The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  Elizabeth clutched her doll to her chest. M & M: Mitsy and Moxie. No, she wasn’t ready.

  “Come on,” Marie said. “We agreed. We’re too old for dolls, right?”

  Was thirteen too old? She nodded.

  “Okay, then. Come on. It’s just a doll. Follow me.”

  One final kiss, one last whisper into a shell-shaped ear. Then they counted to three and the dolls arced into the air and splashed lightly into the creek. They bobbed momentarily to the surface before racing away with the current, smiles frozen on their plastic faces, blue marbled eyes shuttered by thick black lashes. They bounced from rock to rock as the current sent them downstream and the water tried to penetrate their waxen hair.

  So vivid was the memory of being a child again that her next sip of wine tasted like grass and sunshine. She missed that doll. Sweet Moxie. They had shared a bed for years; she didn’t deserve to be cast away. Why had she listened to Marie?

  Maybe the clouds had parted for a split second and God had peered down at her that August afternoon and seen a heartless girl throwing her dolly away. And maybe the clouds came together again and blocked His view before he had a chance to see that Marie was there too. It had been her idea! And maybe at that moment God touched the eggs inside of her that were jockeying for position, deciding in which order they would fall for the next forty-odd years. And maybe He had touched each one and taken the light out of them, leaving dark, dry husks behind.

  The phone rang. Elizabeth rushed unsteadily to the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh, is Fred there?”

  “I’m sorry, you must—”

  The phone went dead in her hand. Something in her deflated. She poured another glass of wine and sloshed half of it onto the counter.

  The carpet felt good under her bare feet, cushy and deep. She spread her toes and flexed her feet, restless for something to do. She turned the television on and flipped through the channels. Nothing interested her. She stood and began pacing again. On the wall behind her kitchen table, she’d hung some black and white photos of herself and some friends in their first year of university. In one, she and Marie stood side by side on the roof of Gillian’s house. That had been a good party. Marie’s hair had been long then, pulled back into a bushy ponytail. In those days, her own hair had hung straight and silky down the middle of her back. Funny to think that Marie had once envied how straight her hair was because Elizabeth would have loved to have had some of Marie’s curls.

  Marie. Pregnant again. And with two lovely girls already. Sometimes she wished she could drop Marie as a friend and start fresh. But it was too late for that now. Her whole life was twined with Marie’s. She couldn’t simply transplant herself without doing serious damage. Then again, it didn’t seem that either one of them was taking great care to keep their friendship alive and thriving. Somewhere along the way they had both stopped watering it.

  She looked at her watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Impulsively she moved to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialled Marie’s number. She’d just say hi, how are you? What are your plans for the weekend? They’d talk like they used to, quickly, with no pauses between words, rushing to get the next thought out. Maybe she’d invite Marie and the girls over to see her new apartment. She’d bake muffins, buy some good coffee and some juice for the kids. Maybe Nicole and Sophia could even have a sleepover.

  The machine picked up on the fourth ring. Elizabeth heard Sophia’s small voice through the receiver: “If you would like to leave a message for Barry, Marie, Nicole, or Sophia, please do so after the tone.”

  She hung up.

  Pregnant again. Without all the pokes and prods and drugs and hopes and disappointments that had plagued her own numerous attempts to conceive.

  The black cordless phone sat beside the bottle of wine. She thought about phoning Marie. Then she remembered she’d already tried.

  She rocked back and forth. All she wanted was for someone to hold her and tell her everything would be okay. Ron would comfort her. Ron would listen. Would he be home? It had been two weeks since she’d moved out, and she’d asked him not to phone until the newness of their separation had worn off. But it was her rule, so she could break it.

  Dear Ron. The warmth started in her abdomen and slowly spread throughout her body. When they were first dating, Ron had gone to Vancouver to help his uncle with some renovations, and Elizabeth had taken the train to visit him there. They hadn’t seen each other in almost a month. It was a nineteen-hour trip, and the train had arrived at eight in the morning. Ron stood waiting patiently on the platform, an umbrella sheltering him from the rain. He was wearing a suit and tie. “What’s the occasion?” she’d joked. He kissed her and smiled. Then she realized that he’d dressed up for her. She was the occasion.

  Elizabeth reached for the wine bottle and was surprised to find that it too was empty. How had she managed to drink both bottles?

  She dialled the familiar number. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. She pressed the phone hard against her ear and listened to the echo of her heart beating loudly. “Pick up the phone,” she whispered, rocking back and forth, her lips parted, her mouth dry.

  On the seventh ring she realized that Ron hadn’t re-set the answering machine. She’d taken her own voice off the machine when she left, leaving him concise instructions of how to put his own message on.

  The phone kept ringing. Every time she was about to hang up, she saw him fumbling for his keys, rushing for the phone.

  Finally, she hung up. She’d been the one to leave. Of course he’d be out on a Friday night. What had she expected?

  Elizabeth looked around the room and saw two sliding glass doors. Two television sets. Two coffee tables. Her stomach flipped.

  Unsteady on her feet, she made her way to the bathroom. A couple of Tylenol might keep the inevitable hangover at bay. And maybe some toast for the stomach, but just as she was about to put two slices of bread into the toaster, she spotted mould growing alongside the crust. She threw the bag in the garbage and went through the cupboards. She needed something that would be kind to her stomach, but she found nothing, not even a box of crackers.

  She staggered back to the bedroom and flopped face first onto the bed. How pathetic could she be? It was a good thing Marie hadn’t been home to answer the phone. And, oh, God, she’d phoned Ron, hadn’t she? Thankfully he hadn’t been home either. She’d have made a fool of herself for sure. I miss you. Can you come over? But where had he been? Who might he have been out with? She closed her eyes and pictured him in his faded blue jeans with the black shirt that she loved. He had kept in good shape over the years. She felt the warmth of old memories, the rekindling of a passion that had almost been extinguished over time. Maybe there was a hot coal under all that ash. Maybe, if she remembered the early years, the good times, she could fan it back into existence. She needed to remember his hands before they held the syringes. Love came and went, after all. It took work; it wasn’t always steady and true. Maybe she could get it back.

  She thought about how his cheeks dimpled when he smiled, how warm his hands were on her body. They’d met eighteen years ago—almost half her life. He’d encouraged her to open her own business, and he was proud of her. I’m your number one fan, he always said. Starting over with a new man would entail her finding someone who had the qualities that Ron already had. Maybe giving up the idea of having a baby didn’t really mean throwing out her marriage too.

  The room began to spin. She rolled onto her back and tried to pinpoint a spot on the ceiling to stop the room from moving, but to no avail. She’d just have to wait it out and try not to vomit in the process. She groaned when the dizziness became almost too much to bear. When would it end? When would the oblivion come?

  SIXTEEN

  1963

  Margaret stared at the freshly tilled fields outside the asylum bus window. How much cheerier they looked when she was heading home. In the months to come canola would brighten the landscape with its
bright yellow blossoms. Or mustard. Last year the farmer had planted corn. But what did it matter? She would never recognize beauty again, just like her brother, Johnny, would never grow new fingers. Some things couldn’t be fixed. Like Carolyn. Pregnant. The shock was in realizing that her situation could become worse.

  For twelve years Margaret had been riding this bus, trying to believe her visits mattered and that she could make something right from this terrible circumstance. How naïve she’d been. A person could not put a child in a place like that and then pretend that showing up made any kind of a difference. Once a month she brought her daughter a rose and, in good weather, took her outside. She was there one day out of thirty. Twelve days in a year. For the other 353 days, Carolyn was obviously defenceless. Prey for vultures. Margaret grit her teeth. Without moving, she seemed to stagger.

  The bus window felt cool against her forehead. Her mouth tasted sour, as if she hadn’t brushed her teeth in a week. She closed her eyes and once again felt the stones press into her back under a cloudless sky. She saw her farmhouse hazy in the heat, felt Stuart’s body heavy upon her. See you around. That’s what he’d said when he righted himself. He’d never said he was sorry. Not that that would have made it better, but just to hear an apology might have lessened her pain.

  A tear fell onto the window ledge. She hadn’t escaped after all. She’d left Mayburn because she suspected her mother’s shame had turned into loathing; her mother wouldn’t look at her anymore. In her eyes, Margaret was the country girl who’d let that privileged boy take what he wanted. And what if he came back? What if he’d told his friends? Her mother, grey by the time she was thirty, couldn’t stand that some people got away with taking things that weren’t theirs to take, but she also knew that to confront the issue would tear her husband apart. So her normally curt replies to her daughter were replaced by stony silences. As time passed and the silence between them continued, it became obvious to Margaret that her mother would rather be alone than have her daughter nearby.

  Margaret told others she needed more than what a small farming community could offer. Edmonton in the year 1943 was an attractive place to a country girl. Margaret knew she could live a decent life there and have some independence despite the constant talk of war that dominated most conversations. She was already used to the long, hard winters, and she never tired of taking the streetcar around the city, enjoying an anonymity that she’d never known before.

  Donald Harrington was a real estate broker. He ate at the same small restaurant across from the teachers college, where Margaret sometimes treated herself to a bowl of soup and a slice of bread and where she ended up working on the weekends because they were short-staffed and she needed the extra money.

  She didn’t notice him at first because he was quiet and minded his own business, not like some of the young men who immediately assumed a warm familiarity simply because she put food in front of them. No, Donald was courteous and polite at all times, and he tipped generously. One day, his tip was almost equal to the cost of his meal. As he was leaving the restaurant, she ran after him.

  “Excuse me, sir, but you’ve left too much money.” She extended her hand with his change.

  He refused to take it. “Please, it’s for you. The meal was delicious, and I enjoyed it.” He smiled and she took a step back when she noted his perfect teeth. Then he nodded his head and put his hat on before taking his leave.

  When he came in the next time, she watched him more closely. Once again he was alone and sat with the newspaper spread on the table beside him. His shoes were polished and the cuffs and collar of his shirt were starched and clean. His dark hair was closely cropped with a clean part down the left side of his scalp, and he was clean-shaven. His cheeks were blemished with either acne or chicken pox scars that looked like shallow caves above his whiskered jaw. When she took his order she noted how blue his eyes looked in the sunlight that streamed through the large front window.

  Soon she began to look for his tall, lean frame, and he didn’t disappoint her. One Saturday evening, the dark storm clouds that had gathered throughout the afternoon opened to release a heavy downpour just as she was leaving work. Donald offered to walk her to her rooming house. She shyly accepted.

  Donald was a city boy, born and raised. His father was a senior banker at the Toronto Dominion and his mother was his father’s full-time hostess, managing their social calendar. They were middle-upper class, believing themselves to be more upper than middle, and Margaret’s humble origins made her feel awkward around them. It was almost as if they spoke another language from the one she was fluent in.

  Margaret left teachers college six months into her tenure when she married Donald. With that one move, Margaret Galloway became Margaret Harrington, and when she took her husband’s name she felt confident that she’d left Mayburn and Stuart Jenkins far behind. By saying, “I do,” she boxed her childhood nightmare, put a sturdy lid on it, and finally was able to store it away.

  Or so she had thought.

  The asylum bus ground its gears as it entered the city limits and slowed for a red light. Margaret removed her white gloves and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Once again she saw her fifteen-year-old self, silent and unmoving. Then that girl’s body changed and turned into Carolyn’s. Margaret pulled the cord for the next stop. She was still miles away from her home, but she felt ready to vomit. She needed some fresh air to rid her clothes of the scent of that place.

  When her feet hit the pavement she set a brisk pace. What could she do with her anger? She’d been silent for so long. Donald was a good father. He was adored by James and Rebecca, and he adored them in kind. He had become the man she’d wanted him to be—honest and good. Patient with the children. Talking about Carolyn would be like detonating a bomb in their quiet cul-de-sac. Especially now, given the circumstances.

  A baby. Would that child be her responsibility too?

  The scent of lilacs was heavy in the air. Another season of growth was ahead, but all Margaret could think about was the young child growing within her daughter’s body, awkward and bent, like her father’s failed attempt to graft two different kinds of apple saplings. Down syndrome and pregnancy—she shivered involuntarily. Nothing good could come of it.

  Her low heels rang loudly on the sidewalk as she increased her pace until she was almost running. Not all injustices could be brushed aside, she knew that. But they couldn’t all be spoken either. She needed to be careful. She’d succumbed to darkness once before, and she wasn’t sure that she’d be graced with another recovery. In truth, she was scared to death by the image of her unwashed and uncaring self hiding from the world beneath the sheets. She’d abandoned one child in her life, what on earth would she do with that child’s baby?

  SEVENTEEN

  Dr. Maclean clasped the pen tightly in his hand and bent over the notebook on his desk. The light outside was fading, so he switched on the desk lamp and moved to the edge of his seat and began to write.

  Carolyn Jane Harrington, age sixteen, went into labour spontaneously on July 10, 1963. A low cervical Caesarean section was performed under spinal anaesthesia and a five pound, two ounce, apparently normal, female infant was delivered. Pomeroy sterilization was performed.

  The mother is a mongoloid and the father is unknown.

  Dr. Cooper of the Pediatric Department of the University of Alberta had been forewarned of our situation and was eager to be involved in the case. He was immediately called upon and was on hand to aid in the delivery. You can imagine our surprise to discover that the infant appears to be normal. Further testing over time will determine the extent of her mental capacity.

  He stopped writing because to continue would mean going on at length. For now, all he needed to record was the birth. Carolyn had come through the procedure without incident and her sterilization meant another pregnancy would be out of the question. The infant had been taken to a special room for observation. Both he and Dr. Cooper had agreed that it would be detrimental to
her survival to place her with the other infants in the main ward. He looked around the book-lined shelves of his office. Took in the dull light coming in from the small window. Everything felt shabby now. The board’s quick fix to Carolyn’s situation was to make sure she could never get pregnant again. What? She was never sterilized? The board’s response to the investigation into the identity of the baby’s father, which had turned up nothing, was to ask if the family would press charges. They might have well said, Can we sweep it under the rug? For all Dr. Maclean knew, that man was still working here.

  And so was he.

  Because of his need to take care of his family. Because of his fatigue at the idea of finding something new. But other doctors made moves in similar situations. Why was he still here? Had he thought he’d make a difference?

  He checked his watch and saw it was late. His wife would be expecting him soon. The desk lamp was hot when he reached to turn it off, and he pulled away quickly as he felt the burn. Sucking gently on his hand to relieve the sting, he grabbed his coat and locked the office door behind him.

  In the hallway he realized he wanted to see the infant once more before leaving for the night. She was being kept in a room down the corridor from the reception desk. His footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet entranceway. As he got closer, he heard the sound of a newborn’s cry coming from the child’s room. When he opened the door he found the room deserted save for the infant in the crib. Her face was purple and she’d kicked the blankets off of her. Dr. Maclean looked around in anger. When would someone have come? He saw an empty bottle by the sink and a canister of formula on the counter. Without delay he ran the water to make it warm and quickly read the instructions before measuring the appropriate amount of powder into the bottle.

  He was sweating now, unnerved by the baby’s constant cries and enraged that no nurse had tended the child’s distress. He lifted the cuff of his shirt and sprinkled formula onto his inner wrist as he’d seen his own wife do. It seemed to be the right temperature.