The Unfinished Child (26 page)

I shall be leaving Poplar Grove in a short time to embark on a new field of inquiry dealing with Down syndrome, an interest ignited by the role your daughter has played in my medical journey.

Should you wish to contact me, I am sure that all mail will be forwarded to my next address.

Respectfully yours,

Dr. Michael Maclean

He signed the letter, slid it into an envelope, and licked the back flap. Then he found Carolyn’s file and wrote Mrs. Harrington’s address on the front. Adrenalin flooded his body. Finally he was taking some kind of action and focusing on work that would make him feel proud of his efforts. He put the letter on top of the signed death certificate in his out box, picked up his coat, and left his office. Although it was not yet officially spring, the sun’s rays reflected a gentle heat. Dr. Maclean raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. A red canvas appeared behind his closed lids, and on it he saw a map of his future begin to take shape.

The next day
he hand-delivered his resignation to Dr. Stallworthy, whose private practice was in Glenora, one of the wealthier neighbourhoods in Edmonton. His reception area was lavishly furnished. A large saltwater fish tank was inset into one wall. Dr. Maclean walked over and gazed at the impressive display of vibrantly coloured fish inside—black angelfish, yellow and orange fish with stripes and antennae and bulging eyes. It was both marvellous and sad to watch them swim around and around with no hope of travelling any great distance. What was it, he wondered, that made humans want to capture and cage creatures for display?

After a short time he was escorted into Dr. Stallworthy’s office and waited for what felt like hours. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made an appointment, he thought with irritation as he glanced at his watch, eager to be done here. He just wanted the visit to be over. Dr. Stallworthy wasn’t his favourite person to deal with. He was too . . . what? Condescending? Arrogant?

The door opened and Dr. Stallworthy entered, drying his hands on a cloth towel that he dumped into a canvas laundry bag beside the door.

“Dr. Maclean!” he said cheerfully, reaching out a meaty hand to shake. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

His hand was cold and damp. Dr. Maclean resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants. Instead, he held out an envelope. “I’ve come to give you this,” he said.

Dr. Stallworthy took the envelope and put on his reading glasses to see the letter inside. He read quietly to himself, at one point almost snorting with derision. Then he put the letter back into the envelope, removed his glasses, and rested his hands over his girth. “May I ask why now?”

“It’s been four years, sir,” he replied. “I received my appointment right out of medical school and was unsure at that time if this was a field of work I’d be interested in.”

“And you’ve found it’s not to your liking?”

“On the contrary, sir, I’ve found it to be eye-opening, to say the least.”

“But your resignation suggests . . .”

Dr. Maclean cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. “I’m not convinced, sir, that housing hundreds of mental defectives in the same place is good for them or for their families. After all, it’s not as if their conditions are contagious. There is no medical emergency that requires them to be so segregated from society.”

Dr. Stallworthy smiled thinly. He wasn’t an old man, maybe just forty-five or so, but he carried himself with a false aplomb as if he were holding court to conduct business that was somehow beneath him. “I see,” he said, nodding. “A Liberal, eh? Gone to the other side, have you? You think Johnny and Susie drooling on the front lawns of suburbia would be an improvement? Shall we send some home with you? I’m sure your neighbours would be thrilled. Or how about we enrol them at your son’s local school?”

“With all due respect, sir,” he replied, “given your position on the board, I’d have expected a more charitable view. When was the last time you visited Poplar Grove?”

Dr. Stallworthy cast his eyes up, as if scanning the insides of his brain. Then he carefully examined his cuticles, taking the time to polish the diamond ring on his wedding finger.

“I’m there five days a week,” Dr. Maclean continued. “I see how the place works, or doesn’t work, almost every day. Most dogs are treated better than the people inside.”

“I’ve never particularly liked dogs,” Dr. Stallworthy replied dismissively.

Another nail in your coffin, Dr. Maclean thought. “This might be news to you,” he continued, “but the stench and filth you likely have witnessed isn’t an aberration. It’s a chronic condition.” He went on, asking if the board was aware that one poorly trained orderly at Poplar Grove was responsible for upward of twenty to thirty patients. He spoke about patients who couldn’t feed themselves having feeding tubes inserted simply because there weren’t enough capable bodies on hand to spend the twenty minutes it would take to get food into their mouths. Overworked orderlies produced cruel attendants, and cruel attendants took it out on the most defenceless. He’d seen enough. Didn’t he remember what happened to Carolyn Harrington? Poplar Grove didn’t
care
for people; it warehoused them.

“Are you finished yet?” Dr. Stallworthy said.

He nodded, breathless and weak.

Dr. Stallworthy gave a patronizing smile. “How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-two.”

His lips drew back disdainfully as he continued. “And already you can see a better way of doing things?”

“A different way, yes.” And he outlined the exciting new ideas for transitioning patients into group homes. When Dr. Stallworthy remained silent, he hurried on to describe the radical notion of allowing babies born with Down syndrome to be raised within their own families. Times were changing, he insisted, and there was a growing debate among doctors, social workers, and families that questioned the logic of automatic institutionalization of mongoloids. Of particular interest to him was an article by a New York doctor who had conducted a study comparing the development of children with Down syndrome who were reared in the home with those reared in institutions. His findings had been more than convincing—all those who were raised at home had higher mental and social ages than those in the out-of-home group. It seemed so obvious, yet the study and ideas of possible integration were met with much resistance.

“A new way of thinking won’t happen overnight,” he continued. “I know that. But it
will
happen. Not just for the children born with Down syndrome, but other conditions as well.” He wasn’t even sure that all the patients in Poplar Grove actually belonged there. Twisted bodies didn’t necessarily mean deficient minds. In his four years of residency, he’d seen at least a dozen patients who’d appeared to be housed there for no other reason than someone had put them there when they were children.

Dr. Stallworthy’s eyes had glazed over long before he finished talking. “There is no need to continue,” he finally interrupted. “I accept your resignation, and I’m sure the rest of the board will agree. If I remember correctly,” he went on, “when we hired you we weren’t looking for a visionary.”

“No, that wasn’t in my job description, but I’ll take your observations as a compliment,” Dr. Maclean said.

He reached for his hat and overcoat and felt his chest swell with happiness and pride. It had been a long time since he had felt so good.

It happened something like this:
the day finally arrived when Marie’s results would come back from the lab. Dr. Cuthbert said she’d phone right after lunch with the news. Barry came home early from work. The phone rang. Marie gave the phone to her husband, holding it out as if it was something dead.

That’s what she remembered. Not that the baby did a slow roll inside her and her stomach lifted to accommodate the movement. Not that she’d put too much salt in the soup. Not that the poplar trees outside her front window had large waxen leaves curled into their bud-like shells, just waiting to bloom. Not that the daffodils on the kitchen table were orbs of bright yellow light.

And then somehow she was in the car and in the last moments of not knowing, of still being able to convince herself that everything might be okay. For despite her foreboding and the darkness and uncertainty it had wrapped her days in, she still believed, at the core of her being, that she might have imagined it all. It was funny, really, how the mind could entertain two such drastic thoughts simultaneously—
There is something wrong with the baby
and
Everything will be okay
.

They took the elevator to the sixth floor. The receptionist led them directly to Dr. Cuthbert’s personal office.

“She’ll be right with you,” the receptionist said, and Marie stared hard into her face to catch a glimpse of their future, but she found nothing to remark upon. She sat down and reached for Barry’s hand again and gave it a tight squeeze.

A moment later Dr. Cuthbert walked briskly into the room, her stethoscope swinging at her chest. “Thanks for coming in so promptly,” she said and reached across her desk for a file. Opening it, she stared at the information inside before slowly raising her eyes to look directly at Marie. “The tests results came in this morning.” She folded her hands onto her desk. “I’m sorry to say that the baby has Down syndrome.”

Marie listened to the words that left the doctor’s mouth; she understood each one, and her heart didn’t even miss a beat. After all, she had known, hadn’t she? She had tried to convince herself otherwise, but she had known all along.

The doctor’s phone rang, but she didn’t pick it up. “I know this isn’t the news you were hoping for,” she said kindly, “but the prospects today are much brighter for these children than they were in the past.”

“Are you sure that there hasn’t been some mistake?” Barry asked.

The doctor shook her head.

“How accurate is this test, anyway?” he asked.

“About ninety-eight percent,” the doctor replied.

Barry looked out the window and nodded. “So now what?”

“Well, there are a number of options, and I’ll give you a referral for counselling if you would like more help in making your decision.” Then she spoke with deliberate care.

For starters, they could continue with the pregnancy and have the child. Or, as with any pregnancy, adoption was also an option. There were agencies that specialized in the adoption of special-needs children. Finally, they had the option to terminate the pregnancy. However, if this were the route they chose, for obvious reasons they would have to make that decision as soon as possible.

“Do you have any questions?” the doctor asked gently.

Is there a cure for regret?
Marie stayed quiet.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Barry asked.

Before Marie could voice an objection, the doctor spoke.

“It’s a girl.”

Sugar and spice.

Barry nodded and sat quietly for a moment. “If we decide not to have the baby, what kind of procedure are we looking at? I mean, is it dangerous?”

Marie almost laughed out loud. Is it dangerous? For who? Her or the baby? Certainly for one of them it would be.

An appointment would be made for Marie at the hospital. Depending on the time of day the procedure was performed, she might stay overnight. She would be induced and go through labour. The doctor gave a few more details.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

Marie nodded, strangely comforted by the sympathy.

“Please let me know,” the doctor continued, “as soon as you make your decision. Then we’ll know what course to take next. And if there’s anything I can do, or if you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to call.”

Barry stood up and shook the doctor’s hand once more. “Thank you,” he said. “We appreciate your help.”

Marie rose slowly from her chair. She nodded to the doctor as well, and then wordlessly made her way to the door.

They drove home
in silence. Nicole and Sophia returned home from school, like on any other day, and Marie didn’t cry. Barry decided they should all go out for pizza, and they let the girls drink as many glasses of the bottomless pop as they wanted.

Back at home, Barry helped the girls with their homework. Then they all watched some television. Marie held together through it all—the meal, the homework, the
TV
, the bedtime rituals.

And then, finally, they went to bed, lay side by side, on their backs, and stared up at the ceiling. There was something about not looking directly at the other person that enabled them to be honest. They had used this technique over the years when they were experiencing some difficulty in their relationship. They didn’t make eye contact; they didn’t get hung up on the other person’s gestures or facial mannerisms. They were just two voices in the dark. Two lovers staring up at the stars.

“So now we know,” Marie said.

Barry reached for her hand. “When I was a kid, I thought that once you were an adult you had it made. You knew right from wrong, and you just did the right thing. There was no indecision, just action.” He stroked her hand gently with his thumb. “I remember honestly believing that adults didn’t make mistakes.”

The furnace kicked on and the curtains across the room danced lightly in the circulating air.

“When it comes down to it,” Barry continued, “I guess we have two choices.”

Marie felt tears roll down her cheek. Maybe she needed to be strong for Barry until she could be strong for herself. They couldn’t both fall apart at the same time.

She tried to steady her voice. “That makes it sound so simple, like we can just flip a coin or something. What do you want?”

“I want us to be happy again, and I don’t want to have to make the decision.”

“Nobody is going to make it for us.”

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to state the obvious.”

She didn’t reply.

“I don’t have an endless reserve of patience and kindness,” Barry went on. “I’m not comfortable around people with disabilities. I never know if I’m supposed to help or something.”

“It’s different when it’s your own child,” she said.