Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Helena shifted her weight, showing the nurses her back, and brought her face within inches of Charlotte’s. Where was her daughter with this new face? She bunched her fist. Who had the right to change it? Certainly not that pompous Dr. Harmon. Guilt rose up like a wave as she recalled her consultation with the doctor prior to surgery. Helena winced, recalling his barely concealed fury.

  “Why haven’t you pursued surgery for Charlotte before now?” he had asked her, his eyes glaring and his tone bordering on an accusation. “These techniques are not new. Certainly she could have avoided years of—” He waved his hand, searching for a word that could possibly describe what Charlotte had endured. No word sufficed. He set his mouth in a grim line.

  She replied with the usual simpered excuses: no money, no insurance, ignorance. Dr. Harmon had shook his head with pity.

  “True, yes, it was all true,” Helena told the sleeping Charlotte, clutching the thin mint green hospital blanket. Helena’s reserve crumbled and she lowered her head upon her daughter’s hand. How effective these little truths were in obscuring the one big Truth. So much more effective than lies. But God knew, she scolded herself. God knew that she was a sinner. And the scourge for her sin had passed on to her daughter.

  “The sin was mine, Lord, not hers,” she prayed. “The blame belongs to me. Perhaps I should have told her. But how?” Her thin fingers, worn dry and brittle by cleaning solvents, spread out to cover her eyes as she wept. “My sin…my sin…” she mumbled. “Mine and Frederic’s, so long ago.”

  The first moment Helena saw Frederic Walenski, she knew she loved him. At twenty-six, unmarried and isolated on her family’s farm, her prospects were slim. Life was hard in the late 1960s in Poland. Food prices were rising and salaries were falling. The economy was in an uproar. Helena remembered those years as a time when they struggled just to keep their livestock and family fed.

  Her village sat at the edge of the Carpathian Mountain range, and on weekends young men and women from the cities would flock to the mountains to hike. Helena wasn’t flirtatious, nor did she seek out the attention of the young men who strolled through the village. This Frederic, however, was different. He was more stocky than tall, with thick blond hair and large, insolent eyes. He had a bearing that bordered on haughtiness, that spoke to her of the city, of privilege and of a worldliness unknown in her provincial town. She spotted him while he hovered with his friends over a map, backpacks tilting from their shoulders. While the others pointed and argued what route to take, this handsome man glanced her way. Helena, shocked by her own boldness, didn’t avert her eyes. He returned a knowing glance and a slow, simmering smile. Her blood roiled. She felt a rush like she’d only read about in books.

  Falling in love was easy in the mountains. The air high up was thin and sweet, far from the haze of industrial smoke and revolutionary politics that hovered over the cities. Every weekend Frederic returned to court her, and eventually, Helena did not refuse his kisses. Frederic was so different from anyone she had ever met. Unlike herself, who took the vocational tract in school, Frederic was educated at the University of Warsaw. Where she was politically passive, he was passionately anti-Communist, a rebel who allied himself with protesting students and political organizers who resented Communist attacks on the church and intellectual freedom. On summer nights after making love on the fresh hay of her father’s barn, he wooed her with promises of a golden future, together, in a new Poland. By December, when they sat together near the warmth of the hearth, he murmured in her ear that he loved her. Helena, happier than she’d ever been in her life, believed everything.

  Then late December of 1970 the dream went wrong. She didn’t know exactly what had happened. Frederic’s voice was frantic, and his explanations were garbled and rushed during his last phone call from Warsaw. Something about worker riots over food prices, gunshots and a bomb. He had to leave, quickly. His family had connections and could whisk him out.

  “I must go, Helena,” he’d said urgently, while her hands shook on the telephone. “I must. Now, or risk prison.”

  “No! No, Frederic, you can’t go.”

  “I’ll send for you in America. As soon as I can, I will arrange it.”

  Helena clutched the phone while her heart slammed against her chest. “No! I’ll come with you. I’ll leave right away.”

  “Goodbye, Helena.”

  There was a click and she knew he was gone.

  She’d waited for him as loyally and diligently as any wife would await a husband away at war. For that’s how she saw it. They were married in their hearts, weren’t they? Each day she ran to meet the post, and each day brought a new torrent of tears to find the box empty. One month, two, and not a word came from America. Not a single postcard telling her that he had arrived safely and was waiting for her. At first she convinced herself that he was just being cautious lest the authorities track him down. As the months pushed on, however, she grew more desolate. These feeble excuses would not explain away the growing child within her belly.

  “You disgrace the family!” her mother wailed when she could hide her pregnancy no longer. Devout Catholics, her family couldn’t reconcile the shame, and soon afterward, Helena was sent to the Nuns of the Holy Sacrament in Warsaw.

  The nuns at the convent were kind and sympathetic to her situation. Their eyes blazed with fervor as they assured her that God would forgive her for the sin of fornication if she prayed hard, showed remorse and vowed to sin no more. During the following two months a new calm settled within, one that grew as her baby grew.

  It was then that Father Oziemblowski from her village came to see her. “Good news!” he’d announced. He’d found a family that would adopt her baby. After the birth, Helena could discreetly return home and not another word would be mentioned of this unfortunate affair.

  “You must trust our guidance in these matters,” Father had told her. “For your child’s sake, if not for your own.”

  Helena listened with eyes wide and meek, but in her heart, she balked. Give up Frederic’s child? Unthinkable! Her child was not a bastard. If Frederic was here, they would be married, in a church, blessed by God. Maternal instincts flared, making her cunning.

  As soon as she found an unsupervised moment, she sneaked from the cloister and took the bus to the old section of the city where a row of flat-faced, four-story buildings in stages of disrepair stood shoulder to shoulder before a park, like ancient grande dames sitting in the splendid shade of trees in full bloom. The Walenski apartment was in one of the larger buildings with a grand entryway. After a brief wait, a stylish stocky woman answered the door. Immediately, Helena recognized the same regal haughtiness she had once admired in Frederic, and the same strong, aristocratic nose.

  “I am a friend of Frederic’s,” Helena said, standing tall in her shabby, oversize raincoat. “I was hoping you could help me find him. It’s urgent.”

  Mrs. Walenski was on guard. “I don’t know where my son is.”

  “Wait!” Helena pushed her hand against the closing door. “Just one moment. What I have to tell you should be spoken in private.”

  Mrs. Walenski’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny, and Helena read dismissal in their flinty coldness. “I don’t allow strangers inside my home. What is this about?”

  Standing on the front stoop, Helena stubbornly held her ground. She unbuttoned her long coat and slipped it open, revealing the rounded belly of a woman in her fifth month of pregnancy. She felt tawdry beside the elegance of her surroundings, ashamed of her predicament, but for her child’s sake, for Frederic’s, she would not back down.

  “I am carrying Frederic’s child.”

  “You are lying,” Mrs. Walenski whispered, quickly ushering Helena into the foyer and closing the door. “Do you think you are the first girl to try to trap my son in such a vile manner?”

  While Mrs. Walenski moved through the rooms with sharp precision, Helena wandered as though she were walking in a dream. The house was a blur of splendor, such a contr
ast from the ramshackle farmhouse her family squeezed into. As she gazed around the room, she noticed details rather than the whole: a gold filigreed clock, the rich carpet, a crystal chandelier of princely proportion. What must it be like to be the mistress of such a house? she wondered. If she were Frederic’s wife, would she live here as well?

  “Tell me who you are,” Mrs. Walenski demanded.

  “I am Helena Godowski and I am not trying to trap your son. Don’t you think it’s the other way around? I am carrying his child. Your grandchild. Frederic promised he would send for me from America, but as you can see, I can’t wait any longer. My family is shamed and I can’t return home, either. I’ve nowhere else to turn. The nuns want me to give away my child. Did Frederic never mention me?”

  Mrs. Walenski was blinking heavily and shifting in her seat. “No, never. What do you want?”

  “I want Frederic. I want to be with him.”

  “That’s impossible! I don’t know where he is. Really, I don’t. He cannot write, you little fool. The authorities are looking for him, surely you understand that? You don’t want him to go to prison, do you? You can’t want that.”

  “No, no, of course not.” Helena was flustered now, her face flushed with joy. If Frederic could not contact his mother, then surely he could not contact her, either. He had not forgotten her. He loved her! She was sure of it.

  “I love Frederic,” she said. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, you must believe me.”

  Mrs. Walenski’s shoulders lowered. She nodded, and a new sadness entered her eyes.

  “I need help,” cried Helena, encouraged by the sympathy she now sensed. She looked at her belly. “Frederic doesn’t know about the child. He left before I was certain. Before I could tell him.” Raising her eyes, she leaned forward. “Please, if you could tell me just the name of the city in America he’s in, I’m sure I can find him. Please, you must believe me.”

  Mrs. Walenski stared at nothing for a long time. Her hand had risen to her cheek and she sat as though frozen in thought. When she brought her hand back to her lap, her eyes were focused on Helena and the curve of her belly.

  “I do believe you,” Mrs. Walenski replied at length.

  “And now you must believe me. All I know is that he went to a city called Chicago in a province called Illinois. There is a large Polish population there.”

  “Perhaps you can give me the names of your relatives, or friends. Someone I can reach when I arrive. I know no one in America. And I’m already five months along.”

  “I’ll write a letter of introduction to a friend of mine. She will help you. And I will give you money to purchase an airplane ticket. One way.” She cleared her throat. “And there will be enough to give you a new start in America.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Helena exclaimed, her hands covering her face as she sobbed in relief. She had never hoped for so much.

  “Don’t thank me. You don’t know my son as well as I do.” Mrs. Walenski seemed to shrink inside herself as she continued. “Frederic is a selfish boy. Perhaps it’s my fault. I’ve spoiled him.” She fingered a rosette of garnets in her ear for a moment, then dropped her hand with a vague gesture. “If you should find him,” she began, pausing, searching for the words. “Please know that he may not welcome you. I don’t say this to hurt you, but you see…you are not the first girl he has placed in this situation. Frederic is very determined when he wants something. Obsessed. And…sometimes cruel. His father can be like that, you see. The other girl was from a small village, like you.”

  Helena looked away, afraid the worry in her eyes would betray her.

  “He never mentioned your name to me, not once,” Mrs. Walenski continued. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

  “I must find him,” Helena replied in a strangled voice.

  “Very well. I shall see to the arrangements. One more condition, however. If you do not succeed in finding my son, you will promise not to declare your child a Walenski.”

  The affront took Helena’s breath away. “But the child is…”

  “I must insist on this point,” she interrupted.

  Helena lowered her head. “I promise.” With two words, Helena whispered away her child’s heritage.

  Mrs. Walenski was true to her word. Within the month a young, very pregnant Mrs. Helena Godowski arrived in Chicago. Helena learned quickly that a woman alone in a foreign country, especially a pregnant one, had no friends. So close to term, and with no English skills, the best that a letter of introduction got her was a baby-sitting job, earning enough for room and board. Whenever she could, Helena searched for Frederic.

  She searched everywhere, begging the help of the close-knit Polish community for any word of a Frederic Walenski from Warsaw. One man had seen him, soon after his arrival, but had not seen him since. It was generally believed that he’d left town.

  When her water broke, Helena realized she was about to give birth, alone, without a husband, or a mother, or even a friend. Her dream of finding Frederic in time was over. It suddenly became very clear to her that she was in this alone.

  “Do you speak any English?” the nurse at County Hospital asked her. She spoke very loud and slow.

  “N-no English,” Helena stuttered, her mouth dry with panic.

  The nurse rolled her eyes. “Oh, boy. I’ve got a prima here with no English. We’re in for a ride. You just take it easy, honey. I’ll take good care of you.”

  Helena stared at the peeling ceiling as she was wheeled past rooms filled with moaning women. They parked her in a small, pale green room where men and women dressed in uniforms took turns spreading her legs and poking cold fingers in her. She felt so alone, so afraid, so vulnerable. But she had to be strong for her baby.

  The pain came in waves now, mounting high, roiling through her abdomen, then crashing against her lower back. The graphs on the strange beeping machine they hooked to her belly arched high and dipped low. Rhythmically, one after the other. Her sweat glistened. Sweet mother of God, why had no one told her? Was it like this for every woman, or was this a special punishment, just for her? She had no one to ask.

  Suddenly she felt a strange, overpowering sensation to push. She cried out in Polish, “My baby is coming. Hurry! He’s coming!”

  Suddenly three people in white surrounded her, shouting instructions she couldn’t understand. Gritting her teeth, she pushed till her breath squeezed out of her and tiny gray dots blurred her vision. Then again, and again, like a snarling, spitting animal tearing at its bindings, seeking to be free. “Frederic!” she cried out.

  Then with a gush of relief, the pain suddenly was gone, and over the din of voices she heard the lusty wail of her baby. She tried to hoist herself up on her elbows but slipped back down, too exhausted. Tears, this time of joy, sprang to her eyes as she caught glimpses of the people in white bending over her bawling infant, talking excitedly. It seemed to take forever for them to finish fussing over her baby. At last they handed into her arms a baby swaddled as tight as a pierogi.

  Helena’s breath stilled as she stared at the face of her newborn, nestled in the pink blanket. The baby’s face was puckered, and large blue eyes blinked heavily with wonder. But something was wrong. Very wrong. Now Helena blinked, and her attention zoomed in on the baby’s chin and jaw. They slid down into the neck, like a mudslide she had once seen in the mountains.

  She shot a worried glance at the nurses standing beside her. Their eyes reflected pity, and without a word being spoken, Helena instantly understood that this was not normal. Like a madwoman she tore open the blanket to investigate the rest of the baby’s body. Exposed to the cold, the baby began to howl and kick while Helena’s gaze devoured the child. Everything looked normal. Ten fingers, ten toes. And it was a girl.

  Helena looked again at the deformed chin on that little, scrunched-up face in her arms. She could not ignore it, nor wish it away. This deformity would not improve with time like the funny wrinkles or the pressed nose that she a
lready knew would resemble Frederic’s.

  Helena turned her head away. So…God had not forgiven her after all. She quietly wept. She hated the nurses who patted her arm and spoke garbled words of sympathy. Why didn’t they leave her alone? Didn’t they understand? This was her punishment—her cross to bear. Her pain went far beyond mere hopelessness and despair. Helena was like the dog that had been beaten so many times it no longer hid from the club. Her last vestige of hope faded. She resigned herself to her fate. Her one consolation was that at least she had Frederic’s child. She was not alone.

  Twenty years later, Helena again sat in a hospital room and studied the face of her daughter. This new face. This stranger’s face, she thought. What was done to her child was a travesty! Heartbreak flared anew.

  Where are you, Frederic? she asked herself. The scars were expertly hidden. Soon they would be invisible and there would be no trace of what deception was committed here. Unnatural thing! His nose…There was nothing left of Frederic.

  Now, she thought bitterly, I am truly alone.

  In California, the spring sun beat hard upon Michael’s neck as he watched the twenty-two men that made up his crews gather together at the Mondragon compound to kick off the new season. The men were mostly Americans, from their twenties to their fifties, most of them married, with children. There was one group of Mexican men, clustered together, separated by language and choice. These were men who came to the Mondragon nursery every spring to work especially for Luis. They all came in one single rusting truck that belched fumes and grunted like an old man.

  Some men of the crews were more experienced in the business than he was. They’d worked for his father for as long as he could remember. A few were greenhorns and had to be trained. Like Cisco, his nephew. He was only nine years old, but he was here at Michael’s invitation, earning a good wage. It pleased Luis to see another generation in the business.