad to watch them swim around and around with no hope of travelling any great distance. What was it, he wondered, that made humans want to capture and cage creatures for display?

  After a short time he was escorted into Dr. Stallworthy’s office and waited for what felt like hours. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made an appointment, he thought with irritation as he glanced at his watch, eager to be done here. He just wanted the visit to be over. Dr. Stallworthy wasn’t his favourite person to deal with. He was too . . . what? Condescending? Arrogant?

  The door opened and Dr. Stallworthy entered, drying his hands on a cloth towel that he dumped into a canvas laundry bag beside the door.

  “Dr. Maclean!” he said cheerfully, reaching out a meaty hand to shake. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  His hand was cold and damp. Dr. Maclean resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants. Instead, he held out an envelope. “I’ve come to give you this,” he said.

  Dr. Stallworthy took the envelope and put on his reading glasses to see the letter inside. He read quietly to himself, at one point almost snorting with derision. Then he put the letter back into the envelope, removed his glasses, and rested his hands over his girth. “May I ask why now?”

  “It’s been four years, sir,” he replied. “I received my appointment right out of medical school and was unsure at that time if this was a field of work I’d be interested in.”

  “And you’ve found it’s not to your liking?”

  “On the contrary, sir, I’ve found it to be eye-opening, to say the least.”

  “But your resignation suggests . . .”

  Dr. Maclean cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. “I’m not convinced, sir, that housing hundreds of mental defectives in the same place is good for them or for their families. After all, it’s not as if their conditions are contagious. There is no medical emergency that requires them to be so segregated from society.”

  Dr. Stallworthy smiled thinly. He wasn’t an old man, maybe just forty-five or so, but he carried himself with a false aplomb as if he were holding court to conduct business that was somehow beneath him. “I see,” he said, nodding. “A Liberal, eh? Gone to the other side, have you? You think Johnny and Susie drooling on the front lawns of suburbia would be an improvement? Shall we send some home with you? I’m sure your neighbours would be thrilled. Or how about we enrol them at your son’s local school?”

  “With all due respect, sir,” he replied, “given your position on the board, I’d have expected a more charitable view. When was the last time you visited Poplar Grove?”

  Dr. Stallworthy cast his eyes up, as if scanning the insides of his brain. Then he carefully examined his cuticles, taking the time to polish the diamond ring on his wedding finger.

  “I’m there five days a week,” Dr. Maclean continued. “I see how the place works, or doesn’t work, almost every day. Most dogs are treated better than the people inside.”

  “I’ve never particularly liked dogs,” Dr. Stallworthy replied dismissively.

  Another nail in your coffin, Dr. Maclean thought. “This might be news to you,” he continued, “but the stench and filth you likely have witnessed isn’t an aberration. It’s a chronic condition.” He went on, asking if the board was aware that one poorly trained orderly at Poplar Grove was responsible for upward of twenty to thirty patients. He spoke about patients who couldn’t feed themselves having feeding tubes inserted simply because there weren’t enough capable bodies on hand to spend the twenty minutes it would take to get food into their mouths. Overworked orderlies produced cruel attendants, and cruel attendants took it out on the most defenceless. He’d seen enough. Didn’t he remember what happened to Carolyn Harrington? Poplar Grove didn’t care for people; it warehoused them.

  “Are you finished yet?” Dr. Stallworthy said.

  He nodded, breathless and weak.

  Dr. Stallworthy gave a patronizing smile. “How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty-two.”

  His lips drew back disdainfully as he continued. “And already you can see a better way of doing things?”

  “A different way, yes.” And he outlined the exciting new ideas for transitioning patients into group homes. When Dr. Stallworthy remained silent, he hurried on to describe the radical notion of allowing babies born with Down syndrome to be raised within their own families. Times were changing, he insisted, and there was a growing debate among doctors, social workers, and families that questioned the logic of automatic institutionalization of mongoloids. Of particular interest to him was an article by a New York doctor who had conducted a study comparing the development of children with Down syndrome who were reared in the home with those reared in institutions. His findings had been more than convincing—all those who were raised at home had higher mental and social ages than those in the out-of-home group. It seemed so obvious, yet the study and ideas of possible integration were met with much resistance.

  “A new way of thinking won’t happen overnight,” he continued. “I know that. But it will happen. Not just for the children born with Down syndrome, but other conditions as well.” He wasn’t even sure that all the patients in Poplar Grove actually belonged there. Twisted bodies didn’t necessarily mean deficient minds. In his four years of residency, he’d seen at least a dozen patients who’d appeared to be housed there for no other reason than someone had put them there when they were children.

  Dr. Stallworthy’s eyes had glazed over long before he finished talking. “There is no need to continue,” he finally interrupted. “I accept your resignation, and I’m sure the rest of the board will agree. If I remember correctly,” he went on, “when we hired you we weren’t looking for a visionary.”

  “No, that wasn’t in my job description, but I’ll take your observations as a compliment,” Dr. Maclean sa
id.

  He reached for his hat and overcoat and felt his chest swell with happiness and pride. It had been a long time since he had felt so good.

  THIRTY-ONE

  2002

  It happened something like this: the day finally arrived when Marie’s results would come back from the lab. Dr. Cuthbert said she’d phone right after lunch with the news. Barry came home early from work. The phone rang. Marie gave the phone to her husband, holding it out as if it was something dead.

  That’s what she remembered. Not that the baby did a slow roll inside her and her stomach lifted to accommodate the movement. Not that she’d put too much salt in the soup. Not that the poplar trees outside her front window had large waxen leaves curled into their bud-like shells, just waiting to bloom. Not that the daffodils on the kitchen table were orbs of bright yellow light.

  And then somehow she was in the car and in the last moments of not knowing, of still being able to convince herself that everything might be okay. For despite her foreboding and the darkness and uncertainty it had wrapped her days in, she still believed, at the core of her being, that she might have imagined it all. It was funny, really, how the mind could entertain two such drastic thoughts simultaneously—There is something wrong with the baby and Everything will be okay.

  They took the elevator to the sixth floor. The receptionist led them directly to Dr. Cuthbert’s personal office.

  “She’ll be right with you,” the receptionist said, and Marie stared hard into her face to catch a glimpse of their future, but she found nothing to remark upon. She sat down and reached for Barry’s hand again and gave it a tight squeeze.

  A moment later Dr. Cuthbert walked briskly into the room, her stethoscope swinging at her chest. “Thanks for coming in so promptly,” she said and reached across her desk for a file. Opening it, she stared at the information inside before slowly raising her eyes to look directly at Marie. “The tests results came in this morning.” She folded her hands onto her desk. “I’m sorry to say that the baby has Down syndrome.”