Spring 1991
Abigail Alison Cunningham was born three nights after Maxwell Junior was born. Kate was in labor less than three hours. Abby weighed eight pounds, one ounce, and had a full head of sleek, nearly white hair. She was perfect.
Kate told me all this over the phone. I went home the day Kate went into the hospital and while I could have summoned the energy to return to the hospital, I had no inner resources of strength left which would have allowed me to see her new baby without weeping for the loss of my own. It seemed that I wept all the time.
My body craved its baby, my arms yearned to hold my child, the milk in my breasts pushed and swelled, wanting to be sucked. My body, which had been blooming and blushing like a full summer rose, seemed blighted. Now it was only a skin full of useless fluids and tears. Alone behind a locked bathroom door, I dug my fingernails into the skin of my traitorous belly, my moans hidden by the noise of the shower. Hideous body. Vile body. Evil body. To have carried a little boy for nine full months and then to choke the life from him at the moment of his birth! My body was abominable. I was detestable. I thought I would go mad with my grief-driven thoughts trapped beneath my treacherous shell.
I let my daughter observe some of my sorrow. It seemed appropriate to do so. She should know that this baby was loved, that his death was something of great significance. She was only seven, though; it was hard for her to understand. Impossible for anyone of any age to understand, really. She didn’t cry when we told her. But she was subdued over the next few days and weeks, and she watched her father and me closely. When I lay in bed weeping, she would come and lie next to me, studying my face. After a while she would pat my hair or my arm. “It will be all right, Mommy. It will be all right.”
She was my living child. I owed it to her to agree with her, to show her that life could go on, that she was loved, that I was happy in her presence.
“Yes, Pudding,” I would reply. “It will be all right.” And I would pull her to me, and the warmth of her small perfect body against mine soothed me for a while, and for her sake I would talk of other things: her school, Brownies, ballet lessons.
Life had to go on. Laundry had to be done. Food had to be bought and prepared and eaten. Margaret’s schoolwork, words written in huge crayon letters, pictures of flowers and bunnies, had to be admired. I had to wash my hair and clothe myself and leave the house to drive my daughter to visit friends. I had to answer what seemed like hundreds of well-intentioned phone calls: “Yes. Thank you. It’s very kind of you to call.”
I had to pretend that I wasn’t furious with Max, who left for work early in the morning and stayed there until late at night. He was using the paper as a refuge from his grief, and I felt abandoned, left to suffer on my own. He did spend a dutiful amount of time with Margaret, taking her off for little forays to the library or to buy an ice cream cone. In front of our daughter, he did a sufficient job of behaving as if all would be well. But I needed him to weep with me.
As time went on, I ceased being angry at Max and instead became worried about him. He stopped shaving and his beard grew in, a motley mixture of black, brown, and red, coarse and unattractive. It didn’t suit him, and it bothered me. It was like trying to kiss thistles, and I knew that was one of the reasons he’d stopped shaving, to put up this rough barrier between us. He became busier and busier, as if hiding from his grief, like a frantic animal trying to cover over a well of sorrow that lay open beneath him, an endless dark pit growing deeper with each day.
For a few days after Abby’s birth, Kate phoned me again, and we talked briefly, until I cut the conversation short, pretending I had chores to do. After that, I kept the answering machine on and blocked all Kate’s calls. I just didn’t have the energy to deal with her sympathy or with her joy.
Perhaps in every close friendship there is an element of, if not competition, then comparison. Perhaps that is one of the things that makes a friend belong especially to us. Somehow, in the secrecy of our hearts, a scale must balance. Kate was more beautiful than I, and much wealthier, but I was smarter than she was, and happier in my life.
Now the balance had been destroyed forever.
When Abby was a month old, Kate phoned. I stood looking down at our answering machine while she said, “Lucy. I want to see you. I want you to see my baby girl. I want to see Margaret. I want her to see Abby. I’m coming over tomorrow. You don’t have to make tea or even get dressed, but you do have to open the door and let me come in.”
I picked up the phone. “All right.” I added, “Come around four. So that Margaret will be here.”
While I dressed for Kate’s visit, my emotions roiled so turbulently that I longed for some kind of valve to squeeze, to let some of the pressure out. Why did I lose my baby? Why didn’t Kate lose hers? Why did she insist on coming here, to display her perfect daughter in all her newborn glory? Why couldn’t she leave me alone? I never wanted to see Kate again.
The woman who stared back at me in the mirror was a hag. I had lost a great deal of weight and my loose sundress hung on me. Everything drooped, hair, face, shoulders, empty breasts, empty belly. My skin was gray. I put lipstick on for the first time in a month, and the result was glaringly unpleasant, like wax lips on a dummy.
“They’re here!” Margaret was keeping watch from the living room window. She couldn’t wait to see Matthew again; he was her best friend and she’d seen him only at school for the past month. And she was excited about seeing the new baby, the girl baby. “They’re coming up the walk!” Margaret announced. “Oooh, Kate’s got a little bundle in her arms. A little pink blanket. Oooh, I can see a tiny hand!”
Kate knocked. Margaret raced to the door and threw it open, dancing up and down in ecstasy. “Kate! Matthew! Let me see your baby!”
I said hello to Kate and Matthew, and when I smiled, my lips trembled with tension. Kate was more beautiful than I’d ever seen her in all her life. She’d gained weight with her pregnancy, and her full cheeks curved much like those in the old Dutch masters paintings. Her skin was luminous. Her hair shone. She was radiant with happiness.
She settled on the sofa, laid her daughter in the ridge between her thighs, and unwrapped the pink blanket, exposing a small, perfect child in a creamy dress. Abby’s tiny feet were bare.
“It’s too hot for her to wear booties,” Kate explained to Margaret, who pressed close to Kate, looking down with awe at Abby. Matthew sat next to his mother, smiling at his sister.
Margaret asked, “Can I touch her?”
Kate said, “Of course.”
I sank onto the edge of a chair and watched my daughter reach out her hand to gently touch a tiny wriggling foot. I could see that Abby was awake, alert, trying to focus.
“She’s so soft,” Margaret said. Her face was tender with adoration.
“Oooh,” Abby cooed in a sweet high voice and waved her little fists in the air.
Margaret leaned closer to the baby. “Hi, baby,” she said gently. “Hi, Abby.” She reached out to touch the little girl’s hand. The baby responded with another coo and waved all her limbs like a starfish. Her tiny fist opened, then closed on Margaret’s finger.
Margaret looked up at Kate, her eyes shining. “She likes me.”
“She likes you a lot, Margaret.”
Kate gave my daughter a one-armed hug. She looked over at me. It was only when our eyes met that I realized that tears were streaming down my face. A look of complete understanding fell over Kate’s face. Her forehead furrowed and she bit her lips.
“She needs to sleep now,” Kate told Margaret, even though Abby was obviously wide awake. “Matthew brought you a present.”
“The Lego circus!” Matthew yelped, holding up a bag in his hand.
“Why don’t you and Matthew go play in your room for a while,” Kate suggested. “We’ll call you when Abby wakes up.”
“I could hold her while she sleeps,” Margaret suggested eagerly. “I could sit here and be very quiet and hold her.”
“You go play for a while,” Kate said. “You can hold Abby when she wakes up.”
Margaret knew that tone of voice well. “Okay,” she said, unable to hide her disappointment. “Come on, Matthew.”
The M&Ms left the room. We heard them chatter to each other as they went up the stairs. We heard the rattle of the toys being dumped onto the floor.
Kate put a cushion on the floor. She laid her baby daughter on the cushion. She came over to where I sat on the chair and knelt next to me.
“Lucy,” she said, and wrapped her arms around me and we held each other and sobbed, our tears soaking into each other’s hair.
August 17, 1998
As the pulmonary technologist gently removes the gauze and plastic from my son’s arms, he asks, “Did you find the entertainment center?”
“Yeah,” Jeremy said. “I met a kid who has a brace on his leg.”
“You’ll see lots of kids like that around here. There. You’re done with this part, Jeremy. It’s going to take about another half hour to develop.” He looks at his watch. “If you’re hungry, there’s a great Au Bon Pain.”
“Can we see the aquarium, Mom?” Jeremy asks.
“Sure.” I take his hand and we walk together down the hall, over the bright squares and triangles.
At Au Bon Pain we buy sandwiches, juice, and cookies, but I’m not really hungry and Jeremy is eager to get to the large aquariums in the lobby, so I wrap our food and pack it in a bag; we can eat it later, during the drive back down to Hyannis.
“Wow, Mom! Look at this!”
The fish Jeremy likes is brilliant, nearly fluorescent, yellow, flat, and silky, like a tulip with eyes. Jeremy presses his face close to the glass.
“What kind of fish is this, Mom?”
“I don’t know. We’ll go to the library and get a book and find out.”
He runs and turns, following the fish as it speeds back and forth.
“Are there fish like this at the Jetties?”
“I don’t think so, honey. I think these are tropical fish. They need warm water.”
“Can we get one?”
“Perhaps. We’ll have to do some research. We certainly can’t have an aquarium this large, and it may be that this kind of fish needs a lot of space.”
My voice cracks as I talk. Our half hour is almost up. My throat and mouth have gone dry.
The walls and carpet of Fegan 5 are a soothing periwinkle and gray, and next to the office is a waiting room filled with a child’s dream of toys. Parents sag on chairs, reading magazines or holding their children while other children play as happily as if at home or in a day care center. I smile at a woman with a three-year-old in her arms; she smiles at me, as if nothing in this place is dangerous.
A young woman with a mole next to her nose and earrings like lilies approaches us. She’s smiling, too.
“Hi, Jeremy. Mrs. West? I’m Serena. I volunteer here, and I thought maybe I could play with Jeremy. Dr. Hall would like to speak with you. Dr. Hall’s office is right down that way, Jeremy. Your mom won’t be far away.”
But he’s not frightened. I am.
It’s absurd, how nervous I feel in this office, and how subordinate. Like a kid facing a test. Or worse, like a student facing the principal, knowing she’s been caught, knowing she’s in big trouble now.
Dr. Hall shakes my hand. He’s a small man with salt-and-pepper hair and a firm handshake. He gestures to a chair.
I sit, smoothing my skirt over my thighs.
His office is small. Three walls are lined with bookcases crammed with books, medical texts, thick doorstops of journals. Behind him a window shows a perfect rectangle of blue sky. His desk is piled with a confusion of papers, computer printouts, manila envelopes, Xeroxed articles, pens, memos, writing tablets, chains of paper clips.
He is wearing a gray suit, white shirt, navy tie. He must be in his forties.
He begins to speak, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but Jeremy—”
I’ve always loved watching storms hit Nantucket. I’ve left the warmth of the house to drive to Surfside where I’d stand on the beach watching the ocean surge, swell and crash, roaring angrily, full of a nearly personal and certainly living power. The wind would buffet me, knock me backward, nearly push me over, making my raincoat shiver and crackle against my body while rain spattered like pellets against my face.
The noise and expansive power fascinated, exhilarated, and somehow owned me like nothing else could. I’d stand watching wave after wave roll inexorably toward me, hands shoved down into the warmth of my pockets, nose dripping, eyes tearing, face soaked with salty spray, until my face grew so cold I couldn’t feel it and my teeth chattered and my body shook like a flag whipped in a gale. Still I couldn’t seem to get enough of it, I was like a screaming adolescent fan at a rock concert, shaken to my core, losing all reason and shudderingly glad to lose it, grateful … thrilled … to be clutched and claimed by such ferocious power.
Eventually I would become so cold that it was painful, or someone else would arrive at the beach and want to talk, or I’d remember an appointment, and I’d force myself to turn my back on the ocean. I’d sit in the car, turning the heat on full blast, dripping water everywhere, my skin flushed with warmth, my body glowing and humming like a great engine that had just been refueled.
But in the early part of this decade a series of storms hit Nantucket Island with an unexpected violence. For two years in a row, these storms rose up in the autumn with a destructive fury that was unanticipated and unchecked. First came the thundering waves that swept away a long expanse of beach on the northeast side of the island. Then came the second attack, the real onslaught, unimaginable waves like marauding hordes, attacking the homes on the shore, smashing down on them, destroying them, carrying them out in ruins into the victorious sea while their owners stood on the shore, weeping or watching with numbed helplessness.
We were there for that weekend. We saw the second storm, the storm that raped the shoreline and ravaged the homes. We watched while waves rose up like colossal mouths, white teeth biting down into rooftops, crunching porch railings, chimneys, trellises, shutters, and doors into sticks and swallowing them into the ocean’s voracious maw. I did not feel exhilarated then; I felt cowed.
I had always been taught to take care when I was on Nantucket. To wear my life jacket when in a boat, to swim close to shore and with friends, not alone, and not at Surfside, where every summer the friendliest, most playful waves heartlessly tossed some unsuspecting swimmer down on the sand, snapping his neck. I had liked to flirt with the ogre-hearted ocean, I had liked to wade in its cool, glittering waters, tempted, but safe.
Now as I sit listening to the kind and articulate Dr. Hall, it seems I feel my chair tremble beneath me. I know I am at the very edge of my life. The floor resonates with the vibrations of an approaching force. I clutch the arms of my chair. An invisible wave, the dark, heartless side of nature’s gifts, rises up in the room and plummets down over me, pulling me down into its frigid, roiling gloom.
“Cystic fibrosis …” Dr. Hall says.
His lips continue to move, but somehow the words don’t quite reach my ears. Now I know why I’ve been having anxiety attacks. All along my body has been warning me. Still, it’s too much. I’m sitting deadly still, but I feel as though I’m thrashing through thick water that moans in my ears and makes the universe tilt. Which way is up? I am nauseated.
“Inherited genetic defect … both parents …”
His words swim past me like the fish Jeremy admired in the aquarium. What is it they say? The sins of the fathers are visited on the children? How about the sins of the mothers? Obviously the sins of this mother. But this is beyond fairness, beyond justice, beyond bearing.
“Your son is not in crisis now, however …”
Jeremy, I think, Jeremy. My God. What have I done?
July 1991
At the end of July, almost three months after little Maxwell was born, I
went to the offices of The Sussex Gazette. It had been a long time since I’d been there. Weeks. Months. Perhaps almost a year. As the newspaper’s circulation had grown, so had its staff, and even though there was the normal amount of transience, Max did have a loyal quartet—reporter, photographer, business manager, and copyeditor—who kept the paper running smoothly. I wrote an article only occasionally, in an emergency.
Over the years the ranch houses around the newspaper had been transformed into beauty shops and photography studios, and the willowy saplings had broadened out into substantial shade trees, giving the area a prosperous air. What had once been the front lawn had been converted into a parking lot with tubs of flowers on either side of the front door, and as I pulled in, I could see through the large picture window a warren of computer-topped desks, swivel typing chairs, and people talking on phones or bent over notepads, chewing on pencils.
I took a deep breath and pushed through the door into the main room. The air was full of chatter, which stopped abruptly when Dora Gilbert cried, “Lucy!” The plastic clatter of computer keyboard keys ceased. People looked up at me, as surprised to see me as if I were a ghost. Carrie O’Connell was the only one who continued working. “The dog’s name was what?” she asked the person on the other end of telephone.
I had just had my hair cut, and it looked as good as it ever would in the humid summer, curling around my face. I wore lipstick. I had a tan from taking Margaret swimming. My yellow flowered sundress was loose around me, but not grotesquely so. I didn’t look like a madwoman. Still, most of these employees had not seen me since Maxwell’s birth, and even though they’d sent letters of condolence, I could tell they were now struggling with how to approach me. Should they mention my misfortune or not?
“I just dropped in to see Max for a moment,” I announced brightly.
Between Husbands and Friends Page 13
