Dead Wrong (22 page)

“No, there was nothing wrong with that situation as far as he was concerned, even with another family. And he didn’t mention an abortion for the simple reason that he didn’t want me to have one. And why not? I can’t believe he has any religious scruples or any kind of qualm about abortion. But, if he’d demanded or even suggested it, and if I’d agreed, he’d have had no reason to break up with me … That’s it, don’t you see?

“It was made to order,” Maureen continued. “It must have seemed to Charlie like a gift from out of the blue. It was time. It was time to get rid of me. Oh, maybe there was no particular hurry. Maybe he saw this big promotion coming. He’d be moving into a different stratum. He’d have his picture in the paper. They always do that with a big promotion in a major corporation. They’d publish his vital statistics, including the fact that he had a family. The item would a pleasant little surprise to his family, of course. But it would be more than a little surprise to me.

“No, it was time to get rid of me. And I handed him the reason for it on a silver platter: I got pregnant.”

Maureen was smiling ironically: She had unwittingly collaborated in the destruction of her own love affair.

“I got pregnant,” Maureen repeated. “It was my fault.
It was my fault!
Can you imagine?
I
stopped taking the pill. The fact that I was pregnant was
my
fault. It was
my
fault that he had to break up with me. It wasn’t
his
fault at all. He must have thought he had written the script. How could I have been such an idiot? How could I have been such a fool!”

There followed a long silence.

The waitress approached tentatively. She could sense that the mood of these three women had changed, and that something terribly serious—even tragic—was being discussed.

Did they want anything more? Oona declined, and paid the bill, leaving a generous tip.

Still, none of the three could speak.

“I hope to God you get him,” Oona spat. “I hope you nail him!”

“Oona, dear, that doesn’t sound very Christian,” Eileen responded. But inwardly she agreed with Oona.

“The very least you can do,” Oona said, “is to get him for child support. And, with this promotion, he’ll be able to contribute quite a nice sum, I do believe. That, and it’s about time his wife knew of your existence. Yessirree, it’s about time Charlie Nash began to pay the piper.”

“No!” Maureen startled her sisters with the vehement tone of finality. “No. Don’t either of you do anything. I’ve got to think this through. Until now, I’ve been seeing all that’s happened to me in one way. Now everything is topsy-turvy. I’m not much older, but a whole lot wiser. I have a premonition that what I do next is going to change my life forever. What I do next is liable to change a lot of lives.”

She looked at them and smiled—a strong, warm, genuine smile. “God love you, dears. I know you are not only my sisters, but you’re the dearest friends I have in the world. Now, I may have to ask you to trust me without knowing everything I’m doing.

“For some strange reason, I feel as if I’ve switched places. From being a helpless passenger, I may be in the driver’s seat now. Just, please, believe in me!”

“We will,” Oona said.

“We do,” Eileen said.

C H A P T E R

17

E
VERYTHING SEEMED SO WHITE
: the walls, the cabinets, the towels, the fixtures, and, most of all, the ceiling. She had nothing to do but look at the ceiling while hurting all the time and tensing for the next incredibly painful contraction.

Every so often the nurse would come in to take her blood pressure and check for dilation. The nurse was pleasant enough, but she gave the impression of having done this too many times. She seemed untouched by Maureen’s wondrous and frightening new experience.

Back in Chicago, just a couple of days ago, Ethel had tried to prepare Maureen for the delivery that was imminent. The information and advice was helpful and appreciated but nothing could convey this reality.

For one, Ethel had not adequately described the pain. Maybe birthing had been relatively easy for her. Maybe she’d forgotten the special pain of a firstborn. Maybe there just weren’t words to do the job.

For quite some time now, Maureen had been second-guessing the decisions she’d made.

One of those decisions was to enter the hospital on her own. Both Oona and Eileen had argued long and hard against that. They wanted to be with her. But Maureen refused. Her only explanation was that having her sisters—or anyone, for that matter—with her did not fit into her plans.

So, against her sisters’ strong opposition, Maureen had come to the hospital directly from the train that had brought her from Chicago.

She had been alone.

Alone when she rode in the cab to the hospital. For once, she’d wished for a talkative driver. It might have proven a distraction from the inevitability of her destination. But, just her luck, the driver kept his eyes on the road and his own counsel as the meter ticked away.

Alone when she checked into the hospital. She hadn’t been a hospital patient since a childhood appendectomy. This process was new to her but routine to the clerk, who, like Joe Friday of “Dragnet,” got just the facts, in just about the same disinterested, mechanical manner as the fictional police officer had used.

From the registration desk, Maureen was taken to her room, which she would share for the moment with another maternity patient. This woman had just lost her baby through complications during delivery. All this, Maureen learned by just one question. After that, it was clear the woman did not want to discuss her private tragedy further. She was merely waiting for the process of discharge. So, once again, at a time when Maureen wanted to talk to someone, especially one who had been through the actual event, she was, instead, very much alone.

This business of loneliness had dogged her footsteps for the past six months. And that time had taken its toll.

In the beginning it had been self-inflicted; she had freely removed herself from her relatives and friends to endure exile in a city of strangers. Now it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It seemed that everywhere she turned for companionship, she found only walls of isolation and silence. It was more than beginning to reach her.

There was another decision she’d made that was making her think again. That was the determination to use no anesthetics or painkillers. She wasn’t trying to be either heroic or idiotic. She feared that if this process were in any way numbed or deadened by painkillers, she would too easily forgive what Charles Nash had done to her.

She reasoned that if she tasted to the dregs whatever measure of discomfort and pain that pregnancy and delivery might entail, and if she endured without the solace loved ones would normally contribute, she would never, ever, forget or forgive Charles Nash.

A
CCORDING TO
the wall clock, she had been in labor now for almost thirteen hours.

That was longer—much longer—than she had expected, even though her doctor had cautioned that labor with a first child could be prolonged—and perhaps problematic. The doctor had been right on the money: This child was a problem.

For a considerable time, contractions had been coming every five to seven minutes. At first, she tried to swallow the pain. She did not want to appear a weakling, particularly since it had been her own idea to forgo any painkilling drugs.

After a while, it just wasn’t worth the effort to appear brave. She started to whimper. But once the barrier had been lowered, she cried out unreservedly. All that accomplished was a slight venting of emotion; it did nothing to alleviate the pain.

The contractions intensified in their now all-too-predictable regularity. The baby stayed floating comfortably in its warm amniotic fluid. The womb retained its occupant. The nurse continued her periodic visits, measuring the cervical dilation, taking Maureen’s blood pressure, checking the baby’s heartbeat.

The nurse seemed genuinely solicitous. But as much as she might wish to stay with Maureen, it was impossible; there were other laboring mothers to tend. So, once again, Maureen was alone and in incredible agony.

In her misery, she resolved not to make any more resolutions. Then she sank once more into the dreadful depths.

T
HERE WERE SCREAMS
that didn’t seem to stop. Why wouldn’t they stop? Through the haze of grinding pain, she felt a hand on her arm. It was her doctor, and, as the screams abated, she realized they were her own screams. The doctor was talking to her, she knew that; she could see his lips moving. She tried to focus on what he was saying.

The doctor, who was well aware of her decision to forgo drugs, was offering her a heavy dose of Demerol.

Maureen wavered not an instant. She declined the doctor’s humane offer.

After that, there was nothing for him to do but wait for her to deliver. And there was nothing for her to do but wait for whatever it was that persuaded an unborn baby to be born.

The doctor did not want to see her suffer. But it did make things easier for the child. Because any analgesic she received would pass on to her baby. And, so far as anyone knew, the baby did not need a painkiller.

It was also better for the postpartum mother in that without drugs her recovery would be far more speedy.

And so, everyone waited. There was nothing else to be done. For Maureen’s part, she would never, ever, forget this ordeal.

Then, it happened.

Or so it seemed.

Her water broke. Her cervix dilated measurably. “It’s time, honey,” the nurse said.

Like a well-oiled machine, a tried and true routine slipped into high gear. Maureen was wheeled into the delivery room. All that white was replaced by green. Her doctor arrived almost simultaneously, along with another nurse, who, in time, seemed redundant. Maureen’s feet were once again placed in stirrups. The position was so familiar by now, she felt like a pony express rider hopping from horse to horse.

The doctor’s head disappeared behind the sheet stretched across her knees. “It’ll be just a little while now, Maureen.”

She groaned.

“Lucy,” the doctor addressed the nurse positioned next to Maureen’s head, “did I tell you about the guy who was touring in Ireland and was having trouble finding a place to stay the night in one of those little villages?”

“No … not that I remember,” she said tentatively.

Maureen almost bit through her lip.

“He finally got to the last possible bed-and-breakfast place in the village, but the owner told him they had no rooms. So the tourist was reduced to begging for any place to sleep. Finally, the owner said he did have one empty bed, but it was in a room where another man was staying. And this guy snored so loud he kept the cows awake; the tourist would never get any rest in that room.”

Maureen could not find any humor anywhere in the world.

“But the tourist assured the owner that arrangement would be fine. So, against his better judgment, the owner let the tourist have the extra bed. Next morning the tourist was up bright and early for breakfast, well rested and everything. The owner couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘You slept?’ he asked.

“
‘Like a baby,’ the tourist answered.

“‘How’d you do that? … with that snorer in the room and all that?’

“‘Simple,’ the tourist said. ‘Just before I went to bed, I kissed him.’”

Maureen screamed.

Light-humor time was over. “Okay,” the doctor said, “when I tell you, push.”

The nurse, so close that her head was almost touching Maureen’s, began coaching her to breathe in rhythm with the contractions.

“Now!” the doctor commanded.

With a half scream, half grunt, Maureen complied.

Several “Nows” later, the doctor said, “Okay, here we go! Now!”

The nurse repeated the “Now.” Maureen, covered with perspiration, pushed with what was left of her might. Would this go on forever? Logic told her it would end. But logic had little impact in the face of this protracted pain.

“Uh-oh,” the doctor said. “We’ve got a stargazer …” The rest of his words were lost to Maureen.

“What?
What?”
Maureen tried to see what was going on, but, on the one hand, she couldn’t raise her head enough, and, on the other, the draped sheet blocked her vision.

“The baby was coming out face up,” the nurse explained. “The doctor has to turn it.”

“Oh, my God!” Maureen shrieked.

“Oh, Lord!” the doctor exclaimed, “Now it’s turned sideways! I’m gonna have to use forceps. Okay, Maureen, hold on. Don’t push for a minute.”

She fainted.

She came to as the nurse was, as gently as possible, shaking her and slapping her face.

“What? What? Stop!” Maureen shrieked.

“Okay, Maureen,” the doctor said. “I’ve got the baby turned and it’s ready to come out. We need your help. Now, again, when I tell you,
push!”

She did, again and again, grunting with the effort and screaming with the pain. But her screams grew increasingly guttural and her grunts weaker. Maureen was at the end of her rope.