The Four Seasons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The talking ceased when she entered the room. She felt paralyzed as Sister Celestine introduced her to the girls, using only her first name. In her ears she heard the rush of blood and she looked at the blur of faces staring up at her. Only one thought raced through her mind, over and over again, as she stared back at them.

  These were not the toughened, wisecracking, gumsmacking bad girls she’d expected. They looked like the girls who went to her school.

  They looked just like her.

  The months passed quickly. By February, Jilly was already entrenched in the routine of Marian House. They lived by the bells. At six o’clock, the bells rang to roust them from their beds. The air was always chilly and the floors always icy to their feet. By seven o’clock, they had to have their beds made and be dressed and ready for mass. The sound of the young mothers’ stomachs growling competed with the high chant of the nuns’ morning prayers. After breakfast, they went to the school where retired nuns of the order tutored them. Lunch was at twelve sharp and was the main meal of the day.

  Lunch time was also special because mail was delivered and spread out on a table in alphabetical order. The return addresses were all blacked out in magic marker to conceal any personal information. At home her mother collected the letters from Birdie and Rose, as well as from her friends, and put them into a large envelope to mail once a week. Jilly would then respond, carefully writing about the fascinating and très amusant experiences she was having at the French immersion school at the University of Wisconsin she was supposed to be attending. The nuns had agreed to the scam of mailing her letters from the extension in Green Bay on days when a few of the sisters went to the university to study.

  Benediction at five signaled the end of their free period, followed by dinner at six. Then it was television time until the bells told them to go to bed at ten.

  By March, she was really showing and her baby was somersaulting within her. When her baby stretched, she could just make out the round outline of a small rump, or feel the sharp pressure of a little kick. In April, Sister Benedict gathered Jilly, Simone and Sarah in a small, private room with comfortable chairs and a stereo. They were the next batch of girls due to deliver. She played ballads, mostly Joan Baez and Judy Collins, which Jilly thought was incredibly cool. She also served them hot chocolate and cookies. Jilly loved Sister Benedict, not only because she taught them the difference between an epidural and general anesthesia, but because she treated them like contemporaries, not naughty children without feelings or opinions that mattered. The girls were starved for information and asked hundreds of questions. “Were blindfolds really put over their eyes so they couldn’t see the baby at birth? Were earmuffs placed over their ears so they could not hear their baby’s cry? Did that really happen? Were the stories true?”

  Sister Benedict’s face grew somber and reflective, then she shook her head. “Years back, perhaps. But don’t worry. It’s definitely not true now.”

  But they never once discussed the developing baby or infant care. All the girls were encouraged—expected—to relinquish their babies after birth. During the last visit, Sister Benedict told them it was only recently that Marian House even allowed the girls the option of holding their babies after birth. Many homes still did not. “Don’t look at—or hold—your baby,” she advised them. “Endure the ordeal. Pray for strength, then later it will be as if none of this had ever happened.”

  May 1 came and went. Then, on May 9, Simone went into labor. She returned from the hospital two days later, flat-bellied, subdued and unwilling to talk to anyone. It was as if the baby that had ballooned in her body had held all her joy and energy. After the delivery, all that was Simone had deflated, leaving behind an empty shell. She kept to her room. It was an unspoken rule among the girls that no one was to be disturbed in their rooms after the return from the hospital if the door was closed. The following day Simone’s parents came to pick her up and return her to wherever she came from. She was dressed in her “normal” clothes, and though they were obviously brand-new, she looked like a lost waif standing in the foyer, her suitcase by her side. When she turned to wave goodbye to Jilly, her usually dark and expressive eyes were dull and vacant. Jilly wept that night, feeling very alone and knowing she would never see her friend again.

  That same night, Sarah went into labor. Jilly clutched her thin pillow tight as she heard Sister Celestine hurry past her door to Sarah’s room. Sarah was groaning miserably, making a terrible racket and complaining of pains in her back. Jilly’s breath came short, knowing she was next. She couldn’t escape the inevitable. There was only one way for this baby to come out. Oh, God, she didn’t want to do this, she prayed as she heard Sarah’s moaning escalate to a keening wail as they escorted her down the hall. When the girls rose the following morning, Sister Celestine announced that Sarah had given birth to a son.

  For the next several days, she lived in a state of heightened senses. Every thought, every movement was predicated on whether she would have the baby. She took long walks, avoided spicy foods and went to bed early. Finally, on May 17, two weeks overdue, Jilly felt her first contraction.

  Dawn was just piercing the darkness. Jilly lay in bed, wide-eyed, listening to the birds chatter in the trees outside her window. In her hands she held a small alarm clock to time the pains that gripped her abdomen. No one had to tell her that labor had begun. She was filled with both bubbling excitement and overwhelming sadness. Before the sun set again, her child would be born. Most women would be jubilant. For her, these were the last few hours she’d ever be able to spend with her baby.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” She sang to her baby in the gray light of early morning, cradling her belly in her arms as the tears flowed down her cheeks and contractions hit in an increasingly steady pattern. When the morning bell rang at six o’clock, her contractions were five minutes apart.

  She rose with aching slowness and carefully made her way to the large communal bathroom on the floor. The other girls had been watching her closely all week and there were hushed whispers as she made her way into the shower. She didn’t want to tell anyone what was happening, not yet. There was so little time left. The hot water felt glorious on her back where a dull ache was pressing hard and low. She placed her palms against the tile and leaned forward, allowing the precious hot water to hit and massage the small of her back, not caring if she was using up more than her allotted amount of hot water. Just this once…

  “Jilly, hurry up in there! You’ll be late for mass.”

  “Go on without me,” she said, opening the door. She was wrapped in her terry robe. “I’m staying here.”

  “But you’ll get in trouble.” This came from Pat who, along with Nancy and Julie, had been watching her suspiciously all morning.

  “I think it’s a bit late for that.”

  “Do you want me to get Sister Celestine?” asked Julie, a kindly girl of sixteen due to deliver twins the following month. Her room was next door to Julie’s and they’d become friends.

  “No! Please don’t. Don’t tell anyone!” she begged. “I’m not ready to go to the hospital. It’s not time yet. I know. I learned all about this from Sister Benedict, really.”

  Julie, who was currently taking those classes, looked unconvinced. “Okay, but I’ll stay with you, just in case. Oh, don’t look at me like that. So Sister Celestine will get angry with both of us. What else is new? I’m not going to leave you here. You’ve got that look.”

  “What look is that?”

  “The same look my dog had when she began sniffing closets and corners to drop her litter. How far apart are your contractions?”

  “Oh, God,” whispered Nancy with fear. “Contractions?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, not too close,” Jilly lied. Then she doubled over, her eyes closed, and released a muffled wail as her first serious, walloping contraction hit.

  “Oh, God,” Nancy whined again.

  “Uh-huh,” sai
d Julie, nodding her head. “Nancy, you’d better get Sister Celestine. I’m sorry, Jilly, but you know we have to. You may not want to admit it, but you’re having a baby.”

  So much happened so quickly in the next few hours Jilly could only remember it as a blur of quick movements and sounds. The rustle of Sister Celestine’s billowing habit and the clicking of her long, wooden rosary beads, the wailing siren of the careening ambulance, the glaring brightness of the emergency room light, the harsh tone of the admitting nurse telling another, “She’s one of those Marian House girls.”

  It was a busy night at the hospital and the labor rooms were full. The nurses were harassed and muttering something about a full moon. Jilly cringed and thought it must be true because all around her women were howling at it. She tried to relax, to smile and cooperate, but at every turn cold looks and even colder hands met her. Sister Benedict had told her that she’d be well taken care of at the hospital by a professional and courteous staff. Perhaps they were that to the married women who came in with their husbands, but at every phase she was treated as something expendable, the indigent case they didn’t have to be nice to.

  She lay alone in the labor room for uncounted hours, terrified. Only two people inhabited her world: herself and her baby. Endure. Pray, she repeated to herself. By late afternoon the pains that gripped her abdomen escalated quickly, coming hard and fast. Jilly tried not to cry out, digging her heels down and gritting her teeth. She swore she’d salvage some shred of dignity. Then a huge wave of pain swelled over her, then another one right behind, not giving her time to regroup. “Will somebody help me?” she cried out.

  The staff moved quickly, wheeling her to a room where bright overhead lights and medical equipment of stainless steel surrounded her. The nurses strapped her arms and hoisted her useless legs high into the stirrups. Jilly was terrified, numb and shackled.

  “The baby’s crowning,” the nurse called out.

  Instantly, the room was charged. Perhaps the nurse at her side got swept up in the excitement, or perhaps she had a moment’s sympathy, but she pointed to a small mirror behind the doctor’s back and said close to Jilly’s ear, “You can look in there if you want to watch.”

  Jilly startled, whipping her head around to follow the pointing finger. “What? See the baby?”

  Euphoria and gratitude swirled within her, tumbling in her mind with the strict warnings of Sister Benedict—Do not look at the baby! Driven by the need to see her child, Jilly pushed herself up onto her elbows, straining her neck and squinting into a small circular mirror over the doctor’s shoulder.

  “One more push,” the doctor said, guiding the baby’s head with his gloved hands.

  She took a deep breath, felt the cresting of a wave and pushed. Again and again. Dots swam before her eyes, her elbows shook against the table and she felt she could not keep herself up a second longer. Yet pure determination kept her focus on that six-inch span of reflected glass.

  In Dr. Brewster’s hands lay a slippery, purply-pink, pugfaced, bloody bundle that was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She flopped back onto the table, smiling, foolishly happy. Her baby. Eagerly, she watched every movement the doctor made, mentally devouring every detail of her child. He held her baby up and she saw itty-bitty toes, fingers, a nose, a chin and puffy eyes. She heard a gentle slap, then a lusty wail.

  The nurses worked quickly, putting drops in the baby’s eyes, washing and weighing it, then wrapping the baby in a thin cloth. Jilly flexed her fingers at her side. She desperately wanted to hold her baby, feel the soft, tender skin. It was a need that came from deep within. “Please,” she murmured, struggling to reach out.

  In a flash she realized that the nurse was taking the baby away. Her breath froze in her chest. That couldn’t be happening. She strained against the leather straps. “No…no please…stop!” Her voice cracked. Her uterus contracted. Her throat burned with choked cries as she saw her baby disappear behind the closed door forever.

  She had had a girl.

  For years to come, Jilly would often hear stories of delivery room travails while sitting with other women. Whether they were young mothers or older grandmothers, if the topic of childbirth was broached the women would circle around in the upholstered chairs of living rooms or on the hard wood of barroom stools like old soldiers and share war stories. If she was noticed sitting silently, one of them would inevitably tilt her head, pat Jilly’s hand and say some equivalent of “Don’t worry, you’ll know all about this someday.” Jilly always smiled politely and shrugged indifferently.

  She did know, though. She was a casualty of that war. For her, there was no ultimate triumph, only terror and unspeakable loss. Lying in the darkness of her small, cell-like hospital recovery room while the rain pattered outside her single window, Jilly sobbed relentlessly. A maelstrom of tears gushed until she felt shriveled and depleted, without a teardrop left in her. Then the drizzle of depression soaked straight through to her bones, bringing a real, physical ache.

  By the time dawn broke, Jilly was lying flat and motionless on her back. She stared at the striated shadow lines across the ceiling, her hands resting on her empty belly, and came to the realization that she was alone. Without parents, sisters, friends or even the kindness of a stranger to comfort her. No one could take away the pain she felt in her heart or understand what it took for her to make the decision to give up her child. She’d had to do this alone. There was only herself to rely on, her own abilities, her own wits.

  As she cleansed her tender skin with witch hazel and dressed for her return to Marian House, she felt a lifeless calm that the social worker interpreted as resignation. The truth was, the Jillian she once was had washed out with the tears. Having given birth to a child, she could never go back to being a child herself.

  Walking from the hospital out to the sweet spring air of rural Wisconsin, Jilly left a part of herself behind. The very best of herself remained with her daughter. And walking away from her daughter was the very best thing she could do for her.

  What kind of a mother could she be to this child? What kind of example would she set for her? What could she offer her? Sister Celestine was right. If she loved this baby, she would give it a good and decent home with the right kind of parents. What her mother said about her was true: she was irresponsible, promiscuous, selfish.

  But she had the chance now to make things right, at least for her daughter. She may have done a lot of things wrong, but the decision to give up her child would be the one responsible, unselfish act of her life. It was the best thing she’d ever done. But it felt like the worst.

  Jilly stood outside the hospital and, drained but resolute, stared up at the nursery windows for the last time. She felt a tangible tie to Baby Girl Season sleeping there even though she’d never held her child in her arms, touched her skin or kissed her cheek.

  “Be strong, my baby girl. Be happy. You will survive.”

  And so, she vowed, would she.

  8

  THE MORNING AFTER THE FUNERAL Rose woke early. Her heart felt ready to receive the morning light and obliterate the darkness of the night before. How incredible that one letter from someone she’d never even met could make such a marked change in her life. With the sun on her cheeks, she felt the dawning of hope.

  She slipped into a long black skirt and a gray sweater, worn and comfortable from years of use, then walked through the hall, descended the great wide staircase and made her way into the kitchen. She moved as a dancer would through a well-rehearsed routine, surefooted, smooth and moving to an inner music. She pulled out her largest ceramic bowls, bins of oat flakes, raisins, nuts and small jars of cinnamon and other spices from the pantry. There was nothing like a bowl of her own special, healthy granola to give the day a good start.

  Mixing the ingredients, she thought how Jilly had looked shell-shocked when she went to bed the night before. And Birdie was definitely off-kilter, snapping at Hannah and Dennis. As though in retaliation, Hannah had seconds,
even thirds, of the cakes at the funeral. Well, at least while they were here, she would see that they all ate good food.

  She added extra cinnamon for Hannah, then stirred the cereal and poured it into big stoneware baking dishes. After fifteen minutes the whole kitchen smelled of cinnamon baking in the oven. Her eyes looked up toward the ceiling as she heard the thump of feet walking across the floor. She smiled, thinking today was fresh and new.

  She couldn’t wait for her sisters to come for breakfast.

  Birdie awoke sick. She felt the world spinning as soon as she sat up and her stomach seemed to leap to her throat. Her groan brought a stir from Dennis beside her.

  “Wha—” He blinked heavily, raising his head, half-awake. “Are you okay?”

  “No. Ugh. I must have eaten something bad. Oh, God, what’s that smell? What’s Rose baking down there? I think I’m going to be sick….” She put her palm on her forehead and waited several minutes till the pumping in her stomach subsided.

  “How’re you doing?” Dennis asked, his eyes closed.

  “I’m a little better,” she replied. “I could use a cracker or something dry. How about you? Are you sick?” She didn’t know why misery loved company, but there it was.

  Dennis mopped his face and sat up on his elbows. After a minute he replied, “Nope.”

  “I hope it’s not the flu. I don’t have time to be sick.”

  “You never do. Where are you going? The funeral’s over. Come back to bed and rest.”

  Birdie was already rising, slipping into her chenille robe. “I won’t give in to it. I’ll just dress and have some weak tea and toast and then we’ll see how I feel. Besides, Rose is downstairs already, probably cooking up a five-course meal. She always knocks herself out.”

  “That’s Rose. Always doing for others.”