Moments In Time (32 page)

“Yes. About twenty minutes ago,” she told him, unable to look away from his stunned face.

A day late indeed.

“Well, then, I guess congratulations are in order for you both,” he said softly, shaking Allen’s hand with an obvious lack of enthusiasm, a hollow space opening up inside him.

23

M
AGGIE’S MUSCLES WERE ACHING, THE RESULT OF
holding her
body so stiffly in one position for such a long time. She was pressed tightly against the arm of the sofa. If she shifted her weight, she’d be touching him, and she did not wish any physical contact whatsoever. Emotionally drained, she could not even look at his face. “The woods are full of ghosts
tonight
…”
Where
had she read that? The specters from the past leaned heavily upon her. She could bear to see no more of them.

The TV lights had heated up the room unmercifully, and the air was stuffy. At the next commercial break, she’d open the French doors, maybe step outside for a moment or two and breath in some fresh air. She glanced at her watch, noting the lateness of the hour and relaxed slightly. Not too much time left.

Hilary had seen Maggie steal a peek at the time.
I need to get this woman to react,
she told herself.
She’s like a damned dummy sitting there and just about as responsive. I need to draw her back into this. I need to get her talking. Maybe I’ll stumble upon a clue as to what’s going on.

“It’s an interesting collection of portraits, there on the wall.” Hilary pointed to the row of paintings. “They’re all your children?”

“Yes,” Maggie nodded.

“Well, then, introduce us to them.” Hilary rose and walked toward the wall, indicating that both Maggie and the cameraman should follow, J.D. remaining on the sofa.

“Lovely children.” Hilary smiled, hoping that she looked warmly, sincerely interested. “Point them out to us, oldest to youngest.”

“Well, this is Jesse.”

“He looks so much like his father,” Hilary commented.

“Yes,” Maggie went on, “and this is Tyler, he’s thirteen this year. Very athletic, very much the all-American boy.”

“Hardly ‘all’ American,” her husband’s voice from the sofa reminded her.

She ignored him. “And Lucy’s next. She’s eleven—”

“A redhead. How charming,” Hilary cooed.

“And Emma is nine.” She touched the frame of the portrait of the dark-haired child, eyes seemingly too large for her tiny face.

“But she’s the very image of you, Maggie.” Hilary could not miss the striking resemblance, the green eyes, the smile.

“She is very much like me,” Maggie said with a nod, “but certainly much sweeter in disposition. More trusting, more naive than I.”

Hilary and Maggie locked eyes, and Hilary knew that Maggie had seen through her expressed interest in her children as a ploy to coax Maggie into letting her guard down.
Very good, Maggie,
Hilary acknowledged silently.

“These are the twins, Molly and Susannah. They’re six,” Smiling, Maggie moved smoothly to the next painting, pleased she’d made her point and confident that she’d be able to survive the next thirty minutes with no further anxiety. “And this is Spencer. The baby.”

“And he’s how old now?” Hilary inquired.

‘Two,” Maggie told her, gazing with love upon the darling baby boy with the blond curls who grinned impishly from the canvas.

“A beautiful family, Maggie, and I’m sure our viewers at home are just as taken with their adorable little faces as I am.” She smiled broadly and turned as if she were preparing to walk back toward their seats. Maggie was about to take a step toward the sofa when Hilary hesitated and said, “There seems to be an uncharacteristic gap of about four years there, between the twins and the last one.” She frowned slightly, then added, somewhat absentmindedly, “Oh, of course, you lost a child, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Maggie’s jaunty confidence, so newly gained, evaporated in an instant as her throat began to close rapidly.

“Would you like to tell us—”

“No,” Maggie cut her off, “no, I would not.” Light-headed and weak, she turned her back on the camera, achingly aware that one child was missing. She’d have given anything to have seen Hallie there, among the others. Even now, when she thought of that baby, she saw only a blank, featureless face. It had never ceased to haunt her.

She felt strong hands grip her elbows from behind, holding her weight. He’d felt her pain from across the room, felt the stab of her anguish as clearly as if it had been his own. Without a thought he had gone to her. She leaned back against him slightly, touching him for the first time in days, and he felt her sharp intake of breath as she attempted to recover from the sudden unwanted memory of that saddest of times, waiting for her to pull away from him. She did not. He looked beyond her to the wall of portraits. They had not needed Hila
r
y to point out that there were seven, rather than eight faces, displayed
there
…

“
W
ell, Maggie, looks as if my talk on birth control fell on deaf ears,” Dr. Bernard said following his examination. “All kidding aside, you really should slow down.”

She laughed. “I feel fine.”

“You always ‘feel fine,
’
”
he said, a serious tone in his voice, “but let’s face it, Maggie, your body is not what it was ten years ago, you know.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not that I can see. But five pregnancies back to back will
take a toll. And now this one…”

“As long as the baby’s all right, I’m all right. I’m tired, as usual, and my appetite’s off, as it always is. But I’ll skate through this like I always do.”

And for the most part, she did, up until the beginning of the seventh month, when backaches and leg pain kept her almost completely inactive. She’d insisted that they keep to their summer schedule, and although her doctor hadn’t been supportive of her decision to travel, she assured him she’d be back in a month with a month to spare before delivery.

They’d been at Luke’s for three weeks when she’d awakened one night drenched with perspiration, her heart pounding, an odd, excruciating pain in her side. She lay quietly, afraid to move, until it subsided. An hour later, it returned, and she was frightened. She shook her husband.

“Jamey. Jamey,” she whispered. “Please wake up. Wake up.”

“What?” he mumbled.

“I said wake up.”

“Why?” he made a halfhearted attempt to open his eyes.

“Because
…
because
…
”
she sputtered uncertainly. The pain was gone.

“What is it?” He turned over sleepily.

“I don’t know,” she replied hesitantly. “I had a pain. Two sharp pains. But they’re gone now.”

“Come here, Mags. Lay back down now. Do you feel all right? Want me to call Judith’s doctor? I can call her and get his number.”

“No. No, I guess maybe it’s okay. I feel a little shaky inside, but the pain is gone.”

“Maybe it was just a cramp. Remember how you used to get those cramps sometimes with Emma?”

“This was different. Sharper. And in my abdo
m
en
…
but it’s gone.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call Jude? She won’t mind.”

“No. But if it happens again, maybe we should. Maybe it was just a cramp.” She lay back and took a deep breath and
tried to relax. She lay awake long after J.D.’s even breathing told her he’d fallen back to sleep.

Several evenings later she’d been about to start down the steps after having tucked the children in when she experienced the same pain, sharper, more insistent, and she began to bleed. She stared dumbly at the bright scarlet river that flowed with horrific speed down her leg and onto the floor. Within minutes, J.D. was speeding to the hospital, eighteen miles away, where Judith’s doctor would be waiting for them. Thirty minutes later, bleeding profusely and in severe pain, Maggie was helped onto an examining table.

Her previous experiences with childbirth had all been relatively easy, uneventful experiences, labor and delivery of short duration. This time the contractions were erratic and hard and had lasted for hours. She knew it was too soon for the baby to be bo
rn
, and she was terrified. They’d offered her sedatives repeatedly, and repeatedly she’d refused. Ashen and shaken, J.D. bent over her bed, kissed her face, and brushed back her hair minutes before the decision was made to move her into the delivery room.

There seemed to be an inordinate number of nurses waiting in the harshly lit room. Another doctor came in, then a third. She began to panic. Over her protests, she was given a shot ‘to calm her down,’ J.D. was told. The medication hadn’t had time to take effect before the baby’s birth.

“Oh, no.” The nurse’s whisper cut to Maggie’s heart, and she tried to sit up, tried to see J.D.’s face.

“Quickly,” the doctor said, “see if we can bring her around.”

There was a flurry of activity as a tiny form was wrapped hastily in a blanket and shuttled to another table.

“What’s wrong?” Maggie cried. “What is it? Let me see
her
…
”

She was attempting to rise but could not, strong arms sheathed in white holding her down. She knew J.D. was speaking to her, but she couldn’t comprehend his words through the fog of fear and confusion surrounding her. A nurse appeared with a syringe and injected something into her arm.

“No!” she screamed. “No! Let me up! Jamey, please. Please. Make them let go,” she pleaded wildly. “Don’t let them put me out. Don’t let them. I want to see my baby
…
”
She felt her body begin to relax involuntarily, and though she tried to fight against it, her will failed her, and she faded away as she was wheeled from the room.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Borders. There’s nothing we can do for her,” the doctor said somberly. “The cord was wrapped around her neck. She was stillborn. I’m so sorry.”

Burning tears filled his eyes and streamed down his face. He walked to the table where the tiny girl lay, half covered by a white blanket. The nurse was preparing to take her as he approached and pushed her firmly out of the way. She looked quickly to the doctor for direction, and when he nodded, she stepped back.

J.D. reached down and wrapped the perfect little girl in the blanket, folding it over her motionless chest. The nurses stood stunned as he gently lifted her to his shoulder and held her close, whispering words they could not hear as he nuzzled the still bundle. Finally, the doctor put his hand on J.D.’s shoulder.

“Mr. Borders, you need to hand her over now.”

J.D. nodded and lowered the baby to look at her face, studying her carefully, noting the blond hair, the blond lashes, the tiny ears.
Maggie will want to know,
he thought. He passed the bundle into the hands of the nurse and asked, “Where’s my wife?”

“Room 316.”

He walked out into the hall and located the room several doors down. He sat on the bed while she slept.

Several hours later, Maggie awoke and was sedated again quickly, over J.D.’s protests, when she became hysterical. The same scene was almost repeated when she woke up the second time, but J.D. refused to permit another sedative.

“You can’t keep doing this to her,” he said quietly. “She has to know, and she has to be given a chance to deal with it. Leave us alone, please. She’ll be all right.”

He knew perfectly well she wouldn’t be all right. He knew
her heart would break, but he also knew that no amount of medication could prevent the inevitable. And so he sat and held her for the rest of the night while she cried quietly for the baby she hadn’t been permitted to hold. The baby’s death devast
at
ed her, but the fact that Maggie had not been allowed to see her, to hold her, would haunt her forever.

Maggie could not face the trip back home with the tiny coffin on the plane and so reluctantly agreed to J.D.’s suggestion that they bury Hallie, as Maggie had planned to name the baby, along side his father in the peaceful churchyard down the road from Luke’s house.

Maggie recovered slowly from the loss and in the after-math seemed to retreat into a deep depression. It was close to the beginning of the school year, and J.D. was mindful that they would have to get back to the States before the first week in September. Maggie was avoiding the trip and kept putting off their departure.

“We’ll go next Tuesday,” she’d say on Thursday, then on Monday morning, she’d ask, “Could we please stay until Saturday?”

Finally, they were out of time.

“No, Maggie. We can’t stay till Friday. The children have to start school Tuesday. It’s time to go back. We have to leave, sweetheart,” he told her gently.

Her eyes filled with tears, and J.D. held her tightly, hoping she’d finally cry it out. He’d become alarmed by her long silences, her solitary walks, her distance. He did not know how to help her.

“Jamey, I can’t leave here.
I can’t leave my baby alone…
” she told him.

“She’s not alone, sweetheart. My mom’s here. And Judith. She’s not alone.” He tried his best to comfort her. “But we have to go home.”

He cradled her and whispered reassurances, but even when the tears had subsided, he doubted he’d reached her, and he worried.

Even the frantic scurry of school activities did little to distract her. He grew increasingly concerned and suggested
to her one night that they both go for counseling. She’d declined, telling him she had to work it out herself. He disagreed but could not change her mind. And so he watched her as she grew more distant, more distracted, slipping more frequently into a silence even he could not pierce.

One day in late October he looked out a back window and saw her seated on the ground in the garden. He walked outside and sat next to her. The trowel she was using to dig in the dirt was in her right hand, and he watched as she stabbed fiercely into the soil.