Up Close And Gone

by Jennie Spallone

  “And the circumcision of all three infants also brought you comfort?”

  “We performed these deeds so our babies could die in peace and their souls live on,” said Alan. “Even though circumcision is not an obligation and is done without the traditional blessing, we didn’t want the babies to suffer the shame of being buried uncircumcised.”

  “Do you and your wife observe kaddish?”

  “The laws of mourning don’t apply for a baby that does not live at least thirty days.” Alan did not admit it out loud but observing a traditional one-year mourning period would have forced him to acknowledge that the passing of his babies was not merely a nightmare.

  The therapist shifted in her chair. “Over the last five months, Deborah has shared with me how her vision of herself has changed after the death of the babies.”

  Alan stiffened, unsure if his response was required. If so, what response?

  Deb must have noticed his discomfort because she took his hand in hers.

  The doctor continued. “Your wife has talked about the unparalleled privilege of carrying and nurturing those lives within her womb, feeling creative and complete. Delivering babies dead from her womb causes her to despise her body for its betrayal.”

  Slivers of his frozen heart begin to crack. “This is a bad idea, me coming here.”

  His wife moved her chair closer to his. Her face was tearless. How could she not be breaking apart? Perhaps she had already done so in front of this shrink. And now her grief had surpassed his.

  “You’re sorry you came here tonight?” asked the psychiatrist.

  “The wounds are too fresh and raw. I can’t do this.”

  “Your wounds are still too raw too deal with.”

  Alan couldn’t even respond to her rephrasing of his comment. Instead, he resorted, as usual, to communal beliefs. “As tradition teaches, every soul enters this world with a mission. Our babies completed their mission in their time inside the womb and shortly thereafter.”

  “It is common for bereaved fathers to distance themselves from the feelings of loss they are experiencing,” said Dr. Gardner. “To stand back as their wives receive condolences, offers of assistance. This is for her, not for me, they say. Does this resonate with you?”

  He sunk into the sofa cushion, feeling weak and dizzy. “Can I have some water?”

  As the therapist rose to pour him a glass from her Brita pitcher, Alan glanced at his wife. She looked at him with compassion, for once not attempting to fix his feelings.

  Alan sipped from the glass the therapist offered him.

  “Before the babies died, I was filled with fresh, molecule-packed water, like the water in this glass. As baby after baby emerged from my wife’s womb, as they each died in their own way, that water began to evaporate. When I disconnected Justin from life support, when both sides of our families viewed me and my wife as monsters, my water dried up completely. I became a desert. I am a desert still.”

  “It is interesting you choose water as your metaphor,” said the psychologist. “Water keeps a fetus alive in the womb. It delivers nutrients, it provides a soft barrier, it is everything to that fetus until a baby emerges. Do you feel responsible for the death of your babies?”

  His wife breathed in harshly.

  Alan put his head in his arms. His mask was disintegrating, and he could do nothing to paste it back on. He was helpless.

  Deb took him in her arms. “It’s all right,” she cooed over and over again. He was in her womb, unconditionally loved by his wife, by God, by the therapist. He was finally home.

  “There will be times when you will feel you can’t survive the pain. Don’t chastise yourselves by saying if only we’d done this, if only we’d done that. Instead, cling to God and each other, talk to each other. You are both resilient; you will come through this together.”

  As Alan paid for the therapy session, he felt lighter than he’d felt in months. It was as if bricks and mortar had come undone. Angels’ wings carrying him and Deb out of the therapist’s office and into the street. Never had he felt this loosening of should and shouldn’t.

  Before slipping into the driver’s seat, Alan gave his wife a hug filled with the love and passion he’d held hostage within his heart. He prayed his heart would remain open.

  Chapter 18

  Shana

  “You are my son.”

  The young man’s eyes grew wide.

  “When I found out I was pregnant with you, I was ecstatic, but also freaked out!”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Afraid I was a monster?”

  Afraid your birth father was a monster. Shana kept that response tightly tucked away in her head.

  “Of course not. I’d just been offered a job as a newspaper writer; heady stuff for a new college graduate. No way could I take care of another human being when I didn’t even know if I could take care of myself. I didn’t know what to do, who to turn to.”

  “I should be glad you didn’t abort me,” he said, his voice at once solemn.

  “My parents were hippies. They told me it was my personal choice whether to give birth or abort. I chose to bring you into this world. Thanks to the Pregnancy Discrimination Act, the Sun-Times had to keep me on staff, even as my belly grew bigger and bigger with you.”

  “Who is my father?”

  Shana’s hunger banged on her gut. “No more talk until you give me food and clothes.”

  He turned his back on her. “You’re pretending to care about me so I’ll release you.”

  Shana softened her tone. “I’m not pretending, Daniel.”

  Caught off guard, he turned to face her. “That was my birth name.”

  “I know,” she said quietly. “The Storkenheims let me name you. That name also worked in Hebrew when they had you circumcised.”

  Shana watched her son’s eyes flicker.

  “I’ll get you some food and clothes.” He strode from the kitchen.

  Shana was left with her own dark thoughts. Never had she mentioned to Rachel and Becca that they had a long-lost sibling she’d given birth to out of wedlock. She couldn’t even recall confiding in David, although they’d recently celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary. What if the family spit her out of their lives, like bitter herbs?

  Vulnerability was an emotion Shana had studiously avoided her entire life. As an only child, she’d been forced to be self-reliant at an early age. Her parents were more focused on their next LSD trip than in caring and feeding a young child. At eight years old, Shana had set their apartment ablaze while frying eggs in an ungreased pan. Most kids would have run screaming from the kitchen, but not her. Without batting an eye, she’d turned off the stove jets, then thrown a pitcher of water at the fire. A pale scar on her right forearm was a constant reminder of the pain she had endured.

  As far as Shana was concerned, she’d also done a hell of a job being a good wife and mother. Even so, there was a huge difference between confiding almost everything about your past and confiding every single thing! How could she expose her daughters to a sibling who was so fucked up? Maybe the Ecstasy drug her rapist put in her drink had resulted in her son’s mental illness, or maybe he was simply born evil. Since Judaism didn’t believe in original sin, the second possibility was a non-starter. Whatever his problem, the fact remained that her son had kidnapped her and held her captive. Who knew what else he was capable of doing?

  Daniel reappeared with an armful of clothes. “Here you go,” he said, his voice subdued.

  “Thank you.” She quickly slipped into some undergarments and a dress that smelled of moth balls. “So what’s your new name?”

  He waved his hands agitatedly. “Later.”

  Shana adopted a soothing tone of voice. “The Storkenheims loved you. I love you, too.”

  Daniel plated some fresh eggs and toast and handed her the food
. “Obviously not enough to search for me.”

  As Shana stuffed scrambled eggs and jam into her mouth, she mulled the resigned tone of his words. “Search is an interesting word choice, Daniel.”

  “I told you no games.” His voice was low and threatening.

  Fear crawled up Shana’s spine like a thousand red ants. “You scaled mountains to search me out. I failed to search for you because I knew I’d given my precious baby to a loving, financially secure, couple. Right now, I’m overwhelmed with both positive and negative emotions.”

  He snickered. “Guilt is a bitch.”

  “Guilt is not one of those emotions,” she whispered.

  His head jerked up. “You started a new life and pretended I never existed!”

  Shana breathed deeply, afraid to set him off again. “I yearned to see you. But I’ve interviewed numerous birth parents who re-enter their children’s lives. The results are often crushing. In some cases, the children didn’t even know they were adopted. I didn’t want you and your adoptive family to experience that tsunami upheaval.”

  He hit her elbow with his fist. “You worked for the newspaper less than a year when you had me; you didn’t know all that stuff when you discarded me. Face it. You chose to erase me from your life like an old Etch a Sketch pad. To protect yourself, not me.”

  Shana winced as she rubbed her elbow. “What do you want from me?”

  He smashed her empty plate against the kitchen wall. “I want thirty-four years of my life back. I want memories of foster care and beatings and neglect erased. I want to know my birth family. To meet my siblings. To break free of the shadows in my life.”

  “In between the first adoption and your current adoption, you were placed in foster care?”

  Daniel looked away. “I acted out; biting, scratching, hitting.”

  Tears flowed down Shana’s cheeks. “You were a preschooler. You needed love and affection, not beatings and neglect.”

  “I never said they beat me.”

  “Then what did they do to you?”

  “It wasn’t just me. There were other kids there, too.”

  “What did your foster parents do?” Shana repeated.

  “They collected checks and used them to buy lavish meals while feeding us watery soup and moldy bread.”

  “Like Oliver Twist,” she mused.

  “They tied us to our bed railings at night so we wouldn’t run away.”

  “So that’s why you shackled my wrists.”

  Daniel’s eyes glowed fiercely. “You know nothing about me. You gave up that opportunity thirty-four years ago.”

  Shana willed herself to stay calm. The police would be looking for her by now. The longer she kept him talking, the longer she’d stay alive. “Did your preschool teacher report your abuse to DCFS?”

  “Some lady with a clipboard came to our house a couple of times. But our foster parents threatened us not to answer her questions or we’d be beaten. Some of us had red marks around our wrists and ankles, but we all wore long sleeves and pants, and the lady didn’t notice.”

  “How awful,” said Shana. “How were you finally removed from their care?”

  “The weather was scorching hot. The lady with the clipboard forced our foster parents to have us roll up our sleeves and pants and take off our shirts. Our ribs had no fat on them, and our wrists and ankles were infected. DCFS got us out of there quick.”

  Shana huffed. “Wish I would have covered that story. I’d make them pay for what they did to you and the others.”

  Daniel hit her on the arm. “Don’t you get it? You caused the story!”

  Shana winced as she rubbed the injury. “I wish I could erase those horrible foster care experiences from your brain, Daniel, but you must realize I had no control over your early childhood.”

  He smirked. “How convenient for you.”

  Her voice reflected his grief. “I am so sorry.”

  His fists tightened. “Crocodile tears. No matter. You’re not much longer for this world.”

  Shana trembled. Her life was in the hands of her emotionally unstable son. She must convince him to release her. She’d soon be a grandmother for the first time. But how could she exit this nightmare when her feet were roped like a prized calf? All hope was lost unless she gave Daniel the acceptance he craved.

  “Let me text your sisters. Tell them where we are, not to bring the police. They’ll be thrilled to meet you.”

  He advanced towards her. “Don’t bullshit a bull-shitter, Mommy!”

  “Untie this rope, open the door, send me back into the woods,” she pleaded. “I promise I won’t tell anybody.”

  He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and pushed her into it. His eyes had steadied. “You haven’t told me about my birth father yet.”

  Chapter 19

  Rachel

  Sweaty, chilled, nauseous, head pounding. Rachel could only bear the second day of magnesium drips because it strengthened her baby’s lungs in utero. And because her dad had assured her and Becca that Detective Hernandez and the NYPD were out there, trying to find their mother.

  Limp as a wilted leaf, she lay in her hospital bed, praying not to go into premature labor. Time, said the doctor, was the most important gift she could give her unborn infant. Time for the lungs, time for the organs, time for the brain, to develop. Each additional moment enabled the baby to safely grow inside her drained womb; that’s what the nurse had said.

  The goal was no contractions; even light ones could stress the baby. Her doctor wanted her to continue on bed rest for at least ninety-eight more days; until the baby was further equipped to live outside utero. They told her she needed to remain calm, because her anxiety would transmit to the fetus.

  Rachel tried to remain calm. She listened to Chopin and Bach on her iPhone. Zander massaged her neck and shoulders. Becca snuggled and played board games with her. But when her family left for the cafeteria, anxiety over her mom’s disappearance encased her brain. It’s your fault. You’re responsible. A truth she couldn’t deny.

  If only she could rerun the last three days of her life, like the movie Ground Hog Day. She’d smile at her mom from across the brunch table. When her mom asked the waiter to turn down the air conditioning, she’d second that request; after all, it had been cold in the restaurant.

  She’d generously hand her mother a sweater, sans snarky comment. When her mother rushed from the dining room, obviously embarrassed by her daughters’ behavior, she’d not follow dad’s suggestion to “give mom a minute.”

  If mom wasn’t in the bathroom, she’d check out the bar, the hostess desk, the outside patio. She’d refuse to pretend like nothing was amiss.

  If she’d done all that, mom might be sitting on her hospital bed, singing to her right now. Beatles songs. Carole King. James Taylor. Songs from mom’s youth. Songs she’d exposed her daughters to when they were young. Songs of peaceful uprising and change.

  Then the brutal truth wedged itself into her thoughts. If she had been more compassionate toward mom, she wouldn’t even be lying in the hospital right now. Her water wouldn’t have broken. She would have delivered her baby on her due date!

  It was her own fault.

  Rachel sobbed like she had when 9/11 happened. Even though she was just a freshman at a Chicago high school, she’d intuited what New York’s twin towers symbolized. What their destruction symbolized.

  That day, Mom returned home early from work. She rocked her and her younger sister. Ran her fingers through their hair. Allowed them to cry. To freely experience their sadness.

  “Reality consists of joy and horror,” she’d said. “We must be strong enough to live through them both.”

  Now mom’s words were playing out again. If the police didn’t find her soon… she couldn’t think about that.

  She must have been sobbing louder
than she thought. Suddenly she felt a sharp contraction and pressed the alert button. Seconds later, nurses rushed into the room, checked her IV, her heart monitor, and then the baby’s heart monitor and brain activity.

  Rachel felt a pin prick in her arm. “This will calm you down,” the nurse said gently.

  “The baby!”

  “Your baby is fine for now, but she requires a stress-free environment to develop inside your womb. Agitation can cause contractions. You could go into premature labor, which would have a negative impact on your baby.”

  Rachel swiped at her eyes. “Sorry. It’s just everything. And my mom not being here.”

  The nurse pat her hand. “Right now, you need to concentrate on your health and that of your baby. Your mom would want that, right?”

  Rachel nodded. The medicine was making her sleepy. She closed her eyes.

  Mom would want that.

  Chapter 20

  Shana

  Shana debated what to do. If she told Daniel the truth about his birth father, she’d be a goner. If she didn’t talk, odds were he’d still kill her.

  The pocketknife in her face decided for her. “Start talking.”

  Shana breathed in and out deeply, then stuck one toe into the mire.

  “I majored in Journalism at Roosevelt University. Back in the day, the newspaper world was still dominated by men. Sexism was still a big part of women not being hired and promoted. Then there’s the salary disparity and …”

  “Birth father, not politics!”

  A lucid speaker, Shana had rarely encountered a No-Fly zone.

  “I met your dad at a frat party a week before graduation.”

  Daniel leaned in. “Where?”

  Shana thought a minute. “The frat house was in an old mansion.”

  Her son waved his knife at her. “What was the name of the fraternity?”

  Shana hugged her trembling body. “I don’t remember. That was thirty-five years ago!”

  “Go on.”