Sunlight on My Shadow

by Judy Liautaud

  Dad was following policy by scratching out my last name, but the action coincided with Dad’s desire to protect the Liautaud name. My dad always signed John N. Liautaud, and when people asked what the “N” stood for, he said it didn’t matter what it stood for, it was just “N.” When it was suggested that the middle name of one of the grandkids be Numa, Dad was not flattered; instead, he said, “Don’t you dare.” I never learned the significance of the name Numa, but I suspect it was tied to the secret he was holding about us passing for white in the early 1900s. Thirty years later, Dad was still fighting for the protection of our reputation as he scratched out our last name from my books.

  HOME FOR UNWED MOTHERS — ORIGINALLY BUILT TO CARE FOR RETURNING WWII VETERANS

  CHAPTER 29

  THE HOME FOR UNWED MOTHERS

  We were greeted by the head lady of the house, who was small and official looking in her navy uniform with the upside-down, canoe-shaped hat. She seemed to be expecting us. She led us to the front office so I could register and sign in. While she was explaining my duties, Jackie asked if the home provided any counseling for the girls. I was insulted by Jackie’s assumption that I needed psychological help. I prided myself on how strong I was and how good I was at handling all this. Jackie hadn’t been with me the last few months, so how could she know? But I knew. I barely ever cried. I got my schoolwork done. I didn’t eat too much. I was a pillar of stone: why did Jackie think I was going to crumble?

  I was too proud to see it then, but today I realize that her question was a good one. Jackie, having birthed ten children, knew what I was up against, and of course she also foresaw the heartrending task of giving up a baby for adoption. The head lady said they didn’t have any special counseling and that if Judy needed it, it would be up to us to provide it.

  If I needed it: was I some special case, fragile and on the verge of a breakdown? Each resident was provided with a social worker, she said, who would guide us through the adoption process. Dad said, “Judy’ll be fine,” and that was the end of it. After my admission papers were signed and we got a brief tour of the common areas, I gave a hug and kiss to Dad and Jackie. Again, I choked back a tear, but never let it fall. I told myself I was glad they were leaving because I didn’t like being seen in this body of mine.

  My room was on the third floor. I walked over to the window and peered below. There was the back parking lot and, off to the side, a tall brick wall. I could see over it and into the yard. There they were: a gaggle of girls, all pregnant, sitting on lawn chairs. A few were smoking cigarettes. A few looked like they were sleeping, and a few were chatting in a heated discussion. They didn’t look as rough as I had imagined—they could even have been Regina girls. Only a couple of them looked like greasers, their hair all poofed up and back combed. I turned away from the window, hoping I would find a friend or two in the bunch.

  I sat on the bed and opened my green book bag. I reached into the bottom to find the missal. The inside page was just as Dad had left it, my last name scratched out so you couldn’t decipher any of the letters. It looked ugly to me, all ripped up and smeared with the ink. I tore out the page to get rid of it. After I did that, the back page, which was printed on the same sheet as the front page, fell out. It made my heart sick. I stuffed the loose page back in and shut the missal. Maybe I could get another one when I got home. But they probably didn’t make them like that anymore, and besides, it wasn’t just any missal. This was my own personal heirloom.

  I tightened with anger as I thought about Dad and the trunk episode. He was irreverent and didn’t care about anyone but himself. All he cared about was how we looked to other people. He didn’t care that he had ruined my sacred book. I felt helpless in my desire to tell him what I thought; he was spinning down the highway toward home by now. I probably wouldn’t tell him off anyway. I stuffed my anger and disappointment and told myself, “No use crying over spilt milk.” I rubbed my hand over the blessed cover and put the missal back into my book bag. Then I reached into the bottom of the bag and fished out my Regina Dominican High School calendar. I sat on the bed and flipped it to May. All the school events were listed.

  I would miss the junior prom next week. I wondered if I would have gone. If I did, I would have asked Mick. What shoes would I have worn? My little heels would have made me taller than he was. I was kind of glad I couldn’t go. It was dumb, anyway, because in our all-girls school we had to ask the boys to the prom. That was just wrong and unnatural.

  It was almost summertime now and Annie and Jane were probably getting new bathing suits for their trips to the beach at the Valley Lo Country Club. I had also missed the spring Choral Concert. Jane sang in it, so I would have liked to go. What was I doing that day? Probably sitting in Helen’s car trying to paint the lake scene in Waupaca. That was a disastrous day. My palette blended into the color of mud. I remembered sitting behind the steering wheel with the canvas in my hand. My belly was smaller then.

  The title for the concert was probably something like, “Songs for New Beginnings.” That sounded like springtime. Baby animals were born, tulips popped out of the ground, and the air changed from harsh to welcoming. The whole world was your home when spring came. You didn’t have to stay in the cabin or the house to be warm. You had the whole great outdoors. It made me want to just burst out of my skin like the flowers that popped from the ground. I wished this birth could have happened in spring. All of this would be over and I would be starting a new beginning. But then again, the timing was perfect, because I was able to go to school for most of the year. I did my lessons, so I was able to finish my junior year and stay with the rest of my class. By the time we got back to school in the fall, everyone would probably have forgotten that I was missing the last few months of junior year.

  Nostalgia for school days rippled through me, leaving me weak and hopeless. I pulled myself together again. “It’s okay,” I told myself. “I will like it here. It’s not long till all this will be over.” I was relieved that I didn’t have to pretend anymore. Everyone here had my same trouble. This place would be the home of my deliverance. In four to six weeks, when I walked out, I would be a changed woman, having birthed a child and returned to my free status, just like the slaves after the Civil War.

  I flipped the calendar page to June and circled the twenty-first: that was my due date. I didn’t think that date was right because the doctor didn’t want to know the day I conceived, even though I offered it. If it takes nine months to ripen a baby, then that would mean my due date should be June thirtieth. So I was wary of his calculation. But perhaps babies didn’t take exactly nine months. Maybe the twenty-first was right; of course, the sooner the better.

  I counted the numbered squares on my paper calendar. Today was May twentieth; I had about thirty days until I could escape from this place. I would be washed clean of all the remorse and have my life back. I wondered what the birth would be like. I remembered when Jackie told me, “You aren’t a real woman until you experience what it’s like to have a baby.” I had asked her if it hurt a lot. She didn’t mince words. “Yes, it’s one of the worst pains, but the blessing is, you don’t remember. That’s why people have baby after baby.”

  I wondered, though: if she can’t remember, how does she know it’s one of the worst pains? Her words were not comforting. I was scared, but I knew I was strong and I was sure I could handle it. I had been through some pain in my life and I always made a conscious effort to be boy-tough and not cry whenever I got hurt. I thought: “I am strong and I can take whatever comes my way.”

  I did remember crying like a baby once, but then again, I was only six. I lost my footing while climbing up a rusty, nail-studded pine tree. When I started to slip, I hugged the tree to break the momentum; the nails zipped down my stomach and chest, ripping the skin. My summer blouse was torn, and a river of blood dripped from the raw flesh. I ran into the cabin, wailing. Mom stopped making pie crust and painted my sores with red Mercurochrome; monkey bloo
d, some called it. This made me cry even harder, but then she covered the sores with gauze and fastened it with adhesive tape. She drew me up into her lap and said, “There, there, now, Judy, you’re going to be okay.” I melted with her attention and comfort.

  By the time I was nine, I was beyond all that crying stuff. I wanted to be tough like the boys, to prove I was worthy of their company. Jeff and his friend Jigs from across the lake were in the cab of Jeff’s Model T. We were driving down Smith Bridge Road and Bobby Leslie and I were in the back of the truck. Bobby was sitting in the bed and I was standing on the ridge, holding on to the cab’s smooth roof and facing forward. I felt like I was flying as we whipped down the road—me face-first into the wind, peering over the truck’s roof. Suddenly, Jeff hit a pile of sand and swerved with a jerk. Or maybe he was just screwing around, driving crazy, but I lost my hold on the cab and was tossed face-first out of the truck, onto the road, and knocked unconscious.

  When I opened my eyes, Jeff, Bobby, and Jigs were bent over me. When I saw the look in their eyes, it scared me. I knew it must be bad.

  “Judy, are you okay? Are you okay?”

  I couldn’t find air to form words. I had a mouthful of sand tucked under my lips and tongue. I grunted an “Uh-huh” … and tried to spit the sand out of my mouth, but the dryness made it stick. My knee ached like it was smashed in two. But the good thing was, I was alive. And I wasn’t spitting up blood or anything. My body still had its arms and legs attached. The boys helped me up and carried me into the truck. I was too shocked to cry, I suppose.

  Jeff said, “You are really tough, Jude. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m okay,” I said. I loved it that Jeff said I was tough. I was proud to be one of the guys. If there was anything I wanted to be, it was tough, especially in the eyes of my brother. I thought if I was tough, like them, they would let me hang out. There were seven years between Jeff and me, so he didn’t always love having me tag along. I always wished I had friends my own age at the cabin so I didn’t have to pester Jeff.

  Yes, I had been through enough to know I was tough and could handle the worst. I was sure I would sail right through this childbirth thing. I had a plan to help the time pass. Each night before I went to sleep, I would open that door to my closet and cross off the waning day. I would write the new amount of remaining days on the calendar.

  How innocent, young​, and naive I was! No one can know what having a baby is like until you have done it. Even the movies and the childbirth classes don’t prepare you for the building pain of contractions and the striking fear that visits a woman as she wonders if something is wrong because the pain is so intense. It came down on me like a surprise hurricane. Afterward, I thought, “Does every woman really experience this?” It just didn’t seem feasible that every woman on the planet who had given birth had lived through such horrific pain. And the Indian squaws who went off to labor alone: was that for real? The evidence made it so.

  CHAPTER 30

  THEY CALLED ME JUDY L.

  The home reminded me of something out of Oliver Twist. Each room had four single beds with wire mesh springs. Along the hallway, there were several numbered doors leading to other girls’ rooms. The pine floor creaked on the east side of the room. The windows slid on ropes with lead counterbalances that clanged; they almost opened themselves once you got them sliding. The summer breeze felt delightful in the afternoons when the temperature rose. I had a secret battle going on with one of my roommates who liked to close the curtains at night. I would wake in the dark to go pee. When I came back to the room, I’d walk over to the window and slide the curtains open. I loved waking up to the sun casting shadows on the wood floor as it shone through the trees.

  We shared a bathroom down the hall. It was like school, with a row of stalls, but around the side there was also a row of showers. We took care to never undress until we were inside of the stall, bringing our clothes with us so we could be fully clothed as we walked out from the shower.

  They gave us classes on how we were to handle ourselves while we were residents at the home. We were not to answer questions about where we came from. We were forbidden to give out our last name or strike up friendships that would last beyond our stay. This was supposed to be just a short time in our lives that we would forget about, and we shouldn’t linger on any details or memories of our stay here. We were allowed to go out once a week, a free day to walk to the nearby town or go to the park, but we had to travel in groups of at least three. Each girl was assigned a chore to help with the housekeeping. We were supposed to do our work in a timely fashion without complaint. Guests were allowed in the lobby/living room area but were never to be taken into the home proper.

  Absolutely no one except maternity patients was allowed on floor two, the hospital floor. During my stay, I had no visitors. I think it was to keep the secret safe. Jackie later told me she wanted to visit, but Mom advised against it. Anyway, I didn’t think I wanted visitors. I looked like a freak. It’s one thing to be mature and pregnant, but I was so young. I probably looked as strange as those little people who age really fast and look like elderly children.

  I was assigned to kitchen duty: pots and pans, to be specific. I didn’t like it much. I couldn’t get close enough to the sink to reach down into the industrial-sized pots unless I stood sideways, and this twisting lean hurt my back. Most of the girls went upstairs after dinner but I was stuck in the kitchen with the cook, scrubbing until the pots were clean, dried, and put away. After a few weeks, the cook said I was strong and a hard worker, so I liked her and then I tried even harder to do a good job. I remembered my first-grade teacher telling Dad that I took pride in my work. I asked Dad, “What does pride mean?” He said it means you take care to do it right. I never forgot that and liked to remind myself to do things the “right” way. It seemed I didn’t mind the pot cleaning as much after the cook said I did a good job.

  Every week or two, depending on how far along we were in our pregnancy, we piled into a van to attend our prenatal appointments. I loved this escape from the home, riding along and watching the houses and stores whiz by, breathing in the city air, even if it was tinged with exhaust fumes. We were deposited at a clinic on the other side of town, while the driver sat in the van and waited for us in the parking lot.

  We must have been a spectacle to behold as four to six of us walked into the clinic. I didn’t look up to see, but I was sure people were gawking at the girls who came from “The Home for Unwed Mothers.” We sat down and waited as we were called one by one to the back clinic for our doctor’s appointment. The visits were quick, matter of fact, and devoid of discussion. I peed in a cup, got my belly measured, had my blood pressure taken. Then the nurse wrote down the numbers and the doctor said, “Very good. Any questions?” I never had any. I dreaded an internal exam each visit. But, lucky for me, my pregnancy was normal and that wasn’t part of the routine until the end. Then, when they checked for dilation, I hoped they’d reach in there and say, “Oh my goodness, this baby is coming very soon!” But they never offered any predictions, just did their business and sent me on my way.

  I didn’t really make friends like I’d hoped, but I took a liking to a girl named Linda P. She seemed like she could be my older sister. She was about twenty-two, which seemed very adult to me. She had brown hair, cut in swirls around her face, soft blue eyes, and a bounce in her step. I wondered why she was even here, when she could just be out in society with age on her side. Linda told me her boyfriend was drafted and would be leaving for Vietnam. He didn’t want to get married, so she was giving the baby up for adoption. She seemed sad about that, like she would have married him. I knew she came from the good side of town because she had crisp, clean, fashionable clothes.

  On sunny days, we liked to hang out in the back yard. Over by the large oak tree were several Adirondack slatted chairs. It was serene out there; nobody from the street could see us because of the height of the brick wall. The yard was dotted wit
h a few stately oak trees and the grass was lumpy, but green. Lilac bushes lined the building and were in full bloom when I arrived. The scent of the lilacs brought a fresh longing for the days when we lived in the city.

  Mom loved lilacs. When I was little, she would cut a fresh bouquet from the bushes in our back yard and arrange them in a tall drinking glass on the kitchen table. They filled the house with their luscious scent. I’d put my nose right into the blooms and give a good sniff. I marveled at the fluted horn blossoms that dotted each branch. I could never inhale enough of their sweetness.

  Before we moved out to Glenview and lived in our Chicago bungalow on Fairfield Avenue, we had lilacs and grapes along the fence and lilies of the valley along the back-yard sidewalk that led to the alley. Oh, how I missed that yard in the city! You could pick the grapes right off the vine and pop them into your mouth whenever you had a hankering for some fresh fruit. I thought it was glorious to have a fresh supply offered right from nature. I remembered how they popped and squished making purple stains on the sidewalk when you stepped on them. We also had lavender irises that got full of ants when they were budding. I guessed they were just too sweet.

  The days at the home stretched like the horizon over the desert. There was little to do. We all wore our cloak of shame. It showed in how we shuffled in the halls, slow and mopey. Laughter was hard to come by, and for the most part, the words that passed between us had to do with the tasks at hand or the weather, rarely anything interesting or personal in nature. The somber mood prevailed like a funeral home, each of us waiting until we could get out and go back home to our real life. Although we were all in the same boat, I still felt alone and quite different. I thought I was the one good girl who accidentally got in trouble.