The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  When the kitchen was clean and a load of laundry was in the wash, Marie phoned the doctor’s office and made an appointment. Then she phoned Barry.

  She could picture him in his office on the twenty-first floor, the phone cradled against his shoulder. His window faced south and overlooked the river valley. It was a lovely view. South of the river were four glass pyramids, the Muttart Conservatory, that squatted like giant icebergs pushed up from the river’s depths. Farther still and toward the east, billows of smoke from the tall stacks at Refinery Row would obscure his view of Sherwood Park. To the west, the High Level Bridge spanned the river like a long line of boxcars shunted together. Beyond it, the varied buildings of the university huddled along the south banks.

  “I’ve made a doctor’s appointment for late Friday afternoon. Can you come with me?”

  “What time?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “If you don’t want to come, just say so.”

  What Barry really wanted to know was if his presence was necessary. Was it just another appointment or would she find anything out? Despite her irritation, she didn’t want to hang up on him.

  The backs of her hands had blue veins on them, thick as earthworms. She had aged imperceptibly. While sleeping, while sweeping the floor. She pictured her husband slumped heavily in his chair at work, his jowls pushing out from his freshly starched collar.

  The premonition tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to find an empty room.

  She walked to the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard. The children’s snow fort had collapsed onto one side. February and its drabness stretched out before her.

  I want it to be spring, she thought. I want the trees to bud and the robins to sing.

  An airplane crossed the sky like a zipper parting the clouds.

  Not a spot of colour anywhere she looked.

  TWELVE

  1963

  Why this orderly insisted on leading her was baffling. She knew the way by heart—the map had been permanently seared into her memory. Carolyn was sixteen now, and Margaret had been visiting for twelve years. Once a month, predictable as her own cycle, she nodded wordlessly to the driver of the asylum bus, stepped up the narrow stairs, and avoided eye contact with the other passengers. Sometime during her early visits to Poplar Grove her reflexes had dulled to the abuse and misery she witnessed around her because she knew that she didn’t really have other options. To raise her voice against the injustices would sooner or later involve her husband and children; she’d kept her secret for too long, and Carolyn still needed a home.

  The air grew thicker with each step that brought her closer to the mongoloids, housed in the west wing. To see them all together at the same time was to witness a macabre family reunion, so much did they resemble one another, with their broad faces, slanted eyes, and thick wrestler’s necks. Nothing made her daughter stand out in this crowd. Carolyn, who could feed and dress herself, was as much a societal reject as the rest of them. She more resembled the other mongoloids than she did her flesh-and-blood brother and sister. In fact, when Margaret looked deep into her first-born daughter’s eyes, cupping Carolyn’s dimpled chin in her hand and gripping hard to keep eye contact, she saw no hint of her own genetic makeup or that of her husband’s. Nothing. If she hadn’t birthed the child herself, suffering through the long contractions until her body released the six and a half pounds of sadness, she’d have in good faith denied all familial ties.

  Her first visit a dozen years ago had been the hardest, and it appeared to Margaret that the conditions inside Poplar Grove had improved modestly over time. Or perhaps she had lost the ability to be shocked. Still, as she followed the male orderly down an endless yet familiar hallway and through another locked door, she couldn’t help but notice how the stench intensified. She could be a seagull at the dump, diving quick and hard for any scrap of spoiled food. Or a crow diving for shiny bits of treasure. What did she dive for here? A smile? Maybe what she dived for was reconciliation. If Margaret could love and accept her damaged daughter, maybe it would erase the pain of having been abandoned by her own mother. It wasn’t her fault she’d gone to the creek that day. Her mother was wrong about that. Stuart Jenkins would have found her in the chicken coop, in the barn, or in the garden. She knew that now. Margaret had never considered bringing her other children to visit. It was unthinkable. James and Rebecca were teenagers now too, and it was impossible to imagine springing the news of a mongoloid sister on them.

  No, Carolyn had been forgotten by everyone but her, and Margaret wanted it to stay that way.

  The orderly gestured toward the corner of the overcrowded room, then retraced his heavy steps down the dark hall. Margaret would let herself out, as she always did.

  In the cavernous room Carolyn sat on a wooden bench facing a blank grey wall. Completely immobile, she could have been cast in cement. She stared intently at the wall, as if waiting for an image to appear. The Virgin Mary? Jesus? The other mongoloids were either staring, pacing, or rocking. Carolyn’s hands rested upturned in her lap. Red creases scarred her wrists, but at least today her hands weren’t restricted and she was fully clothed, unlike some of the women in plain view who appeared to enjoy the coolness of the linoleum on their nakedness, exploring their bodies without shame. Margaret was repulsed and dug deep within herself to find that place where love resided. But, oh, how she would love to spray the room down with a hose and cleanse all the unwashed bodies and urine and feces that stained the floor. That and grab a pair of scissors to take the mats out of the patients’ hair. But they would never be clean. None of them, so steeped were they in daily filth. To see just one of them at a time wouldn’t be so bad, but a room full of filthy, guttural mongoloids was almost too much to bear.

  “Carolyn?” she said quietly as she drew near her motionless daughter. “It’s me.”

  The girl turned her head and stared. Slowly a light went on in her eyes and she began her inarticulate mumbling, of which Margaret could make little sense. It was no wonder her daughter hadn’t learned to speak—in all of her visits over the years Margaret had never seen anyone talk to her daughter. If the staff didn’t talk to Carolyn, how could she have ever learned to talk to them?

  Margaret wiped the saliva from around her daughter’s mouth and allowed herself to be hugged briefly before pushing Carolyn firmly away. “None of that now,” she said. Her daughter wanted to touch her at all times. Even now, at sixteen, she’d easily climb into her mother’s lap if allowed, no matter that her stout body was no match for her mother’s slim one.

  Carolyn reached for her mother’s outstretched hand and took the single red rose gently from her grasp. She had learned over the years to watch out for the thorns. She lifted the flower to her nose and inhaled deeply. Then she turned and began pulling her mother toward the hallway.

  “Yes,” Margaret said, “we’ll go outside.”

  It was their ritual, when the weather was fair. From the eagerness with which Carolyn pulled her toward the door Margaret suspected that she didn’t get outside much, if at all, and she loved being outside. She especially adored watching the birds and, when summer arrived, touching the roses that grew in a flowerbed next to their favourite bench.

  It was Monday. Her other children were in school until three-thirty. The bus back to the city left in an hour. Sunshine would do Carolyn good.

  Another attendant stationed at the locked door to the courtyard let them outside, where the fresh air seemed even sweeter because of the stark contrast. May could be a beautiful month, and if you could see beyond the shoddy chickenwire fence that surrounded the courtyard and acted as a deterrent from venturing afar, you could believe the open fields nearby led to freedom.

  Carolyn shuffled along on her flat feet in sneakers without laces. Her grey buttonless shirt fit snugly over her midriff and a flash of skin showed between the bottom of her shirt and the black elasticized waistband on her pants. It looked as if
her clothes had been shrunk in the dryer by a lazy laundress who’d equated smaller clothes with less work.

  They walked toward the bench beneath the poplar tree with its lime-green leaves fresh from the buds. Margaret sat upwind from Carolyn and noted a splotchy patch around her collar, a flush that disappeared down into her shirt. It couldn’t be a heat rash at this time of year. Bedbugs? No, the rash wouldn’t be so isolated. An allergy, maybe? Perhaps new laundry detergent in the clothes or sheets, although only God knew how infrequently the laundry was done—probably the day before visiting day. She looked once again at the shrunken shirt that her daughter was wearing and then suspicion focused her gaze. Something had changed. Carolyn’s hands rested in her lap, palms up, but even her lap seemed different. Smaller. Less spacious. Her cheeks were flushed and her fingers were puffy. And the girl’s bosom was expansive.

  Slowly the pieces fit together to make a picture Margaret didn’t want to see. A picture so fantastic as to not be real. Surely the signs would have been visible the previous month. How had she not noticed?

  No. It can’t be. She shook her head fiercely as her eyes raked her daughter’s body. Who had done this to her?

  She leaned over and retched on the base of the tree. Her daughter was supposed to be safe here. Safe!

  She wiped her mouth with a tissue and hauled Carolyn to her feet. Margaret had voiced her fear about pregnancy to the doctors when Carolyn started menstruating, but they’d brushed her concerns away, saying it could never happen. Mongoloids were unfinished children, they said. Their organs were only partially developed at birth. She’d been assured that no child could possibly grow in a body that was unfinished. Well, obviously the doctors were wrong!

  Margaret dragged Carolyn’s sluggish body behind her, pulling hard to hurry her along, and stabbed at the buzzer beside the door to the building.

  “Open up!” she screamed, banging with the palm of her free hand.

  The orderly who had led her through the hallways opened the door. This time Margaret noted his unshaven face and sallow skin, his long and dirty fingernails. He appeared almost as unwashed as the patients, and when he smiled his teeth were a putrid yellow, stained, no doubt, from years of chewing tobacco. She couldn’t help but notice his thin brown leather belt, the end of which flopped softly from years of usage. Margaret felt a current of disgust jolt her to the core. What had they called these kind of orderlies? Bug-house bums, yes, unemployed workers without skills who had drifted along the tides of the Great Depression, floating from one institution to another. Filth! She’d seen his type before, preying on the disadvantaged.

  Dragging Carolyn from the orderly’s deceitful eyes she felt a cry build in intensity as she sped toward the office of the director of the institute, Dr. Maclean. “No!” she hissed with as much force as she could muster. “No! ”

  Carolyn’s hand was hot in her own. She continued to pull her along. Her sweet child. It wasn’t her fault she’d been born this way. And to have this happen to her! Margaret bit her lower lip so hard that she tasted blood. Who could do this? What deviously warped individual could take advantage of a damaged child? Dr. Maclean was one of the newer doctors, one who actually seemed to take an interest in his patients. She arrived at his door and quickly wiped her face before bursting in, not bothering to knock. The doctor looked up from his files, startled by the sudden disruption.

  Margaret pushed Carolyn in front of her and pointed. “What is this?” Her voice sounded shrill and accusing. “How do you explain this?”

  The doctor looked at Carolyn, and Margaret could tell he was trying to recall her name. Her daughter could be any one of them, for all he knew. They all looked alike, with their greasy crewcut hair. He turned his gaze to the girl’s midriff, as directed, and Margaret saw him note the gentle swell that pushed outward, the breasts that appeared heavy and full. He stood up and approached her.

  “Mrs. . . .”

  “Harrington.”

  “Yes.” He nodded, then turned Carolyn sideways to view her protruding midsection. “It’s uncanny,” he whispered.

  “Look at how the weight gain is isolated to her midriff,” Margaret said. The initial panic was over and a calm had descended over her, if you could call it that, for her leg began to tremble so violently that she had to sit down.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but let’s not be hasty. I’ve never heard of such a case before. Perhaps it is a tumour. Mongoloids are certainly prone to illness and disease. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. It may not be as it appears.”

  Already she began to think of her real family, the daughter and son she’d taught to care for themselves. The children who brought home good grades and played the piano and knew right from wrong. The children who bathed themselves and emerged from steamy bathrooms smelling sweet and fresh. They’d have pot roast for dinner, with potatoes and carrots, all simmered together in a large black roasting pan, just like her mother used to make. Maybe she’d bake a cake—double chocolate, their favourite, and buy vanilla ice cream on the way home. Yes, they’d have a quiet evening at home—maybe play a board game or watch a movie. Carolyn was in the doctor’s care now. He seemed like a good man, although he was very young, probably not even thirty. A decade her junior. But at least he was clean-shaven and wearing a tie. He was about the only bright spot in this place, the only person she felt comfortable leaving her daughter with. She could go home now. Yes. Home. She rubbed her hands together, wishing she could lather them with a strong soap.

  Having regained her composure, she stood, indicating the end of their unscheduled meeting.

  “You and your people have created this situation and now you’re going to have to deal with it,” she said, working hard to keep her voice from trembling. “The board of directors will have something to say about this, I’m sure.” Even as the words left her mouth she knew how preposterous they were. To raise any fuss would mean involving her husband and children.

  Dr. Maclean nodded. “You’re absolutely right. The board members will have to know. They will want a full report.”

  Margaret’s knees buckled, and she sat heavily in the chair. Another doctor involved in her life. He would believe he knew what was best, and he’d never admit that people of his profession had created the situation to begin with. Would Dr. Maclean and his colleagues explain away the situation? Her mother’s words came back to her. It’s a woman’s lot in life to bear the shame. But why should it be? Why didn’t men carry the burden of their own bad behaviours?

  She stood quickly. Black spots swam before her eyes, and she felt a light loss of sensation from the neck down as she fell forward, senseless, to the ground.

  THIRTEEN

  2002

  On Friday afternoon, Marie and her husband sat side by side in the doctor’s waiting room, six floors up from the sidewalk. More than a dozen chairs were set in a rectangle, in the middle of which stood a low table covered in magazines and newspapers.

  A woman seated in the corner coughed without covering her mouth. Beside her, a mother cradled a young boy in her lap and tried to keep him from scratching the red rash that covered one side of his face. Marie breathed shallowly and reminded herself to wash her hands once she’d left. She reached for the stack of reading material on the table. A story headline on the cover of a cheap tabloid caught her attention: MOTHER SAVES SON’S SPERM. A picture showed a dark-haired woman in her late thirties holding a test tube.

  “Look at this!” she said, elbowing Barry in the arm. “This woman’s son died of cancer, but before he died she had him leave some sperm at a sperm bank. She plans to one day buy a donor egg, have it fertilized by her son’s sperm, and then implant it into her womb! Can you imagine? She’ll be giving birth to her own grandchild!”

  “Is that even legal?” Barry asked.

  Marie snorted and shook her head. God, the situations some people got into.

  The air in the waiting room was suddenly close. Marie inhaled slowly to steady herself. Barry had his nose in
the sports page. He didn’t notice that there were too many people in the small room. Or that the sun was too bright.

  Like in Arizona. Her mother had phoned from there the day before.

  “How’s everything in Edmonton?” she’d shouted, as if the phone couldn’t carry her voice over that distance.

  “Fine,” Marie replied. “Everything’s fine here.”

  “And the girls?”

  “They’re fine too. You and Dad have missed some pretty cold weather. It’s just warmed up in the last few days. Now we’re getting snow.”

  Fay loved to hear how they’d escaped a deep freeze. They talked for a while about the dangers of black ice on the roads.

  “Have you seen Frances lately?”

  “She’s coming over on Friday. Max sure is cute. He just nurses and smiles all the time.”

  “Well, he should smile! He gets everything he wants!” Fay said. Then she lowered her voice. “I don’t think your sister is very happy with me right now.”

  Marie pretended to be surprised. “Why?”

  “Well, she was complaining about not getting any sleep, saying how exhausted she was, so I told her to let Max cry it out. I said he’d get used to it, and so would she.”

  Marie winced.

  “And I also said Max should be sleeping in a crib in his own room.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  Fay sighed. “She said that parenting had changed since you guys were young. But nobody ever called Social Services on me! If you want to know what I think, I think that women weren’t meant to start having kids at thirty-five. They try too hard to do everything perfectly. I think it was a blessing that my friends and I had kids when we were so young. We didn’t know any better. We never jumped to attention the second one of our babies cried. Nowadays mothers get up in the middle of the night and scramble eggs for their kids if they want them! Can you imagine? Thankfully we were too young to know how to do things perfectly. I didn’t tell Frances that though. Your father wouldn’t let me.”