Dr. Pratt conducted a short physical examination and declared Sara to be expecting in late December. Sara’s spirits soared to learn that Philippe’s child lived inside her, but her fear quickly stomped out her happiness.
Sara remained quiet during the ride home. She had begged the doctor not to tell Philippe, or anyone, until she had time to think. “What’s there to think about?” he’d replied. “It’s what every newly married woman dreams of.”
Philippe, now sitting next to her in the wagon, threw her a concerned look. “So, what did the doctor say?”
Sara clutched his arm. “Why don’t you stop for a moment?”
Philippe guided the horses over to a grassy patch under a maple tree and set the brake. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing at all.” Sara looked in his expectant eyes and rallied as much enthusiasm as she could. “We’re going to have a baby.” Her tone fell a little short. She shouldn’t have said anything; she wasn’t ready.
Philippe’s face glowed with happiness. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her near, kissing her. “When?”
“The doctor thinks December.”
“A Christmas baby,” Philippe declared. “What a surprise!” When she didn’t reply, he asked, “Aren’t you happy?”
“Of course I am,” Sara said tentatively. “Just a little nervous.”
Philippe squeezed her hand. “Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”
For you, thought Sara. You’re not the one who has to birth it.
The late July rains endangered the fruit. Fearing mildew and the dilution of the grapes’ flavor, Philippe sent the men into the field to cut back leaves and drop some clusters to the ground, allowing the remaining fruit to soak in more sunlight. But both Philippe and Sara knew full well that if the sun blazed during the week before the harvest, it might wither the grapes. This risky dance always set Sara’s teeth on edge.
During the last week of August, the red hawks circled high overhead, squawking and scaring off the rodents, orioles and starlings that used their sharp beaks to puncture the nearly ripe grapes and pilfer their juice. Luc, wary of the hawks’ cries, stayed indoors until the owls took over at night. They emerged from their boxes—hand-built by Sara and Philippe—to hunt mice and other grape thieves.
The men worked through the night, harvesting the grapes at their coolest, loading the boxes into the wagons and then tossing the clusters into the crusher. After Sara guided each wagonload into the machine and down the chute to the floor below, she rested on the wooden stool until the next batch came. Her stomach was a small mound now, and the child moved like fairy wings inside her. On days when her back ached more than usual, she would eat lunch quickly and settle in for a long nap with Luc on their bed.
By the time the fruit ripened, grapes on the southern slopes had withered in the sun, and they’d lost close to nineteen hundred bottles. On the last day of the harvest, when the pickers combed through the vines searching for last clusters, Rose approached Sara in a panic.
Luc was burning up.
After three days of sweating through his sheets and waking during the night, Luc was resting peacefully. His fever had finally subsided.
Sara was relieved. Even Aurora’s elderberry tea hadn’t helped this time. Exhausted from carrying Luc to the creek several times a day to bathe him in the cool running water, Sara ached to her bones. She sat down in her ebony rocking chair and shoved a pillow behind her lower back. This was more than muscular fatigue—the soreness in her joints wouldn’t relent.
She soon retired to bed, and after a fitful sleep, Sara awoke to find Philippe’s side vacant. As was his normal routine these days, he would quietly slip out for a cup of coffee and toast before he started working in the vineyard. He insisted Sara sleep as long as possible, for the health of the child. Sleep was elusive these days, especially with the deep ache in her knees and hip joints. She would ask Aurora if she could mix up some root concoction to ease her pain.
Luc bounded up to her bedside, giggling and flashing a toothy grin. His cheeks were bright red, as if he’d been slapped. She worried the fever had returned, but his forehead was as cool as a bay breeze. When she lifted his nightshirt, she noticed his mottled skin. A rash covered his trunk and arms, forming a pattern that reminded Sara of Amboise lace. If he spiked a fever again, or started scratching, she’d call the doctor. Otherwise, she had a house and vineyard full of work to be done.
Rose was in the kitchen, frying eggs and buttering toast. Sara sipped the steaming black coffee Rose had just poured for her. “G’morning, Rose. Thank you, I’m starving.”
“Yer most welcome, missus,” Rose replied cheerfully. “And you’re a live wire this morning, aren’t you, my little one?” She ruffled Luc’s hair and strapped him in his chair. Sara was about to sit down with him when Rose’s expression filled with fright. “Missus!” Rose pointed to the floor beneath Sara, and then her hand flew to cover her mouth.
Sara glanced down. A small puddle of blood pooled between her feet. She jumped back, lifted her skirts and observed a thin but steady stream of blood running down between her calves. “Rose, call Philippe.” Sara reached for the chair. “Send for the doctor at once.”
She walked slowly back to her bedroom, her heart pounding. She leaned on the wall, then gripped the bedpost and finally lowered herself onto the bed. She felt a wave of nausea overpower her.
Within an hour, Sara was doubled over, knees to chest, lying on her side. This knifelike pain was even worse than when she’d dislocated her shoulder in the earthquake two years ago. Philippe stood over her, rubbing her back and holding a cool, wet cloth to her forehead. Neither spoke. Dr. Pratt came at ten o’clock and instructed Philippe to leave the room. Near ten-thirty, with a burst of pain and a rush of blood, Sara expelled their baby onto the yellow flowered sheets of their bed.
The doctor wrapped the baby in a white cloth before Sara could see it. He placed the bundle at the bottom of the bed. He examined Sara and told her she’d be fine and able to have more children. Was this proclamation supposed to cheer her?
After whispering something to Philippe outside, Dr. Pratt ushered him into the room. Sara didn’t have the time or the inclination to clean herself. Instead, she pulled the quilt to her neck and turned over to face the wall.
She felt Philippe’s hands massaging her shoulders tenderly. “Oh, Sara.” His voice quivered.
She had failed him, and their child. Her shoulders started shaking. She could see nothing through her tears, but she heard Philippe muttering something to the doctor. If she didn’t pull herself together, they would take charge of her situation. Sara wiped her tears with her sleeve, rolled over and propped herself up on the pillows.
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“It was a girl, Mrs. Lemieux,” the doctor said softly.
“I want to hold her,” Sara demanded, her voice breaking.
The doctor frowned, then hesitated before saying somberly, “Mrs. Lemieux, I believe that would be unwise.” He paused, and then continued, “The best thing you could do now is to heal, and then try to have another baby as soon as possible.”
Another baby. Her little girl’s body was barely cold, swaddled in a blanket at the foot of her bed, and he wanted her to think about another baby. Sara sat up in bed and glared at the physician. “Hand me my child.”
Philippe laid a hand on Sara’s shoulder, perhaps to calm her, but she batted it away. “Sara, the doctor thinks that’s not healthy for you.”
“Mrs. Lemieux,” Dr. Pratt said softly, “your baby’s heart failed and . . . her body is rather swollen.”
Sara’s gaze remained fixed on the rolled-up wad of cloth. “Get out,” she said, glancing sharply at Philippe. “Out!” she shrieked.
Philippe left the room, and the doctor followed him out.
Sara’s hands quivered when she reached out to gather the soft, weightless bundle into her arms. She sucked air between her teeth spasmodically, trying to calm down. She peeled back the t
op layer of flannel. A tiny gray face appeared, with closed eyes, puffy cheeks, sweet rosebud lips and small buds for ears. She looked serene, as if she’d simply drifted back into God’s arms. Sorrow stabbed Sara through.
She unfolded the blanket, revealing the baby’s bloated limbs. Despite the swelling, she looked even more fragile than Sara had expected. She thought of the unused bowl of water Philippe had boiled an hour ago at the doctor’s behest. With her child tucked into the crook of her arm, Sara walked over to it, dipped a finger in and decided the lukewarm water would suffice.
She made the sign of the cross on her daughter’s forehead and anointed her without naming her. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.” This baptism was so different from Luc’s in the convent. No shining faces filled with joy; no hope for what this child would one day become.
Sara plunged the soft cloth into the water and wrung it out. Carefully, she sponged the blood and pasty white coating from the creases of her baby girl’s skin. Preparing her child’s body was the only thing she could do now. Just as she had done for Lydie, just as Maman had done for Papa.
When she finished, she swaddled her in a fresh towel. She pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead. The skin was supple, like a ripe peach. No matter how intently she gazed upon her baby girl’s face, she couldn’t coax her little eyelids to open.
Sara’s lip trembled, and her shoulders began to heave. She rocked the child that would never be, tearfully murmuring her goodbyes.
Sara awoke to tapping at the door. She must have fallen asleep, supported by pillows and holding her baby. Philippe came in, closing the door behind him. He stopped short when he saw his wife and child. His expression was ravaged with grief. “Sara, Father Price is here. I spoke with him about arrangements for the baby.”
Sara blinked. What arrangements?
Philippe placed a warm hand on her arm. “The baby will be buried here, at Eagle’s Run. We’ll find a nice spot for her, where we can . . . spend time with her.” Philippe barely choked out the words before his large hand cradled their daughter’s head.
Sara was confused. “Why? Why wouldn’t she be buried at Tulocay Cemetery?”
“Because that’s sanctified ground.”
“She has been baptized—I baptized her. Her soul is in heaven, with God.”
Philippe hesitated. An uncomfortable silence divided them. Taking Sara’s hand, he called to Father Price. When the priest entered, Philippe backed away, allowing the priest to take the chair beside the bed.
Sara scrutinized the pastor, dressed in a spotless soutane, smelling like fresh leather and shoe polish. Beneath the quilt, her thighs were still caked with sticky blood.
“Mrs. Lemieux, you have my deepest—” Shock registered on Father Price’s face as he regarded the small, blanketed creature Sara held in her arms.
“Father, my wife baptized our child. Surely that changes things?” Philippe’s voice was tinged with desperation. Sara glanced at him. What did he mean?
The priest pulled out a handkerchief, wiped the droplets of sweat from his brow, and then tucked the folded square back in his pocket. “Mrs. Lemieux, I’m deeply sorry for your loss. However, it is incumbent upon me as your pastor to explain that because the child was not baptized while living, and therefore did not receive the sanctifying grace necessary to remove original sin, her soul cannot live with God. It will be assigned to limbo.”
Sara had heard of limbo, of course. Limbo bordered heaven. It was where the souls of the good, unbaptized people lived. Limbo wasn’t hell, for the souls in hell knew they were denied the beatific vision of God, which made their eternal sentence more horrifying. No, the souls in limbo didn’t know about God. And the souls in limbo could never cross over to meet the souls in heaven.
Was there no hope? Would she be separated from her daughter forever?
“My wife baptized her. She will be buried in holy ground,” Philippe asserted.
“I understand you are grieving, Mr. Lemieux, but your wife baptized the baby after she died, not in time to save her soul. The church, the pope himself, won’t allow it.”
Sara glared at the priest and wondered how he, or the pope, knew whether or not God had saved her daughter’s soul. It was hogwash, all of it. She was about to tell him this when Philippe abruptly escorted Father Price from the room. Her husband knew she was about to say something they’d regret—something that might jeopardize their contract with the archdiocese. Sara couldn’t think about that now. She kissed her first child for the last time, determined to etch her daughter’s perfect face in her memory.
Sara sat at the foot of her daughter’s grave. She flinched each time Philippe’s spade crunched the dirt, gouging a deep, narrow hole. When he finally stopped his frantic digging, he dropped the spade, shuffled over to Sara and wordlessly attempted to take the child from her arms. Sara could not release her, or look at him. She removed the muslin shroud and pressed her face against her daughter’s cold cheek.
She heard Philippe’s breath catch again and again. Sara bowed her head when she lifted the child, for she could not bear to see his expression. When he walked away, Sara stole a glance. Philippe nestled his daughter in his arms, dropped to his knees and laid her gently in the grave. He sprinkled soil over her swaddled remains.
They had decided to bury her at the edge of the vineyard, in a quiet, lush, green patch of earth, where they would plant a pear tree. Without thinking, Philippe had suggested an apple tree, but Sara had refused. She would not allow the symbol of Adam and Eve’s fall—the reason why her daughter could not live in heaven—to be a marker for her daughter’s grave.
Sara collected ten pale stones the size of her fist and placed them in a circle around the grave. Philippe secured a small cross at its head. He’d spent the afternoon meticulously sawing and sanding two old barrel boards that he’d nailed together.
They recited the Hail Mary and Our Father. Sara knelt down, pushing her fingers into the cool mound of dirt until her nails began to bleed. After half an hour, Philippe lifted her limp body and carried her into the house.
Weeks passed before Sara regained her strength. To stop her breasts from aching for the child who would never suckle, Aurora wrapped her chest in cotton beneath her corset. Sara refused to stay in bed, as the doctor had insisted. When she was alone, in the wrenching silence, all she remembered was her daughter’s precious pearl-like face, the eyes that would never open and the tiny fingers that would never grasp her own.
She tried to sleep in the downstairs bedroom, but it was too noisy and her nerves too frayed. Instead, she rocked for hours in the black chair, hoping to numb her mind with the tedious repetition. At times she succeeded, while at other times she felt as though she might suffocate from the pain that pressed upon her chest. She had suffered loss before. Why was this so different? Because this was her child—and her fault.
Sara feared she might lose her mind.
The next time Aurora stopped by it was with a picnic basket, a jug of wine and a bouquet of flowers from her hothouse. “Something to lift your spirits.” She smiled as she handed the zinnias to Sara.
“Did Philippe send you?” Sara snapped. She hadn’t spoken to him about their daughter. He went about his daily chores, occupying himself with the business of fermenting and barreling wine. His touch was cautious—his hands on her shoulders, a sympathetic peck on the cheek—but nothing more. She was a china doll, too fragile to hold. For now, her desire for him remained hidden beneath a heavy cloak of grief, if it existed at all.
“What if he did? He’s worried about you. You’ve lost the blush in your cheek, and,” Aurora said with a disapproving look, “you look like something the cat dragged in.”
Sara couldn’t have cared less. “Thank you, Aurora,” she said flatly, “but I have to finish the housework and then stir the fermenting vats.”
“Oh no you don’t, missus,” Rose interrupted loudly. “You go with madame. I’ll tend to Luc and the
cleaning. The wine will keep.”
Aurora nodded and steered Sara gently by the elbow toward the door. “Come now, you have to eat. Why don’t we go sit under that big oak down by the stream?” Unwilling to argue, Sara shrugged and fell into step with her.
They picked a shady spot and spread out an old quilt. Aurora dunked the jug in the stream, wedging it between two jutting rocks to keep it cold. They unpacked without speaking and before long were eating a luncheon of apples, freshly baked bread, smoked picnic ham, Monterey jack and two butter cakes. The salty ham and smooth, rich cheese, along with a few sips of cold white table wine, relaxed Sara.
The sweet candy fragrance of magnolia wafting through the warm air, and the sound of the breeze rustling through the leaves, beckoned Sara to lay down her head and close her eyes. She tried to slow her spinning mind by concentrating on the sound of the lapping water and the hardness of the earth beneath her.
Sara had no idea how long she’d slept. When she awoke, she swept a few ladybugs off her skirt, sat up and groggily looked around. Aurora was down at the stream, casting her enormous net, trying to catch fish and crabs for supper, no doubt. She looked content, her small, robust figure blithely bouncing barefooted from rock to rock across the shallow water, as though there was nowhere on earth she’d rather be. Sara wondered how Aurora did it, after losing both her son and husband so many years ago. How did one snap back after such crushing loss?
“Whoa, whoa, whaa!” Aurora shrieked, as she slipped off a rock and fell with a splash into the stream. Her skirts were soaked, and she guffawed, her generous bosom shaking with amusement.
Sara rushed down the slope to offer Aurora a hand.
“Thank you, my dear. Oh,” she cried, smoothing her wet, matted coiffure, “that was great fun.”
“We’d best head back so you can change.”
“Come now, don’t fuss,” Aurora said soothingly. “The heat will dry my dress, and I don’t mind sitting like this for a while.” She lowered herself onto the soft grass, a few loose auburn curls falling to her shoulders.
The California Wife Page 8
