The Unwelcomed Child (6 page)

Something significant had happened when I reached my fifteenth birthday, and I don’t mean my grandparents breaking all their rules and taking me out to a restaurant for dinner. There was something more going on. I could feel it in the house, especially in the way my grandfather spoke to me and stood up for me at times. I knew from some of my reading that some Hispanic people celebrate the
quinceañera
to mark a girl’s fifteenth birthday, but there was nothing remotely Hispanic about my grandparents. I think Grandfather Prescott just took a longer look at me right before my fifteenth birthday or right after it and concluded that they should loosen the bonds that chained me so tightly. My little-girl days had ended.

Finally, one night, I overheard a somewhat heated conversation about me going on in their bedroom. Their bedroom and what had been my mother’s were upstairs, but the house wasn’t insulated enough between rooms to keep all conversations and other sounds muted. At times, I could hear the murmur of their voices seemingly raining down on me through the ceiling, but if I was close to the stairway and their bedroom door was open, as I think it almost always was, I could hear their conversations more clearly, especially if one of them raised his or her voice.

“You should ease up on her,” I heard my grandfather say with more volume and emphasis than he usually had when speaking to my grandmother. Immediately, I knew I was the “her” he referred to. I carefully took a few steps up on the stairway to listen better. The banister was just a little shaky, so I avoided putting any weight on it. So many places in this house creaked and moaned. If a house could get arthritis, this one would definitely qualify. Maybe it had been cleaned and scrubbed too much.

I wasn’t formally forbidden to go upstairs. I was often sent up there to fetch something, and, of course, I was up there a number of times during the week to wash floors, windows, and bathroom fixtures. I polished furniture, made beds, changed the linen, and collected used towels and washcloths, returning with the ones washed and dried to stack them neatly in the bathroom closet. I also had to be sure the soap and toilet paper were replaced. I supposed if I had to go out and work for a living, I could easily get a job as a hotel chambermaid.

I never was permitted to go into what had been my mother’s bedroom. That door was kept locked and the room never used. Maybe it was another one of their ways to keep the memory of her away. Even the windows in the room had their white curtains drawn tightly shut. I didn’t even wonder why I wasn’t eventually moved into it. That certainly wasn’t because it had been turned into a shrine. It was simply forbidden territory, a place where something immoral or evil once dwelt and encouraged my mother’s bad behavior. I didn’t know too many incidences illustrating what my grandmother considered her bad behavior. She would mention something in general occasionally, as if she was slowly building a case for why my mother’s fate was her own fault.

“Evil goes first where it’s well received,” she would say, and then tell me about my mother violating curfews, drinking alcohol with her friends, or getting in trouble at school. I imagined it was something like smoking in the bathroom or talking back to her teachers, but I was afraid to ask. It could show an innate interest in evil things.

The truth was, my grandparents had removed all traces of her, so it didn’t surprise me at all that they would ignore the existence of her room. I wondered if my grandmother went into it at least to keep it clean, since cleanliness was so sacred. If she did, she did it without my knowing. Maybe she did it very late at night when I was fast asleep and when my grandfather was also asleep. I easily could imagine her mumbling in there, cursing at dust webs.

Whenever I was in their bedroom alone, I would timidly search for any sign of anything that had to do with my mother. Just like downstairs, there were no pictures of her displayed, but I always wondered if I might come across something in a dresser drawer, maybe under some clothing, or in one of their closets. There were cartons all taped up on the floor of Grandmother Myra’s closet. I felt certain that any and all of my mother’s things that were once very visible in this bedroom and downstairs were in them, but I was afraid to pull away any of the tape to look. My grandmother would surely discover it and punish me for it.

My grandparents’ bedroom wasn’t much to look at. They had the same queen-size bed that they had when they had first moved into the house. The only thing I knew that they changed regularly were the mattresses, thanks to Grandfather Prescott’s business. Stacked in their garage were four new mattresses in boxes that he had taken for them when he had sold his business. Based on their own calculations from when they operated their manufacturing plant, they changed their own mattress once every five years. But the cherry-wood headboard with posts and embossed vines and leaves was never replaced. That and the footboard were polished and kept so well that anyone who didn’t know their vintage might think that they were relatively recent acquisitions.

Listening hard on the stairway, I didn’t hear my grandmother react to my grandfather’s comment, but this time, it appeared he wasn’t going to settle for her silence.

“I mean, what has she done seriously to disappoint you, Myra?” my grandfather persisted. I took another step up to hear her answer this question as clearly as I could. What would she say? She wasn’t coming after me these days because I asked or said something wrong. She was pleased with my schoolwork. She had even stopped criticizing my housework.

“It’s not what she has done, it’s what will she do? You never expected Deborah to be as loose with her morals as she was, did you?”

“Deborah was not as good a child as Elle is.”

“Exactly. Because of the tight rein we’ve kept on her and keeping her away from bad influences.”

They were both so quiet I thought that was that and was about to tiptoe back down the stairs. I turned, but my grandfather’s next comment froze me.

“We should consider letting her attend a public school soon, Myra. She has to learn how to deal with other people, or she will be at a disadvantage, and that could lead to worse things.”

“Public school,” she countered, making it sound like some den of iniquity, a place where eggs laid by Satan himself hatched daily.

“Just think about it, will you? She’s not a child anymore. She needs to grow in many ways. Don’t forget, it was Adam’s innocence that led him to sin. If you’ve never seen the devil, you won’t recognize him when he comes. You’ve said that.”

I heard her familiar grunt, which was not a yes and not a no. It wasn’t even a maybe. It was simply acknowledging that someday she’d have an answer. How I hoped it would be yes.

“Just think about it,” he repeated.

She said nothing.

I quickly tiptoed down the stairway and returned to my room to finish my reading. For the first time in a long time, however, I found myself doing more fantasizing than thinking.

It had been nearly ten days since my birthday dinner at Chipper’s, but a number of times, I had thought about the boy who was so handsome and had smiled so much at me. I replayed his “Happy birthday” in my mind and imagined him discovering who I was and where I lived. One day in my dream, he came over to see me. Naturally, in my fantasy, my grandmother would be appalled, but he would be so polite and deferential that she would have a very difficult time sending him off.

Grandfather Prescott particularly would enjoy his company and conversation. I envisioned all sorts of work his father did. Maybe he ran a factory, too, or managed another kind of enterprise, one that his son would take over when he was ready. I even thought of him as already being a college student, maybe studying business so that he and my grandfather would have an interesting discussion. My grandmother would sit and listen and reluctantly admit that he was a decent young man. Afterward, she would give permission for him to return, and days later, we would be more boyfriend and girlfriend than just acquaintances.

From there, I could see us holding hands, kissing, and maybe going a little further. I lay there pretending my hands were his and he was softly sliding them over my breasts and down my hips, over the small of my stomach, where my excitement began to build, my breath to quicken, and my heart to pound. When he touched me between my legs, I gasped. I put my hand on his wrist, but ever so gently, so that he didn’t stop.

“What are you doing, missy?” I heard my grandmother cry from the hallway outside my room. I was on my bed. In the dim light, her silhouette looked larger. She was in her nightgown, with her hair down. I had no idea how long she had been watching me. She stepped closer. She didn’t use makeup, but at night, she would put cold cream on her face, and when she moved from the shadows into brighter light, she looked as if she were wearing a Kabuki mask.

“Nothing,” I said. “I think . . . I’m going to have a monthly. Cramps,” I added.

She studied me for a moment. I held my breath. I grew up believing that if anyone could tell the difference between what was true and what wasn’t, she could.

“I’ll make you some raspberry tea,” she said.

I breathed in relief. The tea was one of her home remedies, and to be honest, it did help when I had the cramps.

“Thank you,” I said.

“It’s the only thing good about getting old,” she muttered. “That ends.”

I lay there calming myself. She called me when my tea was ready and watched me drink it. I could practically feel her eyes studying every part of me, every movement in my face, and every breath I took. I had learned not to be intimidated by the way she concentrated her gaze on me, even though it was as if she had X-ray eyes and could see through my skin. I imagined that by now, I didn’t have a gesture or an expression with which she wasn’t quite familiar. She probably was always comparing me with my mother, looking for some sign that I had inherited the worst part of her. Or even worse than that, something from my evil biological father.

Apparently, I passed her inspection. She didn’t look upset or critical. She looked surprisingly thoughtful. I knew something was coming. She wasn’t one to keep her thoughts to herself.

“Your grandfather thinks you might be ready to attend public school next semester,” she said. “How would you feel about that?”

I swallowed the remainder of my tea.
Be casual, almost indifferent,
I told myself.
If you show too much excitement, she’ll think it’s not right.

“I think I could manage the work,” I replied, shrugging.

“Of course you could manage the work,” she snapped back at me. “You’re most likely way ahead of other students your age. I’m not talking about the work. It’s how you would deal with children your age, who are brought up in liberal homes, homes where their parents ignore what they do. The devil influences those he hopes to capture by speaking through their friends, instigating, tempting, and drawing them to the abyss.”

“I’m not afraid of anyone’s influence over me. I feel stronger than they are,” I said. “Most of them probably don’t know much at all about the Bible and probably rarely say prayers except on Sundays.”

She seemed to like that response, but her smile evaporated quickly. “Beware of arrogance, missy. It leads to tragedy, moral and spiritual tragedy.”

“I know, Grandmother. You’ve shown me so many examples in the Bible.”

“Umm,” she said. It was better than a grunt. It was her thoughtful leaning to say or do something I might like. “We’ll see,” she said. “We’ll see. Get to bed early. It will help with your monthly.”

“I will. Thank you, Grandmother,” I said. I brought my cup to the sink, rinsed and washed and dried it, and put it back in the cupboard. She continued to watch me thoughtfully. “Good night,” I said.

“Say your prayers louder and stronger than ever, Elle,” she told me. She sounded a little softer, especially when she used my name and didn’t just call me “missy.” “The older a young girl gets, the closer she gets to temptation and damnation. This is not the time to forget them.”

“I won’t, Grandmother.”

She watched me walk into my room and waited to see me go down on my knees. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her leave and turn off the light, and then I rose.

I didn’t feel like prayers. I felt like dreams.

What if the handsome boy I had seen was not as old as I thought? What if he was really my age or only a year older and the same was true for his sister? Most important, what if he and she attended the school I would enter?

I envisioned my first day. After I was registered, I started for my homeroom, and lo and behold, there he was, coming down the hallway toward me, with his friends around him listening to his every word and hoping for his approval, because there was no way to think of him as being anything else but the most popular boy in the school. The moment he saw me, he paused and smiled. He looked as if he had just had one of his wonderful fantasies come to life, too. He told his friends to go on without him. They all looked from him to me and nodded, looking sly. Maybe they kidded him with some silly words of encouragement. Maybe they were jealous.

“Hi,” he said. “You’re the birthday girl.”

And it would begin.

I curled up on my bed, embracing my pillow as if I were embracing him. I caressed it softly with my lips the way I would caress his face and find his lips. We would kiss and hold each other so tightly, until he relaxed, the words flowing from his warm breath, words of love, words that magically touched my heart.

As I fantasized, I could feel waves of surprisingly new and stronger excitement building in my body. I pressed my comforter between my legs and kissed my pillow. The strong feeling undulated down from my breasts, over my stomach, to settle between my legs. I couldn’t keep myself from moaning ever so slightly. The shock of how my feelings exploded again and again brought the blood up from my neck. I almost couldn’t breathe. Terrified of myself, I froze for a few moments and then pushed the pillow and the comforter away. I turned over onto my back and looked up at the picture of the baby Jesus. I knew it was only my imagination, but he looked unhappy, even a little angry.