In Those Dazzling Days of Elvis

by Josephine Rascoe Keenan

  The woman looked at me with cold eyes.

  “I’ll leave the pen and papers here on the night table. I’ll stop by again to collect them before I leave. If you’re smart, you’ll sign and salvage what you can of your life.”

  After she left, no one came in to check on me for over an hour. Finally, a young intern appeared.

  “Doing fine,” he said, lowering the sheet. “It shouldn’t be too much longer now.”

  “Please, give me that twilight sleep the nurse was talking about. Knock me out, in the name of God. I can’t bear this pain.”

  “No can do, honey. Not till you sign off on the kid.”

  —||—

  Hours later, when the sun was backlighting the leaf pattern on the closed chintz curtains, I was still alone and no one had checked on me since he left. My body shifted into another mode that set off a need to push. The pains were now only about three minutes apart and had increased in intensity to the point that I thought I would surely die. An excruciatingly hard one hit. Gritting my teeth, I pushed so hard the veins strained in my neck.

  The next moment, the baby was in the bed.

  Chapter 31

  THE GREAT ESCAPE

  The baby was a boy, and even with no one there to give him the customary spank on his bottom, he wailed lustily, battling the air with his tiny fists. I managed to pick him up and cradle him close. My Nicholas, my baby, Farrel’s baby—surely there never was a more beautiful child.

  Some part of my exhausted body reminded me that it was important to note the time. My watch said nine o’clock.

  I could not stop the baby’s wails. They must have heard his cries out into the corridor, for the nurse who had prepped me rushed in and was followed a moment later by a retinue of nurses and interns.

  “Oh my God!” said the first nurse. “Didn’t anyone monitor this girl? She had the baby right here! Why wasn’t she taken to delivery?”

  No one answered.

  She seemed to register for the first time that Nicholas was in my arms.

  “You’re not supposed to hold that baby!” She reached for him.

  “Don’t touch my baby! Don’t any of you try to take him away from me!”

  The group around my bed took subtle steps backward. No one said anything more until the younger doctor who examined us at the home came into the room. The crowd parted to let him through. By this time, I had lifted the baby to my breast, and his little lips were pulling on my nipple.

  “Don’t nurse him!” the doctor said. “The cord isn’t cut.”

  The next few minutes were total chaos with nurses rushing in and out and the doctor taking care of the cord.

  When the excitement had died down, I again lifted the baby to my breast.

  “You are not allowed to nurse him, Miss Morgan,” the doctor said.

  “Why not, in God’s name?”

  “Because you won’t be able to continue with breast feeding. He’ll be bottle-fed. We’ll give you some pills that will dry up your milk.”

  Much as I despised hearing those words, I knew they were true. I had to leave here to go to Mama’s funeral, and there was no way I could take him with me without exposing the shameful secret. At the same time, the idea that there was any way on earth my precious baby could be considered shameful made me feel unglued.

  When I tried to ease Nicholas’s lips away from my nipple, he broke into a deafening squall.

  “Here, let me take him,” another nurse said, stepping forward.

  “No!” I said, moving the baby back to my breast. He stopped crying instantly.

  The doctor waved the nurse back and moved closer to my bed.

  “He’s a fine little fellow, Julie, but he needs to be cleaned up, and you need more attention, yourself.”

  “It’s about time somebody decided that,” I said, ripe with anger and hurt.

  “I apologize that you had to give birth to him all alone and without medication. That was an oversight.” He reached for the papers of surrender, still on the bedside table. “But you haven’t signed these yet, and that is part of the reason why. Now give the baby to me. You can hold him again when they are signed.”

  “No!’”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “I have to take him now, Julie.”

  “You will not!” I said, twisting so that Nicholas was out of his reach.

  The doctor threw a helpless look toward the nurses and interns, but no one offered a suggestion.

  “Am I going to have to call psychiatric services?” he said, turning back to me.

  That stopped me cold. At the home, there’d been rumblings about girls who’d refused to sign the adoption papers being put in mental institutions until their parents arrived to get them out. I had no one to come for me.

  Gathering my courage, I played my only trump card.

  “It’s about the money, isn’t it?”

  He gave a start. “Wh-what?”

  “The money people have to pay to adopt a baby. You and the home and the adoption agency all get a cut from it, don’t you?”

  His eyes shifted away from mine. I knew I had him.

  “What about my rights?” I rushed on. “Don’t I have any? What about my baby’s right to have his own true mother?”

  “Do you intend never to sign, Miss Morgan?” he asked.

  “I don’t know right now this very second! I’ve just given birth with no one to attend me. My mother died suddenly, and I had to read about it in the newspaper. If I signed now, it would be under duress, and one thing I know for sure because my mother worked for a law firm, a signature under duress wouldn’t hold up in any court of law.”

  Inside, I quaked with fear, but the bold face I put on worked. The doctor nodded, solemn-faced. The room went silent except for the small sounds of my child feeding.

  “Again, I apologize, Miss Morgan,” the doctor said, “and I offer my sincere sympathies for the loss of your mother. We were under the assumption that you came here in order to conceal your pregnancy and give up the baby. We’ll give you a day or so to rethink the matter. Just let us attend to both of you. No one can take him away from you permanently until you sign him over for adoption.”

  —||—

  When Nicholas and I were clean and comfortable, they put him back in my arms. Apparently, my fit had made an impression on them.

  With the nurse tagging along, two male staff workers moved me with the baby in my arms to a room down the hall from the labor and delivery area.

  “We don’t put you girls from the home in with our real mothers,” the nurse said, “and since no one else from there is delivering right now, you get a private room. Lucky you.”

  I flared. “You’re trying to say I’m not a real mother?”

  “You know what I mean,” she said with a toss of her head.

  After she’d left us alone, I fed Nicholas again and, following her instructions, put him on my shoulder to burp. He was so precious. The longer I held him, the more in love with him I grew.

  A meal was brought to me long before the regular kitchen personnel came around with lunch. After I ate, I slipped under the sheet and cuddled my baby close. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and when I awoke, he was gone.

  The hospital was quiet. My watch said ten o’clock. I thought back. Marty and I had gotten the newspaper on Monday, the second of September, Labor Day. Mama had died the day before. Those words remained horrifyingly unreal. Miss Oldenburg had brought me to the hospital around eight o’clock the night of the second. I remembered my watch reading nine A.M. on Tuesday when Nicholas was born. Mama’s funeral was scheduled for Thursday, the fifth, but what day was it now? It must still be Tuesday, the third.

  I pressed the call button. The squeaky shoes nurse arrived so quickly I wondered if she’d been hovering outside my room.

  “Is my watch right?” I asked. “Ten o’clock?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Ten P.M.”

  “On Tuesday the third,” I said.

  Sh
e shook her head. “Ten P.M. Wednesday night, September fourth.”

  “Wednesday night!” Alarm flushed through me. “That’s impossible!”

  She drew back the curtains. It was dark outside.

  “No, honey. You slept round the clock, and we let you. Your bed needs straightening. Do you feel like getting up and sitting in the armchair for a few minutes?”

  I threw back the covers. Mama’s funeral was only twelve hours away. I had to get home. As I swung my legs over the side of the bed, I saw the surrender papers still lying on the table. I remembered someone saying during all the chaos that the hospital wouldn’t release me until I signed. I couldn’t take the baby with me, or everyone at home would know, but I couldn’t sign those papers either.

  “Would you please bring my baby to me?” I asked Squeaky Shoes as I took a few tentative steps. I didn’t know how painful it would be to move. Fortunately, it was only mild discomfort and soreness.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I can’t do that.”

  She looked up while smoothing the bed covers. “You’ll need to get right back in bed. It’s not good for your body to get up too soon from childbirth.”

  I decided not to argue.

  While she finished tucking the sheets, I eased over to the mirror. Grasping a handful of hospital gown in back, I pulled the front tight across my body. My stomach had gone down somewhat but maybe not enough for me to squeeze into the blue and white travel dress. I opened the door to the closet. It was empty.

  “Where is my suitcase?” I asked Squeaky Shoes, who by this time was fluffing the pillows.

  “We’ll get it for you later. Right now you need your rest. The bed is ready.”

  My heart skipped a beat. Without my little money bag, I was dead in the water. That hundred-dollar bill was my ticket to freedom and home.

  Squeaky Shoes kept her eyes riveted on me, like she thought I might vanish. To allay her suspicious, I crawled between the sheets and lay down, as if to go back to sleep. I let her put out the light and close the door. When I heard her footsteps fading down the corridor, I threw back the covers and got out of bed again.

  I opened the door of my room a crack and peeped out. The hospital lights were dimmed for night. With my rear end probably showing through the gap in the back of the hospital gown, I tiptoed barefooted down the hall in search of the room I had been in. The door stood open wide to the empty darkness inside. Without flipping the light switch, I went straight for the closet. Reaching around in the dark, my fingers located my suitcase where the nurse had left it.

  I took the bag with me into the adjoining bathroom and locked the door. I hadn’t bathed since the day I went into labor, but I didn’t want the nurses to hear the shower running, so I made do with a sponge bath in the sink. After cleaning up as well as I could, I focused on fitting into the blue and white suit. It lay on top, where I’d packed it. A quick feel in the pocket relieved my anxiety. The money bag with the folded bill was still there.

  The more I tried to hurry, the more everything went wrong. First, my lipstick slipped through my fingers and into the toilet. No alternative but to fish it out and wash it and my hands under water as hot as I could bear.

  Next, the waistband of my skirt proved too small to fasten. I rolled up my handkerchief and threaded it through the button hole. I sucked in my stomach and used the money bag pin to secure the two hanky ends to the button side, providing an extra four inches to the waistband. I had to have that money in my purse from here on anyway. The zipper would only come up halfway, but the peplum-style top hid the gap, as well as the outline of the sanitary belt.

  I stuck a few pads into my purse, along with Elvis’s letter, and was ready to go when I remembered my bare feet. In a frenzy, I rummaged through the suitcase. My black pumps with the little heel weren’t there. I took a deep breath and thought back. I had worn them to the hospital. Maybe they were in the plastic drawstring bag they made me store the maternity outfit in when I undressed to give birth.

  I fumbled all around the closet until I felt the bag in a back corner. Not bothering with hose, I pulled out the shoes and, slipping my feet into them, I shoved the suitcase back into the closet. I couldn’t be burdened with it on an attempt to escape. Maybe someday I could come back for it.

  I opened the door an inch or so to check the corridor. No one. I eased out and had taken only a few steps when I heard the squeaking rubber soles. I ducked back inside the room, leaving the door slightly ajar to see out. Squeaky Shoes hurried by on her way toward the observation room.

  I still couldn’t decide what to do about Nicholas. No way could I take him home with me. Keeping him a secret was the least I could do for Mama’s memory, and for myself. But neither could I bring myself to surrender him for adoption. The one thing I must do was get home and see Mama one last time before they put her in the ground. The thought hurt so much my throat felt like it was ripping all the way down into my guts. But there was no time for crying.

  Soft hospital sounds accentuated the still darkened corridor. I could not risk going past the nurses’ station to the elevator. At the far end of the hall was a red-lighted exit sign. Hoping it was the stairs, I headed for it, not realizing until I was almost there that I’d have to pass the observation room.

  As I approached the wide window, I paused. Round-the-clock nurses tended to the newborns. I knew that much. Someone was bound to be on duty and would surely see me if I stopped to get a glimpse of Nicholas. But I had to risk it. I had to see my baby. Maybe no one would pay attention to me. After all, I was dressed like a visitor.

  As usual, the boy babies were up front, close to the window. I was quickly able to locate the name “Morgan” on the card attached to the end of a bassinet. Even without it, I would have recognized his adorable face.

  The one nurse in attendance was occupied in the rear with her back to the window. I waved to my baby. I knew he could not focus his newborn eyes enough to recognize me, but seeing him and touching the window comforted me.

  “Been released?” a voice asked.

  Squeaky Shoes stood behind me. I slumped.

  “Oh, I see, you’re making a getaway?” she said. “What are you thinking? That you’ll run away without signing the papers and leave him in limbo? Or were you planning to shatter the glass and take him with you?”

  “My mother’s funeral is tomorrow. I have to be there. And I know I can’t take him with me.”

  “Honey, why don’t you do what is right for him and sign those papers so he’ll be provided for? Then you can get on with your life.”

  “I simply can’t right now with Mama dead and all. He’s a part of me. Don’t you understand?”

  As she gazed at me, her face underwent a change from authoritative nurse to sympathetic friend.

  “What will happen to him if I leave without signing? Please tell me, please.”

  She took a long breath. I could see her debating with herself.

  “They’ll put him in a foster home until they can put enough pressure on you, wherever you are, to make you sign.”

  I thought hard. Maybe I wouldn’t ever have to sign. Maybe I could go home and figure something else out. At least I knew he’d be all right if I left him there.

  “Are you going to blow the whistle on me?” I asked.

  “I’ll have to sound the alarm, but with your mom dead, you’ve got a lot on your plate,” she said. “I’ll give you a head start. There’s a pay phone booth right outside the hospital. The number for Yellow Cab is stuck on the inside wall. I was on my way to dispense the medication to dry up your milk. Here it is. You’ll need it. Take the staircase and hurry.”

  I took the vial of pills and gave her a quick hug.

  “Have you got enough money for your ticket?”

  “I have a hundred-dollar bill, but no change for the pay phone.”

  She fumbled in her pocket and handed me a dime. With murmured thanks, I fled down the stairs, across the lobby, and out into the night.

  I was o
n my way home.

  Chapter 32

  TRAILWAYS HOME

  “The bus station,” I told the cabby.

  “Greyhound or Trailways?”

  Road block before I’d even begun my trip.

  “Oh, Lord. I don’t know.”

  “Where ya headed?”

  “El Dorado, Arkansas.”

  “Trailways,” said the driver.

  “Please hurry. I have to be home tomorrow morning, and I don’t know the bus schedules.”

  “Then we’ll agitate the gravel,” he said.

  Elvis had used that same expression the night he gave me a ride home. The remembrance filled me with nostalgia for the lost girl of that magical time.

  The cabby was nice enough to turn the meter off while I went inside to break my large bill.

  I’d never been inside a bus station late at night, and hardly ever during the day. No women were there, and no one young. Spittle dotted the floor, and cigar smoke coming from a man sitting clear across the waiting room made it hard to breathe. A few other men, all in bedraggled clothes, sat reading or dozing.

  “When is the next bus to El Dorado?” I asked the ticket agent.

  “Departing one A.M., scheduled to arrive at eight in the morning.”

  He took the hundred-dollar bill and studied it.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, my voice shaky.

  “This the smallest you’ve got?”

  I nodded.

  His eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get this bill?”

  “My mother gave it to me.”

  “Sure it’s not counterfeit?” the agent said, his face suspicious.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Just give me a ticket and my change. The cab driver is waiting to be paid.”

  “Don’t know if I can break it,” he said, fumbling in the cash register.

  “Sir.”

  He met my gaze.

  “Please. My mother died unexpectedly.” My throat swelled. “I’ve got to get home.”

  With that, he counted out my money and gave me a ticket. I rushed back outside.