I groaned. I was sure the effort would kill me and I understood now how my real mother could have died in childbirth. But I didn't care. I never felt more like dying than I did at this moment. Death loomed as a true source of relief. The temptation to close my eyes and sink into my own grave was great. I even prayed for it.
I felt a gush, a surge of movement. Mrs. Coons was mumbling orders and lessons so quickly to Emily it sounded like the gibberish of witchcraft. And then, suddenly, in an overwhelming tremor, my lower body shuddered and it happened . . . the baby emerged. Mrs. Coons cried out. I saw the look of amazement on Emily's face and then I saw Mrs. Coons lift the newly-born infant in her bloodied hands. The umbilical cord was still attached, of course, and dangling, but the child looked perfect.
"It's a girl!" Mrs. Coons declared. She placed her mouth over the infant's bloodstained face and lips and sucked and then the baby cried out; its first complaint, I was sure. "It's alive!" Mrs. Coons cried.
Emily crossed herself quickly.
"Now watch closely and learn how to cut and tie the umbilical cord," Mrs. Coons told her.
I closed my eyes, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over my body. A girl, I thought. It's a girl. And she's not been born dead. I'm not a murderess. Perhaps I was no longer a curse to those who I touched and who touched me. Perhaps with the birth of my child, I, too, was reborn.
Papa was waiting at the doorway.
"It's a girl," Emily announced when he stepped in. "And it's alive."
"A girl?"
I saw the disappointment on his face. He had been hoping for the son he didn't have.
"Another girl." He shook his head and looked at Mrs. Coons as if it were her fault.
"I don't make 'em. I only help bring them into the world," she told him. He lowered his head.
"Get on with it," he ordered, and gave Emily a conspiratorial look. She understood.
After the baby had been cleaned and wrapped in a blanket, they began the second phase of the great deception. They brought my child to Mamma's room.
It was over, I thought. But before I fell asleep, I also realized that now, it was also about to begin.
I didn't move from my bed for two days and two nights. Emily let me know immediately that she would no longer be catering to my needs.
"Vera will bring up your food and help you with your necessities," she declared. "But Papa wants you up and about in short order. Vera's got enough to do without looking after the likes of you, too.
"You'll not discuss or mention the birth of the baby with Vera. No one's to bring it up or even hint about it in this house. Papa's made that perfectly clear so everyone knows better."
"How is my baby?" I asked her, and she flared up instantly.
"Never, never, never refer to her as your baby. She's Mamma's baby, Mamma's," she pounded.
I closed my eyes, swallowed, and then asked her again.
"How is Mamma's baby?"
"Charlotte's doing fine," she told me.
"Charlotte? That's her name?"
"Yes. Papa thought naming her Charlotte was something Mamma would want. Charlotte was Mamma's grandmother's name," she told me. "Everyone will understand and it will help them believe the baby is Mamma's."
"And how is Mamma?"
Her eyes darkened.
"Mamma is not doing well," she said. "We have to pray, Lillian. We have to pray as much and as long as we can."
Her serious tone frightened me.
"Why doesn't Papa send for the doctor now? He has no reason not to anymore. The baby's been born," I cried.
"I expect he will . . . shortly," she said. "So you see . . . there are plenty of serious and hard things ahead of us without your lying around like some spoiled invalid."
"I'm not a spoiled invalid. I'm not doing this deliberately, Emily. I've gone through a horrible time. Even Mrs. Coons said so. You were here; you saw it. How can you be so unfeeling, so uncompassionate and still pretend to be so religious?" I snapped.
"Pretend?" she gasped. "You, of all people, accuse me of pretending?"
"Somewhere in that Bible you carry there are words about loving and caring and ministering to the needy," I replied firmly. All these years of forced Biblical training didn't go for naught. I knew of what I spoke. But Emily knew, too.
"And somewhere there are words about evil in our hearts and the sins of man and what we must do to overcome our weaknesses. Only when the devil is driven off can we enjoy the pleasure of loving each other," she said. That was her philosophy, that was her credo, and I pitied her for it. I shook my head.
"You'll always be alone, Emily. You'll never have anyone but yourself."
She whipped her head back and pulled herself up to her full height.
"I am not alone. I walk with the angel Michael who has the sword of retribution in his hand," she bragged. I simply shook my head at her. Now that my ordeal had ended, I had only pity for her. She sensed it and couldn't tolerate my gazing at her that way. She spun on her heavy heels quickly and rushed from my room.
The first time Vera brought me something to eat, I asked her how Mamma was doing.
"I can't tell you for sure, Lillian. The Captain and Emily have been looking after her for the past few days."
"Papa and Emily? But why?"
"It's the way the Captain wants it," Vera replied, but I could see she was very disturbed about it.
Worry over Mamma got me up and out of my bed faster than I had expected. As the beginning of the third day after Charlotte's birth, I rose. At first, I moved about like an old lady, as bent over and as achy as Mrs. Coons, but as I walked the kinks out of my body, I took deep breaths and straightened up. Then I left my room and went to see Mamma.
"Mamma?" I said, after I had knocked gently on the doorway. There was no response, but she didn't look like she was sleeping. After I closed the door behind me, I turned and saw she had her eyes open.
"Mamma," I said, starting toward her. "It's me, Lillian. How are you today?"
I paused before I reached her bedside. To me, Mamma looked like she had lost another twenty pounds since I had last visited. Her once magnolia-white complexion was now sickly yellow. Her beautiful flaxen hair, unwashed, unbrushed, unpampered for days, maybe even weeks, looked dry and dull. Age, riding the back of her illness, had crept into her body, even making the skin on her fingers wrinkle. There were lines in her face where I had never seen lines. Her cheek and jawbones were prominently outlined under her dry and scaly skin. Even though her lavender scent had been sprayed over her abundantly, making the whole room reek of the scent, Mamma looked unwashed, uncared for, as deserted and neglected as some impoverished woman left to rot in a public hospital ward for poor people.
But what frightened me the most was the way Mamma had her glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her eyes didn't move; her eyelids didn't even tremble.
"Mamma?"
I stood beside her bed biting down on my lower lip to keep myself from sobbing aloud. She lay there so still. I couldn't see her breathing. Her bosom wasn't lifting and falling beneath her blanket.
"Mamma," I whispered. "Mamma, it's me . . . Lillian. Mamma?" I touched her shoulder. She felt so cold, I pulled my hand back in shock and swallowed a gasp. Then, slowly, inches at a time, I brought my hand to her face and touched her cheek. It felt just as cold.
"Mamma!" I cried sharply, loudly. There wasn't even a flutter in her eyelids. Gently, but firmly, I shook her at the shoulder. Her head moved slightly from side to side, but she didn't turn her eyes. This time, my cry was as loud as I could manage.
"MAMMA!"
I shook her again and again, but still she didn't turn toward me nor move in any way. Panic nailed me to the floor. I just stood there, sobbing openly now, my shoulders rising and falling. How long had it been since anyone else had come in here? I wondered. I looked for signs of a breakfast tray, but saw none. There wasn't even a glass of water on her night table.
Clutching my stomach, choking on my sobs, I tur
ned and went to the doorway of Mamma's suite. I paused to look back at her, at her shriveled form sunk under the heavy quilt and into the silk pillow she loved so much. I pulled open the door to step out and scream, but ran right into Papa. He reached out and seized my shoulders.
"Papa," I cried, "Mamma's not breathing. Mamma's . . ."
"Georgia has passed away. She died in her sleep," Papa said dryly. There were no tears in his eyes, no sobs in his voice. He stood as straight and as firm as ever, his shoulders back, his head up with that Booth pride I had learned to hate.
"What happened to her, Papa?"
He released my shoulders and stepped back.
"Months ago, the doctor told me that he believed Georgia was suffering from stomach cancer. He didn't hold out much hope, and told me the only thing to do was keep her comfortable and keep her out of pain as much as possible."
"But why didn't anyone tell me?" I asked, shaking my head in disbelief. "Why did you ignore me whenever I told you she looked very sick to me?"
"We had this situation to deal with first," he replied. "Whenever Georgia had a clear moment, I told her what we were doing and she pledged she would keep herself alive until we had accomplished our purpose. If you hadn't made your baby come early, she wouldn't have been able to live up to her promise."
"Papa, how could you care more about this deception than you could about Mamma? How could you?" I demanded.
"I told you," he replied with steely eyes, "there was nothing more we could do for her. There was no point in abandoning our plan just to send her to a hospital to die, now was there? And anyway, all Booths die at home," he chanted. "All Booths die at home."
I swallowed back my screams and seized control of myself.
"How long has she . . . been dead, Papa? When did it happen?"
"Just after you ran off. So you see," he said, smiling madly, "Emily's prayers worked. The Lord waited to take Georgia and when He could wait no longer, He caused you to do what you did and make it all possible. You see the power of prayers, especially when someone as devout as Emily says them?"
"You've kept her death a secret for days?" I asked incredulously.
"I thought about putting out the story that she died in childbirth, but Emily and I agreed that we should wait a day or two, claiming her weakened condition, combined with the great effort to give birth, ended her life; but that she fought nobly for days. Just like a wife of mine would," he added with that arrogant Booth pride again.
"Poor Mamma," I whispered. "Poor, poor Mamma."
"She did us a great service, even at the end of her life," Papa declared.
"But what about us? What great service did we do her by letting her linger in agony and illness?" I shot back. Papa winced, but quickly regained his composure.
"I told you. There was nothing else to do and there was no point in wasting an opportunity to protect the Booth name."
"The Booth name! The Booth name, damn the Booth name."
Papa reached out and slapped me.
"Where's the family honor now, Papa? Was all this in the grand tradition of the noble South you claim to love and cherish? Are you proud of yourself, Papa? Do you think your father and your grandfather would be proud of what you did to me and what you've done to your wife? Do you think you are a true Southern gentleman?"
"Get back to your room," he roared, his face crimson. "Go on."
"I won't be locked away anymore, Papa," I said defiantly.
"You will do what I tell you to do and you will do it now, hear?"
"Where's my baby? I want to see my baby," I demanded. He stepped toward me and started to raise his hand again. "You can beat me and beat me, Papa, but I won't budge until I see the baby, and when people come to Mamma's funeral and see my bruises, there'll be plenty of chatter about the Booths," I added.
His hand froze in the air. He fumed, but he didn't strike me.
"I thought," he said, lowering it slowly, "that you might have learned some humility from all this, but I see you still have a rebellious streak in you."
"I'm tired,Papa, tired of lies and deceptions, tired of hate and anger, tired of hearing about the devil and sin when the only sin I have been apparently guilty of is being born and brought to this horrid family. Where's baby Charlotte?" I repeated.
He stared at me a moment.
"You're not to refer to her as your baby," he ordered.
"I know."
"I had a nursery made for her in Eugenia's old room and I hired a nanny to care for her. The nanny's name is Mrs. Clark. Don't you say anything to her to lead her to believe anything but what we've told her," he warned quickly. "Hear?" I nodded. "All right," he said, stepping back. "You can go see her, but keep everything I said in mind, Lillian."
"When will we have Mamma's funeral?" I asked.
"Two days," he said. "I'm sending for the doctor now and then for the morticians to prepare her."
I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. Then, without looking at him again, I walked past him and to the stairway. I seemed to float down and drift through the corridor to what was once Eugenia's world.
Mrs. Clark looked to be a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with light-brown hair and soft, chestnut eyes. She was a small woman with a grandmotherly smile and pleasant voice. I wondered how Papa had managed to find someone so appropriate, someone so gentle and perfect for the job. Apparently very professional, she was dressed in a white uniform.
I was surprised at how completely changed Eugenia's room was. A crib with matching dresser and changing table had been exchanged for all of Eugenia's old furniture, and the wallpaper had been lightened to coordinate with the new, brighter curtains. Anyone who came to see the child, and especially the new nanny, Mrs. Clark, would believe Papa loved his new baby.
But it didn't surprise me that he wanted the baby downstairs and away from his bedroom and Emily's and mine. Charlotte had come by accident and in Emily's mind for sure, she was a child of sin. Papa didn't want to confront the reality of what he had done and every time baby Charlotte cried, he would be reminded. This way he could see her minimally.
Mrs. Clark rose from the chair beside the crib as I entered the room.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Lillian."
"Yes, dear. Your sister Emily has told me all about you. I'm sorry you haven't been feeling well. You haven't even seen your new sister yet, have you?" she asked, and then beamed a smile down at my baby in her crib.
"No," I lied.
"The little dear is sleeping, but you can come over and gaze at her," Mrs. Clark said.
I approached the crib and looked down at Charlotte. She looked so tiny, her head no bigger than an apple. Her tiny fists were clenched as she slept, the fingers pink and lily-white. I longed to reach in and take her into my arms, press her to my bosom and cover her little face with kisses. It was so hard to believe that someone so precious and beautiful had come from all that pain and agony. I even thought I might resent her when I first laid eyes on her, but the moment I gazed at that tiny nose and mouth, that small chin and doll-like body, I felt only great love and warmth.
"She has blue eyes now, but babies' eyes often change color as they grow," Mrs. Clark said. "And, as you can see, her hair is coming in light-brown with an awful lot of gold in it—just like yours. But that's not unusual. Sisters often have the same color hair, even when they're this many years apart. What color is your mother's hair?" she asked innocently, and I began to shudder, slightly at first and then harder and harder. The tears rolled down my cheeks. "What's wrong, dear?" Mrs. Clark said, stepping back. "Are you in pain?"
"Yes, Mrs. Clark . . . great, great pain. My mother . . . my mother has passed away. The birth of the baby and her weakened condition were too much," I mouthed, feeling like Papa was a ventriloquist and I was his dummy. Mrs. Clark's mouth dropped open and then she embraced me quickly.
"You poor dear." She looked at baby Charlotte.
"You poor, poor darlings," she said. "On the heels of such happiness to be
struck with so much sorrow."
I had just met this nice lady and I hardly knew a thing about her, but her arms were comforting me and her shoulder was soft. I buried my face in it and I cried my heart out. My sobbing woke baby Charlotte. Quickly, I wiped my face and watched as Mrs. Clark lifted her out of the crib.
"Do you want to hold her?" she asked.
"Oh yes," I said. "Very much."
I took her in my arms and rocked her gently, kissing her tiny cheek and forehead. In moments her wails ended and she was asleep again.
"You did that so well," Mrs. Clark said. "Someday you'll make a wonderful mother, I'm sure."
Unable to say another word, I handed baby Charlotte back to Mrs. Clark and then fled from the nursery, my heart so shattered it skipped as many beats as it made.
That afternoon, the morticians arrived and prepared Mamma. Papa at least permitted me to select the dress she was to be buried in, saying I would know better than Emily what dress Mamma would want herself. I chose something happy, something very pretty, one that truly made her feel like the mistress of a grand Southern plantation, a gown of white satin that had embroidered trim along the hem of the skirt. Emily complained of course, claiming the dress was too festive for a burial dress.
But I knew we would have mourners visiting the open casket to pay their last respects and I knew that Mamma wouldn't want to look morbid and dreary.
"The grave," Emily declared in her characteristic prophetic manner, "is one place you can't take your vanity." But I wouldn't yield.
"Mamma suffered enough when she was alive in this house," I said firmly. "It's the least we can do for her now."
"Ridiculous," Emily muttered, but Papa must have told her to avoid conflict and acrimony during the mourning period. There were too many visitors and too much gossip about us being whispered in the corners and behind doors as it was. She simply turned on her heels and left me with the morticians. I laid out Mamma's wardrobe for them, even including her shoes and her favorite bracelets and necklace. I asked them to brush her hair and I gave them her scented powder.
Cutler 5 - Darkest Hour Page 27
