The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  Marie listened to the words that left the doctor’s mouth; she understood each one, and her heart didn’t even miss a beat. After all, she had known, hadn’t she? She had tried to convince herself otherwise, but she had known all along.

  The doctor’s phone rang, but she didn’t pick it up. “I know this isn’t the news you were hoping for,” she said kindly, “but the prospects today are much brighter for these children than they were in the past.”

  “Are you sure that there hasn’t been some mistake?” Barry asked.

  The doctor shook her head.

  “How accurate is this test, anyway?” he asked.

  “About ninety-eight percent,” the doctor replied.

  Barry looked out the window and nodded. “So now what?”

  “Well, there are a number of options, and I’ll give you a referral for counselling if you would like more help in making your decision.” Then she spoke with deliberate care.

  For starters, they could continue with the pregnancy and have the child. Or, as with any pregnancy, adoption was also an option. There were agencies that specialized in the adoption of special-needs children. Finally, they had the option to terminate the pregnancy. However, if this were the route they chose, for obvious reasons they would have to make that decision as soon as possible.

  “Do you have any questions?” the doctor asked gently.

  Is there a cure for regret? Marie stayed quiet.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” Barry asked.

  Before Marie could voice an objection, the doctor spoke.

  “It’s a girl.”

  Sugar and spice.

  Barry nodded and sat quietly for a moment. “If we decide not to have the baby, what kind of procedure are we looking at? I mean, is it dangerous?”

  Marie almost laughed out loud. Is it dangerous? For who? Her or the baby? Certainly for one of them it would be.

  An appointment would be made for Marie at the hospital. Depending on the time of day the procedure was performed, she might stay overnight. She would be induced and go through labour. The doctor gave a few more details.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Marie nodded, strangely comforted by the sympathy.

  “Please let me know,” the doctor continued, “as soon as you make your decision. Then we’ll know what course to take next. And if there’s anything I can do, or if you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Barry stood up and shook the doctor’s hand once more. “Thank you,” he said. “We appreciate your help.”

  Marie rose slowly from her chair. She nodded to the doctor as well, and then wordlessly made her way to the door.

  They drove home in silence. Nicole and Sophia returned home from school, like on any other day, and Marie didn’t cry. Barry decided they should all go out for pizza, and they let the girls drink as many glasses of the bottomless pop as they wanted.

  Back at home, Barry helped the girls with their homework. Then they all watched some television. Marie held together through it all—the meal, the homework, the TV, the bedtime rituals.

  And then, finally, they went to bed, lay side by side, on their backs, and stared up at the ceiling. There was something about not looking directly at the other person that enabled them to be honest. They had used this technique over the years when they were experiencing some difficulty in their relationship. They didn’t make eye contact; they didn’t get hung up on the other person’s gestures or facial mannerisms. They were just two voices in the dark. Two lovers staring up at the stars.

  “So now we know,” Marie said.

  Barry reached for her hand. “When I was a kid, I thought that once you were an adult you had it made. You knew right from wrong, and you just did the right thing. There was no indecision, just action.” He stroked her hand gently with his thumb. “I remember honestly believing that adults didn’t make mistakes.”

  The furnace kicked on and the curtains across the room danced lightly in the circulating air.

  “When it comes down to it,” Barry continued, “I guess we have two choices.”

  Marie felt tears roll down her cheek. Maybe she needed to be strong for Barry until she could be strong for herself. They couldn’t both fall apart at the same time.

  She tried to steady her voice. “That makes it sound so simple, like we can just flip a coin or something. What do you want?”

  “I want us to be happy again, and I don’t want to have to make the decision.”

  “Nobody is going to make it for us.”

  “I know,” he said. “You don’t have to state the obvious.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I don’t have an endless reserve of patience and kindness,” Barry went on. “I’m not comfortable around people with disabilities. I never know if I’m supposed to help or something.”

  “It’s different when it’s your own child,” she said.

  “Yeah, it hurts more.”

  Neither one of them had anything to say for a few moments.

  “I read somewhere that living a comfortable life means you’re not growing,” Marie said.

  “I’m not sure I buy that,” Barry said. “What’s wrong with being comfortable?”

  “Well, maybe having this baby would help you grow in some way, maybe . . .”

  “I don’t want to grow,” he snapped. “I don’t want this ‘challenge,’ or whatever you want to call it. I just don’t. I’m not strong enough.”

  “Do you think other people are? Huh? Do you think anyone says, Down syndrome? Sure. I can handle that. I’m strong enough.”

  More silence.

  “What if I had it anyway?” she whispered.

  Barry tensed beside her. “Don’t do this, Marie,” Barry said. “We’ve got to stay together on this. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

  Marie began to cry. “I just can’t imagine what we’ll tell the girls. They’re so looking forward to the birth.”

  She could tell Barry had switched into fixing mode. “We’ll tell them that something was wrong with the baby and that it died. That’ll be the truth, so we won’t even be lying.”

  “Oh, great. That’ll make it okay then.”

  Marie shifted positions. The baby kicked and she started to cry again.

  A little girl. She had preferred the distance of not knowing, but now she could name the child; she could imagine her more fully. A soft moan escaped from her lips.

  A girl.

  Terminate. Procedure. The doctor had given them all the details; in fact, they had learned more than they had wanted to know. Marie hadn’t known, for example, that if she terminated the pregnancy she would still have to go through labour to give birth. But how stupid could she be? Obviously the baby had to come out somehow. She should have asked what the procedure was before she’d had the amniocentesis. Might that have changed her mind? She’d already been through two labours, but they had been joyous occasions. How could this one be anything but tragic? There would be no reward for the pain. Nothing to look forward to after her body emptied itself of its burden.

  Barry took her in his arms. He ran his hand along her back, using his fingertips to slowly trace the outline of each vertebra along her spine. He started at the curve in her neck and followed each ridge and hollow down to her waist as if she were his rosary and he was saying his prayers.

  Her belly pressed into his own. The baby let go a barrage of kicks, performing Morse code on his belly, trying hard to get a message to his heart.

  THIRTY-TWO

  1975

  Dr. Maclean pulled the chart from the rack outside the examination room and looked at the file. He smiled immediately. Behind the closed door, Elizabeth was waiting to have her booster shots. He opened the door and stepped inside, smiling at the girl and her mother.

  “Hello, Elizabeth,” he said warmly. “What brings you in today? A frog in your throat? A bug in your ear?” He knew she was getting a bit old for his childish humour, but he persisted nonetheless. She bl
ushed a deep crimson and turned to her mother for help. “Oh,” he said, following her gaze. “You’ve come in because there’s something wrong with your mother?”

  Mrs. Crewes laughed and gave her daughter’s knee a squeeze. “Just the usual, doc. Check under the hood and put some air in the tires.”

  He smiled and filled a vial with clear liquid before rubbing a cotton swab of alcohol over Elizabeth’s upper arm. “You’re twelve now, are you?” he asked, diverting her attention while inserting the needle. She flinched and nodded.

  “If you have a moment, doctor, when you’re finished,” Mrs. Crewes said, “I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you.”

  “Certainly.” He rubbed Elizabeth’s arm briskly where he’d removed the needle.

  “Lizzie,” said Mrs. Crewe, “how about I get you in a few minutes in the waiting room?”

  Elizabeth nodded and exited the room.

  Mrs. Crewes was normally vivacious and talkative, but today she looked ill at ease.

  “Is there something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, nothing in particular. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be taking Elizabeth to another doctor from now on. She’s growing up, you know, and she’s becoming self-conscious having a male doctor. But she’s also been asking a lot of questions lately, like why she’s the only healthy child in your waiting room, and I must admit that it’s become rather obvious that she’s out of place here. To be honest, I’m not able to justify why we see you anymore.”

  He nodded. “Frankly, I’m surprised I’ve been able to see her for so long. Especially after I moved my offices here into the children’s hospital.” Parents with healthy children, as well as the children themselves, often had a hard time witnessing first-hand how nature can deform and punish a body. Bald heads. Tubes and wheelchairs. Sometimes it was too much for them.

  “In truth, there’s really no need for me to see her anymore, other than my own personal attachment. It’s been apparent for years that she’s an entirely normal and healthy child born under highly unusual circumstances.”

  “Unusual circumstances is somewhat of an understatement,” Mrs. Crewes said. “I’m concerned that when Elizabeth turns eighteen she’ll be able to access her adoption records. I haven’t told her anything about her mother, and I’m not sure I ever will, but what if she finds out and wants to meet her?”

  He motioned Mrs. Crewes toward the door. “Let’s discuss this in my office, shall we?”

  He led her down the hall and offered her the seat by his desk.

  “Elizabeth’s mother died eight years ago, in March 1967,” he said. “Her heart had been weakened further by the pregnancy and birth. So there is no possibility of Elizabeth meeting her birth mother.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Crewes said. “Although I must admit that it’s somewhat of a relief to know that her birth mother won’t make any attempts to contact her.”

  “Even if she’d lived, she would have been incapable of doing so. Her level of functioning was not high.”

  “What about other family?”

  “Carolyn’s birth mother might still be alive, and if I remember correctly, she had two additional children who were healthy. I can’t provide any more information even if I wanted to because places like Poplar Grove didn’t require the parents of patients to keep up-to-date records. The majority of babies with Down syndrome who were institutionalized didn’t live much past the toddler years, and those who did were basically forgotten.”

  “So you think Elizabeth has at least an aunt and uncle then?”

  “Yes. However, given what I know of the family situation, I would be very surprised if they knew of her existence.”

  “Her father remains unknown?”

  Dr. Maclean nodded.

  “Perhaps you can answer this question for me. When Elizabeth decides to have children, will she have a greater risk of having a baby with Down syndrome?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. However, as Elizabeth’s case is highly uncommon and we don’t have other cases to compare it with, we cannot rule out entirely the possibility that she might have a higher likelihood. There is a small percentage of people who carry an actual Down syndrome gene. I know one woman who had two children with Down syndrome. After her first child was born, we determined that she carried the gene and had a fifty percent chance of having another child with Down syndrome. Which is exactly what happened. But infertility is not a likelihood at all.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” she said. “As this is likely our last visit, I thought now would be a good time to ask some questions about her family.” She paused. “Also, I’m embarrassed to admit that Elizabeth doesn’t know she’s adopted. My husband and I just never got around to telling her. There didn’t seem to be any need. And if no one will come looking for her when she’s eighteen, then maybe she never needs to know.”

  “I think I can say with some confidence that no family members will be looking for her.”

  Mrs. Crewes thanked him for his time and advice over the years.

  “However, the longer you go without telling her, the more unlikely it is that you ever will. But that’s a personal decision, obviously, and it’s not my place to advise you on that decision.”

  “Yes, I know.” She grimaced. “It feels deceitful not telling her, but I never meant to keep it from her. The time just passed; of course, there’s no sense in telling a baby about its history, and by the time it feels right, so many years have passed that if feels almost wrong to bring it up. I should have told her when she was much younger, but I missed that opportunity. Maybe saying goodbye to you is the impetus I need,” she added with great determination. “Perhaps I’ll tell her as soon as I leave here today.”

  “No time like the present, as they say. And by the way, I have kept a journal of Elizabeth’s case. I think she might one day benefit from its contents or, at the very least, be intrigued by them. I will hold it for her, until she’s ready. When she starts asking more questions or attempts to find out more about her adoption, please tell her to come and see me.”

  Mrs. Crewes thanked him again and shook his hand warmly.

  And then she left.

  The office door closed behind her. Dr. Maclean sat at his desk and felt a heavy sadness in saying goodbye to Elizabeth. He pulled the notebook from the top shelf and jotted down the details of his final visit with her. He probably wouldn’t see her again until she turned eighteen and gained access to her adoption records. Only then were her parents likely to tell her about the notebook.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Elizabeth had convinced her mother to find a new doctor. Her chest was beginning to develop and she’d started wearing a training bra. Seeing Dr. Maclean, who had known her since she was a baby, was like getting naked in front of her father. She didn’t want either man to see the tender lumps of flesh on her chest that were growing into breasts. And she was tired of being the only normal child in the waiting room. It made no sense to keep going, so they’d made one final visit to say goodbye.

  When they left his office, Elizabeth realized immediately that something had changed. Her mother was quiet in the elevator. Was she sorry to say goodbye? She wasn’t usually sentimental. “Don’t worry, Mom,” she said, reaching to hold her mother’s hand. “We’ll find another doctor. There must be lots of doctors in the city. You have one; maybe I could see him.”

  Her mother squeezed her hand. “I’m not worried, Lizzie, I’m just a little nervous right now.”

  “About what?”

  They were outside the hospital now and the sun was warm on her face. She squinted at the sudden brightness.

  “Let’s go over here,” her mother said, pulling her toward a small rock garden adjacent to the entranceway. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Elizabeth followed, curious about the sudden change in her mother’s mood. Had she done something wrong? She scanned through the past few days but came up blank. She’d done her chores without too much compl
aining, she wasn’t behind in her school work.

  Her mother headed for a wooden bench next to a small pond.

  “Shouldn’t I be getting back to school?” she asked.

  “No. It’s already two o’clock; you can have the rest of the afternoon off.” Her mother patted the bench beside her.

  A plump woman in sandals pushed a young boy in a wheelchair to the hospital’s entrance. He was wearing an Oilers ball cap.

  “Is something wrong?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No, honey, nothing’s wrong. There’s just something I want to tell you that I’ve maybe kept to myself for too long.” Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she reached into her purse for a tissue.

  Elizabeth felt panic grow in her stomach. Her mother was sick. Or her father was, terribly sick. Or they were moving. She’d be leaving Marie and her other friends behind and be the new kid at school, going into junior high. It had to be something horrible.

  “Just tell me, Mom.”

  Her mother laughed weakly and wiped at her eyes. “Oh, Lizzie. This is hard for me. Be patient.” Then she took a deep breath and continued: “I should have told you a long time ago. Your father and I love you very much, honey. I hope you know that.”

  “You’re not getting divorced, are you?”

  Her mother laughed again and seemed to gain courage. “No, we’re fine. It’s not that. What I’m trying to say is that we really wanted to have children together, and we tried for years, but nothing happened.”

  “What do you mean ‘nothing happened’? You got me, didn’t you?”

  “Lizzie, you’re the best thing that ever happened to us. And the day we brought you home was the best day of my life.”

  What was her mother getting at? Why didn’t she just say it?

  “Just tell me.”

  “You were six months old when we first met you at the adoption agency. We fell in love with you immediately and were lucky enough to bring you home.”