The Unfinished Child (36 page)

Elizabeth’s mind raced. Carolyn was born in 1947. Rebecca was born in 1949. And she had an older brother, so there was another child in between, in 1948. The dates were tight, but it wasn’t unusual for women to have children so close together back then. Plus, there were twelve months in a year, and a January baby had the same birth year as a December baby, so perhaps they weren’t as close as the dates made it sound.

She felt a thrill of excitement. Secrets didn’t always stay secrets for life. It just took one person to find a thread and pull to unravel it all. Maybe she’d found that thread.

Dr. Maclean’s notebook was more than a thread; it was a detailed narrative with medical records that provided dates and everything; it was a paper trail that could lead to the adoption agency. Papers had been signed. Whose signatures were on those papers? She could find out.

The bell jingled and another customer entered the shop. Elizabeth’s heart gave a leap. Marie?

It was the mail carrier.

Elizabeth took a coffee break and escaped to her office and closed the door. She pulled the black notebook from her purse. She sat at her desk and opened to an early page.

July 12, 1963

I was entirely unprepared for the birth. Two days have passed since Carolyn delivered a baby girl and I have been able to think of little else. During my medical training I attended a number of births, so I was ready and scrubbed when Carolyn went into labour. However, Dr. Stallworthy, the head director of Poplar Grove, authorized the patient to be drugged senseless and a Caesarean to be performed. How lifeless Carolyn was even as a new life was taken from her. I don’t believe I’ve ever attended a more joyless birth. What should have been a celebration felt more like a funeral, and I guess for Carolyn it was. She’ll never see her child. The newborn was cleaned and swaddled and quickly sent away. I voiced an opinion that Carolyn should at least have the opportunity to see her baby, but my view was not considered. I believe someone said it would only do Carolyn harm as she would not have the opportunity to see her child again anyway. Dr. Stallworthy also said that Carolyn would never know what happened seeing as she’d been asleep and all. I felt a great shame for my profession and a greater shame that I allowed the infant to be spirited away in a shroud of secrecy.

Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Now she knew the desolate details of her birth. Now she knew that her birth mother had never even laid eyes on her, let alone held her, or placed a kiss on her brow. Did the doctors believe she was incapable of experiencing wonder or joy? Did they believe any fetal movement she experienced was simply ignored or misunderstood? Did they for one second have any humanity about them at all?

Her sadness slowly turned to anger as she reread the passage.

And nobody standing up for her, not even Dr. Maclean.

Her mind moved in and
out of clarity, like a cloud at the mercy of the wind on a blustery day. On a good day, like today, she knew she was in the hospital, and her past was as clearly detailed as numbers in columns in an accounting ledger.

But the bad days were more frequent and perplexing; she experienced them as a drowning of sorts, a panicked flailing about in the hopes that a strong hand would clutch the nape of her neck and guide her to safety. Sometimes she could feel solid ground, but more often now, she felt nothing but a vast openness beneath her feet.

The roses on her bedside table were fresh, not wilted. That meant Donald had visited recently. He’d been good to her for over fifty years; she didn’t like to live away from him. Not in this place, anyway. She sympathized with the woman in the next room who repeated the same thing over and over again in a small, yet urgent voice:
Let me die. Let me die.

The sounds and smells of this place triggered sordid memories of a place where furtive liaisons went unnoticed and unpunished and where regret burrowed deep. When she’d left there the last time, she’d prayed for her daughter to be freed from the indignities that must have occurred in her life in Poplar Grove. When Dr. Maclean’s letter bearing news of Carolyn’s death had arrived, she’d been relieved because the protection her child had not received was now no longer required. Death meant she was free. There were no institutions in heaven; Carolyn would be welcomed like anybody else. She would finally be equal, and she would forgive her parents for what they’d done. Margaret knew she would be with her soon. They would find another sunny bench and sit together, like in the old days, holding hands and listening to the robins’ song, the sun warm on their faces.

The wind picked up. Margaret felt confusion enter her mind, dark clouds of forgetfulness forcing her concentration to the side. The woman in the bed beside her began to howl. Margaret squeezed her eyes tight as if that would block out the sound. She turned her head from side to side in bewilderment. What was this place? Who had put her in here? Fresh roses were on the table beside her bed. Carolyn must have brought them. She loved roses. Margaret reached out a bony hand and plucked a single red petal from one of the flowers. Then she rubbed the redness into her lips, just like her daughter had taught her. The petal began to pull apart into small bits. She licked her lips and then placed what was left of the petal into her mouth.

She closed her eyes and felt someone take her hand and pull her toward the door. “Yes, yes,” she said. “We’ll go outside, dear. The sun’s hot. We’ll go sit on the bench, shall we?”

Margaret knew where she was now. There was a large room outside her door filled with partially clad people in varying degrees of distress. That damned cement wall had pictures on it again, and the orderly with the floppy leather belt would be lurking somewhere, ready to pounce on the unwashed swarm that was hungry for attention. They’d be lined up in a row, waiting for some kindness. A kiss, maybe. Or a flower.

Down the hall an orderly would be force feeding that sweet boy in the wheelchair again, the one who didn’t appear to be handicapped at all, despite his physical challenges. He was incapable of speaking, but Margaret had learned a thousand things about him just by meeting his gaze and seeing the fierce intelligence that shone there.

She stood shakily beside her bed and put on her cardigan. Lately they’d been taking to locking the door. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to catch the asylum bus. James and Rebecca would be waking from their naps soon, and the babysitter had a class to attend. What if she missed the bus? She found her slippers beneath the bed, slid them on, and shuffled to the door.

The hallway was relatively quiet as she made her way past the nurses’ station and to the door she knew would lead outside. She pushed and pushed, but it would not budge. Where was that dishevelled orderly who constantly made mistakes? Why on earth had he locked the door? She always used this door! Her fists bruised as they pounded the cold metal surface. Why wouldn’t anybody open it? She was going to miss the bus!

She glanced around her in a panic. There was a man walking toward her. He had red hair and a white stick body and looked like an unstruck match. She recognized his face. Who was he? He sauntered over and smiled with his perfect teeth. His breath was searing hot and outhouse foul. “Back so soon?”

Margaret screamed. She screamed and screamed and beat on the door before crumpling to the floor. She would not be silent this time. A woman in a white uniform raced toward her. She’d always been free to leave Poplar Grove, but something had changed. Had someone signed papers she didn’t know about? She hugged an invisible being in her arms and fought hard as the nurse tried to take her baby.

“Carolyn!” she screamed. “Carolyn!” This time she wouldn’t let them take her. She saw her old house in the distance, swaying in the shimmering heat like a mirage. If she got there, she’d be safe. She clutched her child to her chest and willed her legs to move.

A sharp pain as the needle found a home.

Then the freefall began.

The sparrows that hopped and
darted about Marie’s bird feeder outside the kitchen window looked permanently startled. Their movements were quick and jerky. What a tense little existence they had, Marie thought, and she wondered why she’d never noticed this before.

She put the casserole she’d just made into the refrigerator. Frances had agreed to arrive at three o’clock so she would be here when the kids got off the school bus. She would stay with them until Barry returned home from the hospital.

The night before, Marie had arrived at the Royal Alex Hospital to have something put inside her, some kind of a “tent,” they called it, that would begin to dilate her cervix. Tent. Camping with her children. S’mores for a bedtime snack. Moving to avoid the smoke that constantly followed her around the bonfire. Tent? That word had always had happy connotations for Marie, but not anymore. Now it carried death and mourning, not adventure.

After the device had been inserted, the doctor cautioned that she might have complications once the termination was complete. Placentas don’t always co-operate when the delivery is so early, he explained. Sometimes surgery is required. What could she do to get her placenta to co-operate? Bribe it with a treat? Offer it money? Beg?
Oh, please, not this too.

She took a
piece of paper from the drawer beneath the phone table and wrote a note to her sister.
Frances, there’s a casserole in the fridge for you and the kids (yes, it’s vegetarian). Heat it at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. There’s also salad stuff in the crisper if you feel like a salad, and there are cookies in the cookie jar. Help yourself to anything. Thanks for doing this. Marie.

On the corner of the paper someone had written a phone number without a name attached. Marie stared at it dumbly. It was her writing and yet . . . Her mind worked hard. Maclean. Dr. Maclean. She’d actually taken down the number when Elizabeth had left that message. She took her pen and pushed hard to scribble out the numbers until it was hidden beneath a series of dark lines.

There was nothing Marie could do, it seemed, without suddenly being reminded of Elizabeth. She glanced at her watch. If she phoned now, she could catch Elizabeth at work and tell her she was on the way to the hospital. She wouldn’t have to spell it out, just say she was going to the Alex. Then Elizabeth would know. But what if she showed up with flowers? If she showed up Marie would feel guilty that her friend stuck by her no matter what, and if she
didn’t
visit, then she’d know that her actions were unforgivable. Right now she couldn’t handle knowing she’d lost her best friend too.

She wiped the counters with a fresh cloth and put the dishes in the dishwasher. There was no sense not keeping up her usual standards, even if she did feel like she was going off the rails. Upstairs, she took her overnight bag out of the closet. Normally she would have had her bag packed in advance, but she’d been avoiding the task. For every moment she did
not
pack, she remained uncommitted to her decision. But the hours had passed. Barry hadn’t phoned to say he’d changed his mind. And she hadn’t phoned him either.

She folded her nightgown into its smallest shape and tucked it into the case. What else? Something to read. A magazine maybe. A hair brush. Toothpaste and a toothbrush. Some pads for the bleeding. Face cream. Fresh underclothes. Tissue.

Barry was picking her up at one-thirty. He’d taken to biting his nails again, paring down layer after layer of nail as if he were trying to strip the last bit of chicken from the bone. It bothered her to see his fingertips raw and wet with saliva.

She wandered down the hallway and stood in the doorway of Nicole’s room. Her daughter was at that age when she had one foot in childhood and the other stretching toward adolescence. Sometimes it was a precarious balance. She was still young enough to have a few stuffed animals propped up on the pillow of her made bed, but not for much longer. Her room decor was already changing. Two bottles of nail polish stood side by side on her dresser. Earrings were lined up on the mirror over her desk. A poster of some young female singer was tacked over her bed. Marie couldn’t remember the singer’s name. She should remember if it was important to her daughter. She resisted the urge to crawl into Nicole’s bed and pull the covers over her head. Such a powerful love, parenting. It crept up on a body and could knock you down if you weren’t careful. Nicole—her first-born child. The being that had thrust her into another dimension—mothering. Did Nicole know how fiercely she was loved?

Downstairs, she checked again to make sure she’d unplugged the kettle.

Then her eyes landed on the phone. Elizabeth. I should call Elizabeth. But it was too late. There was nothing to say.

Give her to me. I’ll raise your baby.

She heard the front door open and close.

“Marie?”

Barry’s voice sounded as if it were coming from far away.

The baby kicked, a soft volley of heels. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, instinctively rubbing her hand in a slow circle over her belly.

“Marie?” Louder this time and inflected with worry.

She heard his feet on the tile floor heading toward the kitchen. They followed the sound of his voice echoing through the quiet house.

Marie turned away from the window as he entered the room.

“There you are,” he said, obviously relieved. “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

He checked the time on his wristwatch. “Are you ready?”

“My bag is in the foyer.”

Barry checked the time. “We should go.”

We should go . . . 

Marie nodded mutely.

You should call.

“What’s wrong?” Barry asked, seeing the pained expression on her face.

Marie looked away.
Wrong?
she wanted to say.
What could possibly be wrong?

“I should call,” she whispered.

“Call who?” he asked, confused. “The doctor already knows you’re coming, right?”

“I should call Elizabeth.”

Barry looked afraid that she might change her mind. “We don’t have time,” he said. “It’s now or never.”