Infinity's Daughter (6 page)

The loss of Edward shocked me in a way that I never could have imagined. The complete and utter devastation, my own wish to exit the world, and the complete collapse of my family that followed was among the aftermath of the reality that set in after his departure. My life had once again been turned upside down, the rug pulled out from underneath me, with nothing remaining but the cold, bare floor to curl up against and harden me to the world. I found myself aching for my family, for the past, or rather the future, and yearning for a change that would never come, more than I ever had.

At night, the fog began to appear thicker than before, and delusion along with it. I began to sit up at my window once again, waiting for my father to appear mystically out of the air, materializing in front of me and whisking me back to my time. I would age back as we moved through time and space, and I would wake up in my twin bed in Holt Michigan, with the nicely paved streets and the green little lawns and the Olds Cutlass parked out front.

I still loved Sam, and wanted nothing more than to be with him, but the pain I felt when I looked into his eyes was too much to bear. I saw Edward in his smile, and in the cerulean sea of his iris, begging me to come back to him and love him, as we were before the fates stole my son right out of my arms. I hoped that we, just ourselves, would fall back in time together. Perhaps to a different era all together. And we could start over again, as I had in 1900, and live a new life, devoid of the pain of our past.

When I would finally manage to go to sleep, crawling reluctantly into bed next to Sam, sobbing at his comfort, but wanting nothing else in the world, I would hear cries in my dreams. Cries from baby Edward, reaching out for help, pleading for me to stop the pain, stop the fever and stop the chills. I regularly woke up to find myself standing in his room, hovering over the empty crib, or thrashing in my bed, screaming his name while Sam resisted my kicks, and comforted me into quiet and I wept in his arms. I was living in a nightmare.

But during the day, the fog would roll back, allowing me to see things for how the world had really come to be. I tried to go for walks, on the recommendation of the doctor, as well as the Sullivans and Sam, who were all deeply concerned about my wellbeing. At first, I only managed to go down the block, but eventually, I would make my way into Central Park, and sit at the edge of the fountain where Sam proposed. I watched the families playing in the park with their children; their soft little faces getting color in the sun, or rosy in the cold. And it was then I came to the understanding that it was not uncommon for children to die at a young age, or even at birth. In fact, as I had learned from some of the girls in the reading group and my doctor, the maternal mortality rate was very high, and I was lucky to have survived the pregnancy itself. Part of me wished I had been taken with Edward, and we could have moved onto the afterlife together. But as my walks grew longer, and the days became clearer, I yearned moreover to be back in my own time, for Sam to be an engineer at General Motors, and for us to live in 1999 with Edward, and our future children, with medical miracles and television. It was then that I became more dismayed than anything, and began to recoil inward; to my quiet self that I was when I landed in the turn of the twentieth century.

To console me, Sam cut his hours back whenever he could. We began our daily walking once again, as we had when I was pregnant with Edward. Sam loved me more than I could have ever imagined was possible. Despite his own heartache and devastation over our loss his resilience, driven by, I believe, his love for me, was incredible. He became my only solace. Each day, without him trying to hurry me, I felt more serene in his presence once again. Seeing Edward in his eyes became almost something of comfort; it was a chance to see my little boy again, and the wonderful life that Sam and I had created together. I began taking him back to the fountain, and we would sit and watch the children playing. The pain never subsided, but I slowly accepted that we could carry the burden together, supporting each other rather than recoiling from one another in the face of gloom.

And in sharing the burden of our despair, we began to love each other more deeply. We slept closely again, and made love. I yearned for Sam, but I was petrified of getting pregnant again; I couldn’t bear another loss. And quite honestly, I didn’t think I would survive it. And all was well, and we both began to heal between each other, until the news came. Two years after losing Edward, I found myself again with child. It came like a kick in the gut.

“Sam,” I said to him. I was sitting on the bed in a little negligee, my feet tucked underneath me, staring back out the window of our chamber. “I
can’t
do this again.”

Sam wanted so badly for us to have another child, to have us become a family again. His biggest fear was my falling back into another depression, should anything happen, wrestling with torment and death. He was torn between two realities, and he didn’t know how to respond.

“Lucy,” he said softly, placing his hand on my back, “what about hope? We have to have hope. This child could live, and we could have a family again—a beautiful, wonderful family.”

I furrowed my brow. “You don’t think I want that too?” My eyes began to well up with tears. “I’m just so afraid,” I whispered, “if this child dies, and there’s such a risk that it will happen, I think I will lose myself. And I don’t think I will come back…” I sniffled, choking back a cry. “I don’t have any hope anymore.”

Sam held me, and began to weep softly against my neck. I could feel his hot tears against my skin, the wetness sinking into his mustache.

“Darling,” he whispered again, “the only other option is just as dangerous, you know that.” He wiped his eyes, then pulling me closer. “If I lost you and our child…I…I…” He couldn’t finish.

“You could lose me too while giving birth,” I said flatly, tears drying on my cheeks. “I was so lucky last time, but you know the risk. You know what can happen.”

He tucked his head into his chest and clung to me, sinking his head into my breasts. I could feel his body trembling as he choked back quiet sobs. Without any option, without almost any hope, the pregnancy continued, and I soon became heavy with child again. Each day, as my belly grew and I could feel the life forming inside of me, I found myself wishing for a miscarriage; against God, against my family, and against Sam. The joy and excitement we had felt before when I was pregnant with Edward had turned to fear and dismay. It was a sullen hope that was laced with pain and suffering. Any dreams were tarnished with the blood of reality. Even Sam, in his fear of losing the baby and me, became reticent. He was still unconditionally supportive, but in a distant, haunted way. What was hidden by his actions, I could see in his eyes. Each day the inevitable grew closer, he became more fraught with fear.

Adelle once again became my saving grace. She brought the girls from the reading group over to help me redecorate Edward’s room. She said blissfully, “We cannot run from the past, we can only wash the slate clean and start over.”

I had insisted that the room not be touched since his passing. Besides in my night terrors, I did not go in the room often. It brought back too many memories. Standing there, in the room with her, and his little teddy bear and tiny crib, I felt numb. I didn’t know what was happening, and I didn’t know where I belonged. My turn of the century paradise that had come to feel more like home than my own time now felt stale and meaningless. I felt like a nomad, traveling between universes without any real purpose, without any real hope. I was merely existing.

We swapped out the furniture, not wanting any of the sickness that took Edward to linger, and possibly harm our child in the making. The book club girls were so wonderful. They scrubbed the walls and floors, and even hired a painter to come in and freshen things up. They went with a light yellow, not knowing the sex of the child, and being able to tailor the room to however we pleased. I had tea and cakes with them, and I helped, as I was able. Eventually, they convinced me to start coming to the readings again, which I did. I was still quiet, but their company lifted my spirits a bit. They were just so sweet. And although we were of the same age, and I had attended many of their baby showers and weddings also, I felt so much older. The weight of the years and the sorrow made me feel more aged than I was. Though, fortunately, I didn’t look it.

Three months before I was due, Adelle threw the most beautiful baby shower. The girls helped, of course, and Sam and John went out to the country for the weekend so we could have a ‘ladies’ day’. Adelle, insisting that the child was a girl, bought all sorts of pink flowers and cakes with little dollops of pink frosting plopped on top of them. The crepe paper, however, was blue. She did want to be diplomatic, she said, just in case her intuition was wrong.

I was relatively well during the shower. All of the girls were my friends, and even a couple of women whose husbands were in the force attended. Everyone was very cordial, and very kind. The treats were delicious, and Adelle had planned everything down to a T, as she always did. However, after the gifts were opened and the ladies left, Adelle and I sat quietly in the living room on the sculpted, Victorian sofa, and I felt myself sliding back into dejection.

I was twirling a little paper flower on my stomach, between my fingers. Adelle was watching me, carefully.

I looked up at the little decorations, and the crepe paper. It reminded me so vividly of my birthday party in 1987, when I received my little Rainbow Brite roller skates, and I had watched my father pull out the crepe paper and twist it around the ceiling. I had no energy left to cry, but silent tears rolled down my face.

“Lucy,” Adelle whispered, “Lucy, it’s alright…I know how hard this has been for you.” Her face was discreet and compassionate, her brow furrowed up in affection.

I sniffled, watching the little flower spin around the indent in my dress just above my belly button. I thought about the child that lay just inside of me. I felt sick.

“Adelle,” I said, tears continuing to roll out of the corners of my eyes, but my voice didn’t waiver, “I don’t feel anything. It scares me. I felt so connected to Edward when he was inside of me, but this child, I feel nothing. It feels like something foreign, and distant. And I’m scared.” I didn’t look at her when I spoke, but continued to watch the little flower between my fingers.

Adelle sighed, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. She thought for a moment and then put a hand on my shoulder. “I know I’m not your mother, Lucy, but I love you like my daughter.” She paused. I looked at her then. “I was fortunate to never lose a child, but I was never granted the gift of carrying one, either. With every tragedy comes hope and renewal, that is the balance of life. I know you may not believe me, but as someone who has been around through the years, I’ve seen many things, and this is something I am certain of.” She gave my shoulder a little squeeze and rubbed it lovingly.

I loved Adelle, I truly did, but her words of wisdom fell on deaf ears that day. I was overcome with grief and fretfulness about the weeks to come. The years to come. It was as if I was waiting for tragedy to come knocking on my door, and hoping that I wouldn’t be the one to answer. I sniffled again and nodded my head.

“Thank you,” I said, putting my hand on hers. “I love you; you and John have been so wonderful to me. I would have been lost without you.” My face was very pale, and I looked away from her then, putting my hands back on my swollen belly. “I just can’t escape it. I miss everyone I’ve ever lost…my mother, my father…Edward…” My voice broke when I said his name. “I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore. And I am so scared for the future.” In my mind, images of my birthday cake, my father’s fluttering image drifting in and out, Edward holding my finger with his tiny hand, and my mother at her window, waiting in tears for no one to arrive, swept over my mind. I began to sob then, and Adelle pulled my head onto her breast. My shoulders shook, and my belly moved quietly up and down with my breath. I could only hope that the child inside of me was detached enough, as I was, to not feel my pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whispered to Adelle through my tears.

“No,” she said, “you have nothing to apologize for. It will all get better in time, trust me, dear, I have hope for you, it will all soften in time…” She held me and rocked me there, on the little floral couch.

And that was when I realized. My enemy was time. It was not the flu, it was not my father’s carelessness. It was not my father’s curse. I was running against time. Trying to fight something that I could not overcome, even as I had traveled against it. Time was harboring me, and watching me get beaten down, over and over, in a cyclical manner. But time had no concern; it had no schedule and no remorse. As I lay there with my head in Adelle's lap, I began wishing that it would all just stop. That time would vanish, everything would cease to change, and I could simply exist.

A few weeks later, in the chilling winter months in the dark of the city, I gave birth to my second child. A beautiful little girl who we named Susan Kay.

Adelle’s wisdom proved to be true. Little Susan Kay quickly became the light of my life. In the year 1914, Susan turned four the same year that our nation recognized Mother’s Day as a national holiday for the first time. Quite frankly I had forgotten about it until that time, and tried not to think of it each year as May rolled around, for the pain of picturing my mother, sitting alone in her house each year without me, hoping that my father was lucky enough to be there with her.

But that year, in 1914, little Susan had learned of Mother’s Day. I expect it was Sam who told her. I woke up to find her dancing at the foot of my bed, with a little bundle of flowers and waving a card around. Her giggles woke me up, and she gasped and closed her mouth, cupping her hand over it when she saw me stir. “Sorry, Mommy!” she whispered. I smiled and motioned for her to come nearer. “Happy Mother’s Day,” she said, “You’re the best mommy in the whole world, I love you.” A smile spread across her little face, and she reached out with the gifts in both hands, her soft little cheeks rosy with delight.

“Susan,” I smiled, completely overjoyed, “What is this?”

Susan clasped her hands together and twisted back and forth nervously, waiting for my approval. I heard another noise, and saw Sam standing in the doorway, smiling ear to ear.

The bouquet was tied with a little purple ribbon. It held daisies, baby’s breath, and some lovely soft pink roses. The card was hand-made, from the stationery we had in a little desk in Sam’s office. The cover of the card was a stick-figure family standing on a grassy hill under an enormous yellow sun with a smile on its face. The inside of the card read, in crooked and timid handwriting,
I love you Momy, Your the best
, with little pink hearts floating around the slanted characters. The biggest smile I could manage spread across my face, and modest tears of joy welled up in my eyes. I hadn’t been so happy in years. The joy that my daughter brought to me, in her good health and happiness, could not be explained. And on that first Mother’s Day, in 1914, I knew that Adelle’s words had rung true. My pain and my tragedy had opened up to unimaginable joy once again. I would hang onto it as long as I could. Susan was my everything and we were inseparable.

My baby was a gorgeous little girl. She had Sam’s golden tresses, which fell in curls across her face and down to her shoulders. Her hair was light and elastic, and the curls jumped up from her shoulders and tickled her cheeks whenever she was excited, hopping around the house. But unlike Sam, she had my green eyes. They complemented her marvelously, and whenever she smiled she always looked just a little mischievous, her eyes taking everything in quickly, and analyzing the world around her. She was brilliant and beautiful.

Susan now joined me on my daily walks. Sam was very busy on the force, and had recently been promoted to Chief Detective. But Susan and I didn’t mind. We strolled together, hand in hand, down the streets of New York. I would tie tiny bows in her hair, wrapping them around her curls and complementing the color of her dress. Strangers would stop on the street to admire her, telling her how lovely she was. But she never let it go to her head. We would go to Central Park and feed the pigeons, just like Edward and I used to do, and Susan would smile graciously and tell anyone who complimented her, “thank you,” in a quiet little voice, smiling timidly and tracing circles with her softened leather shoes in the dirt.

Adelle gave her weekly manners lessons, over tea. She and John would come into town for the weekend, and on Friday mornings, she would take Susan with her to a little tea house for an hour, sometimes two, and sit with her, patiently telling her of all the polite and respectful things you had to do as a lady, but more importantly, as a person. Sam and I went to meet them one day. It was a precious sight to see. Little Susan with her legs swinging happily from the tall wooden chair perched across from Adelle, both stirring their tea while it sat in a little china cup on top of a saucer. They always had sweets, also, but no more than two. Adelle would shake her finger at me and tell me that she would not be responsible for having a pudgy granddaughter.

The summer after Susan had turned four, Sam and I decided to hire a tutor for her, in preparation for her start in primary school the following year. She loved learning, too, and we knew she would jump at the start of having her very own teacher to work with, and to challenge her supple and inquisitive young mind.

The tutor that we selected was a peculiar and inquisitive little man. His name was Mr. Brady, and he looked somewhat like a hobgoblin. He was very small, and he had a curved nose and crooked little fingers from years of arthritis. But he was brilliant. He gave lessons to all of our friends’ children in the neighborhood, and was known throughout the Upper West Side as being the tutor’s tutor. He had studied early childhood education in university, and was renowned for his work in child psychology. I was happy to learn that he had not been overwhelmingly influenced by the work of Dr. Freud, who was beginning to make his appearance quite exponentially on the American scene. He was very good with children, and Susan took to him very quickly. Sam and I were both very happy with him, and took him on full time.

Mr. Brady came over three days a week. He would crouch on a little stool next to Susan on the floor of the living room, and would teach her all of the classics. He read her literature, including ancient Greek mythologies, and taught her basic algebra—counting with little marbles and stones. He even began to teach her French, as was the way with upper middle class socialites in New York City.

“
Est-ce que je peux s’il vous plait prendre un chocolat chaud, Monsieur Brady?
” Susan quipped. Mr. Brady found her wit very impressive, and enjoyed teaching her. Now and then Mr. Brady would reprimand Susan for giggling too much, or for not sitting still. She would blush, very embarrassed that she had acted out of turn, and Mr. Brady would smile, acknowledging that it was alright, and that she was not at fault but should listen better next time. Susan was very astute, and behaved very well with authority figures. Mr. Brady added an extra layer of structure and rigor to her life. She became so inquisitive, that she began questioning things about her world more keenly than before, with impressive insights for just a four year old. And to her benefit, but slightly against my own intuition, I began giving her lessons, personal lessons from my own knowledge of the future.

Evenings were the times when our lessons usually happened. Sam had started staying late with the force, now that he was working as chief. I would sit up with Susan before her bedtime, and we would look out her window and gaze at the stars. Realizing that these topics could be sensitive, I gave her lessons that did not reveal anything significant, but were essential themes that would provide her with insight into the world she lived in that would expand her breadth and understanding, and would follow in sync with the curriculum she would learn in the educational institutions of the time.

Nighttime was the perfect time to teach Susan about the universe. I reached back in my mind, to my own schooling, and everything we had learned about the planets and the solar system. I didn’t tell her anything about spacecraft, but hinted about their existence, often prodding her own imagination, asking her if she thought anything like this would be possible in the future.

“Look up at the stars, my darling, do you see them staring down at us?”

“I see them, Mommy, they’re beautiful.” Her high-pitched little voice seemed to echo across the stretches of the cosmos as we stared out the window at the Milky Way and all of its components and complementing structures. I taught her the names of the nine planets in our solar system, and how the Earth and its planetary friends in our solar system rotate around the sun. I also taught her the different moon phases. We made a calendar, and would draw pictures of the moon each night that we could see it. She loved this, saying that one day, she would be the first person to go to the moon. I hugged her, and told her that she was the bravest girl I had ever met. And that wasn’t untrue.

I also taught her about the dinosaurs. Luckily, this wasn’t too far-fetched. Fossils were beginning to be uncovered more regularly, and we saw them at showings like the World’s Fair, and at the American Museum of Natural History, as the creatures of the past were unearthed for the first time. Everyone found it unbelievable. I smiled, knowingly, and told Susan of all of the different kinds of dinosaurs I could recall, and their names. She was particularly fascinated with the Saber-Toothed Tiger, and began drawing pictures of it in her little sketchbook that Mr. Brady had given her for her art classes. He found the pictures amusing.

The summer was blissful. Whenever Sam had a free day, we would go to the seaside and take Susan on picnics at the beach. We loved Coney Island, and would spend some of the days there, riding the Ferris wheel on occasion, and looking out at the glow of the city lights.

For the Fourth of July, we watched the fireworks shoot over the city, and the parade that moved through the streets. Susan wore a little red, white and blue hat, and Sam got us all little fabric flags on wooden sticks that we carried with us to the celebrations. I found it amusing to see how fewer stars there were, but kept this to myself. Susan asked why there were stars on the flag, and Sam enlightened her as to their meaning and the significance of the colors in remembrance of our soldiers who had passed to protect our freedom.

But the blissful summer suddenly faded away. Susan and Sam remained wonderful, and the Sullivans came on a regular basis. This time, it was the outside world that was beginning to crumble, and my reality with it.

A few weeks after Independence Day that year, I began to fear the news headlines. Up until the point, I had understood that living in the past meant that all of the things that I had learned in school, that everything that had come before me, would eventually play out. And that all of those horrible things that had happened in the early twentieth century, I would have to live through. However, it wasn’t until that year, until the invasion of Serbia by Austria-Hungary, that I understood that all of these events were about to happen, and everything that was going to follow in the decades to come was going to be a living hell for the majority of the United States, and the rest of the world, and I could not escape it.

The day that it happened, Sam walked in carrying the newspaper. He did this every morning, but on this particular day, I sensed it, almost like a venomous viper resting delicately on the breakfast table, waiting to strike at any moment. Sam shook his head when he read the headline, and sighed, walking out of the room. I couldn’t do anything but stare at it, blankly. I feared that if I touched it, everything would suddenly become real. It was as if I had officially entered the past, and that newspaper was the sudden cry of stark authenticity. I began to cry then. My shoulders shaking, and my face twisted up in fear. My cries were soft, but enough that Sam could hear then from the other room. He came in quickly, grabbing my shoulders with both hands.

“Lucy,” he asked, anxiously, “what’s wrong?” He was rubbing my shoulders, his hands strong and tense.

I looked up at him, my eyes wet with tears, and my lips quivering in trepidation. “Sam,” I said, “it’s only the beginning.” Then I stopped myself, catching my mistake, and shaking under the horror of what was to come. “I fear, it is only the beginning.”

Backlit against the morning sunlight, he held me in our little breakfast nook, rocking back and forth with my weeping. From the playroom Susan sat quietly with her dolls and watched us.