The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Harrington said, smoothing her dark hair in an attempt to restore some order. “This is more than a shock. I can’t quite . . .” She removed a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes and nose. “How did this happen?” she moaned, gesturing with her hands around the room and at her daughter, who had nodded off. “None of this was supposed to happen!”

  Dr. Maclean understood intuitively that she was talking about the big picture of her life. She wasn’t supposed to have had a child with Down syndrome, she wasn’t supposed to spend an afternoon a month in a place like Poplar Grove, and she certainly wasn’t supposed to discover that her mongoloid daughter was pregnant. He himself didn’t want to dwell on the possibilities of how that pregnancy had occurred, or on the possibility of what that pregnancy might produce. The doctor had small children of his own at home; he remembered how his wife had worried when she was pregnant, largely because he’d made the mistake of bringing her to Poplar Grove when he accepted the job. He had wanted Joanne to be able to imagine him in his work setting when he was gone for nine hours a day. But all she took in was the room lined with cribs housing damaged babies. So many in one place made the odds of it happening to her seem that much greater.

  “I have to go now,” Mrs. Harrington said, standing more steadily this time and moving toward the door.

  Dr. Maclean put his hand on her arm. “I must repeat that this might not be what it seems. To my knowledge, mongoloid pregnancies are not possible.”

  “Forgive me, Dr. Maclean, but I am sick to death of doctors’ so-called knowledge.” She glanced at her watch.

  “The bus doesn’t leave for another ten minutes. Why not sit and rest a moment to steady yourself.”

  She ignored his comment and removed a pair of white gloves from her purse before meticulously pulling each finger firmly into place.

  “Goodbye, doctor.”

  He nodded. “Once again I ask you, please, don’t jump—”

  She held a gloved hand up to silence him. Such a large gesture for a petite woman. Yet one that suggested she could be formidable if pushed. He noticed the cut of her clothes, and her well-coiffed hair. All the more surprising, then, that she was able to visit Poplar Grove at all. For if ever there was squalor, it could surely be found here.

  Mrs. Harrington nodded her official goodbye, took a long look at her daughter, and then marched deliberately down the hallway. Her posture was erect, almost regal, as she walked out the front door and down the steps to where the asylum bus waited.

  Dr. Maclean closed his office door. What was he supposed to do now? He looked at Carolyn. In her slouched position she looked so obviously pregnant that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed earlier. She could be as much as five to eight months along. But all the literature maintained that mongoloids weren’t able to bear children. He’d had no cause to look for pregnancy in a population in which it wasn’t supposed to occur.

  But what if the literature was wrong? What kind of child would she produce?

  He watched as Carolyn stirred and stared at the closed door. She made some incomprehensible sounds that were slurred by her thick tongue. If only she could tell him what had happened.

  He stepped toward her and gently touched her arm. Pointing to her belly he asked, “Who did this to you?”

  Carolyn’s chin dipped forward until it rested on her chest.

  Taking her hand, he placed it on her swollen stomach and asked again, “Who did this to you?”

  The girl pulled back as if she’d touched a burning surface. “Un uh,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Un uh.”

  Was she even capable of connecting the two events? Sex and pregnancy? He couldn’t expect her to understand she had a baby growing inside of her.

  He grabbed the stethoscope from his desk drawer and approached the young girl, rubbing the end in his hands to warm it. “I’m just going to have a listen now . . .” She pushed his hand away as he lifted the edge of her shirt. “It’s okay. Just a quick listen.”

  There it was. He shook his head in disbelief at the sound travelling through the stethoscope. Another heartbeat, clear as a bell. She was at least seven months along.

  Dr. Maclean moved quickly toward the row of metal filing cabinets along the opposite wall. He pulled open a drawer and muttered distractedly to himself before removing a file. Then he opened another drawer and repeated the process before carrying his findings to his desk.

  He opened the first file. “Carolyn Jane Harrington,” he read out loud, glancing again at the patient before him. Born at the Misericordia Hospital on June 15, 1947. The attending physician, Dr. Morrison, provided the standard counselling and suggested immediate institutionalization. He and the parents subsequently signed the appropriate paperwork for the infant’s confinement at Poplar Grove Provincial Training Centre.

  The doctor continued to flip through the papers, reading the various comments of other doctors over the years. “The patient is delayed in nearly all of her milestones.” “The patient did not walk until age five.” “The patient was not completely toilet-trained until age eight.” “The patient is extremely dull-witted.” The doctor threw the file to the corner of his desk, disgusted by the useless information it held. He could be reading about any of the 967 patients under lock and key. There was nothing unique about Carolyn.

  Until now.

  He reached for the other file and flipped carefully through the papers inside until he found a mimeographed copy of an article that had been published in a recent issue of an obstetrics journal. Scanning quickly, he finally came to a passage that caught his attention. One of the characteristic deficiencies of mongoloids is in sexual development. Next to nothing is known about the reproductive powers in mongols, since the majority of patients succumb to some acute illness or to congenital heart disease and thus do not reach reproductive age. He nodded and recalled the many deaths at Poplar Grove and its large cemetery that constantly pushed against its borders.

  The majority of those who survive the first years of life are committed to institutions for the feeble-minded, which precludes any possibility of reproducing offspring . . . although one could well imagine that this would not be absolutely impossible in mongols of both sexes with a higher grade of intelligence and good physical development.

  The latter part of the sentence appeared suddenly as if printed in bold red letters . . . one could well imagine that this would not be absolutely impossible . . . He snapped the file closed. Across the room, Carolyn had drifted back to sleep. He stared at her face, took in the short nose with the broad nasal bridge; the thickened, averted lower lip; the open mouth with the protruding tongue; the dark, matted hair framing her round face. When had someone last put a comb through her hair? And what about the man who’d done this to her? Was it at all possible that Carolyn might have been a willing participant? Or was it yet another example of her being roughly treated and abused? Dr. Maclean shook his head in dismay. Hadn’t he turned a blind eye from time to time when he’d seen a patient being roughly treated? And why? Because even he, a professional in charge of helping these patients, sometimes leaned on the convenient belief that they didn’t really know what was happening to them anyway.

  He rummaged through his desk and pulled out a black notebook. He cracked the spine, turned to the first page, and wrote the date.

  May 16, 1963

  A remarkable event has occurred of which I’m trying to make sense. Today one of my patients’ mothers stormed into my office with her daughter in tow. The cause of her rage was not immediately clear to me, but when she explained herself more fully I understood. It appears the girl is pregnant. What is remarkable here is that she’s not one of the regular mental defectives (who are healthy in body but not in mind), most of whom, I believe, if they’ve reached sexual maturity, have been sterilized. In this case, Carolyn is a sixteen-year-old mongoloid who, after my examination, appears to be into her seventh month of pregnancy.

  I will search for other cases
, but to my immediate knowledge I do not know of other female mongoloids who have become pregnant. One article from an obstetrics journal published in 1960 did mention, however, that in terms of the reproductive powers of mongoloids with good physical development, one could well imagine that pregnancy would not be absolutely impossible.

  Whether or not Carolyn will deliver a child remains to be seen. If she does carry to term, I can only assume that the child will also be a mongoloid.

  He stopped writing and shifted his attention to a name and number on the Rolodex. With trepidation Dr. Maclean picked up the phone and dialled the board chair.

  “Dr. Stallworthy? It’s Michael Maclean. Of Poplar Grove. I think we have a rather unfortunate situation here.”

  In her chair, Carolyn’s head slowly tilted to the side as she entered a deeper phase of sleep. The fabric covering her belly stretched taut. A red rose, whose stem she clutched tightly in her left hand, lay wilted in her lap.

  FIFTEEN

  2002

  Elizabeth took the elevator up to her new apartment and changed from her work clothes into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Then she uncorked a bottle of red wine. TGIF, she thought. The red liquid gurgled from the bottle’s mouth and reminded her of the rock fountains she sold at work, the ones designed to make you think you were sitting beside a babbling brook, a half-clad Buddha at your side.

  She dropped heavily onto her new couch and brought the thin-lipped glass to her mouth. The wine was dry and made her pucker. She put her feet up onto the low-slung coffee table. It was also new. So was the dark brown leather chair that matched the couch, the glass-topped end tables, and the burgundy lamps with the gold leaves embossed on them.

  Despite the February chill outside, it was hot in her apartment. She could grow orchids in it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to walk around in bare feet and a T-shirt in her own home in winter. Her house had always been drafty; to keep it warm would have cost a fortune.

  She opened the patio door a crack to let in some cool air. The winter sun had already set, but the eastern skyline remained lit with a soft pink glow that hinted at the coming spring thaw.

  “If you’re dead set on living by yourself,” Ron had said, “then you stay in the house and I’ll find a place of my own. The house is more yours than mine anyway.”

  He was right about that. She’d made all the decisions that had turned the old and impersonal wartime bungalow into something warm and unique to them. She had done everything she could to make the house a home, everything but fill it with children. It was supposed to be the starter house that would grow too small for them, but the kids never came. She’d sent out hundreds of invitations and prayers, but not one child had come to play.

  How did Marie get so lucky? The thought came out of nowhere. Another sip of wine fuelled her self-pity. Pregnant again. Oops! And so sorry about it too. Boohoo. I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s just not fair. She hated the way Marie’s forehead had scrunched up, the way her eyes oozed pity. How hypocritical because what Marie really wanted was to be comforted. She was like a little baby caught doing something wrong, a baby who was desperate to be picked up and forgiven. It brought out a perverse desire in Elizabeth to say something cutting, to chastise Marie for her stupidity.

  “I know you’ve always been happy for me,” Marie had said. Ha. She didn’t know her very well then, did she? There had been times when she’d wanted to slap Marie for being so lucky. Slap her hard. Her and any other pregnant woman parading around town with her belly button poking out like a third eye or with children in tow. Oh, yes, she’d had her share of envy all right, of sleepless nights, crying quietly to herself so as not to waken Ron. Elizabeth had never needed anyone to feel sorry for her; she’d had enough self-pity to last a lifetime.

  Laughter in the hallway interrupted her thoughts as a group of people passed her door on the way to the elevator. Their laughter was spontaneous and yet staged, and there was something carefree in their banter. They sounded young and enthusiastic. They weren’t in the midst of trying to pick up the pieces of their lives and imagine a new future.

  Elizabeth tried to imagine going out with a bunch of friends but couldn’t. Who were her close friends, anyway? Besides Marie, did she have any? All her energy had been focused on her business, on her marriage, and on trying to get pregnant. All those years when she should have been having fun and making friends were lost. Her life had narrowed to attaining one goal. Clearly, it had been too much to ask for.

  The hallway became suddenly quiet once the elevator doors closed. Restless, Elizabeth turned the television off and walked to the sliding glass doors. The city was particularly beautiful at night from the vantage point of the twelfth floor. All those lights shining like living stars, the frozen river a serrated blade slicing the city in two. She stared to the south, trying to pinpoint her old neighbourhood. What was Ron doing right now? Staring to the north?

  An ambulance rushed over the Low Level Bridge, lights flashing, siren blaring.

  Elizabeth took another sip of wine and stared at the sky where she saw the first real star glittering in isolation. By reflex, she recited the childhood poem.

  Star light, star bright

  The first star I see tonight

  I wish I may, I wish I might

  Have this wish I wish tonight!

  Nothing ever came from wishing on stars. There was no magician in her life to wave a magic wand. The doctors with all their needles and transducers had failed to make the impossible possible. She closed the balcony door and went to fill her glass. The bottle was empty. She opened another bottle and smiled when she remembered how her mother had always cautioned her about drinking to excess. A girl can be taken advantage of without even knowing it. There had to be more to that story. What had her mother not told her? Was she speaking from personal experience? Was this some clue to Elizabeth’s birth mother’s situation?

  She sat back down on the couch and closed her eyes. Memories came unbidden. Breaking her arm falling off a horse when she was fourteen. Visiting Marie in the hospital after Nicole was born. That awful lunch with Ron.

  She was thirty-two and they were celebrating her birthday at the Upper Crust restaurant. The sun was high in the mid-afternoon sky, the wind calm. They chose a spot outside on the patio. She smiled at Ron and squeezed his hand over the small, round table that separated them. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so happy. Everything was perfect—the day, the restaurant, the sun shining down, the colourful wildflowers stretching up, up, up in the large pots on the patio—cosmos, black-eyed Susans, wild flax, yarrow. There was nowhere else they’d rather be. They studied the menu carefully and ordered rich appetizers and an expensive bottle of wine and sat back to enjoy the crowds walking past the restaurant.

  Then the pregnant woman walked by.

  Her helium-filled belly pushed against her sundress and cast Elizabeth in shadow. The woman was holding hands with a blond girl who looked to be about three. The girl’s hair was pulled into two pigtails that stuck straight out from the sides of her head. She held an ice cream cone in one hand, and her mouth and chin were covered in chocolate. The mother bent down onto one knee, carefully lowering her weight, and wiped her daughter’s mouth, smiling. Then she took the cone and, with her own tongue, cleaned up the ice cream dripping down the side and pushed the scoop more securely into the cone. Elizabeth stared at the intimate act, the pregnant woman bowed on one knee, her saliva merging with her daughter’s, the girl’s upturned and trusting face. Suddenly the only sounds she heard came from the playground across the street. The chains squeaking on the swings, the thud of children’s feet as they hit the slide, the shouts, the laughter. She couldn’t take all that laughter. Unable to compose herself, she got up and went to the car.

  Ron got their food to go.

  Poor Ron. She really had been a lot of work at times. He’d danced around her unpredictable emotions more than once.

  Another group of people mo
ved down the hallway outside her apartment door. Elizabeth hadn’t realized when she moved into the building how many young people lived in it. Times had changed. When she was twenty, the suburbs were all she had known.

  Cigarette smoke drifted under her door and into her living room, invisibly filling the empty space around her as if a guest had suddenly departed. But of course she’d had no guest. She had no friends except Marie, who didn’t need her because she had a family. Imagine that—having a family. Marie had gotten everything she’d ever wanted. All those wishes she’d made on stars had come true. She had a real family. Not like the make-believe one Elizabeth had imagined when she played house as a child. And even that had ended. One year they were too old to play house and too old, even, to play with dolls.

  It had been Marie’s idea to dispose of the dolls. Elizabeth held a mouthful of wine in her cheeks until her tongue turned numb. Why had she always listened to Marie? The girl who had enjoyed pulling the legs off of daddy-long-legs.

  Come on, Marie had cajoled, convincing Elizabeth to carry her favourite doll down to the creek. Marie’s ratty doll Mitsy was already missing an arm, so what did she care about setting it free? She skipped across the open field and down the gravel path that led to the wooden footbridge. Come on!

  It had been rainy the previous week and the creek ran high. Marie climbed onto the railing and leaned her body over the dark water rushing below; Mitsy dangled perilously from her hands.

  “Ready?” Marie asked.

  Elizabeth remained quiet. She felt a sudden pang for Moxie, the doll that had heard so many of her childhood secrets. She loved its frilled dress, its hard plastic limbs, its blue eyes that opened and closed depending on whether it was standing up or lying down. Most thirteen-year-old girls didn’t play with dolls anymore, but that didn’t mean she had to get rid of it. Couldn’t she just keep it in her closet? Or in a box under her bed?

  “Are you ready?” Marie asked again, more insistent this time.