Replacement Child (31 page)

“I don’t know,” my father said. “It seems like we’d be tempting fate, after what’s happened to our girls. Maybe this is how it’s meant to be.”

“What about you, Florence?” the doctor asked.

“Maybe it would help. I always wanted two children at least. All I see now is struggle ahead. And it might be good for Linda to have a sister or brother. Maybe take the focus off of her and her problems somewhat. Another baby could give us all back a sense of a normal life—a normal family again.”

The prescription, then, for their own survival was a child conceived to heal the family. Untouched, they thought, by their tragedy. And with another mission—to live life large for them all, to ride the biggest waves and carry them on her wake.

1953

I
N HIS HEART
, my father wasn’t at all sure they should have another child. He missed his little girl terribly—was bitter about her death. He blamed himself for not being there to protect his family. He replayed his revised scene in his mind a thousand times: my mother rushing out of the apartment with Linda rolled in the quilt while he ran back to push the beam off of Donna, lifting her up over the flames and smoke, carrying her down the steep stairway just before it collapsed.

There could be no replacement for Donna. He didn’t want one. And he thought Linda would need their undivided attention for many years.

But he wanted his wife back. He needed her smiling again. If a new baby would do it, he would comply.

My father chose the Blumenkrantz Hotel in Lakewood because he knew how much his wife loved the ocean, and because it was an affordable way to get away to the beach for a few days. They needed a change of scenery. Different surroundings to shift their perspectives, lift their spirits—their souls—from the oppressive daily grind.

“A perfect beach day, Flurry!” my father declared as they pulled in to the hotel parking lot. Entering the lobby, my mother took in the wood paneling, the leather upholstery, the Victorian grandeur of the place. She noted the indoor pool, adjacent to the formal dining room. Her hope for the weekend was renewed. Until now, she had been doubtful, but she didn’t show it for my father’s sake.

She knew he was more fragile than he let on. She remembered the night his claustrophobia kicked in as they rode through the Lincoln Tunnel to New York City. They were stuck in traffic in the tunnel for forty-five minutes. An endless dark netherworld. Suddenly, my father couldn’t catch his breath and was hyperventilating—he said he couldn’t breathe at all. My mother took his hand and calmed him. She talked to him about their plans for the next day and told him when to take a breath. They would breathe each breath together until they got through the tunnel.

They checked in to the hotel, unpacked their suitcases, changed into bathing suits, and headed for the beach. My mother wore her black one-piece suit, cut in an octagonal shape at the top with a small tasteful skirt at the bottom. My father was in his only green-and-blue plaid bathing trunks. His boney white chest screamed for a sunburn.

They drove to Bradley Beach and picked a spot midway between the water and the boardwalk to lay out their hotel towels next to each other.

“We should’ve brought an umbrella,” my father said, squinting. “The sun is so strong today, no clouds to block it at all.”

At that, my mother dug into her beach bag and produced two hats, a Yankees baseball cap for him and a floppy brimmed canvas one for herself.

My father smiled, leaned over, and kissed his wife on the cheek. “That’s why I married you—you’re always taking care of us.”

My mother reached her arm over his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “I try.”

“What other
hazari
do you have in that bag? A hot dog maybe? Some mustard and a Coke? How about one of those big salty pretzels?”

“Now you’re making me hungry,” my mother said, and slapped him on the chest.

They left their towels and walked to the boardwalk, bringing back hot dogs and Cokes and two big pretzels.

“This isn’t helping me keep my girlish figure,” my mother said, taking a bite of pretzel.

“Me neither,” my father said seriously. He stood and posed, hands on his hips, tilting his chin to the sky. Looking at his skinny physique, my mother burst out laughing, nearly spitting out her mouthful of Coke. Suddenly, she was uncontrollable—shaking, laughing, tears streaming. She put down her soda and folded her arms in on herself to hold herself together. My father was momentarily stunned, but knelt next to her to put his arms around her to calm her down. He instinctively pulled her toward him.

Their hats had fallen off and lay in the sand, and their hot dogs were getting cold. My parents found themselves in an unexpected embrace, holding each other tightly, neither one willing to be the first to let go.

MAY 21, 1954

W
HEN MY MOTHER
first went to the doctor suspecting she was pregnant, he told her she was wrong.

“Florence, I know how much you want a baby, but you’re just not pregnant. The urinalysis shows up negative. Your symptoms may be a hysterical pregnancy. Sometimes when a woman wants so much to have a baby, her body mimics pregnancy.”

By then, though, my mother knew that doctors were people—not gods. They made mistakes and had different opinions. She knew she was pregnant and went to a new doctor.

At thirty-eight, she was an older mother—especially by 1950s standards. Against her doctor’s recommendation, she insisted on being awake and unmedicated for the delivery.

“I’m not going to miss a minute of it. I don’t care about the pain,” she told my father. “I want to be fully aware during the whole thing. After all we’ve been through, I don’t think I would believe it if I was put to sleep and woke up with a new baby.”

After the delivery, the last thing my mother heard before she passed out was, “Oh boy!” So, when she woke up, she told my father, “We had a little boy, Al—you’ve got the son you wanted!”

“I don’t think so!” my father said.

My father had just seen me in the nursery in my little pink cap with the pink ribbon on my name card that read M
ANDEL
, B
ABY
G
IRL
. The doctor told him everything went well, that his baby girl was healthy and his wife fine.

“I’m absolutely thrilled to have another little girl,” my father assured my mother, and presented her with a clear blue two-karat diamond, commemorating the birth. Later, he designed a new wedding ring for her around the nearly perfect stone.

B
IRTHDAYS IN OUR
house were happy celebrations—always indulged to the nth degree. My father had a unique way of celebrating his birthday. He insisted on bringing us all gifts for his birthday each year.

“Al, you’re going to confuse the kids!” My mother would complain.

“I don’t care, it makes me happy—I get to do what I want for my birthday—so that’s what I want to do!”

We were not confused—just excited for his birthday every year.

My tenth birthday was the best. I was kind of a tomboy, playing baseball and basketball, mostly with my father, trying to be the son he wanted and to please him. I woke up that morning with all my gifts spread out at the foot of my bed, including a brand-new basketball and baseball glove.

Every year my mother would tell me the story of how I was her “hysterical baby” from a nonexistent pregnancy. My father would make jokes about being told I was a boy at first, and he’d
tease me about being a tomboy, call me “my son Judy,” and we’d all laugh and eat more cake.

I never knew Donna’s birthday until recently when I scheduled my own minor surgery on July 25.

“Oh, you chose Donna’s birthday to go in for it?” my sister asked.

Every July 25, my parents must have thought of how old Donna would have been. What she would have looked like. If she would have been in college, starting a career, getting married, having children. And every July 25, I had no idea what they were all going through.

My cousin Joyce is exactly Donna’s age. She sat across from me at lunch after the memorial service for my parents. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, so clearly:
“She would have been sixty-one when I died. She would have still been beautiful.”

MAY 22, 1954

M
Y MOTHER
’
S BREASTS
were full. She longed to hold her new baby to her, to help her learn to suck, to feel the relief of the release of her milk.

A nurse brought the baby and helped position the newborn in the crook of my mother’s left arm. The baby seemed disinterested until she coaxed her to take the nipple, then she reached a tiny hand out of her blanket. My mother relaxed at the familiar feeling, the tingle that reached into her womb. As the baby became more intent, gurgling and smacking, my mother’s tears mingled with her milk.

The nurse came closer and laid a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“She’s so much like my first,” my mother told her. “The way she reaches up, the sound she makes, the crinkle in her forehead when she eats.”

It was the only time my mother would breast-feed me. Trying once more, she found herself tense at the baby’s touch, her milk refusing to come. The visceral connection to her first, lost child was too much for her body to accommodate. By the time she left the hospital, she had taken medication to dry her milk.