All Things New (Virtuous Heart)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  White walls. White sheets. Metal bed. Dim lights. Let me out of here. I have to get out! She crossed stiffly to the little figure hardly making a wrinkle in the stiff white sheet. “I’m here, Melissa.” She felt under the covers for the tiny hand. It closed tightly on hers.

  Then Melissa put her hand on her abdomen and whimpered. Debbie wanted to grab her own stomach. She wanted to yell at the universe to stop. This couldn’t be happening.

  Melissa opened her eyes and gave Debbie a weak smile. “Don’t go away.”

  Concentrate. Act like everything is fine. The way you’ve always done. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll be here all the time.”

  “Promise?”

  “Cross-cross applesauce.”

  Melissa smiled, then closed her eyes.

  “She’s pretty heavily sedated,” Greg said.

  Debbie was still standing there holding Melissa’s hand when the orderly came in. Crisp white uniform with scrubs over it. Swift, businesslike movements that put up the side railing and wheeled the bed from the room.

  Debbie felt the motion. “No, wait, stop. I don’t want to. I’ve changed my mind. No. No.”

  Greg put his arm around her. She fought. She would have screamed, but she choked on the sound.

  Debbie’s sobs were muffled as Greg pressed her against his shoulder. “Debbie, it’s all right. You’re safe.”

  She looked up, surveying the room. They were alone. She and Greg. She was standing here in the middle of the room. She wasn’t on that gurney being wheeled into surgery. It wasn’t that at all. Why had she thought … ? Was she really going crazy?

  Greg put his hands on her shoulders and held her steady. His eyes commanded her attention. “Debbie, that wasn’t about Melissa, was it?”

  She shook her head.

  “We need to talk about this.” He steered her to a stiff, chrome and plastic chair.

  “Not here. I don’t want to talk here. I can’t breathe in here.”

  “Debbie.” His hand on her shoulder still held her. “You can’t run away forever. Going to the coffee shop or someplace outside won’t really change anything, will it?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  He took a chair next to hers and turned to face her. “Is it your mother?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course it’s my mother! What did you think it was? What else could it be?”

  “Your mother died in the hospital.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “She had cancer. I was a senior in high school. She had been sick for several months—in a lot of pain. The doctor told us from the first that she was terminal.”

  “No, I mean about when she died.”

  “I told you. It was November. She’d been in the hospital for two weeks.”

  “Tell me about the last day. The last hours.”

  “She was in pain. She wouldn’t take much medication because she wanted to recognize her family. She died about midnight.”

  “Tell me about her room. What it looked like.”

  “All hospital rooms look alike. Four white walls. It was a private room.”

  “Were there flowers?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pictures on the wall?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Debbie. Close your eyes and tell me what you see. Tell me about it.”

  “Green walls. On a gurney. Going down a long hall. Green walls with pictures. Dogs and trees. No, wait. Stop. I don’t want to. I’ve changed my mind!”

  “What have you changed your mind about?”

  “I don’t want an abortion!”

  Chapter 14

  Debbie looked at him as the words echoed around the empty room. … Abortion. I don’t want an abortion. Stop! I don’t want …

  She was stiff. Cold. Where had those words come from?

  “You were never in your mother’s hospital room, were you?”

  “I couldn’t. I couldn’t go. This is the first time I’ve been in a hospital since—”

  “Since the abortion?”

  She shook her head. “It was her fault. I couldn’t see her again. I wanted her to die. She had killed my baby. I wanted her to die too.” Debbie had a vague feeling that she should be sobbing or yelling—showing some emotion. But the words came out hard and dry. Staccato. Detached.

  “When you discovered you were pregnant after being with Shawn, your mother told you to get an abortion?”

  “No, of course not. You don’t think I told her, do you? She was dying. I had to take care of everything myself. All on my own. I didn’t even have a friend to go with me. I couldn’t let anyone know. I had to protect them all. They had more than they could cope with. I couldn’t upset them more. No one knew. No one ever had the slightest suspicion.”

  “But you knew. And you could never get away from it.”

  “What do you mean?” Her words were a challenge. What was he accusing her of now?

  “Your nightmares. The broken babies—dolls, I mean.”

  She shook her head. “They were babies. I see now. I always knew. Sort of. I knew it had happened, and yet I didn’t. I didn’t have amnesia or anything. I just stuffed the memory down so far I couldn’t see it.”

  “But you felt it.” Greg’s voice was the most soothing sound she had ever heard.

  Now the tears came. “All those broken babies. But I told myself it couldn’t have been the abortion. The counselor at the clinic said I might be a little depressed, but that there wouldn’t be any real problem. She said women always felt better after an abortion. It was good for them to have the freedom to choose. It would make my life better. It couldn’t have caused my problems. It would enhance my self-esteem—taking control of my own life. The counselor said it over and over.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  “I wanted to. I thought I did. Until I was strapped on the table. Then I fought and cried and screamed. But it was too late. The nurse said I was just upset. That there was nothing to be afraid of. That I’d be glad when it was over. That I’d forget all about it.”

  Tears were running down her cheeks, but she wasn’t sobbing. Greg handed her a soft white handkerchief. “I tried everything to forget. I told myself that if I just worked harder it would all go away like it was supposed to. And sometimes it did. Sometimes I didn’t think about it for weeks—months. I thought about the rape and about my mother’s death. But not about the other. It was normal to be upset about those things. It wasn’t normal to be upset by an abortion. They said I wouldn’t be.”

  “Did you write to Shawn like we talked about?”

  “I tried.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Not much. I thought it would, but … I didn’t mail the letter.”

  “Do you have any idea why it didn’t help?”

  She nodded. “Because …” She dropped her head. “Because I didn’t really forgive him. I wrote the words, but I didn’t mean them.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s strange, but I don’t think I really connected the two. I mean, I blamed him for—for violating me. But I didn’t see that he had done far less damage to me than I did to my baby.” Now the sobs came.

  “I never kill anything. Not even bugs or weeds. I never waste anything. But I killed a baby. I wasted a human life.” Greg pulled her into his arms and held her while she shook with weeping.

  She dabbed at the tears streaming down her face. “Oh, this is silly.”

  Greg continued to hold her. “No it isn’t. It’s a God-designed process. The tears wash away the pain of your loss. They should have come six years ago, but they were blocked by anger at your mother and guilt over the loss of your child. Let all those tears that have been dammed up for so long come out.”

  He was still holding her some time later when the surgeon came in wearing his cap and shoe covers. “Mr. Masefield?” He held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Thomas. Your daughter’s fine.” Debbie closed her eyes in relief. Thank you. She had harbored some undefined fea
r that Melissa would be taken away from her as punishment.

  The doctor continued his explanation to Greg, “There were no complications. We didn’t have to do any draining. We’ll keep her in the recovery room about an hour just so we can watch her, but she’ll start to wake up soon. With a young child we don’t put them under very deep—just enough to take them to happyland and keep them from wiggling. You can go to her any time now.”

  “When can she go home?” Greg asked.

  “Probably tomorrow. I’ll be in to see her later today, so the nurse can tell you for sure this evening.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” The men shook hands again, and the surgeon disappeared through the swinging doors.

  Debbie went to the sink across the room and splashed cold water on her face. It didn’t do much for the redness around her eyes, but it felt good. She followed Greg down the hall. A nurse showed them to a room with space for three beds, the curtains partially drawn on the track around the nearest station. “When she wakens she’ll be thirsty. Just give her a chip of ice to suck. Don’t let her drink anything or it’ll upset her stomach.” The nurse left them, and Greg pulled two chairs to the bedside.

  An aluminum rail ran around the bed like a fence, fluid dripped into Melissa’s arm from a tube running to a bottle on a bracket. The little body lay perfectly still, but her breathing seemed normal. Debbie smoothed the blond hair away from the small forehead. She was almost exactly the age that other baby would have been now. Had it been a boy or girl? What would it have looked like? This was the first time Debbie had allowed herself to consider such questions. For six years she had turned her back on small children and pregnant women. She had shut out any reminder of her pain. Now she had opened the wound.

  It hurt even worse than she had feared. The tears started again, but silently. They slid out the corners of her eyes and rolled down her face so gently that she wasn’t aware of them until one landed on the sheet by Melissa’s cheek. Greg, who had probably slept about half an hour in the last 24, leaned forward, his head nestled in his folded arms on the bed. Instantly his heavy breathing told Debbie he was asleep. The room was silent. She was alone with herself.

  And for the first time in six years it was safe to be alone without any project or activity to keep herself from thinking. Now she wanted to think. She wanted to think about her mother, especially to recall the good times they had had. She wanted to think about Shawn and hope he had found happiness. She wanted to think about the baby that would never be.

  But that was the impossible part. She had admitted what she had done. She had accepted responsibility for having made the decision herself. But she couldn’t really think any farther. She was sure there was more she needed to do. She certainly didn’t feel the matter was resolved. But the pain was too overwhelming to deal with. And it frightened her. She knew that if she didn’t go on to whatever else must be done, she would stay frozen at this new stage. And now that she’d started she could accept nothing but complete healing. She couldn’t go back to the way things were before. But how could she go forward?

  Less than half an hour later Debbie put her hand on Greg’s shoulder and shook him gently. “She’s starting to stir. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Debbie spent only a few minutes in the ladies’ room. But when she returned Melissa was awake with a nurse bending over her taking her blood pressure and temperature. Debbie stayed back out of the way. Melissa tossed her head restlessly and spoke around the thermometer. “Where is she?”

  The nurse pulled the thermometer from the child’s mouth. “Your mother? She’s right over there, honey. Now just be still and let me check this, then you can have your mama.” No one bothered to correct her.

  As soon as the nurse left, Debbie took her place by the bedside. “You said you wouldn’t leave,” Melissa accused.

  “I was just across the hall, honey.”

  “Don’t go away. Ever.” Melissa clung to her hand. “Ever. Promise.”

  Debbie looked around wildly. She felt trapped. What could she say that wouldn’t make the situation worse? She didn’t want to promise something she couldn’t fulfill. “I will always love you. I’ll always be with you in my heart.” Would a child understand that?

  Whether she understood or whether it was merely the lingering effects of the anesthetic, the small hand gripping Debbie’s relaxed, and Melissa’s breath came soft and rhythmically. The pressure of Greg’s hand on her arm pulled Debbie into the hall. “Be careful what you say. She can’t take any more broken promises. I told you about the compact.”

  “I would never promise Melissa or anyone else something I didn’t intend to fulfill. I was trying to make it clear to her.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” He let go of her arm and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. “I’m overly protective. But after—” He shook his head. “I can’t take a chance on her being hurt.”

  “You’re exhausted. Go get some sleep. I’ll stay with her.”

  He hesitated. Debbie held her breath. Was this some kind of test? If so, was it testing him or her? His willingness to trust his child to a woman who had had an abortion? Or her trustworthiness to stay with Melissa?

  Whatever caused his doubt, it was probably fatigue that made the decision. “You’re sure you don’t mind—staying?”

  “I wouldn’t consider anything else. Now run along. Oh, and give Byrl a ring and tell her about Melissa. I didn’t even leave a note last night.”

  “Sure. And thanks.”

  “Go.” She pointed to the door. “And don’t come back until you’re coherent.”

  * * *

  “… Peter gave himself up for lost. Big tears rolled from his eyes. His sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows. They flew to him chirping in excitement, and implored him to exert himself …”

  “Daddy!” Melissa looked toward the door of the hospital room and held out her arms.

  Debbie, who was sitting with her back to the door, swung around. The sight of him standing there made her catch her breath. Why was it always a surprise when she saw him? She knew what he looked like, yet there it was, all over again, the amazement that any man could really look that good.

  He was leaning with one shoulder against the doorframe, his arms folded over a lightweight green sweater, the collar of a white shirt framing his bronze head. “How long have you been there?” Debbie asked.

  “Just since ‘round the end of a cucumber frame.’” He pushed away from the door and went to Melissa, returning her hug. “How’re you feeling, Punkin?”

  “A little ouchy.” She placed her hand on her incision. “And all I can eat is Jell-O and chicken soup.”

  “Awful, isn’t it?” he perched on the edge of her bed, his long legs still reaching the floor. “Shall I complain to the management?” Melissa just giggled. He turned to Debbie. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your story. I want to hear the end too.”

  Debbie continued. “Suddenly, quite near him, Peter heard the noise of a hoe. Scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch …”

  A nurse breezed in, stuck a thermometer under Melissa’s tongue, and held her wrist for a pulse count. When she extracted the thermometer she produced a little white pill and a glass of water. “Now, young lady, Dr. Thomas wants you to have a nice, cozy nap so you can be all bright-eyed when he comes to visit you this afternoon.” Melissa swallowed the pill obediently. The nurse pulled the blanket up to her chin. “Your mama and daddy can come back in about two hours.”

  The nurse’s tone said clearly that there was nothing to do but kiss the child good-bye.

  “I’ll finish the story when I get back,” Debbie promised.

  “But—”

  “We have to mind the doctor, Punkin. Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back to you.” Melissa nodded sleepily. They went out.

  “You’ve been on duty for hours.” Greg led the way to the parking lot. “Do you want something to eat? a nap? a bath?”

  Debbie shook her head. “The nurse gave me a
lunch tray. I just want some fresh air.”

  As Greg drove out of the woods, Debbie looked in wonder at the world that had seemed so terrifying the night before. Misty remnants of the fog still hung around the dark green trees, but now it gave a feeling of coziness and comfort. And the distance was so short after the torturously slow route of the night before. But then, wasn’t that always the way of it? The real terrors were the internal ones.

  Greg turned northward toward the uninhabited part of the beach. As usual, he was quiet. Debbie leaned into the plush seat of the car. The road ended in the sand dunes where river and creek came together to run into the ocean. Greg opened her door and helped her out. “Fresh air you wanted. Fresh it is. Will you be cold?”

  After hours in the hospital, the cool, moist air felt marvelous on her face. She took a deep breath and held out her arms. “Oh, it’s great.”

  They walked along the peninsula of beach, a few sea-gulls for their only companions and the surf in the distance the only sound. Debbie realized Greg was even quieter than usual. They walked some distance before he stopped and turned to her. “How do you feel now?”

  Debbie watched the roll and retreat of the tide for several moments before she answered. “Battered. Bruised. A little like I did after—after the abortion.” It was still so hard to say it. She had to take a breath just to get the word out. “Just as confused. But not as angry. Maybe not as frightened.” She considered. “Maybe more frightened.”

  “You haven’t had much time to work through it. It will take time, you know.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”

  “Have you asked God to forgive you?”

  “Every day since—Every day for six years.”

  “And do you believe He has?”

  “My head does. I don’t feel forgiven.”

  Greg nodded. “That’s because you haven’t forgiven yourself.”

  “But how can I?”

  “By accepting God’s forgiveness. Trusting that He always does what He says He will do, even if you don’t feel anything.” He paused. “And don’t confuse forgiving and forgetting.”