At one-thirty, Peg came up to see how I was doing, and poked her head in the door. “You’ve got about half an hour,” and I was reminded of when Peg had been the maid of honor at my wedding. She grumbled and bitched, and complained about wearing “that jackass veil you picked out, Gill, you bitch,” but she had ended up being the ringleader, and had been very bridesmaidish about the whole thing, except when she burned her veil straight up the front, smoking a cigarette before we went up the aisle. Peg.
I did my hair, and got all ready, except for the dress. I hadn’t really decided what to wear. The black dress that I had worn in New York looked so worn out, and my coat was a tweed which wasn’t dark enough. My dark blue dress was too tight, my charcoal dress had a huge egg stain down the front, courtesy of Samantha, and I had forgotten to send it to the cleaners after I got out to San Francisco, which left the “wedding dress,” the pale gray dress Chris hadn’t even seen, hanging in the back of the closet where Peg had put it at my request on the night she arrived.
Twenty minutes later I stood in front of the mirror wearing the dress and coat, the black shoes, my grandmother’s pearls, and my hair rolled into a neat bun at the base of my neck, looking just as I would have on my wedding day with Chris. It was a day and a lifetime too late for the wedding. And I reached into the collar of my dress to touch the gold chain I had taken from Chris’s neck that morning . . . too late . . . much, much too late.
38
Mrs. Matthews and the Lindquists were waiting in the minister’s office behind the church. We met there, looking somber, all of us dressed up, and each one engrossed in his or her own thoughts. We spoke to the minister for a few moments, and then he left and we heard the music start, softly, in the background. I had forgotten all about talking to the organist, and I didn’t recognize what he was playing. It just sounded very sweet and sad. We walked into the church then, and I slipped into the first pew with Chris’s family, Peg and Tom Bardi sat just behind us, and I looked around to see Peg, just once more. I reached back and she squeezed my hand, and then I noticed that there must have been seventy or eighty people scattered through the church. Not a great many, I guess, nothing like the huge pompous funeral we had had for my grandmother, but a lot of people for Chris, for a man who really didn’t see many people. A girl in a black dress and veil caught my eye, over to the left, and I looked again, knowing who I’d see. It was Marilyn. Our eyes met and held, no real kinship, no bond as there was with Chris’s family. But we understood each other better than Chris’s family would have understood either of us. Both of us stood alone now. Chris had moved on. And I turned back to look at the minister.
Chris lay in his casket, the flowers around it, front and center.
“Dearly beloved . . . that he may rest in peace. Amen,” and we stood in silent prayer, as the organ played something that sounded like Bach, while I wished I had remembered to ask for Ravel. The pallbearers from Hobson’s wheeled the casket down the aisle, and Mrs. Matthews stepped out on Don’s arm and walked behind it, slowly, looking still smaller than she had seemed before. Jane followed, and I fell into step behind her, wondering if Marilyn was going to follow me. I felt everyone watching us as we walked out, following us with their eyes, and heard a few sniffs, and a couple of loud sobs. They could do that; we couldn’t. I knew Marilyn wasn’t sobbing. It’s always the people who knew the “deceased” the least who can cry like that.
Outside, we climbed into Hobson’s long maroon limousine, behind the hearse. I saw Peg get into Tom Bardi’s car, and the procession began, down Sacramento to Gough, and then out on the highway to Daly City, which specializes in used car lots and cemeteries.
Jane and Don talked on the way out; Mrs. Matthews and I said nothing. We sat next to each other, she looking down, while I looked out the window, realizing that this was the same strip of road we’d traveled coming in from the airport a week ago, when Sam and I had come in from New York. A borrowed Volkswagen bus, and a maroon limousine. A thousand worlds apart, and only one short week.
At the cemetery, the minister reappeared, and we stepped forward toward the grave site, the four of us, and Peg and Tom, and five people I didn’t know . . . and Marilyn. At first, I hadn’t seen Marilyn. She stood a little apart, looking beautiful and tragic, the veil putting a soft gray cloud over her face, making her eyes look even larger than they were, the black dress beautifully cut. She had a wonderful grace about her, a certain style I guess. There was pride too in the way she stood. Dignity. She stood so alone, and yet she had come there for Chris, in spite of us. She looked straight at me, not showing any sign of emotion, but there. With Chris. Like us. I admired her for coming, and for the way she stood there. I guess, in her shoes, I would have done the same, but I would have looked embarrassed, or nervous. There was none of that about Marilyn.
The minister said the Lord’s Prayer while we bowed our heads. And then silence. I jumped as his voice boomed out, “Christopher Caldwell Matthews, we commit you to the earth, and into the hands of God,” and I added silently, “Vaya con Dios.”
We returned to our various cars, and as we drove away I looked back and saw Marilyn, still standing there, straight and proud and alone, a widow, in a black veil.
39
The Lindquists left San Francisco right after the funeral, taking Mrs. Matthews with them. She was going to stay in Fresno for a while. I promised to call when the baby was born, and then they were gone. When they dropped me off at home, I saw Tom Bardi’s car out front. Inside, he, Peg, and Sam were talking, and they stopped when I came in.
“Hi, Mommy. Where’s Uncle Crits?” It was a sad wail, and those two big eyes looked up at me, wanting an answer this time. Now or never. I took a deep breath.
“Sam, let’s sit down for a minute.”
“Has he gone away like my real Daddy?”
“No. He hasn’t.” I didn’t want her to think that life was a series of men who went away, and came back to visit once in a while. Maybe it was, but not Chris, not this time. “Sam, do you remember when Grandma Jean went to Heaven?”
“You mean Daddy’s Mommy?”
“Yes,” and I saw Peg and Tom get up quietly and leave, and go into the kitchen, closing the door soundlessly behind them. I thought Peg was crying, but I wasn’t sure. I was looking at Sam. I had to see this child, really see her, and tell her something that she could carry with her always, something of Chris.
“Well, darling . . . sometimes God loves people, specially much, and he feels they have done everything they had to do, and then he takes them up to Heaven with Him.”
“Does he love everybody that much?”
“Yes, he loves everybody, but he lets some people stay here for a very long time. And other people, he takes up with him a little sooner.”
“Mommy . . . does he love you that much?” Her chin was beginning to quiver.
“Sam darling, nothing is going to happen to me.” I could see where her reasoning was leading. “But he needed Uncle Chris to help with some things now. So now, Uncle Chris is in Heaven, with God, and Grandma Jean.”
“Will he ever come back to visit us?”
“Not the way you mean, Sam. But every time you think of Uncle Chris, that’ll be like a visit. When you think of Uncle Chris, he’ll always be with you. We can talk about him, and think about him, and go right on loving him. That’s what forever means.”
“But I want him with us here.” That look . . . Oh God . . . that look . . .
“So do I, but this is how God wants it. We’re going to miss him very much, but we have each other. And I love you very, very much.” She threw herself into my arms, and we were both crying. “Sam, please don’t be sad. Uncle Chris wouldn’t want you to be sad. He isn’t sad, and he doesn’t hurt, and he still loves us. . . We sat there rocking back and forth, her tears mingling with mine, and her tiny fingers squeezing the back of my neck, holding on for dear life. We rocked and rocked, and when she stopped, I looked down and saw that she had fallen asleep. My tiny
wild Indian girl who had put three worms into the hands of Chris Matthews last week, who would have to live with the fact that he was gone. I sat looking at her in the darkening room, and lay her against the cushions on the couch, her face still streaked with tears.
I stood up and went to look down at the garden, took another deep breath, and went to find Tom and Peg. When I found them, they were still sitting in the kitchen, and looking a little red-eyed. They looked up at me, embarrassed, and Peg said, “How about a drink?”
“I don’t think it would help.”
“Where is she?”
“Asleep on the couch. I’m not going to wake her up for dinner. It’s been a rough couple of days for her too. I hope she sleeps through.”
“Want me to carry her up to bed?”
“Thanks, Tom, that’s a good idea. I think I’ll go to bed too. I’ve had it.” I could hardly get up the stairs. Tom was walking ahead with Sam in his arms, hanging limp like a rag doll. And Peg walked behind me. I almost wanted to ask her to push, the top of the stairs looked too far away.
I lay back on my bed, still wearing the gray dress, and Peg came in to help me get undressed. “I just can’t, Peg.”
“I know. Just take off the dress. You just lie there for a while.”
I took off the new gray dress and lay down while she closed the shades and turned off the lights, and I was asleep as suddenly and as soundly as Sam had been.
I was being stabbed, someone was trying to murder me, or pummel me, they were tearing at my back, and slashing open my stomach, ripping at every muscle. . . . My God, help me, somebody help me, please. . . . I fought to wake up to get rid of the pain, to escape from the bad dream. I woke up limp, and exhausted, and turned to look at the clock next to the bed. I lifted my head to see, and the same pain seized me again, tearing through my back and reaching across my belly like hands tearing through my guts. It made me cry out, and Peg came in as I was trying to catch my breath, while the pain went away again.
“Gill? Something wrong? I heard you. . . . Christ, you look awful.”
“I don’t feel so great.” I tried to sit up and the pain ripped through me again, making me clutch at the sheet and squirm so as not to cry out.
“Don’t move. I’ll call the doctor. What’s his name?”
“Morse. Number’s on the pad in the kitchen. . . . Tell him . . . I think I’m in labor. . . . Tell him . . . ,” and another pain tore through me. I lay in bed fighting the panic and trying to ride with the pain, waiting for Peg to come back.
“He said to bring you to the hospital right away. Can you walk to the car?”
I tried to stand up but couldn’t even sit up, and as I tried to roll over toward the side of the bed we saw that there was blood where I had been lying.
“Oh my God . . . Oh Jesus, Peg. . . .”
“Now just take it easy, Gill. I called Tom, he’s coming to stay with Sam. He can carry you down to the car.”
I lay back, hurting too much to talk anymore. Peg blurred and faded away and came back again, and the pain kept hitting at me, and grabbing me and lifting me up and throwing me against what felt like sharp rocks. I wanted to hold Peg’s hand but couldn’t lie still enough. And then I saw Tom Bardi in the doorway. He was standing over me after that, and soon I was lifted out of bed, with the blanket, and set down again in Chris’s car. I saw Tom and Peg exchange looks, and I think I must have fainted then because the next time I opened my eyes there were a thousand lights above me, a lot of noise, and people, and metallic sounds, and I felt woozy, as though I were floating just under the lights, and above the people, suspended between two worlds. I floated for a while and then . . . oh God . . . oh my God . . . they’re tearing me apart . . . they’re killing me . . . oh God . . . Chris . . . Peg . . . please stop them . . .
I can’t stand it, I can’t, I can’t . . . I can’t . . . and everything went black.
I woke up in a strange room, feeling as though I were going to vomit. I looked over and saw Peg, and then it all faded again. It kept coming and going. I’d wake up and see Peg, and then she’d go away again. It kept coming and going. Somewhere in another world there was someone in a bed, with transfusions and tubes and all sorts of things happening to her. I could see it clearly, but I didn’t know who she was. I wondered, but not enough to ask. I was too tired . . . too tired. . . .
Oh Jesus, do my guts hurt. “Peg? . . . what happened?” And I turned toward her to talk to her . . . my stomach . . . it’s flat . . . the baby . . . “Peg . . . Peg . . . the baby?” But I already knew. I knew what had happened. The baby was dead.
“Lie back, Gillian, you’ve been out of it for a long time.”
“I don’t care.” Sobs shook me and made everything hurt worse.
After a while I asked what time it was. “Two o’clock.”
“In the afternoon? . . . Jesus. . . .”
“Yeah, Gill . . . and . . . it’s Tuesday . . .”
“Tuesday? . . . My God!”
Nurses came and went, Peg came and went, and time passed. There was nothing left to rush for, or to think about. Sam was at home with Peg, and Mrs. Jaeger, and Chris and the baby were gone. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing and no one. Not Chris, not the baby, not Sam, not me. Not anything.
Peg must have made her phone calls again, because there were flowers from Hilary again, and Gordon, and “John Templeton and the Staff.” It looked like an instant replay of the funeral. Only this time, I wasn’t touched. I just didn’t give a damn anymore.
I also discovered that it’s hospital practice to put a woman who has just lost a baby in the maternity wing along with everyone else. It’s one of the most psychologically human facts of modern medicine, but there it is. And there you are, hearing the babies being rolled down the hall, listening to them cry. And wishing you were dead.
I was informed of how much the baby had weighed, how long he had been, what his blood type was, and how long he had lived. Seven hours and twenty-three minutes. And I’d never even gotten to see him. It was a boy.
By the end of the week I was feeling stronger and they decided to let me go home on Sunday. I had to get back anyway. Peg had to leave.
“I’m staying another week.”
“No you’re not. You’ve been out here long enough, taking care of me and my recurring disasters.”
“Stop being dramatic. I’m staying.”
“Look, Peg, I’ll call an agency and get another mother’s helper. I’m supposed to sit on my ass for three weeks. You don’t expect to stay out for that long, do you?” Peg wavered then, and we agreed to compromise. She’d stay until the following Wednesday.
On Sunday, I went home. I was evicted along with a half dozen starry-eyed girls holding their babies wrapped in pastel-colored blankets. Peg picked me up with the car, and I grabbed my little overnight case from the nurse, got into the car, and all I could say was, “Come on, Peg, let’s get the hell out of here.” She stepped on the gas and we were off, toward Sacramento Street.
At home, everything was in perfect order. The superwoman efficiency of Peg Richards was visible everywhere. Sam was waiting for me at the door with a little bunch of flowers she’d picked in the garden. And it was so good to be back with her. I felt guilty because I had given her so little thought while I was in the hospital. I had almost stopped caring about her too. But there she was, sweet Sam.
Peg shooed me upstairs, put me to bed, brought me a cup of tea, and I felt like a queen. A sick queen, but nevertheless, a queen. There was absolutely nothing for me to do except lie there and be waited on.
I was still feeling very weak, and it was nice having Peg to run interference for me. The phone rang twice after I got home. Once it was Mrs. Matthews, and the second time it was Gordon. Peg looked over at me both times, and I shook my head. Not yet. Everyone knew. That was good enough. I had nothing left to add. Mrs. Matthews would only tell me how sorry she was, and I was sorry enough on my own, and also felt badly to have added to her grief. Gordon would
only want to come out, or for me to go back to New York, and I didn’t want to hear about it. I had chosen blue jeans and daisies . . . and I still wanted them. I didn’t want to hear about New York, or the magazine, or anything else. It was all behind me, however things had turned out.
I looked through my mail and saw that Gordon had sent the picture of the three of us standing in front of the Rolls. I looked at it once and tossed it on the table next to my bed while Peg looked on. “That was such a long time ago, Peg.” She nodded and put the picture back in the envelope.
The only good thing the hospital had done for me was that it had put a little more time between me and the brutal realities that had hit me so suddenly. For a while, I didn’t have to wander around the house, touching things, looking at things, being reminded. Not right away. And now I had to rest, and there would be more time.
The next few days slid by, and on Wednesday Peg left with hugs and good-byes and the kind of thanks you can’t even begin to say, and promises to call and write. She even said she’d come out for a week in the spring. Tom Bardi took her to the airport, and I began to wonder if there was more to that than just helping me. Their week and a half together had created the same kind of bond that happens on sea voyages. They had been isolated from their own worlds, and thrown together constantly, not on a pleasure trip, but by a series of disasters, and they had formed a circle around me, becoming enmeshed in it themselves. Maybe like after a sea voyage they would find nothing in common when they met again, if they met again. Peg didn’t say anything before she left, so I was left to wonder.
Tom was of Chris’s world, very much like him in his directness and no bullshit ways, yet he was simpler than Chris, and he seemed kinder; he didn’t have Chris’s ruthless honesty. Or his sparkle either, for that matter. But I suspected that he might have been easier to live with because of it. He was also less adept with words. And I noticed before Peg left that he looked at her with a kind of awe. It was something for me to think about anyway.
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