by Sonja Yoerg
Her mother didn’t feel well, especially in the mornings, and slept a lot.
Papa told Carole not to worry. “Your mother was a little sick in the beginning with you, too, and look how wonderful you turned out.” He was as excited about the baby as she was.
One day in December, Grandma Rosemarie showed up at the door. From her room upstairs, Carole heard Elsie let her in, probably because Carole’s father was at work. Grandma Rosemarie hardly ever came to the house, and her mother’s other relatives never did. It was one of those rules that didn’t need to be written down. Carole guessed it had something to do with her parents’ fights but wasn’t sure.
Before her mother got pregnant, Carole would often hear raised voices at night. She’d creep down the stairs, wanting to hear what it was about.
“You don’t care what happens to families like mine,” her mother said.
Her father answered by talking about the trial. Not much of what they said made sense, and Carole gave up trying to get close enough to make out all the words. She’d sit on the stairs, her nightgown wrapped tight over her knees, her stomach sick with worry. The sharp words sliced through the air like bats.
From what she could tell, her mother thought her father didn’t like poor people enough. Grandma Rosemarie was poor, so that fit. Carole never said so, but she didn’t like Grandma Rosemarie that much, either. She smelled like a wet dog and had a funny look in her eye, like she was trying to see straight into Carole. It made her nervous.
Now Grandma Rosemarie was talking to Elsie in the parlor. Carole went down to see what was going on. Her grandmother pulled her close for a hug, then held her by the shoulders and smiled. “Carole, dear, look at you.”
Carole felt her cheeks redden. She said the first thing that popped into her head. “Did you know Mama’s having a baby?”
Grandma’s smile disappeared. One second later, it was back, on her lips anyway.
Elsie looked confused. “I guess she hasn’t had a chance to tell you. She’s been unwell, hardly leaving the house.”
“That’s why I came. I was worried something had happened.”
“Just a baby,” Elsie said, leading Grandma Rosemarie up the stairs.
• • •
Her mother’s belly was getting rounder and the rest of her was shrinking. Carole brought food to her room, but Mama said she wasn’t hungry. Christmas and New Year’s came and went, and pretty soon her mother hardly came out of her room at all. Papa and Elsie checked in on her all the time, so they were worrying, too, and Carole never asked the hundreds of questions she had about the baby so as not to be a bother.
One day after school, Carole went into her mother’s room. It was so stuffy, Carole went straight to the window, threw open the drapes and pushed up the window.
Her mother shielded her eyes from the sudden light. “Close that, Carole. It’s too cold.”
“You told me fresh air is healthy.”
“Please close it.”
Carole hesitated, then waved some cool air inside before lowering the window. “Let’s go for a walk. I can show you where they’re building a new hotel.”
“That’s too far.”
“Please?”
Her mother shook her head and pulled the covers up over her huge belly.
Carole tried to think of something, anything, they could do together. “What about a walk in the garden? That’s not too far.”
“Not today.”
Carole sighed and chewed her fingernail. She came around to the front of the bed so her mother could see her doing it, but her mother didn’t scold her. She didn’t say a word.
“Can we play cards?”
Her mother didn’t answer, which was poor manners, except when someone was ill.
Carole told herself to be patient. Soon she’d have her mother back, plus a new brother or sister. Her father would be happier, too, because he wouldn’t have to worry about her mother and the baby anymore. Everyone would be fine. Better than fine.
Aunt Bettina and Uncle Tyler lived a few houses down the street and, as the baby’s time got closer, her aunt came over nearly every day. She always had a smile ready, but Carole could tell she didn’t approve of “the state of things,” as she’d overheard Aunt Bettina say to Papa. Mama was stubborn, though, and with her belly so enormous, it was hard to make her do anything. Carole went to her parents’ room with her schoolbooks and read and did her math exercises on the rug at the foot of the bed. When her mother fell asleep, she’d open the windows and let fresh, cool air in to help Mama be healthy for the baby.
On the Wednesday before Easter, Carole was playing jacks in her room, next to her parents’ bedroom.
Her mother moaned loudly.
Carole dropped the jacks, let the ball bounce away and ran next door. Mama lay curled on her side, her eyes squeezed shut. Her forehead was sweaty and the cords in her neck were like the strings inside the piano.
“Mama! Is it the baby?” Carole was caught between fear for her mother and excitement that the baby would soon arrive. “Should I call Papa?”
Mama opened her eyes, rimmed in red. “The doctor. Call the doctor.”
Carole ran down to the telephone, taking the stairs two at a time. She didn’t know whether her mother wanted her to call the doctor instead of her father. She called both. And Aunt Bettina. She called everyone.
Aunt Bettina arrived first. Elsie ran around the house with linens and towels and set water to boil on the stove.
Carole felt her mouth drop open. “What is that for?”
She slammed the lid on. “Don’t get underfoot.”
Carole jumped to the side, swallowing the millions of questions she had.
Papa strode into the kitchen like he was late for an important meeting. “Where’s the doctor?”
Elsie shrugged. “Not in here.”
He turned to Carole, noticing her for the first time. He gave her a quick smile, but he seemed worried, not happy. “Your aunt Regina is here to take you to her house.”
Aunt Regina was her father’s other sister, the older, crabbier one. Carole did not want to go anywhere, and certainly not with Aunt Regina.
“But I want to see the baby, Papa.”
“You will, but not today.”
“But—”
He kissed her cheek and left without a word. She ran after him into the hallway, around the corner and straight into the monstrous bosom of Aunt Regina, carrying a small suitcase belonging to Carole.
“I’ve packed a few things for you. Your uncle Harold is waiting in the car.”
She opened her mouth to protest, saw the terrible look in her aunt’s eyes and changed her mind.
“Come now, Carole. A birthing is no place for a young girl.”
Carole followed her out, her mother’s muffled screams in her ears.
19
Solange
Osborn appeared at her bedside and reached for her hand. A contraction seized her, a giant fist squeezed in rage, and she lurched away.
“It’s not too late to go to the hospital, Solange.”
It was too late. The contractions were only minutes apart. The pain rolled through her lower back and into her groin, a fierce hot pressure. She panted, waiting, counting. The contraction eased. She fell against the pillow. “No.”
He let out an exasperated gasp. “But the doctor—”
“The doctor can have his babies wherever he wants. Is the midwife here?”
“She’s in the kitchen instructing Elsie.”
She nodded, saving her strength. Carole had been born in this house, but Osborn wanted a hospital birth because that’s what all the wealthy women had now. Osborn’s sister Regina had told her how they had drugs “so modern you didn’t have to be awake for any of it.” Solange needed her wits about her. She needed to see this child, to hold her in
her first moments and know whose she was. “Her,” because it was definitely a girl.
For her entire pregnancy, Solange had suffered in turmoil, knowing the child’s parentage would determine her fate but not knowing which outcome she dreaded more. If the child was Caleb’s, Osborn might throw her out. That she could handle, even welcome, were it not for Carole, whom Solange was certain Osborn would withhold from her as punishment. Hadn’t he shown himself capable of that? Solange had hardly been able to bear the sight of her daughter these long months, knowing what she had jeopardized. Self-recrimination had made Solange physically ill.
If the baby was Osborn’s, Solange would be bound tighter to a man she neither loved nor respected. She would lose her integrity, what little she might yet salvage. Carole would hardly be better off living in such a household. Either way, the baby would be born into regret, and perhaps shame, and that, too, had sickened Solange. In her bleakest moments, her despair was so great she considered taking her own life, but her love for Carole and the blameless child inside her caused her to turn from that idea.
Another contraction gripped her. She gasped, clutching the bedspread. Osborn stared at her helplessly. He saw nothing but his wife in the throes of labor.
The contraction grew stronger, steel bands cinched tighter and tighter. The pain dissolved the sympathy she had for Osborn. She could not bear his obliviousness, especially of his own culpability. Not now.
She spoke through clenched teeth. “Leave. Please.”
“I’ll see if the doctor can come.” He left, casting an uneasy glance over this shoulder.
• • •
The baby howled as the midwife wiped her down, swabbed alcohol on the cord and swaddled her. Solange was disoriented and couldn’t guess how long the labor had lasted. Late in the birthing, when the contractions came so hard and fast she had no desire in her soul except that it would end, she’d been vaguely aware of a male voice barking orders. A pinch in her arm had followed, and she’d been floating since.
Yet her baby’s cries pulled a warm throb from deep inside. The midwife handed the child to her, as one would pass a loaf of bread across a counter, and moved about the room collecting her belongings.
Elsie bundled up soiled linens and towels, paused at the foot of the bed and offered a tired smile. “I’ll bring you a fresh washcloth in a minute. And some tea.”
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded as if it came from across the room.
She arranged the swaddled baby in the crook of her arm and pushed a bed pillow under her elbow for support. Her daughter whimpered, her face red and puckered from the trauma of coming into the world. As the baby quieted, the fullness of her lips became plain. Despite everything, Solange smiled at her daughter’s innocent perfection.
One night with him, and this.
She unbuttoned her nightgown and gave her daughter her breast. She stroked the child’s cheek with her fingertip and brushed the coal black strands from her tiny brow.
A damp layer of dread settled over Solange. “It’s all right, little one.”
Her first lie to her child.
• • •
She woke slowly, as if swimming up from a great depth. The room was dim. A dull ache pulsed in her groin. She placed her hand on her belly. The baby. Panic roused her. She rolled over to find Osborn in a chair beside the bed. In the bassinet next to him, the baby mewled.
“Are you all right, darling?” he asked.
She nodded, fear awakening in her chest, sending spikes down her arms. “Could you please give me the baby?”
He rose and lifted her with all of the tenderness he’d shown Carole as a newborn. Solange, groggy, pushed herself to sitting.
He placed the child in her arms. “She’s beautiful.”
“Yes.” She slipped her nightdress from her shoulder, her fingers trembling.
“Elsie says black hair often falls out. A different color follows.”
“I’ve heard that.” She watched the child close her eyes in contentment, her tiny fist unfurling. Solange felt her husband’s eyes on her. He sensed something was wrong, no doubt, but for months she’d hidden behind the pregnancy, the illness. Now the baby was here and did not belong to him. In anticipating this moment, she had vowed not to lie or pussyfoot around the truth. She might have gotten away with passing off the child as his—and had, in fact, considered it several times—but could not. This shred of honesty held all her remaining dignity.
Solange looked up from the baby and faced her husband. He smiled at her in the tired, cautious way he’d adopted. She pitied him for having fallen in love with her; he could not be responsible for that. Her pity exposed the revelation that if the child had been his, she would have stayed with him. She would have done her best for their daughters and, therefore, for him if the coin had landed the other way up.
Osborn saw the shift in her and edged forward in his chair. “Solange,” he whispered.
The truth. He’d have to live with the truth. They all would.
“Osborn, you are not the father of this child.”
He frowned. “What did you say?”
“This child is not yours.”
“Not mine?” He sprang to his feet. “Not mine? What are you talking about, Solange?”
She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry.
Osborn’s eyes narrowed. He was thinking of the last months, the last year, perhaps further back, perhaps unraveling their life to the beginning, slotting in this new information, recalibrating. “What are you saying? Are you saying you had an affair?”
“I’m sorry.” And she was. For him. For herself. She was very sorry for the baby. And for Carole most of all.
“Sorry?” His voice was a keening. He paced the room, then halted suddenly. “Whose is it?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He laughed, the first syllables bursting out, then sliding into a harrowing sound, like a dog that had been kicked. He stood rigid, his face knotted, his eyes searching.
“It matters to me! You are my wife! Who is it?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you love him?”
“No.”
He balled his hands into fists, punched the air above his head, again and again. “You betray me. You destroy our family, and for what?”
Solange drew her knees up, held the baby closer. Her heart beat in her ears.
Osborn strode to the closed door as if he meant to go straight through it, then took two steps toward the bed and thrust his finger at her. “You won’t have Carole! Whatever you do, whatever it is you think you want in this world, you will not have Carole!”
He yanked the door open and slammed it as he left. The baby startled as if electrocuted and released a cry Solange felt in her marrow.
20
Carole
Early the next morning, Carole awoke, confused at first by the too-heavy bedclothes and the strange angle of the light. Remembering where she was, she found her robe on a chair by the bed and ran downstairs to the breakfast room where Aunt Regina sipped her tea and Uncle Harold hid behind the Free Press.
Carole flew to her aunt’s side, her heart fluttering. “Is the baby here?”
“‘Good morning’ would be a better start.”
“I’m sorry! Good morning! But what about the baby?”
She set her teacup onto the saucer. “Late last night, your mother gave birth to a girl.”
Carole’s breath caught in her throat. “When can I see her? Can we go now?”
“No, we certainly cannot. Your mother needs to rest. Now get dressed and brush your hair. You look like a ragamuffin.”
Carole was trapped at Aunt Regina’s for three more nights before she decided to take charge of things. Even if her mother was tired, Carole knew she could help her, not add to her burden. It was Easter Sunday. She would have le
ft first thing that morning, but missing church on Easter seemed a poor idea, adding to the deceit of leaving the house without permission. After church, she told her aunt she had a stomachache and went to her room. She put on her most comfortable shoes and a sweater and crept downstairs. The voices of her aunt and uncle came from the parlor, and someone clattered in the kitchen. She slinked down the hall and out the back door.
She knew the way home. It was far, maybe three miles, but she was determined to meet her new sister. She hurried along the sidewalk, leaping over mud puddles and making sure to watch for vehicles at the corners. The sun heated her back and the air smelled of garden soil and earthworms. Here and there, tender green shoots had appeared. Daffodils, maybe. Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten since before services. Maybe, she thought, after she held the baby for a while and helped her mother, she could go to Aunt Bettina’s for Easter dinner with her father. Or they could save her a plate.
She entertained herself by picturing what the baby would look like. Her feet became sore—she wasn’t used to so much walking—and once she almost got lost, but soon the neighborhood became familiar and she knew she was home. Home free!
Carole ran up the steps but hesitated at the door. She would have to be careful not to be caught and sent back to Aunt Regina’s before she saw her mother and her sister. She opened the door slowly—it was always unlocked during the day—and was relieved to see the parlor empty. She headed for the stairs, listening for sounds from the kitchen or from the hall that led to her father’s office.
A grating noise—a pot sliding across the stove—came from the kitchen. Elsie, probably.
She must be quick! Her heart beat in her ears as she tiptoed up the stairs, scurried down the corridor to her parents’ room and listened at the door.