by John Saul
He sensed Kelly’s eyes on him, and looked at her.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked, her voice shy, carrying none of the bravado he’d heard when they first met.
Michael shook his head. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”
Kelly smiled. “You want to meet me tonight?”
Michael hesitated, uncertain exactly what she meant. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “I’ll see.”
A few hours later, when he finally dropped her off at the same place he’d met her that morning, he still hadn’t made up his mind.
“Dad?”
Craig Sheffield looked up at his son, his brows arching in an exaggerated expression of surprise. “The Sphinx speaks,” he said. Michael flushed, and Craig immediately regretted his teasing tone. “Well, you haven’t exactly been talkative tonight.”
“Usually he talks too much,” Jenny piped up from her chair opposite Michael’s. “I hardly ever get to talk at all. And all he ever talks about are those dumb animals he finds in the swamp.” She regarded her brother with all the scorn she could muster. “Sometime you’re going to go out there and a big snake’s going to eat you all up!”
“Jenny!” Barbara did her best to glare at her daughter, but wound up laughing instead at the little girl’s obvious delight at her imagined fate for her brother. Jenny, taking the laughter as a victory for herself, stuck out her tongue at Michael, who pointedly ignored her.
“Do you know Mr. Anderson’s granddaughter?”
Before Craig could reply, Jenny piped up again, chanting: “Michael’s got a girlfriend, Michael’s got a girlfriend.”
This time her brother glared at her. “Can’t anyone ask a simple question around here without you making a jackass of yourself?”
Instantly, Jenny’s eyes turned stormy. “You take that back!” she demanded. “Mommy, tell Michael he’s not supposed to call me names!”
Barbara groaned, leaning back in her chair and putting her napkin on the table. “Enough,” she said. “If you tease him, you have to expect him to tease you back.” Jenny opened her mouth, ready to push the argument further, but Barbara held up a warning hand. “I said that’s enough, Jenny. If you want to stay at the table, you can be polite and finish your dinner.” Before Jenny could reply, she turned to Michael. “Now what’s this about Kelly Anderson?”
“She came around today,” he hedged, deciding it wasn’t quite a lie. After all, she’d been walking toward the tour headquarters when she found him by the ditch. If she’d kept walking, and he’d still been at work, he probably would have met her anyway.
“Well, stay away from her,” Michael heard his father say, his voice sharp.
Startled, Michael turned. His father was frowning deeply.
“Stay away from her?” Michael echoed. “How come?”
“Now, Craig, you’re not being fair—” Barbara began, but her husband didn’t let her finish.
“The girl tried to kill herself, Barb. She—”
“Craig, please!” Barbara broke in, glancing pointedly toward Jenny, who was watching her father eagerly.
Craig hesitated, then grinned crookedly at his daughter. “Looks like you’re about done with your dinner. Why don’t you go on in and watch television?”
“I want to hear,” Jenny objected.
“And I don’t want you to,” Barbara said firmly. Jenny glanced from one parent to another, and realized there would be no appeal.
“Well, it’s not fair,” she complained, moving sulkily toward the door. “When I’m a grown-up, I’m going to let kids hear everything!” She slammed the door on the way out, but neither of her parents responded. Craig, in fact, was already facing Michael, his expression serious.
“Kelly Anderson decided she was pregnant a month ago, and tried to kill herself,” he said. “The fact of the matter was that she wasn’t pregnant at all. She simply imagined the whole thing.”
Barbara took a deep breath, hating her husband’s habit of making judgments before he had all the facts. And she hated even more that he only did it with his family, never with his clients. “Craig, that’s not fair. We don’t know exactly what happened—”
Craig held up a warning hand. “I know enough that I’m sure she’s not the kind of girl I want Michael mixed up with. She’s got a lot of problems, and from what Carl Anderson tells me, she always has. There are plenty of perfectly nice girls around here who—”
“Great!” Barbara exploded. “Of course she has problems! Why do you think Ted and Mary brought her down here? Did it ever occur to you that maybe Carl told us about her problems in the hope that we might be able to help? But the way you’re talking, they might as well go back to Atlanta. You haven’t even met the poor girl, and you’re already condemning her. It seems to me the least we can do is give her a chance!”
Craig Sheffield glared at his wife. “Spoken like a true social worker! All the chances in the world for everyone else. But what about your own son? You really want him exposed to some fruitcake punker from Atlanta? You don’t have any idea what she might be up to! From what I’ve heard, it sounds like she’s some kind of druggie, and if she thought she was pregnant, she must be a tramp!”
The argument between his parents raged on. Certain they’d forgotten all about him, Michael stood up from the table, picked up the dishes from his place and took them into the kitchen. He started to go back into the dining room to finish clearing the table but changed his mind.
Neither of his parents had ever met Kelly, yet here they were arguing about her. Well, the hell with them. He’d make up his own mind.
He went out the back door, crossed the lawn, then walked out onto the Sheffields’ dock where two boats were tied up. One, a small runabout with an inboard engine, he was forbidden to use unless his father was with him. The other, a rowboat powered by a small outboard, was his to use anytime he wanted. He untied it, jumped in, and pushed it away from the dock. He pulled the starter rope twice as the boat drifted out into the canal, then the engine caught. He gunned the engine, speeding away from the house. As he turned into another canal, he wondered if his parents had even noticed he was gone.
In the delivery room of the small clinic, Warren Phillips glanced up at-the face of his patient. Her hair, long and blond, lay in damp tangles, half covering her right eye. Despite the air conditioner, it was hot in the operating room, and Phillips wiped the perspiration from his brow with the sleeve of his greens. Amelie’s labor had been going on all afternoon. An hour ago he’d had her brought to the delivery room. But only now did he finally get a glimpse of the baby’s head.
“Push, Amelie,” he urged. “We’re getting there. Just a few more minutes.”
Amelie strained, battling the fatigue that seemed to have drained the last of her energy.
“C-Cain’t,” she sighed.
“Shh,” the nurse standing next to her head said, wiping at Amelie’s brow with a damp cloth. “Don’t try to talk, honey. Just concentrate on the baby.”
Another violent contraction seized Amelie’s body, and it felt like someone had shoved a hot poker into her belly.
It hurt too much. It wasn’t supposed to hurt this much, was it? Another contraction seized her, and a wave of nausea passed over her.
She couldn’t throw up. Not now.
She concentrated on the baby, and tried to push like the nurse had showed her.
“Get the needle ready,” she heard Dr. Phillips saying. He was saying it soft, hoping she wouldn’t hear, but one thing she had was good ears. “We’re in trouble.”
She wanted to scream out, to beg him not to let anything happen to her baby, but then another awful spasm of pain struck her, and though a sound rose from her throat, there were no words. Instead, it was a piercing scream of agony.
“It’s all right,” the nurse told her. “You just let it out, honey. Just let it out.”
She screamed again, and once more her body felt as if it was being torn apart. And then, oddly, she felt somethin
g moving, moving quickly, slipping away from her.
The pain eased.
“The needle,” she heard Dr. Phillips say again, and could tell by the sound of his voice that something was wrong. Then he spoke once more. “Tie off the cord. Quick.” His voice rose. “Come on, nurse! Now!”
A moment later she heard the nurse speak.
“Is he all right, Dr. Phillips?”
Silence.
An unending silence, a silence that seemed to go on forever.
Then the sound of the doctor’s voice.
“He’s not making it …”
His voice went on, but Amelie wasn’t listening. She knew what the words meant.
Her baby had died.
After all these months, her baby had died.
But it couldn’t have happened.
It wasn’t right.
It wasn’t dead! It wasn’t! She wouldn’t let it be!
A new kind of pain washed over her. Not a physical pain this time, but a pain that seemed to engulf her whole being.
“Nooo!” she screamed. “No! I want my baby. Give me my baby!”
The nurse—whose name she couldn’t even remember—tried to comfort her.
“It’s too late, honey,” she whispered. “He’s gone. Your baby’s gone, but you’re going to be all right.”
“No!” Amelie screamed again. “I want my baby! Give me my baby!” By sheer force of will she sat up on the birthing table, her eyes darting around, searching for her baby.
But except for herself, Dr. Phillips, and the nurse, the delivery room was empty.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Phillips said gently, coming around to take her hand and ease her back down onto the table. “There was nothing we could do. Even last week, if we’d taken it, we couldn’t have saved it. It’s not your fault, Amelie. Just remember that. There’s nothing you could have done, and nothing I could have done. It’s just one of those things that happen sometimes.”
Amelie listened to him numbly, heard him offer her a shot, something to make her sleep. She shook her head.
Then she started to cry.
The argument between Craig and Barbara was still raging when the telephone rang, and only when Jenny appeared in the dining room doorway, gazing uncertainly at her parents, did they finally interrupt themselves.
“Someone wants to talk to you, Mommy,” Jenny said shyly. When her mother was gone, she went and scrambled into her father’s lap. “Are you and Mommy going to get a divorce?” she asked, her voice quavering.
Craig, immediately sorry for the fight the little girl had been forced to overhear, hugged her close. “No, of course not. Mommies and daddies just do that sometimes. Don’t you ever argue with your friends?”
Jenny nodded, but said nothing.
“Well, it doesn’t mean you’re not friends anymore, does it?” Jenny’s arms tightened around his neck, but he felt her head shake. “And that’s the way it is with mommies and daddies. Just because they don’t agree on something doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”
Barbara reappeared in the doorway, her expression tense. “I have to go to the hospital,” she said. “It’s Amelie Coulton. She’s just had a stillbirth, and they need me.”
Instantly, the last of Craig’s annoyance with his wife evaporated, and when he looked at her, his eyes reflected his concern. “Can you handle it all right? Do you want me to go with you?”
Barbara shook her head. She’d been prepared for this—Warren Phillips had told her a week ago that it looked like there might be complications with Amelie’s pregnancy. Indeed, he’d recommended a cesarean section, but Amelie had refused. “It’ll be fine,” she’d whispered in her odd, little-girl voice. “The Lord’ll look after me an’ my baby. An’ I wanta have him the regular way.”
Barbara, who had been counseling Amelie from the moment the young woman had first appeared in her office six months before, shyly asking if there was any way she could see a doctor even though she didn’t have any money, silently reflected that the Lord hadn’t been looking out for Amelie when he let her get pregnant. But by last week she had known her well enough to keep the thought to herself. Despite the fact that Amelie was barely eighteen and lived with a husband who frightened her in one of the shacks in the bayous, she was much stronger-willed than the other swamp-rat women, most of whom never ventured into Villejeune at all.
“I know what’ll happen if I have my baby at home,” she’d said. “He’ll die, just like everyone else’s. An’ I want my baby, Miz Sheffield.”
“It’s going to be hard for Amelie,” Barbara said now, picking up her purse from the sideboard and kissing both her husband and her daughter. “Her husband didn’t even bother to come into town with her.”
Craig’s eyes clouded over. “Her husband? George Coulton?”
Barbara’s lips tightened. “That’s the one. From what I gather, he’s not much of a husband.”
“He may well not be a husband at all,” Craig observed, his brows arching. “Tim Kitteridge’s boys brought a body out of the swamp last night, and Tim thinks it might be George Coulton.”
Barbara stared at her husband, her mind racing. Did Amelie know? Was that what had brought on her labor? But then for some reason she found herself focusing in on a single word that Craig had uttered. “Thinks?” she repeated. “You mean he doesn’t know who the body is?”
Craig shrugged helplessly. “Apparently it didn’t look like Coulton, and there wasn’t any ID. But Coulton’s gone, and Tim says that even Amelie admitted the corpse might have been him.”
“Dear God,” Barbara breathed. “If it’s true, then that baby was all she had.” She forced a smile. “And no matter what I can tell her, she’s going to be devastated.”
She left the house and drove to the clinic, where the evening nurse told her to go directly to Amelie’s room. “How’s she doing?” Barbara asked.
The nurse spread her hands helplessly. “No better or worse than you could expect.”
Barbara took a deep breath, gripped her purse and proceeded to the patient’s wing. From a room at the end of the hall, she heard the sound of a woman sobbing. She hurried toward the room, knowing how Amelie must be feeling.
Exactly as she had once felt herself.
“Amelie?” She spoke the name softly, but there was no response from the distraught woman who lay on her side, her face to the wall, her body shaking with her grief. Barbara crossed the room, dropped into the chair next to the bed, and laid a gentle hand on Amelie Coulton’s shoulder. “Amelie, it’s me. Barbara Sheffield.”
“G-Go away,” Amelie moaned.
“Amelie, I’m here to help you.”
Amelie shrank away from Barbara’s touch. “Cain’t nobody help me,” she sobbed. “My baby … I want my baby.”
“I know,” Barbara crooned. “I know. But sometimes these things happen.”
Suddenly Amelie rolled over, her eyes feverish and angry, fixing on Barbara. “Why won’t they let me have him?” she asked, her voice pleading.
Barbara’s heart wrenched as she drew the young woman into her arms. “Oh, Amelie, I’m so sorry.”
“They won’t bring him,” Amelie sobbed. “How kin I take care of him when they won’t even bring him? He wants his ma!”
Barbara stroked Amelie’s damp and tangled hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart. The Lord’s taking care of your little baby.”
Amelie stiffened in her arms. “No,” she wailed. “It ain’t so! It’s ’cause of me! They won’t let me have him ‘cause they don’t think I’m a fittin’ mama!”
Barbara felt tears well up in her eyes. It was the same thing that had happened to her, when they’d first told her about her own baby so long ago. She hadn’t believed them—hadn’t wanted to believe them.
Not her little girl—not the little girl she’d planned for since the day she’d found out she was pregnant. It couldn’t have been born dead.
She’d refused to believe it, even when Craig had explained to her w
hat had happened, that the umbilical cord had gotten twisted around the baby’s neck and strangled it even before it could take its first breath.
“No, Amelie,” she said, wondering how she could comfort the girl. “It’s nothing to do with you, darling. It’s just something that happened. And I know how you feel. Really I do.”
Now Amelie drew away slightly, and her eyes gazed into Barbara’s. “No you don’t,” she gasped. “You cain’t. Cain’t nobody understand, less’n it’s happened to ’em.”
Barbara took a deep breath, her own memories, even after sixteen years, bringing tears to her eyes. “It has happened to me,” she said softly. “And I won’t tell you you’ll ever get over it. When my baby died before I even got to hold her in my arms, I wanted to die, myself. And I still think about her every day. I think about what she would have been like if she’d lived, and all the things we would have done together.”
Amelie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re lyin’ to me, Miz Sheffield,” she said. “Your baby didn’t die. You got a boy sixteen years old, an’ a little girl be seven. You told me last week.”
Barbara nodded. “That’s true, Amelie,” she said. “But Michael isn’t the baby that was born that night. After my little girl died—when I thought I might die, too—Dr. Phillips brought Michael to me. He was two weeks old. Just a week older than my little girl. His mother had decided to give him up, and Dr. Phillips brought him to me. At first, when I saw Michael, I was sure I couldn’t take him. But then, when I held him, I knew. I needed him as much as he needed me. And I started getting over my hurt. But that first week, before Dr. Phillips brought Michael to me, I just wanted to die. I felt just like you feel now.”
Amelie’s whole body trembled, and Barbara felt her struggling to control her churning emotions. But then she went limp, dropping back against the pillows, covering her face with her hands. “It ain’t gonna happen that way for me,” she said hollowly.
Barbara took her hand. “You don’t know that, Amelie.”
Amelie dropped her other hand to her lap and turned, her eyes—deep pools of grief and hopelessness—fixed on Barbara. “It ain’t going to,” she repeated. “You’re a nice woman, Miz Sheffield. But don’t lie to me. I ain’t educated, but I ain’t stupid, neither. Ain’t no one gonna give a baby to someone like me. I ain’t got no job, an’ my man’s gone, an’ I live in a shack in the swamp. There ain’t no babies for the like of me. And the Lord knew it. That’s why he took away my little boy. Even God don’t got no use for someone like me.”
