“Not anything for mixed company.”
They feasted on turkey stuffed with Mama’s sage-and-raisin dressing, potatoes, gravy, green beans, and beets. Later, they played Parcheesi and ate pumpkin pie with homemade ice cream. Margie luxuriated in being back home, where Wade doted and Mama fussed. Frank seemed more settled in his mind, though Irene still eyed him warily. Billy patted Margie’s tummy and asked, “Where’s the baby?”
Margie stepped out to the back porch to join Frank in an after-meal cigarette. They both stared up at the sky. He said, “I don’t do well in small spaces. I spent too many nights spooning with my buddies. You ever been that cold?”
“I was in the Philippines. We prayed for a breeze.” She blew out smoke. “When did you learn how to deliver babies?”
“I never did, but I know a lot about pain and seizures. Good thing I was there. Your husband was useless.”
“He loves you too, little brother.” She shivered in the brisk air. “He’s grateful for what you did. He admires you. Your ability in an emergency. He said you were amazing.”
“He did?”
“Yes. What was that about a premonition?”
“You never get them? My gut told me something bad was happening. I thought it was Irene or Billy. They mean a lot to me. I know that now.”
“I’m glad you’re home. Are you doing better?”
“I’m trying. Out there . . . I reacted . . . you know. There wasn’t time to think. I can’t turn it off. And I have these awful images. I never know when they’re gonna hit. Irene won’t leave me alone with Billy, and I don’t blame her.”
“She said you’re seeing a doctor, a psychiatrist.”
“Yeah, she made me. Dr. Garber. He works with vets.”
“Is he helping?”
“I don’t know.”
Margie hugged her brother. “I’m so proud of you.”
Barbara Ann continued to gain weight and her breathing stabilized. The neurological tests Dr. Crane performed didn’t reveal any immediate deficiencies. Pleased with her progress, he moved her from the incubator to a bassinet on the first of December. He wrote in her chart that Margie could hold her, and the nurse phoned her with the good news.
“I envy you,” Wade said while getting dressed for work and straightening his tie. “What time are you going in?”
“Noon. I’ll be giving her a bottle.”
“Give her a kiss for me and tell her I love her.” He kissed Margie good-bye.
At the hospital, the nurse gave her a gown to wear over her clothes, then left her alone in a small room off the nursery that contained a rocking chair and table. Posters on the walls gave how-to instructions for feeding, diapering, and swaddling an infant. Margie dressed in the gown, read the information on the posters, and then sat in the rocker. Nervous, she smoothed the wrinkles from her gown and drummed her fingers while watching the door.
At last, the nurse wheeled in Barbara Ann’s bassinet. Swaddled in a pink blanket, she wore a wee knitted cap on her head. Her eyes were closed and fringed with dark lashes. At six weeks old, she was still tiny, but her cheeks showed signs of chubbiness. Her rosebud mouth suckled.
The nurse put her in Margie’s arms and handed her a bottle. “She’s a sleepy one. You’ll have to jiggle her a bit. She’ll eat well enough once you get her started.”
Margie was in awe, holding her child in her arms for the first time. She jostled her awake only to be rewarded with a frown. “Goodness! What a pouty face!” She placed the nipple to the baby’s lips. Barbara Ann ignored it. Margie laughed. “I guess this is going to take a while.”
“Keep trying. She should be hungry. There’s a call bell on the table if you need me.”
The nurse left Margie alone with her daughter. She’d fed newborns as a nursing student, and she knew how to tickle a fuzzy cheek and stroke under a tiny chin. Barbara Ann started to take the nourishment while Margie studied her face for clues to her heritage. I won’t let it matter. After two ounces of formula were gone, she lifted the infant to her shoulder and patted her back, feeling her weight and warmth. Barbara Ann burped as robustly as any man, and Margie laughed again.
She greedily finished the bottle. Margie made a lap and placed her there, removing the cap and unfolding the swaddling blanket. Barbara Ann lay curled, tight-fisted, bowlegged, a perfect miracle, her silky newborn hair plentiful and black, her skin tones dusky. A petite dimple decorated the tiny chin. A foreboding stirred in Margie. She stroked a downy-soft cheek. I won’t let it matter. Unable to quell the need to know, she traced the baby’s hairline with her fingertip and found the hint of a widow’s peak. Barbara Ann opened her dark eyes wide, and Margie found the gaze familiar and mesmerizing.
She felt like she had been punched in the chest. This wasn’t Wade’s child. A wicked, violent man spawned her. It doesn’t matter! She’s my baby too!
CHAPTER 25
Little River, 1946
Margie felt the walls closing in around her. She quickly placed Barbara Ann back in the bassinet, tore off the gown, and grabbed her coat. With no nurses in sight at the station, she hurried from the nursery to her car—something was not feeling right in her head. Wavy lines crossed her field of vision, so she needed several tries to get the key in the ignition. When the engine turned over, she slammed the transmission into gear and raced out of the parking lot. The miles flew by as she stepped hard on the accelerator, but she couldn’t outrun the disturbing memory trying to surface.
Blinding images struck like bolts of lightning—she heard shells blasting, felt fires raging, experienced again the smell of the dead and the moans of the dying. Unable to see, she drove off the side of the road, her front right wheel angled into a ditch.
Bent over the steering wheel, she relived the terror as if it were happening this minute—Max grabbing her throat, her knee ramming his crotch, his convulsing, her collapsing onto him, the syringe of morphine plunging into his neck, his lifeless eyes staring accusingly at her. Every muscle in her body shuddered.
“Oh God! Oh God!” she whimpered.
Leaving her purse on the seat and the keys in the ignition, she stumbled out of the car. She turned her collar up and shoved her hands in her pockets and started to walk. Unaware of either her surroundings or destination, she plodded down the side of the road, one foot automatically moving ahead of the other, her thoughts a jumble of horror and self-loathing. When passing cars slowed to offer help, she waved them away, not wanting anyone to see the real her, the evil core of her.
Time passed, as did the miles. The landscape gradually changed from rural to commercial, neon signs glowing in the darkening sky. The temperature dropped, and snowflakes swirled around her head, landing on her nose and chin. Hunger made her stomach rumble, and a sore spot on her toe caused her pain with each step—a just punishment, she thought, welcoming each stab.
A horn honked, and a car came to a screeching halt in front of her. The passenger door flew open and Gracie scrambled out, trotting over just before Margie collapsed in a heap by the side of the road. Right behind Gracie, Kenneth took Margie’s arm; together they steered her into the backseat of the car. Gracie made a quick assessment of her condition.
“Everyone’s looking for you, honey. What are you doing out here?”
Margie’s parched throat wouldn’t allow her to respond. Feeling light-headed, she lay down on the seat, curling into a ball.
Gracie removed her own coat and tucked it under Margie’s head. “Let’s get her home,” she said to Kenneth. “I don’t think she’s totally with us.”
Their apartment was only a short drive away. Once inside, Gracie settled Margie on the couch with a pillow and blanket, a shot of whiskey, and a glass of water. Brushing the hair away from Margie’s eyes, she looked deeply into them.
“Can you hear me?”
Margie nodded, not entirely sure where she was.
“Kenneth talked to your mother. Wade is out looking for you. He’ll be here as soon as he can. Are you hun
gry?”
Margie nodded again. “I need the bathroom.”
Gracie pointed down a short hallway.
What she saw in the mirror frightened her—the skin of her face all splotchy, eyes overly bright and ringed by dark circles. The blister on her foot burned, and her fingers and toes ached from the cold. She splashed water on her face and tried to fluff up her matted hair. She had only the vaguest recollection of how she came to be in Ann Arbor.
Back in the kitchen with Gracie and Kenneth, she sipped some water and tried to eat the soup and crackers Gracie heated up for her.
“How did I get here?”
“It seems you walked,” Kenneth said. “The police found your car in a ditch just outside Little River. They contacted Wade and started searching for you down there. No one thought to look here. It’s fifteen miles from the accident.”
As the events of the recent past came back to her, Margie’s hands began to tremble so hard she dropped her spoon. Focusing her gaze on Gracie, she moaned, “Oh, Gracie. No! No!”
Gracie motioned to Kenneth to leave them alone. He nodded and left the room.
Keeping her voice low, Gracie asked, “What happened? Can you talk about it?”
Margie’s voice sounded strangled. “I was holding the baby. She’s not Wade’s. Did you know?”
“I knew there was a chance.”
Desperate for reassurance, she grabbed Gracie’s arm. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? Not even Kenneth?”
“I promise. I won’t say a word. How much do you remember?”
“I don’t know.” A sob escaped her, making her reply barely intelligible.
“I killed Max, didn’t I?” Her eyes grew large, and her hand covered her mouth. “Oh God! Oh God!”
“Margie, Max died from a blow to his head and there’s nobody on this earth who can say any different.”
“I know what I did! And now there’s this baby! She looks just like him. It’s like he’s reaching out to me from the grave.”
Gracie leaned in closer. “You’ve got to tell Wade about the rape. It’s all he needs to know. I’ll back up whatever you say.”
“It’ll tear him apart.”
“You have to. You can’t keep this baby. It’s unthinkable. I’ll help you find a home for her. Do it now. The longer you wait, the harder it will be.”
“I can’t. Wade has fallen in love with her. He thinks she looks like his mother!”
Just then, the telephone rang. Gracie answered it and spoke for a moment.
“That was Wade. He’s on his way.”
Margie buried her face in her hands.
When home, she couldn’t stop crying. She woke up every morning feeling exhausted. Bathing and dressing used the whole day’s energy; combing her hair was out of the question, as her arms felt so heavy she could barely lift them. The smell of food sickened her, so she ate almost nothing.
Wade pleaded with her to tell him what had happened, but she couldn’t explain. She said only that she felt she’d fallen to the bottom of a well and couldn’t climb out. He phoned Dr. Middleton, who paid a house call.
The doctor perched on a chair beside her bed. “My dear. What’s going on with you?”
She said, “I’m so tired. I just want to sleep.”
He took her temperature and blood pressure, then checked her from head to toe. “Are you having any pain or cramping? Any burning when you pee?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“I’m not finding anything physical.” He took out his prescription pad and scribbled a note, then handed it to her. “Take one of these vitamins each morning. I’m going to tell your mama to make your favorite dishes, and I want you to eat. You need to get your strength back. Every day, I want you outside walking, no matter how hard it seems. Start with fifteen minutes and increase the time every couple of days. Take someone with you until you’re stronger. Will you do that?”
She nodded, but wondered if she could, when getting from the bed to the bathroom seemed a monumental task.
He said, “You had a hard time giving birth. Even in the best circumstances, some new mothers go through periods of sadness. It’s both physical and psychological. Your hormones are all over the place. Your body is changing. Your life has changed too, and you’re going through a period of adjustment. When the baby comes home, caring for her will lift your spirits.” He packed his instruments in his bag. “I looked in on her today. She’s a cutie. She has quite a head of hair.”
Margie tried to smile and said, “Wade says she looks like his mother.” She turned her face toward the wall. If only it were true.
In the middle of December, Margie and Wade brought Barbara Ann home from the hospital. The house took on a new-baby aura, with everyone’s senses on high alert for the slightest flutter of her lashes or her tiniest gurgle. Mama and Irene took turns feeding and diapering. Excited by his new cousin’s presence, Billy climbed on the edge of the bassinet to see her, almost tipping it over. Wade carried his daughter on his shoulder when she cried and in the crook of his arm when she slept, gazing into her face as if trying to memorize it. Margie watched him nervously, waiting for the moment he guessed her horrible secret.
The holidays rolled around again. Frank stuffed Billy into his snowsuit, and the excited little boy hopped all the way from the house to the truck. Wade retrieved a saw from the barn, and the men of the family left to find the perfect Christmas tree. Irene rearranged the living room furniture to make space for it, and Margie hauled boxes of decorations down from the attic.
Most of the ornaments dated from Margie’s childhood. She picked up one of her favorites, a delicate blown-glass angel, and felt tears welling. She wanted to delight in the holiday preparations denied her for so many years, but this year they brought no joy. She quickly dried her eyes so no one would see her crying again.
Irene patiently replaced each bulb on a long string of lights, searching for the burned-out one that kept the others from illuminating. She said, “Next year we’ll have our own tree, though I swear, I don’t know where we’ll put it.”
Irene and Frank had plans to move out soon after the holidays. He’d gotten readmitted to the university’s preveterinary program, and they would rent a small silver trailer in university housing beginning January first. It had a banquette that collapsed into a double bed, and a couch that folded down for Billy. The kitchen was minuscule, and behind an accordion door a tiny space housed a toilet and sink. They would shower and do laundry in the community facility.
“I think it’s great he’s going back to school,” Margie said. “Is he looking forward to it?”
“Yes and no,” Irene responded. He thinks he’s too old. He’s worried about money. I’m licensed to do income taxes, but that’s another whole issue—me working.”
“He seems more settled,” Mama said.
“Yeah. But he’s still impulsive, and has trouble sleeping. Then there’re those terrible nightmares. I wish I could do more to help him. His attitude’s changing, though. He’s not so negative. I think talking to Dr. Garber helps.” She replaced a bad bulb and the whole string lit up.
“Yay!” the women chorused.
Irene looked at the tangle of lights still on the floor. “One down, six to go,” she said, putting the repaired string to one side. “Margie, why don’t you go see Dr. Garber? It couldn’t hurt.”
Both Frank and Irene had urged her to make an appointment with Frank’s psychiatrist. She resisted the idea, believing she would regain her footing on her own, given enough time. She answered, as always, “I’ll think about it.”
Snow fell in earnest a few days before Christmas, blanketing the brown and gray countryside with a thick layer of unspoiled brightness. Margie thought of the days in the Philippines when she yearned for snow, to hear the squeak of it under her boots, to feel the sting of a snowball on her frozen fingers, to catch falling flakes on the end of her outstretched tongue. She watched from the kitchen window as Frank, Irene, and bundled-up Billy
played tag, leaving trails of footprints in three different sizes.
“Why don’t you go out and play?” Mama suggested. “It would do you good.”
She had heard that line and its myriad variations hundreds of times as a child, Mama shooing her out of the house into the fresh air. It would do her good, she decided. She put on her warmest coat, dug out her snow boots from the back of the closet, and then joined the others, helping build a family of snowmen. Mama supplied carrots for noses and old hats for their icy heads.
Feeling a thud on her back, Margie spun around to see Frank with an armload of snowballs. The fight began, three against one. Margie, Irene, and Billy pelted Frank relentlessly; in the end, he had to beg for mercy.
When Wade returned home from work, they were all still pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, and ravenous for bowls of Mama’s hearty beef stew, served with thick slices of bread still warm from the oven.
Margie hadn’t played like that in years, and it exhilarated her for a while. Even in that storybook setting, though, surrounded by love and laughter, the black cloud of her depression returned, leaving her feeling detached and alone. She laughed at Frank’s silly jokes and watched Irene roll her eyes but wondered if her smile looked as fake as she knew it to be. Ugly thoughts scrolled through her discontented mind. I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve to be happy.
CHAPTER 26
Little River, 1946
Moving Frank, Irene, and Billy into their new home didn’t turn out to be much of a job; they had little to take with them, and no space to put even that. After waving good-bye from the front porch, Wade and Margie went back upstairs to begin their transfer to the larger bedroom. Pointing to the longest wall, Wade said, “If we put the bed there, you won’t have to climb over me in the morning—not that I mind.” So they dragged the four-poster bed there and manhandled the highboy to the space by the door.
Margie paused to evaluate the results. She had enough room left to put her cedar chest under the large window and for a comfortable chair in the corner by the smaller one—a sunny place all her own, a luxury she hadn’t enjoyed since 1941.
A Pledge of Silence Page 27
