The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  However, the child is entirely innocent and should not suffer, unique though her existence may be. Hence I implore you to see that she be placed in a loving home, and I will sign whatever papers are required. As you made no mention of Carolyn’s condition in the letter, I shall assume that she came through the labour in good health.

  I shall drop in at your office when I next visit Carolyn, although I cannot say exactly when that might be.

  With gratitude and regret,

  Margaret Harrington

  Dr. Maclean let the letter fall onto his desk. She was not coming to take the child. She was not coming.

  Yet could he blame her? He felt the sting of her rebuke yet knew she was right. Poplar Grove had not kept her daughter safe, despite the assurances she’d been given when she handed over her infant child. How could he begin to understand what she might feel now?

  He recognized the futility of trying to change her mind. She had suffered enough harm already. Now it was his job to ensure that the child be removed quickly from this place. He remembered the weight of the baby in his arms, her rosebud mouth sucking hungrily at the formula he’d so quickly thrown together. She could easily die here. In the days since her birth, he was the only one to visit her for reasons other than fulfilling the basic necessities. Without his attention, the child would receive no affection. No one would talk to the infant, tickle her cheeks. Try to elicit a smile. The early days were so crucial in a child’s development. It had been proven. And now Dr. Maclean understood that the early days were crucial for all children, not just the healthy ones.

  And as this new realization filled his consciousness, he was ashamed that this obvious insight had not occurred to him earlier.

  He picked up the phone and dialled Dr. Stallworthy’s number. It was up to the board to decide the next move, but he would encourage them to place the child in proper care until such time that she could be adopted. He would make sure that move happened.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  2002

  Marie’s father picked up on the fourth ring, and she was surprised. “Dad?”

  “No, it’s Pierre Trudeau. Who did you think was going to answer?”

  She laughed. It was an old family joke. Fay had had a crush on the former prime minister for years. If someone didn’t leave a message on the machine, or hung up when they answered, then they got into the habit of saying it must have been Pierre.

  “You never answer the phone.”

  “I do when your mother’s yelling at me from the bathroom.”

  “Well, how are you, Dad? I haven’t talked to you in a while.”

  “I’m ready to come home. We’re leaving next week. Hopefully we’ve missed all the bad weather up there.”

  They talked about the weather, about his golf game, about his hip that’d been bothering him more lately. Marie enjoyed the familiarity and comfort of his voice.

  She’d been a little girl once, and he’d tucked her into bed at night and kissed the tip of her nose. How much do I love you? he’d ask.

  BIG, she’d shout, and they’d both spread their arms as wide as they could to show how great their love was. Her eyes filled with tears as she remembered that. They hadn’t said that in a long time.

  Daddy? Can I tell you something?

  “Here’s your mom now.”

  “Hi, Marie. I told your father it was worth answering the phone sometimes.”

  Marie laughed. “I’m phoning with some news. I wanted to tell you before the girls spilled the beans.”

  A note of suspicion crept into Fay’s voice. “Good news or bad news? Now my heart’s racing. Should I sit down?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Oh, God,” Fay said and lowered her voice. “Don’t tell me. You’re pregnant.”

  Marie swallowed hard. Why did her mother always look for the negative in every situation?

  “Marie?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You’re pregnant.” A statement.

  “I am,” Marie responded lightly. “You’re going to be grandparents again.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I thought you were finished,” Fay said. “The girls are already in school, and you’re working. When did you decide to start over again? Is this because Frances has Max?”

  “This has nothing to do with Frances, Mom. And we’re actually happy about it. The girls are happy too.”

  “Of course they are. Their lives won’t change that much.”

  Frances would have hung up by now. Frances, whose motto throughout childhood, whenever Fay had trotted out her martyr routine, had been, I didn’t ask to be born.

  “I just thought you might like to know.”

  Marie heard Fay whisper something to her husband. When she came back on the line her voice had softened. “Your father says to say congratulations.”

  It was hard to hold in her tears. When she was a girl, she had stepped on a rusty wire in a construction site that she wasn’t supposed to be playing in. Elizabeth had run to Marie’s house to tell one of her parents that she was hurt. The whole time Marie waited, the wire sticking half into her foot, she didn’t cry. But as soon as she saw her dad come running, the father who loved her and looked afraid, the tears flowed. It was safe to cry then.

  “We’ll be home soon, Marie,” her mother said. “Until then, take care of yourself.”

  I don’t want to take care of myself. I want someone to do that for me. She nodded. “Okay, Mom. I’ll try.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  1963

  Margaret signed the necessary papers releasing Carolyn’s child for adoption and sent them back to Dr. Maclean by registered mail. No, she did not want to see the child (or Carolyn, for that matter). Yes, she understood Dr. Maclean’s urgency in wanting to place the child.

  Margaret couldn’t help but dwell on the irony of the situation. She had signed papers to put her own daughter in “care,” and now she was signing papers to get her granddaughter out of the very place she’d been persuaded to put her daughter into. A doctor sixteen years earlier had assured her it was for her baby’s own good, and now a doctor was making a strong case that Poplar Grove was no place for a child. Once again she cursed her naïveté and Donald’s eager willingness to forget. Once again she regretted her impulse to live in the past and Donald’s ability to put the past in a shoebox on the top shelf of the closet, tucked into the back corner. He knew it was there somewhere, but he was fine never actually going to look for it.

  She hadn’t been able to care for Carolyn, but at least the infant would find a good home where she would be loved. Dr. Maclean had assured her of that, and although she had no reason to trust any doctor’s word at this point, she felt she could believe him.

  The months passed quickly, and Margaret missed two more of her regular visits to Poplar Grove. But it was summertime, and she was enjoying the time with her family. The train trip to Montreal had been a great adventure. Margaret had insisted that they splurge and purchase first-class tickets for the cross-country journey. Donald, always conservative in his spending, had mildly objected to the extravagance, but she’d persuaded him and he’d finally agreed. The only drawback for the children was leaving their ten-year-old golden retriever, upon whom they lavished their affection. But once arrangements had been made for his care, even they got into the appropriately festive mood.

  So Margaret didn’t visit Carolyn in July. And when she returned in August, she reasoned that summer was almost over, and her garden and flowerbeds required tending.

  Then it was September, and as the visiting day approached, she fell ill with the stomach flu. Even as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl, she was relieved not to make the trip. She was a thirty-seven-year-old grandmother, and nobody in her family knew but her. She felt old. Keeping secrets weighed upon a body. Sometimes, she noticed she was bent over as if someone had delivered a heavy blow to her abdomen. When she caught her reflection in a mirror or shop window and
saw herself bent and hunched over, she’d stretch to her full height, unround her shoulders, and gain four inches in stature.

  When October arrived, she reasoned that, since she hadn’t visited Carolyn since May, what did another month matter? In November it was too cold. When December arrived, she focused on decorating the house for Christmas. In the new year she understood that mounting the steps of the asylum bus repulsed her so much that she needed time to prepare herself for the abuse her senses would have upon re-entering Poplar Grove. She’d been away too long. She’d have to relearn how to turn a blind eye to the overcrowding and unbearable filth and stench. It would be like visiting for the first time all over again, but at least then she’d been ignorant of what that place really was like. But now she knew.

  So the months passed and Margaret bent a little more with each passing day, plagued by the stone of shame in her belly that she could do nothing but polish. Shame for not visiting. Shame for thinking that the man who had fathered Carolyn’s child might still be visiting her. Shame for not taking action.

  Sometimes as she lay awake in the early morning hours listening to the steady breathing of her husband sleeping beside her, she imagined waking Donald and telling him the truth. How did that expression go? A problem shared is a problem halved? Oh—to have someone take some of the burden from her! Carolyn was his daughter too, didn’t he have a right to know? But now the situation was even worse. Yes, Donald. Our first-born daughter is still alive. Oh, and by the way, she’s had a daughter of her own. Isn’t that lovely? We’re grandparents now! No, I don’t know who the father is. Actually, I don’t even know where the baby is now because I agreed to have her adopted. Oh, but don’t worry. I’m sure the doctor’s found her a good home.

  The pit she’d dug got bigger by the second. How had one visit, years ago, led to all of this?

  James had erased Donald’s grief—a healthy son, that was more like it—and he’d moved quickly forward, trying to draw Margaret along in his slipstream. But James had only increased Margaret’s grief. She hadn’t been able to forget Carolyn.

  Often, the nights were dark and lonely, but Donald wasn’t as strong as he pretended to be. Despite his success in real estate (he owned many properties, in addition to all the sales he supervised), he still yearned for the approval of his parents. When he clinched a seemingly impossible deal, or when he won some prestigious award, he would phone his father. Margaret cringed each time, for his parents would never say what Donald wanted to hear. Or, if they did, he wouldn’t believe them. We’re proud of you, son. We’re glad you’re our boy.

  It was Margaret’s job to protect him so that James and Rebecca would not see him crumble.

  So she held her tongue. It was not her place to make him revisit his heartache or to add something more to it.

  Silence.

  More silence.

  TWENTY-NINE

  2002

  Elizabeth came home from work and immediately went to the row of mailboxes on the far wall of the lobby; she felt an old anxiety when she turned the key. But nestled inside was a thin envelope bearing her name. She recognized Ron’s handwriting right away. Clutching it to her chest, she raced to the elevators and felt light in the knees as she thought about Ron’s nose at the nape of her neck, his warm breath stirring the delicate hairs above her collar line and around her collarbones. And sometimes he’d let his lips linger briefly, just enough to send a shiver up her spine. Oh . . .

  Elizabeth got to her apartment as fast as she could. Finally she was on the couch and opening the letter that still had the faint whiff of her husband clinging to it—a sweet mingling of aftershave and sweat.

  Ron must have replied immediately to her letter for it to get to her so fast.

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Thank you for your letter. It’s nice to come home and, as my dad used to say, “find something in the old hollow tree.” Usually it’s just bills and flyers in the mailbox, so I was particularly pleased to find some variety.

  You asked what’s new. Well, aside from my wife moving out of the house two months ago and leaving me to fend for myself, not much at all. Because you requested it, I did finally put a new message on the answering machine. I’m not sure it was at all necessary as people who want to reach me will just keep trying. It’s not like the phone rings off the hook. In fact, now when I come home and find that no one has called I feel sort of depressed. Not having a machine was better because I could imagine that I’d missed calls.

  But seriously, aside from the cavernous hole that your absence has made in my life, not much has changed. Things at school are pretty much the same. No one likes the new principal, so staff morale is lower than usual. But the basketball team is doing well and we hope to clinch a top spot in the upcoming tournament.

  You know, I’m not nearly as oblivious as you think I am. Your confession that you’d been hiding baby sleepers wasn’t at all necessary as I’d known about that for some time. On more than one occasion, probably while looking for a particular piece of clothing, I found sleepers tucked into the back of dresser drawers. At first I thought you might be pregnant, but as the days passed and you didn’t say anything I began to wonder what was going on. Then one day I stood in the bedroom doorway without your knowing I was there. I watched you take out a little sleeper, place it flat on the bed, and then lay your hand ever so gently upon it. That was when I began to really understand the extent of your longing and loss. Over time the sleepers disappeared. I figured you’d talk to me about it sometime, but you never did. Until your letter.

  Lizzie, I may not have said enough to comfort you. I just wanted to fix things somehow and didn’t have any idea what to do. I can’t tell you how hard it is to watch the person you love not get what she wants despite her doing everything in her power to make it happen. I’ve always admired your great determination and perseverance, but I’ll admit there were times when I wished you’d concede defeat and turn your sights to something else. Maybe I should have told you that. You’re not the only one who has kept things to herself.

  Now I’ve got a memory of us to share. Remember the time we hiked the Skyline Trail in Jasper? Your feet were a mass of blisters because you insisted on wearing the new hiking boots that you thought you’d broken in enough. And because your feet hurt so much, while you were tender-footing it across a creek you ended up slipping off a log. You and your pack both landed in the water and got soaked. Luckily you weren’t carrying both sleeping bags! But it turned out okay. We hung yours from a tree to help it dry, and that night I invited you into my sleeping bag. Those mummy-bags were definitely not made for two, but we managed, didn’t we? What heat we threw off that night!

  I’ve always loved you, Lizzie, and I still do. Say the word and I’m there. Ron

  Elizabeth reread the letter three times before letting it rest in her lap. Then she wiped the tears from her cheeks. He’d known about the sleepers and hadn’t said a word. How could he not have said anything? Then again, what could he have said that wouldn’t have made her angry? He’d tried being supportive and that hadn’t gotten him anywhere.

  She stopped suddenly when she realized where her thoughts were going. Why wasn’t she thinking about the fun they’d had on their hiking trip in Jasper instead of their failed clinic visits? Why did she always focus on what she didn’t have? No wonder she was alone, she thought as she looked around her apartment. She certainly didn’t want to be with herself. Why would anyone else?

  Ron would. He said as much in his letter. Despite all she’d put him through, he still wanted her. Say the word and I’m there.

  “The word,” she said out loud and smiled. “The word.” She swivelled her head. Where was he?

  He was at home, in their house, waiting. He was used to that. For almost ten years their lives had been put on hold; they’d been stuck in an endless loop of one test and procedure followed by another and then a wait. Needles. Paper gowns. Sweat. Cramps. Ultrasounds. Pain. Tears. She needed to stop remembering the fa
ilures. Or put a new spin on them. Ron wasn’t the bad guy, he’d done everything. Once, she had been told to make an appointment with a fertility specialist at a specific time during her monthly cycle. The appointment was to be preceded by a week of sexual abstinence, and she was to arrive at the doctor’s office a prescribed number of hours after intercourse. Her appointment had been for three o’clock, so Ron had left school early that day to be home in time to have sex.

  How undignified it all had been. How utterly exposed she had felt, like a butterfly with its wings pinned flat to a board. She remembered the doctor returning to the examination room. “I’m sorry to say that, although there should have been, there was no evidence of live sperm in the cervical environment.”

  “But that’s not possible. I came here immediately . . .”

  “We’ll have to repeat the test,” the doctor interrupted. “You have what is called an ‘inhospitable cervical environment.’” Elizabeth’s heart sank. Inhospitable. Like she didn’t know how to throw a good party.

  She looked down at the letter in her lap, at Ron’s controlled penmanship, and she understood she didn’t want the next ten years to be anything like what she’d just lived through. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. There was Ron at the stove, flipping a grilled cheese sandwich, barefoot, unshaven, hungry, and lonely. And here she was, thinking of him, wanting to be with him. After almost two months she’d had enough. Invite him for dinner. Now.

  For once she didn’t stop to question herself. Instead, she picked up the phone and dialled the most familiar number she knew.

  And now he was on his way over and she was preparing her body for his visit—showering and shaving her legs and underarms. Taking a pumice stone to her heels. Putting a dab of his favourite perfume at the base of her neck. Blow-drying her hair. Adding a light touch of foundation below her eyes.