by Theresa Shea
She could hear him breathing beside her. He wasn’t going away. Then she felt his hand lock fingers with hers. With his other arm he reached behind her back and pulled her into his lap. She remained limp in his arms and kept her eyes closed as he rocked her slowly back and forth as if she were a baby.
“I can’t believe she didn’t tell me,” she sobbed. “She could have phoned and told me!” She felt a new emotion, hiding behind the anger: grief.
“If she didn’t tell you, then how do you know?”
“I phoned her house. Frances answered and said she was worried because Barry hadn’t called yet from the hospital.”
“But are you sure that . . .”
“Yes! I’m sure!” she shouted.
He continued to rock her. Minutes passed.
“She should have told you,” Ron finally said. “But knowing in advance wouldn’t have made it any easier or hurt any less.”
His hand stroked the back of her head and she resisted the urge to swat it away. She didn’t want to be comforted. She had been wronged; she wanted to stay mad. She knew that if she opened her eyes right now and looked into Ron’s she’d find relief in his eyes. Deep down she knew he’d been afraid all along that Marie would say yes.
“I read some of the notebook,” he said. “It’s all kind of hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth didn’t reply.
“The conditions in that place sounded pretty horrific.”
“Poplar Grove,” she whispered.
“What?”
She cleared her throat. “The place was called Poplar Grove. Poplar Grove Provincial Training Centre. It’s closed now.”
“I’ve driven by there before,” Ron said. “It’s that big brick place just on the south end of the city, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth nodded, fully aware that Ron was trying to direct her attention elsewhere, and she was grateful.
He was silent for a moment. “You know,” he said. “If you wanted . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know if now is the right time to bring this up,” Ron said.
“What?”
“Well, I was just thinking that one day soon we should drive out and see if we can find your mother’s grave. Carolyn’s grave, at Poplar Grove.”
She looked into his eyes and saw his deep concern. He’d been caring for her for almost half her life. This was the same man who’d fished her out of that cold mountain stream and eagerly warmed her in his sleeping bag at night. And here he was again, catching her as she fell and bringing her back into her own life, into the new history that was hers to explore and interpret.
“Just flipping through the notebook I saw that Dr. Maclean visits every year on March 12, the anniversary of her death. I know we missed it this year, but you could be the one to visit now, and more than once a year if you want.”
Elizabeth felt her body soften and she curled into husband’s arms and turned her face into the warmth of his neck.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Friday afternoon the doctor used an ultrasound to inject saline into her baby’s heart; Marie had always known that too much salt could kill a person, but she’d never imagined how a baby’s heart would stutter and stall when introduced to it. Numb. What else could she be but numb? After the injection, the nurse turned up the oxytocin drip that induced labour.
What followed hurt.
Barry stayed by her side; their lives were no longer neat and tidy, were they? As the pain increased, Marie requested some morphine. She didn’t want laughing gas, the mask over her face, the floating sensation that brought joy. This was nothing to laugh about.
“One more push,” the doctor finally said, and Marie felt the slick and lifeless limbs slip from her body.
Did they want to hold the baby? Did they want a photograph?
She was lucky, they said, for with some cajoling, her placenta co-operated.
Afterwards, Marie was wheeled back to her room and given a mild sedative. Barry sat beside her bed and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb until it felt as if he’d taken a layer of her skin off. She pulled her hand away.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and into her ears. She missed Nicole and Sophia. She wanted Elizabeth.
A pale blue curtain had been pulled around her bed for privacy, closing off the rest of the room. The nurses had said she was lucky to have a bed, but it was worse being here, behind that thin curtain, with Barry holding her hand. She couldn’t see the rest of the room and its inhabitants, and they couldn’t see her. But it was no kind of privacy at all because every cough and conversation was magnified in that sterile room and it was impossible not to eavesdrop. The woman in the corner whimpered quietly to herself. No one came to comfort her.
At ten-thirty she was still awake and Barry was still beside her.
“You should go home,” she said.
Barry startled. “Pardon?”
Marie cleared her throat and spoke louder. “I said you should go home. I want you to be there in case one of the girls wakes up tonight.” The girls knew something was wrong with the baby, but they didn’t need to know everything. She would tell them later that the baby had not lived.
Barry nodded. “Are you going to be okay?”
I don’t know. She smiled weakly. “Go.”
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Then he rested his head on the pillow beside her. “I love you, Marie,” he whispered, his voice catching.
She stroked the back of his head.
He pulled back from the bed. “It’s going to be okay,” he repeated.
Marie could see the uncertainty in his eyes. His statement was really a question. Is it going to be okay?
He cleared his throat and said more firmly, “Let’s just try to put this behind us.”
Marie nodded.
Finally, he left. She lay there wondering if she would ever sleep again. Only a week had passed since they had received the results. In that time, she had moved from one task to the next, putting food on the table, doing laundry, packing school lunches, planning meals. For the sake of her children, she had tried to carry on as usual.
She repeated all the arguments in favour of terminating the pregnancy to convince herself she’d done the right thing, that it was better this way, that her family would get on just fine. A cramp twisted her insides. When it passed, she sank back into her pillow. She had taken for granted that she would be okay.
What would Elizabeth think of her now?
Was it a bad thing to want an easier life?
She rolled slowly onto her side and pulled her knees to her chest.
When she closed her eyes, Elizabeth’s face stared back at her. Once again she felt the heat of Elizabeth’s hand on her wrist. She saw her lips move: I’ll take the child. Let me raise the baby.
It was too late. Everything had seemed so logical at the time. But now . . .
It was enough that she had lost her baby. She might never recover from that. She couldn’t lose her best friend too.
Marie fought the sleep that came suddenly upon her.
I did it for the children.
It’s better this way.
Who would take care of her when she was older?
We were afraid.
FORTY-NINE
On Saturday morning Elizabeth got up early and made Ron breakfast before he left for the gym. She made an effort to be light-hearted, but she’d never been a good actor.
“Do you want me to stay home?” Ron asked, concerned.
“No, I’ll be fine. It’ll be good to be alone for a while.” Men didn’t understand the cathartic nature of crying. She needed to cry without someone telling her that everything would be okay.
When Ron left, Elizabeth lay down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. The black notebook sat on her bedside table. She picked it up and let it fall open at random.
Carolyn Jane H., age sixteen, went into labour spontaneously on July 10, 19
63. A low cervical Caesarean section was performed under spinal anaesthesia and a five pound, two ounce, apparently normal, female infant was delivered. Pomeroy sterilization was performed.
The mother is a mongoloid and the father is unknown.
And later.
Mrs. Margaret H., Carolyn’s mother and only visitor, signed the requisite papers releasing the child to the care of a government agency.
Margaret? She hadn’t noticed that before. An old man’s voice spoke in her head, I just hope Margaret recognizes her at least once. Rebecca Harrington’s face appeared unbidden. She keeps calling me Carolyn and saying how sorry she is.
Now that the waiting was over, Elizabeth felt as if she’d been holding her breath for a week, and she was left with nothing but a black notebook stuffed with information about a woman she would never know and the child she had once been. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the daylight that was growing steadily in intensity. Darkness. That’s what she wanted. Darkness.
Later, if she had the energy, she’d find out how to visit Poplar Grove. Even though it was closed, there must be somebody there who tended the cemetery. How much explanation would she have to give to find out where her mother was buried?
She picked up the notebook and flipped through until she found the entry she was looking for.
March 1967
It’s the first day of spring. Driving onto the grounds again felt strange since I so recently officially left my employ at Poplar Grove. I felt like a free man driving away for the last time, but then I realized there could be no last time. What I wasn’t able to do for Carolyn in her lifetime I shall be sure to do now.
I chose the first day of spring to visit her grave. I remember that Carolyn loved to be outside and to sit in the sunshine. When spring came around her mother often took her to sit on a bench by the small pond. Even though I knew Carolyn’s grave would be simple and unadorned, I was nonetheless disturbed by the massive number of white headstones lined up row after row with barely more than a foot between graves. Also, the older part of the cemetery is now being reused for burial. It’s bad enough that most of the patients have been forgotten here, but to have the older graves dug up to make room for the newly dead? I could not help but shudder and count my blessings that I would no longer be affiliated with this place of monumental grief.
Using the map I located headstone #982. It was simply engraved with her name, and her dates: June 15, 1947–March 12, 1967. I placed a red rose on Carolyn’s still fresh grave and told her that her baby girl was doing just fine.
Elizabeth felt a new energy enter her limbs. She would go to Poplar Grove, get a map, and find her way to her mother’s grave.
FIFTY
Barry parked the car in the driveway and raced around to open Marie’s door. He held her arms as she took small steps up to the front door.
Frances opened the door before they got there. Nicole and Sophia stood beside her, wide-eyed and nervous. Marie allowed Frances to hold her elbow and pull her gently inside the house. Everyone was treating her as if she was made of china. She bent down and took each of her girls by the hand and pulled them into her embrace.
“Boy, did I miss you,” she said, her eyes clouding with tears.
“We missed you too,” Sophia said.
Nicole stared at her mother. “What happened? Is the baby okay?”
“Everything’s going to be okay,” Barry said.
“Is it?” Nicole persisted.
Marie’s heart clenched. “No, it’s not.” Fresh tears ran down her cheeks.
Sophia started to cry. “I wanted to be a big sister.”
“Did it die?” Nicole asked.
Marie nodded.
“Can we at least close the door and discuss this?” Barry said.
Marie hugged Nicole. “The baby wasn’t well, sweetie. We’re all sad.”
“When’s the funeral?” Nicole asked.
Marie and Barry exchanged glances. They hadn’t foreseen this.
“I want to go to the funeral.”
“Me too,” Sophia said.
It would be days before the small urn they’d chosen would be filled with their baby’s ashes and be ready for them to pick up.
What would they do with it?
Sophia whimpered in her mother’s arms. Barry helped Marie to the couch and made sure she was comfortable.
“Come on, girls,” he said. “We’ve got swimming lessons in half an hour.”
Marie hadn’t expected the normal routine to kick in so soon. But Barry didn’t want to leave any open spaces. Clearly he thought if he kept the girls busy, then things would get back to normal sooner. He didn’t understand that what Marie really wanted was to cuddle on the couch with her children and cry with them.
“Come on,” he repeated. “Get your stuff together.”
Then he turned to Frances. “Thanks for all your help.” He corralled the girls and their things and left. Their sudden departure left a gaping silence.
“Sheesh,” Frances said. “Why’s he in such a big hurry to get out of here? Shouldn’t he want to stick around for a bit?”
“He just wants to act as if nothing has changed,” Marie said.
“Yeah, well it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Marie felt a dark rage rise within her. Everywhere she went she had to take care of people. Her children, her husband, and now her sister. It was a heavy load to carry. Didn’t Frances see that all Marie needed was some peace and comfort? She was in no mood to mediate. “Stop it, Frances. I’m not in the mood.”
It wasn’t often that Frances was speechless. For a moment it almost looked as if she might apologize, but instead she said, “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thanks.”
An awkward silence followed. “Where’s Max?” Marie asked.
“He’s sleeping,” she said. “Are you going to be all right?”
Marie wiped her nose and nodded.
“Did the doctors say anything about counselling?” Frances asked.
“They suggested I come back in a few weeks to talk with someone.”
“That seems a bit far off. Will you go?”
“I don’t know,” Marie said. “We’ll wait and see. Barry might need it too, who knows.”
Frances sat quietly and waited.
The neighbours’ dog began to bark.
“You should really eat something,” Frances said. “How about some soup? Or a fruit salad?”
Marie shook her head violently. Soup—that’s what she’d been eating when the call had come. Salty soup that had later burned like acid in her stomach.
“The girls were quite concerned about you last night,” Frances began again.
Marie wanted to draw a hot bath and lounge in it until the girls came spilling in, high-strung and energetic. She hadn’t slept much the night before, even with the help of a sedative. A new bed, new noises, the strangeness of being in a room with other people, the heavy emptiness in her abdomen, the coarseness of the hospital sheets and blankets.
“I’d like to have a bath,” Marie said quietly.
Frances wasn’t listening. “Elizabeth was concerned too,” she added.
The air in the room suddenly shifted. Marie focused on her sister with a new clarity. “What did you say?”
“I said Elizabeth was concerned too.”
“What do you mean?”
“She phoned last night to see how you were doing. She seemed surprised to hear you were at the hospital.”
Marie fought to maintain her composure. “What did you tell her?”
“She did know, didn’t she?” Frances asked. “I didn’t let anything out of the bag, did I?”
Marie closed her eyes and remained silent.
“You had coffee with her the day after you got the results, after you had lunch at my place. That’s what Elizabeth said. You told her then, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I told her.”
“But she didn’t know you’d gone into the
hospital?”
“No,” Marie said softly. “I didn’t tell her that part.”
Marie tried to block the image of Elizabeth’s stunned face when she heard the news. “I don’t feel so good,” she said abruptly. “I’m going upstairs to lie down until the kids come home.” She stood gingerly. “Thanks for everything you’ve done, Frances. I’ll be all right now. You might as well go home.”
She made her way through the kitchen and down the hallway to the stairs.
She knows, Marie thought, the realization almost buckling her knees. Oh, God, she knows. And she didn’t hear it from me.
FIFTY-ONE
On Tuesday, Elizabeth arrived at her store with a heightened sense of urgency. The morning dragged by, but soon the lunch hour arrived and, along with it, Mr. Harrington with his slow gait and hunched posture. Elizabeth ran to hold the door for him and took his elbow as he made his way over the threshold.
“Whew, it’s getting warm out,” he said, removing his hat and mopping his brow. “It’s about time it felt like spring,” he added. “It’s always been my favourite season.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, “it’s my favourite season too. It’s hard not to feel optimistic when all the colours are coming back.”
He nodded and leaned against the counter.
“Let me guess,” Elizabeth said. “You want roses.” Carolyn’s mother gave her a love for roses. It made sense that roses would be her own favourite flower.
Mr. Harrington smiled. “You’re very perceptive,” he said. “A mind reader.”
“I met your daughter, Rebecca, when she was in town,” she said as she reached into the cooler behind her. “She seems very nice. Talkative, like you. I like that.”
“Yes, she is. We’re quite proud of her, my wife and I. Rebecca said you’d had a nice discussion.”
“And how is your wife doing? Her name is Margaret, right?” She needed to be sure.
“That’s right.” He nodded.
Elizabeth pricked a finger on a thorn. She placed her hands on the counter to hide their shaking. Obviously Mr. Harrington knew he had fathered a girl with Down syndrome, but at some point he’d begun to believe that Carolyn had died. He certainly didn’t know that she’d ever become pregnant and delivered a child.