The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  Elizabeth hadn’t thought about that dress in years. He had known her then too. No wonder he had been so kind and attentive to her; he’d been keeping notes the entire time, holding a magnifying glass over her as he prepared for his next article.

  March 12, 1967

  This morning, Carolyn H. died of cardio-respiratory complications, four months shy of her twentieth birthday. As is the custom at Poplar Grove, her body will be buried in the graveyard on the grounds.

  The time of death is estimated at 3:30 AM. The nurse doing the morning rounds discovered Carolyn in her bed at 7:00 AM, curled into the fetal position. Her body was removed and an autopsy was performed.

  Had I known her time was so near I would have held a vigil by her bedside so she would not have died alone. I could have told her that she’d brought love into the world. I could have told her that her daughter, now four years old, is a vivacious and precocious child who was adopted by loving parents and who will live freely in the world from which she herself had been barred.

  Elizabeth’s eyes burned with tears. In the middle of a lonely night on a dark ward, her mother’s heart had stopped and she’d left this world virtually anonymous and unknown. And her own child, not even four years old, had likely twirled about in her red velvet dress while some stranger dug a grave for the mother she would never know. Of course it was too much to think a child would know when her own mother died, but to be entirely oblivious? Elizabeth was being introduced to a grief she’d never known belonged to her.

  March 13, 1967

  Today I hand-delivered my resignation to Dr. Stallworthy, who is on the board of directors. At first he tried to talk me out of leaving, saying that the longer I stayed the more I’d get used to the place. I informed him that after four years of full-time employment I would never become used to the dehumanizing behaviour that passes for “care” at Poplar Grove. Dr. Stallworthy virtually hurled the epithet “liberal” at me when I spoke of reforms in the care of mental defectives. Yet what does he really know about how this place works? He directs from a distance and does not witness the daily bedlam of life behind locked doors.

  As much as I shall miss Carolyn, I cannot help but be relieved that her days of monotony are over.

  I must go now and pack my desk.

  A bell rang at the school and the children began to leave the playground. Elizabeth closed the notebook, acutely aware of the irony of her situation. Women her age were worried about having a baby with Down syndrome, not discovering they were the product of a mother with Down syndrome.

  If she told Marie about her birth mother, would it have any effect on her decision? She imagined Marie thinking about her baby right now, its every movement a glaring reminder of its condition.

  What was Marie going to do?

  And how much longer could Elizabeth wait for Marie’s decision?

  She turned the key in the ignition and drove away from the doctor’s house. The notebook occupied the passenger seat like a long-lost relative.

  “Any news from Marie yet?” Ron asked during dinner.

  “No, but you’re never going to believe what happened to me today.”

  “Try me.”

  “This is big, Ron. I just found out something that makes our decision to raise Marie’s baby even more complicated for me.” Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped at them in irritation.

  “When I was younger I used to want to know more about my birth mother. I figured I’d go to the government registry when I was eighteen and find my real mother, but my parents always found some subtle way to postpone or discourage my attempts. I never gave it much thought, but now I know exactly why they did what they did.”

  The flames on one of the candles hissed and a chunk of wax fell on the tablecloth. Elizabeth put her index finger onto the soft wax and pushed it flat to keep it from burning a hole in the fabric.

  “Why?”

  “I had a doctor when I was growing up named Dr. Maclean. I remember going to his office and being surrounded by people who had Down syndrome. When I turned twelve, we switched doctors.” She stood up and retrieved her purse. “Here.”

  She handed Ron the black notebook.

  He flipped through the pages with confusion. “What is this?”

  “It’s all his notes about my case. It seems I was a bit of a medical miracle.” She tried to laugh.

  “I’m still in the dark here.”

  “Well, here comes the unbelievable part. My birth mother had Down syndrome. She was institutionalized when she was two days old and she had me when she was sixteen.” Her voice had begun to shake. “I was born at Poplar Grove Provincial Training Centre, an institution for the mentally handicapped.” It was hard to say those words out loud.

  Ron stared with disbelief, unsure if she was joking, but she didn’t laugh.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  He looked confused. “What happened? How did you find out now?”

  “To make a long story short, Dr. Maclean used to work at Poplar Grove. He was on staff when they discovered my mother was pregnant. Her name was Carolyn, by the way. He was one of the attending physicians at my birth, and he did a lot of follow up after I was born. Most of the medical community believed that a child born from a woman with Down syndrome would also end up being mentally deficient. That I was apparently ‘normal’ was remarkable to them. Because of me, Dr. Maclean became a leading specialist in the field of Down syndrome.”

  Ron flipped through the notebook. “This is incredible.”

  “When Marie told me that her baby had Down syndrome, I wanted her to talk with Dr. Maclean. I thought he might be able to persuade her that it would be okay. He knows it’s not all doom and gloom. So I tracked him down and called him. Once he realized it was me, he said he’d wondered when I’d phone him and stuff like that. At some point it occurred to me that we were talking about two different things and something more was going on than I knew. So I went to his house and we talked.”

  Ron flipped through the book. “I can’t believe you never knew.”

  “Well, at least it’s pretty clear now why my parents never wanted me to find out.”

  “I guess,” Ron said. “It’s a pretty difficult thing to explain . . . but still, it doesn’t seem right that it was kept a secret for so long.”

  “I know. It’s hard to wrap my head around it. I’m not sure what to feel. I’m sort of mad that my parents never told me, but now that I know I can see that they were only trying to protect me.”

  “Listen to this,” Ron said, and he began to read out loud.

  August 1967

  Elizabeth occupies her world so entirely that it’s a joy to watch. She is the centre of all activities in the waiting room, and the other children naturally gravitate toward her. Today I discovered her patiently attempting to teach two of the young children with Down syndrome how to play patty cake. She is only four herself, and her matter-of-fact singsong lisp was delightful. However, it was the laughter of the three children that I recall best.

  Elizabeth embraces all of life’s opportunities so fully it pains me to know that my adult sensibility is largely void of an immediate sense of wonder. Such is the gift of childhood—the ability to respond instantly without filtering or censoring one’s emotions.

  “He sounds like a good guy,” Ron said. “He obviously cared for you.”

  Elizabeth nodded abstractly.

  “Did Marie call him?”

  “I haven’t given her the number yet. I thought I’d give her a day before I call with it. I think I shocked her yesterday, and I don’t want to scare her off.”

  She stood and reached to clear Ron’s plate from the table; he caught her wrist and pulled her into his lap.

  “This doesn’t change anything, you know? That your mother had Down syndrome, wild as that seems, doesn’t mean that it’s meant to be that Marie gives you her baby. Right? She’ll make her own decision, no matter what you do or don’
t do.”

  Elizabeth knew he was right.

  And yet . . . She slipped from his grasp and took their plates to the sink.

  FORTY-TWO

  Thursday morning was hectic. Barry left the house earlier than usual for a meeting at work. Sophia remembered at breakfast that she had a book report due that day that she hadn’t yet started. Marie lost her temper. “Fine time to remember, isn’t it? Do I have to be responsible for every single thing in your life?”

  By the time she calmed down, Sophia was in a state and threatened to not catch the school bus. In the end, it was Nicole who managed to get her sister out the door by offering her full control of the television for the night.

  Marie watched the skills of her twelve-year-old with admiration and shame. Who was the adult here? Wasn’t Marie supposed to be the one to set a proper example?

  Finally the front door closed behind her daughters and the house was quiet. Marie picked up the phone with a trembling hand and dialled Dr. Cuthbert’s number. She gave her name to the receptionist, said the doctor was expecting her call, and was put on hold.

  Five minutes passed.

  “Hello, Marie. It’s Dr. Cuthbert.”

  “Hi.”

  It was a sunny morning. Likely the early rays were streaming across the doctor’s desk and spilling onto the carpeted floor.

  “My husband and I have made a decision,” she said.

  “That’s good. What have you decided?”

  “You said we needed to make our decision quickly,” Marie began, hoping the doctor wouldn’t make her spell it out entirely. “So you could make an appointment for us.”

  “Yes.” Dr. Cuthbert’s voice was neutral, neither supportive nor condemning. “If you’re sure about this, then I’ll schedule an appointment immediately. I’ll phone you back as soon as I know, but right now I’m thinking, given your dates and that it’s almost the weekend, we might be able to book you as early as tomorrow afternoon.”

  The words sounded as if they were coming from a great distance.

  “So soon?” she whispered. Tomorrow was Friday. By the weekend the baby might not be in her body any longer. She felt an immediate need to protect it. She hadn’t felt the baby kick since she woke up. Maybe it knew what was coming. Maybe she had listened to the conversation she and Barry had had the previous night, and she’d wrapped the rubbery cord around her neck, wanting to control her own destiny. Maybe right now she was floating peacefully—senseless and forgiving.

  The doctor didn’t hear her question. “If it is tomorrow, then you’d have to go in tonight for a small procedure, but if tomorrow doesn’t work out, it would help to know if you could be available for any other day.”

  Marie gripped the phone until it felt as if her thin bones might crack. She closed her eyes. “Any day,” she said quietly. “I can be ready any day.” Will I ever be ready?

  The clock above the sink ticked loudly. The faucet dripped once, twice, three times, big drops that echoed like shots in the stainless steel basin. Marie sat at the kitchen table and stared across the room at the sink. She watched four more beads of water drop and counted the time between drops as if she were counting the space between lightning and thunder and waiting for the big crash to come.

  Everything she had ever wanted or dreamed about lived in this house. Barry, her girls, all of their things. How was she going to fit this event in?

  Her foot tapped the metal legs of the kitchen table. The girls’ breakfast dishes rattled as the table slightly bounced. The baby kicked. I’m still here. It’s not too late to change your mind. She stood up, as if to distance herself from the movement within. What was she going to tell Elizabeth? Marie felt sick even imagining the conversation. Hi, Elizabeth. Thanks for your offer to raise our baby. I certainly appreciate your generosity, but Barry and I have decided not to go ahead with the pregnancy. We like our family just the way it is. Sorry about that. Want to do lunch sometime?

  Yeah, right. Elizabeth wouldn’t want anything more to do with her. So now she’d suffer two deaths—that of her child and of her lifelong friendship. Marie couldn’t help but feel that her suffering at the moment was greater than Elizabeth’s. It wasn’t her fault Elizabeth couldn’t have a baby. That didn’t mean she had to give up her own, did it? Her mind reeled. She was giving up her baby anyway, wasn’t she? But she couldn’t phone and destroy Elizabeth’s hopes. Plus, deep down, Marie knew that if she talked to Elizabeth, her friend might actually persuade her to change her mind.

  The phone rang and Marie jumped. Was it the doctor’s office calling to tell her today was the day, instead of tomorrow? No, she thought, not yet. She let the machine take the message.

  “Hi, Marie, it’s me, Elizabeth. Are you there? Pick up if you’re there.”

  Her voice echoed in the cavernous kitchen.

  “I don’t mean to bother you, and I’m sorry if I surprised you at the café on Tuesday, but I wanted to give you Dr. Maclean’s phone number.” She paused. “Remember I told you about him? He’s the doctor who specializes in Down syndrome. Well, actually, he’s retired now, but he still lives in Edmonton. I spoke with him yesterday and he said he’d be happy to talk to you.”

  Again there was an awkward pause.

  “He took your name down, so he won’t be surprised if you do call. Okay?” She recited the seven numbers slowly. “I’m sorry you’re not home so I could talk to you, but given the time constraints with your decision I didn’t want to wait. So, I guess that’s it. Can you call me and let me know what’s going on? You know how to reach me. At work or home, okay? Anyway, I’m thinking about you. Love you.”

  Oh, leave me alone! Marie thought as she sat at the table. I can’t deal with this! Of course Elizabeth was trying to be helpful—she had her sights set on mothering Marie’s baby. Would she be as helpful if she knew Marie would keep the baby? Marie hated even thinking that way. Of course Elizabeth would be happy for her. Despite Barry’s belief that she only had her own interest at heart, Marie knew her friend wasn’t that cold-blooded in her selfishness. She wrote the doctor’s phone number on a pad beside the phone and then immediately erased the message. Barry did not need to hear it.

  Her appointment at the hospital was likely already made. She and Barry had discussed it into the small hours of the night. How many more conversations could they have? Did she want to phone Dr. Maclean and open up a new discussion? What good would it do to talk to him? If he’d made a career working with children with Down syndrome then clearly he’d have a soft spot for them. If every mother chose the route she was about to take, the good doctor would have been unemployed.

  Right now, she didn’t want to hear how those children brought joy to their families. Obviously, if she met her daughter she’d feel love, but didn’t it make some sense to choose not to have her now, before they even met? How many parents, after having a handicapped child, would confess to wishing it hadn’t been born? And how many marriages didn’t hold up under the pressure?

  No. The decision had been made, and she wasn’t going to muddy the waters by calling on some specialist. Why was Elizabeth making it so difficult?

  At noon, Marie phoned Barry and told him what the doctor had said.

  “When will you know?” he asked

  “By this afternoon.”

  There was silence on both ends.

  Ask me how I’m doing, Marie thought. She could hear Barry tapping his pen on the edge of his desk.

  “Can you let me know as soon as you know?” he asked. “I’ll need to shuffle a few things at work.”

  Say you want to be with me. Say you won’t let me go through it alone.

  “Marie?”

  “I’ll phone as soon as I hear,” she said coolly, hoping he would hear the distance in her voice.

  “Okay, talk to you then.”

  She held the phone long after Barry hung up. He’d survived the uncertainty and turmoil of her pregnancy, and now he was getting back on track, back to his schedules and precise routines,
back to the Barry who had cereal, toast, coffee, and juice for breakfast each morning. Back to the Barry who believed he knew things about things he didn’t know anything about.

  At one o’clock, the doctor’s office phoned. She was lucky, they said. There had been a cancellation. She was to come in tonight for a small, initial procedure. Her appointment was fixed for the following day: Friday at two o’clock. She was to pack a bag and check in after lunch. She would be released Saturday by noon.

  Marie thanked the receptionist and phoned Barry. Then she went upstairs and crawled into bed, pulling her knees to her swollen belly, curling her hands beneath her chin. She had two hours before the girls came home.

  The afternoon sun streamed in her bedroom window and fell in wide shafts onto the bed. Marie closed her eyes and positioned herself so the sun was on her face. Through the thin flesh of her eyelids she saw red. She regulated her breathing until it was soft and rhythmic. The sun’s heat warmed her. She inhaled and exhaled and felt the tension leave her body.

  In the dream, she swam underwater, able to breathe without scuba gear. Her arms pulled long, hard strokes in the translucent water. Her feet fluttered just so and her hair streamed out behind her like untangled seaweed.

  The water was warm and salty; it did not burn her eyes. Tiny fish with electric colours circled the clear bubbles that came from her mouth and nose.

  She swam closer to the surface, where sunlight streamed into the emerald water. The sun’s heat penetrated through to her skin and into her bones. Something swam toward her and nestled in her outstretched hand. It curled into her cupped palm and stretched to its full length—two legs, two arms, little nubs of fingers and toes, a short torso, and an enormous head. Blue veins mapped its skull; she saw the pink mass of brain pulsing beneath the translucent skin, ba boom, ba boom, ba boom. It climbed up her arm, onto her shoulders, and into the thick matting of her hair.

  Both hands free now, Marie swam on, wanting nothing but to please the small, clinging creature. She felt the power in her arms and shoulders as she pulled hard strokes to gain speed. They swam through great schools of slumbering fish, past mountainous rocks and coral reefs, and through beds of kelp that swayed and danced. She felt the pressure of the sea surging all around her, rising and falling as the waves at the surface built and built and finally crashed into the shore.