Rosethorn (28 page)

Now I have nothing. New York is so far away that it might as well be in another universe. How can I go to school now when I’m about to have a baby? Esme and Kay are probably getting ready to go away to college. I wouldn’t know, neither have called. Everyone would rather forget that I exist.

I'm grotesque, obscene, swelling larger and larger every day. I can’t sleep well at all and I’m so tired all the time.

August 17, 1987

For my 18th birthday, I had the pleasure of having lunch with Debbie today. She didn’t know, of course, that it was my birthday, but how kind of her to take me out. I did take some effort to look presentable—I guess I'm not as down as I thought I was if I still care about my appearance.

I had hoped that she had come to talk about Alex, the baby. She wanted to talk about the baby, alright, but only to convince me to give it up for adoption. She kept saying “it” the whole time, even after I told her that “it” was going to be a girl and that her name will be Serafina. All the while smiling that stupid smile of the righteous and the ignorant. Did she think that she could persuade me over sandwiches and ice tea to give Alex’s daughter away?

It’s amazing to me how someone so seemingly “nice” can say such hurtful things, like when she told me that Alex doesn’t want this baby and that he shouldn’t be held accountable for my mistake—basically saying that I lured him and tried to trap him by becoming pregnant and even strongly hinting that I would be a terrible mother.

I had no defenses because I have to agree—I was supremely stupid in ever believing any promises that Alex made. How could I have believed it when he said he loved me?

She said everything she could to discourage me from keeping you, Serafina, even saying that Alex was such a difficult infant that she had cursed any child he would have.

I sat in shock, while she said this to me with a laugh, as if she was sharing an innocent joke. I covered my belly with my hands as soon as she said it and walked to the church afterwards, praying that you will be okay. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but I felt such waves of hatred from her and there was nothing I could do.

What can I do? I barely have enough strength to hang on to you, Sera. More than anything now I want to keep you, my baby girl. I may be messed up, I may be too young and stupid and have no future, but of this I’m sure. You’re the only thing that’s keeping me alive.

September 1, 1987

Two more weeks until my due date. It's so hot and I am so uncomfortable. On the one hand I am so ready to give birth. I’m heavy and sluggish—I feel like a beached whale. But on the other hand, I am petrified of what’s going to happen next. Debbie is right---I'm not prepared and I have no idea what I’m going to do. I’m no good and I bring pain to everyone who’s ever truly cared for me, but I want so badly to do this one thing right, to be a good mother.

When I'm by myself or Papa is sleeping, I close the door to my room and start singing to you, my angel. I sing of every sorrow, every regret, every dream I’ve ever had to you, so that you will know, someone will know. A strange peace comes over me when I sing to you and only you.

Lately, I’ve been playing “Landslide” over and over again. It's such a very sad song, but it has struck a chord in me—it speaks of lost love and trying to find the strength when one is drowning in sorrow and self-doubt.

September 15, 1987

Well, nothing yet. Will this heat wave ever cool down?

September 22, 1987

I'm writing my prayer to you, God, please, please, please, I promise I will do everything in my power to be good, just please help my baby to get better. Please don’t punish her for her mother’s sins. I know I’ve been full of pride in the past, that I’ve been selfish and cruel, but she is innocent. She’s so small and helpless, lying here in front of me in the incubator, with the blue lights on her. She has been under the
lights for two days now and still her bilirubin levels are high.

I remember when I first saw you, Serafina, how beautiful you were to me, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, all pink and white after such a long and agonizing labor. The pain I had felt when I had been ripped in two was all worth it and I would go through it a hundred more times if it meant you would be okay.

Tired as I was that first night, I couldn’t sleep—all I could do was stare at your perfect little face, all bundled up and snug in your blanket. How you clung to my breast and drank my milk, how your little hand grasped my finger so tightly. Your soft skin that smelled, I thought, of pure love. There will never be a more perfect creature than you.

I knew I would be punished somehow, but I didn’t think you would end up sick with jaundice. The doctor didn’t even believe me at first, saying how all Asian babies are yellow. But I insisted that you didn’t look like that when you were born—you were white, white as your father. But he believed me soon enough when he got the blood tests back. He said that you had a level of 27, which I don’t even understand, but the way he said it made my stomach drop.

So now we are here in this hospital when we should be home. All I do is watch you under the blue rays, encased in glass and lethargic, not even crying like a proper baby. I’ve never felt this pain before, being separated from you, unable to hold you except once every other hour to feed you. All I can do is watch helplessly while you lie encased in glass, like some cursed princess in a fairy tale. As long as I live I will never forget this fear or what the doctor told me this afternoon, that if your levels don’t go down, you might have brain damage or even die. You’re not even a week old.

I don’t know how long I sat there, just dazed. I remember feeling my breasts fill up and harden with milk and it hurt to not be able to feed you, to have to wait until you were ready to be taken out. And while I sat there, who should come in but Bill and Debbie Wood, acting all concerned and worried. It was then that I found my voice.

“You evil woman!” I screamed. “Are you satisfied now that your curse has come true?”  Are you?”  I advanced on her as she backed away, horrified. “Don’t you ever come back here!  We don’t want you!” And with that I threw them both out. I’m sure that the doctor could explain the medical reason why Serafina is ill, but deep in my heart, I know that hateful woman should never be around her again.

Mama and Papa are at the church, lighting candles for you and saying rosaries for your recovery. We all want to take you home, Sera, so please, please don’t give up, please fight this with everything you have.

September 30, 1987

A curve of small, pink fist, the pucker of your lips, your wide brown eyes staring straight into mine, your tiny feet and your plump arms and legs—every part of you so breathtakingly beautiful that I'm in constant awe that anything so wonderful could have ever come out of me. Only you and I exist in this world, you in the crook of my arm, the sounds of you suckling at my breast pure music, the smell of powder and milk like the way heaven should smell.

October 7, 1987

I'm so tired—haven’t had any sleep. Serafina won’t stop crying and I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m not cut out for this. I love you so much, but I'm so afraid that I will do something wrong. I'm a child myself—not a mother. There are times when only Mama can calm you down. I feel like I’ve failed again.

Mama tells me that it takes time and patience and that I will be a good mother. I will have to do this for the rest of my life. Everywhere I go, you go. If you can’t sleep I can’t sleep. I have to feed you before I can feed myself. I didn’t think it would be as hard as this.

October 23, 1987

I tried, Serafina. I thought once he saw you for himself, he would love you, would remember how much he once loved me.

“She’s white like you,” I said as I held you up to him, but he wouldn’t even hold you.

Wouldn't touch me, didn't want me, even though I lost all the weight, even though I wore the red dress he loved. Didn't love me anymore or perhaps he never did. All this time, I held the tiniest hope that maybe it would all turn out all right. I dreamed, too, and kept that dream to myself, that all three of us would be a family. It's all dead now.

What will I do, now that I have nothing? I will never be in theater. I will never leave this backward, no name town. I will never see the world. I will grow old and die a nobody, another silly girl who gave up all her dreams and ruined her life because of some boy.

I should have walked into the sea that night. No one would have known what became of you and me, and we would have been swept into some dark and watery world safe from any more pain and disappointment. It would have been better for everyone. Your father doesn't want either of us in his life-we might as well not exist. I guess I was never good enough for him. If I had been he would have let everyone know about us, would have stood up to his family, would now be by our side.

Men lie---they can't help it, Serafina. Remember this.  Men lie and then they leave.

October 25, 1987

God forgive me for what I'm about to do. Serafina, my sweet angel, perhaps someday you'll understand. I look at you now sleeping peacefully in your crib, not knowing any of the storms that surround you. I hope you'll never know this pain. It's better this way. I would only ruin your life as I have ruined mine. I have no choice but to do what needs to be done.

Chapter
19

Sera stood shivering under the great stone arch at the entrance of the Cypress Lawn Cemetery. The morning fog had not quite lifted and hovered above the rolling hills of graves beyond. She was alone by the great gate. Once again, she took out her notes for the Craigslist ad she had found two weeks ago.

Wedged in between solicitations for egg donors and personal ads (which she and Allison would read out loud to each other in sexy voices when they were bored) had been an intriguing notice:  "Join other cemetery buffs for monthly, informative walks down quiet pathways of the dead.”

She had almost missed it, as she found the personal ad below particularly amusing, “Blonde reading The Great Gatsby in the park by the rose garden 4 pm this Sunday. You smiled at me as I walked by.”

Freaks and weirdos, she had once told Allison, call out to each other in Craigslist. "Who grows 10 pythons then suddenly needs to get rid of them?"  They would ask each other and also wonder out loud, why a married WM looking for a discreet relationship would advertise that fact. Wouldn't that be defeating his purpose? Who answers these things?

I guess I'm one of them, Sera thought as she waited. "Please don't be psychopathic freakazoids," she prayed.

The man who replied to her e-mail regarding the ad seemed normal enough. John did not mention Satan-worshipping or animal sacrifices, but wrote that he liked walking cemeteries for the peace and quiet and was also interested in history. When he inquired what drew her to the ad, Sera simply admitted that she liked walking cemeteries, too.

John told her the small group of cemetery buffs walks a different cemetery each month, in a different city. They were currently going through the cemeteries in Colma, which would take the better part of the year as, with seven different cemeteries, there are more people below ground in town than above.

Sera agreed to join once she found out that they met Sunday mornings at 10:00 a.m., and not at the stroke of midnight during a full moon.

The only person she told was Allison, as she was to be Sera's alibi. Sera tried not to think of why she knew she should not tell Andrew. It only troubled her a little that she had begun keeping things from him. He had called her morbid more than once, when he had tired of hearing about her mother.

"It's in the past," he had said as he thumped his foot restlessly, "What happened with your parents has nothing to do with us.”

She just looked at him, trying to recognize some familiar feature in the stranger that sat across from her. It was Saturday night and they were eating burgers and fries at Henry's. Some players from the team
came in and slipped into their booth, filling with loud voices the empty chasm that had erupted between them.

Sera had gazed at them all and at Andrew, and for a few minutes she couldn’t understand what they were saying. They could have been speaking in another language. Afterwards they all piled into Andrew’s Mustang and cruised up and down Old Town. No one noticed how quiet she had become or perhaps they forgot she was there.  

It was that night she first felt Andrew moving away from her, that maybe she was too slow, a step or two behind his long-legged stride to the future. Or perhaps she was the one moving away from him, backwards to the dark past that she had uncovered. Her parents, who had always been shadowy figures in her consciousness, were now painfully real to her, their lives sharper, larger, and more vivid than her own.

Finding her mother’s diary had not been an accident, Sera had now come to believe. She had been meant to find it, just when she was about to come of age and so could fully understand what had happened. She knew now why her grandmother had been unable to speak of her only child, and that she had sought to spare Sera the anguish of the truth.