The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  Small hands caressed her face. Marie gasped for air. Nicole and Sophia stood over her, smiling. “We’re home, Mom,” they chanted in unison. “We’re home.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Across town on that Thursday afternoon, Elizabeth stood in her flower shop in a heightened state of expectation. Every time a customer came in, her eyes darted to the door, hoping it would be Marie.

  Two days had passed. Surely Marie and Barry had had time to talk things through. And now that Marie had Dr. Maclean’s phone number, she’d be able to talk with him and possibly be reassured.

  Elizabeth pulled her hair into a bun so that the stray pieces wouldn’t distract her. The glass door swung open, the little brass bell jingled, customers streamed in and out. The day was the same as any other except she was the daughter of a mother with Down syndrome, waiting to see if she’d soon become the mother of a daughter with Down syndrome. When would Marie stroll in, her thick hair tucked behind her ears, her swollen belly arriving just slightly ahead of the rest of her?

  Elizabeth was not sure how long the silence could go on. It seemed ludicrous that she and Marie should eat their meals and go about their days in separate spaces without actually speaking.

  The phone rang. Elizabeth raced to the counter and tried not to let her disappointment be obvious in her voice. It was just another customer requesting flowers. She was breathless and tried to calm herself. A pang of hunger radiated outward from her stomach. She hadn’t eaten breakfast. She’d felt too queasy. For Ron’s sake she’d tried to nibble on a piece of toast, but her body hadn’t been interested. She’d almost been ill watching Ron dip his toast into the runny yolk of an egg.

  She’d been thinking about names for the baby and, given the nature of its predicament, two names had sprung to mind immediately—Faith and Hope. She said the names quietly to herself, marvelling how each one required a different movement from the tongue and lips. Faith. A deep exhalation of breath to form the F. All she needed was faith. Maybe she would have Faith in the end. Faith . . . She closed her eyes and saw little pink sleepers, tiny socks and shoes, soothers, and stacks of flannel receiving blankets.

  Hope. Air pushed from her lungs for the H; her mouth formed an O, then her lips closed tightly and popped open to form the P. Hope.

  The door to the flower shop jingled open. A middle-aged woman entered and headed straight for the cooler with the expensive flower arrangements. She was an attractive woman who looked well taken care of, as if she had enjoyed a facial every week of her adult life.

  “Can I help you find something?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes. Roses. I’d like a dozen roses, please.”

  “Certainly. Any colours in particular?”

  “My mother’s always been a fan of red,” she replied. “But I’m partial to yellow. So perhaps just a mix of yellow and red. How about half and half?”

  Elizabeth nodded and began pulling roses from their oversized vases in the cooler.

  “Do you need them double-wrapped?”

  “That would be good, yes,” the woman replied. “I’m just going across the street to the hospital, but even so, it is a bit windy outside.”

  Elizabeth took the woman’s credit card. Dr. Rebecca Harrington. Rebecca; that name had come up before. And she was buying roses.

  “Are you from Montreal by any chance?”

  The woman looked surprised. “Yes, I am. How did you know?”

  “Your father comes in every week; we get talking sometimes, and he told me you were a doctor. He always buys roses,” she added as further explanation.

  She laughed. “I bet my father told you all about me, didn’t he? Everywhere we go he starts a conversation with someone. I can’t blame him, though, it’s not like he’s got a lot of people to talk to. He lives alone now.” She stopped suddenly. “Look at me! I’m about to tell you all about him! I guess I’m my father’s daughter, aren’t I?”

  Elizabeth completed the transaction and returned the credit card. “I enjoy visiting with your father. I never find he talks too much, I guess because he doesn’t only talk about himself. I bet you’d find that he could tell you quite a bit about me if you asked him. I’m Elizabeth Crewes.”

  Rebecca smiled, revealing straight, white teeth, and extended her hand across the counter. “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth.”

  “How is your mother doing?”

  “Well, she’s definitely failing, but she could also go on in that state for years.” She paused for a moment before adding more. “Even though I’m a doctor and I spend lots of time in hospitals, I have to say that Alzheimer wards are depressing places. But I guess I’m grateful that they exist because my father couldn’t care for her at home anymore. She had started to wander, and a couple of times he woke up to find her gone and heading to a bus stop. I have no idea where she’d have gone, but I guess she was pretty determined.”

  “That must have been scary for him.” She wanted to add that putting her in care must also have been difficult, but she didn’t. This woman knew that helpless people at the mercy of strangers didn’t always bode well. But then again, helpless people at the mercy of their own families didn’t always fare much better.

  “How old is your mother?”

  “She was born in 1925, so she turns seventy-seven next month.”

  “That’s not old these days,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes, well, sadly my mother has been in decline for the past few years, although she’s really gone downhill in the last month.”

  “Your father was worried she wouldn’t recognize you.”

  Rebecca nodded. “Yes, he was pleased that she knew I was her daughter. But she keeps calling me Carolyn and saying how sorry she is. It’s the strangest thing.”

  The hair on the back of Elizabeth’s neck rose. “Does she have someone close to her, like a sister or best friend, named Carolyn maybe?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “That’s odd. Does your father have any idea who Carolyn is?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “He says he doesn’t, but he gets a funny look on his face when he doesn’t want to be interrogated, and that’s what he looked like when I asked. Likely there’s some story there, but I don’t think he wants to talk about it.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Well, we all have our secrets. I just found out that my mother’s name was Carolyn.”

  Rebecca looked confused.

  “Oh, sorry. That must sound strange. I was adopted, and I only recently, just yesterday, in fact, found out some information about my birth mother. Her name was Carolyn.” Elizabeth shrugged, embarrassed by her sudden disclosure. “Are you here for long?”

  “I’m going back to Montreal tomorrow,” Rebecca said. “Although I might come back for my mother’s birthday next month.”

  Elizabeth found herself doing some quick math, knowing that this moment was going to pass if she didn’t seize it. “If you don’t mind my asking, what year were you born?”

  “1949. Why?”

  That fit. But it couldn’t be that easy. She taped the paper over the flowers and stole a quick glance at Rebecca. This time she noticed that her cheekbones were similar to her own—high and sloping at a dramatic angle. “You don’t think your mother ever gave up a child, do you?”

  Rebecca looked startled. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sure she didn’t. We would know about that, for sure. No, it’s just my older brother and me.” She shouldered her purse and gathered the wrapped flowers in her arms. “It was nice meeting you,” she said. “I appreciate your kindness to my father.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe I’ll see you again next month.”

  The bells jingled and echoed throughout the empty store. Elizabeth stood at the window and watched as Rebecca Harrington, wrapped flowers cradled in her arm, walked briskly down Jasper Avenue to the corner, where she waited for the light to change. A steady stream of pedestrians marched by, enjoying the more temperate spring weather despite the occ
asional gusts of wind. The light changed for Rebecca and she hurried across the street and was soon out of sight.

  Carolyn H. Maybe the H stood for Harrington. If so, that would make Rebecca her aunt and Mr. Harrington her grandfather. Dr. Maclean had said he wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. H. had never told her other children about Carolyn.

  Elizabeth’s mind raced. Carolyn was born in 1947. Rebecca was born in 1949. And she had an older brother, so there was another child in between, in 1948. The dates were tight, but it wasn’t unusual for women to have children so close together back then. Plus, there were twelve months in a year, and a January baby had the same birth year as a December baby, so perhaps they weren’t as close as the dates made it sound.

  She felt a thrill of excitement. Secrets didn’t always stay secrets for life. It just took one person to find a thread and pull to unravel it all. Maybe she’d found that thread.

  Dr. Maclean’s notebook was more than a thread; it was a detailed narrative with medical records that provided dates and everything; it was a paper trail that could lead to the adoption agency. Papers had been signed. Whose signatures were on those papers? She could find out.

  The bell jingled and another customer entered the shop. Elizabeth’s heart gave a leap. Marie?

  It was the mail carrier.

  Elizabeth took a coffee break and escaped to her office and closed the door. She pulled the black notebook from her purse. She sat at her desk and opened to an early page.

  July 12, 1963

  I was entirely unprepared for the birth. Two days have passed since Carolyn delivered a baby girl and I have been able to think of little else. During my medical training I attended a number of births, so I was ready and scrubbed when Carolyn went into labour. However, Dr. Stallworthy, the head director of Poplar Grove, authorized the patient to be drugged senseless and a Caesarean to be performed. How lifeless Carolyn was even as a new life was taken from her. I don’t believe I’ve ever attended a more joyless birth. What should have been a celebration felt more like a funeral, and I guess for Carolyn it was. She’ll never see her child. The newborn was cleaned and swaddled and quickly sent away. I voiced an opinion that Carolyn should at least have the opportunity to see her baby, but my view was not considered. I believe someone said it would only do Carolyn harm as she would not have the opportunity to see her child again anyway. Dr. Stallworthy also said that Carolyn would never know what happened seeing as she’d been asleep and all. I felt a great shame for my profession and a greater shame that I allowed the infant to be spirited away in a shroud of secrecy.

  Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Now she knew the desolate details of her birth. Now she knew that her birth mother had never even laid eyes on her, let alone held her, or placed a kiss on her brow. Did the doctors believe she was incapable of experiencing wonder or joy? Did they believe any fetal movement she experienced was simply ignored or misunderstood? Did they for one second have any humanity about them at all?

  Her sadness slowly turned to anger as she reread the passage.

  And nobody standing up for her, not even Dr. Maclean.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Her mind moved in and out of clarity, like a cloud at the mercy of the wind on a blustery day. On a good day, like today, she knew she was in the hospital, and her past was as clearly detailed as numbers in columns in an accounting ledger.

  But the bad days were more frequent and perplexing; she experienced them as a drowning of sorts, a panicked flailing about in the hopes that a strong hand would clutch the nape of her neck and guide her to safety. Sometimes she could feel solid ground, but more often now, she felt nothing but a vast openness beneath her feet.

  The roses on her bedside table were fresh, not wilted. That meant Donald had visited recently. He’d been good to her for over fifty years; she didn’t like to live away from him. Not in this place, anyway. She sympathized with the woman in the next room who repeated the same thing over and over again in a small, yet urgent voice: Let me die. Let me die.

  The sounds and smells of this place triggered sordid memories of a place where furtive liaisons went unnoticed and unpunished and where regret burrowed deep. When she’d left there the last time, she’d prayed for her daughter to be freed from the indignities that must have occurred in her life in Poplar Grove. When Dr. Maclean’s letter bearing news of Carolyn’s death had arrived, she’d been relieved because the protection her child had not received was now no longer required. Death meant she was free. There were no institutions in heaven; Carolyn would be welcomed like anybody else. She would finally be equal, and she would forgive her parents for what they’d done. Margaret knew she would be with her soon. They would find another sunny bench and sit together, like in the old days, holding hands and listening to the robins’ song, the sun warm on their faces.

  The wind picked up. Margaret felt confusion enter her mind, dark clouds of forgetfulness forcing her concentration to the side. The woman in the bed beside her began to howl. Margaret squeezed her eyes tight as if that would block out the sound. She turned her head from side to side in bewilderment. What was this place? Who had put her in here? Fresh roses were on the table beside her bed. Carolyn must have brought them. She loved roses. Margaret reached out a bony hand and plucked a single red petal from one of the flowers. Then she rubbed the redness into her lips, just like her daughter had taught her. The petal began to pull apart into small bits. She licked her lips and then placed what was left of the petal into her mouth.

  She closed her eyes and felt someone take her hand and pull her toward the door. “Yes, yes,” she said. “We’ll go outside, dear. The sun’s hot. We’ll go sit on the bench, shall we?”

  Margaret knew where she was now. There was a large room outside her door filled with partially clad people in varying degrees of distress. That damned cement wall had pictures on it again, and the orderly with the floppy leather belt would be lurking somewhere, ready to pounce on the unwashed swarm that was hungry for attention. They’d be lined up in a row, waiting for some kindness. A kiss, maybe. Or a flower.

  Down the hall an orderly would be force feeding that sweet boy in the wheelchair again, the one who didn’t appear to be handicapped at all, despite his physical challenges. He was incapable of speaking, but Margaret had learned a thousand things about him just by meeting his gaze and seeing the fierce intelligence that shone there.

  She stood shakily beside her bed and put on her cardigan. Lately they’d been taking to locking the door. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to catch the asylum bus. James and Rebecca would be waking from their naps soon, and the babysitter had a class to attend. What if she missed the bus? She found her slippers beneath the bed, slid them on, and shuffled to the door.

  The hallway was relatively quiet as she made her way past the nurses’ station and to the door she knew would lead outside. She pushed and pushed, but it would not budge. Where was that dishevelled orderly who constantly made mistakes? Why on earth had he locked the door? She always used this door! Her fists bruised as they pounded the cold metal surface. Why wouldn’t anybody open it? She was going to miss the bus!

  She glanced around her in a panic. There was a man walking toward her. He had red hair and a white stick body and looked like an unstruck match. She recognized his face. Who was he? He sauntered over and smiled with his perfect teeth. His breath was searing hot and outhouse foul. “Back so soon?”

  Margaret screamed. She screamed and screamed and beat on the door before crumpling to the floor. She would not be silent this time. A woman in a white uniform raced toward her. She’d always been free to leave Poplar Grove, but something had changed. Had someone signed papers she didn’t know about? She hugged an invisible being in her arms and fought hard as the nurse tried to take her baby.

  “Carolyn!” she screamed. “Carolyn!” This time she wouldn’t let them take her. She saw her old house in the distance, swaying in the shimmering heat like a mirage. If she got there, she’d be safe. She clutched her chi
ld to her chest and willed her legs to move.

  A sharp pain as the needle found a home.

  Then the freefall began.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The sparrows that hopped and darted about Marie’s bird feeder outside the kitchen window looked permanently startled. Their movements were quick and jerky. What a tense little existence they had, Marie thought, and she wondered why she’d never noticed this before.

  She put the casserole she’d just made into the refrigerator. Frances had agreed to arrive at three o’clock so she would be here when the kids got off the school bus. She would stay with them until Barry returned home from the hospital.

  The night before, Marie had arrived at the Royal Alex Hospital to have something put inside her, some kind of a “tent,” they called it, that would begin to dilate her cervix. Tent. Camping with her children. S’mores for a bedtime snack. Moving to avoid the smoke that constantly followed her around the bonfire. Tent? That word had always had happy connotations for Marie, but not anymore. Now it carried death and mourning, not adventure.

  After the device had been inserted, the doctor cautioned that she might have complications once the termination was complete. Placentas don’t always co-operate when the delivery is so early, he explained. Sometimes surgery is required. What could she do to get her placenta to co-operate? Bribe it with a treat? Offer it money? Beg? Oh, please, not this too.

  She took a piece of paper from the drawer beneath the phone table and wrote a note to her sister. Frances, there’s a casserole in the fridge for you and the kids (yes, it’s vegetarian). Heat it at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. There’s also salad stuff in the crisper if you feel like a salad, and there are cookies in the cookie jar. Help yourself to anything. Thanks for doing this. Marie.