The Unfinished Child

by Theresa Shea

  On the corner of the paper someone had written a phone number without a name attached. Marie stared at it dumbly. It was her writing and yet . . . Her mind worked hard. Maclean. Dr. Maclean. She’d actually taken down the number when Elizabeth had left that message. She took her pen and pushed hard to scribble out the numbers until it was hidden beneath a series of dark lines.

  There was nothing Marie could do, it seemed, without suddenly being reminded of Elizabeth. She glanced at her watch. If she phoned now, she could catch Elizabeth at work and tell her she was on the way to the hospital. She wouldn’t have to spell it out, just say she was going to the Alex. Then Elizabeth would know. But what if she showed up with flowers? If she showed up Marie would feel guilty that her friend stuck by her no matter what, and if she didn’t visit, then she’d know that her actions were unforgivable. Right now she couldn’t handle knowing she’d lost her best friend too.

  She wiped the counters with a fresh cloth and put the dishes in the dishwasher. There was no sense not keeping up her usual standards, even if she did feel like she was going off the rails. Upstairs, she took her overnight bag out of the closet. Normally she would have had her bag packed in advance, but she’d been avoiding the task. For every moment she did not pack, she remained uncommitted to her decision. But the hours had passed. Barry hadn’t phoned to say he’d changed his mind. And she hadn’t phoned him either.

  She folded her nightgown into its smallest shape and tucked it into the case. What else? Something to read. A magazine maybe. A hair brush. Toothpaste and a toothbrush. Some pads for the bleeding. Face cream. Fresh underclothes. Tissue.

  Barry was picking her up at one-thirty. He’d taken to biting his nails again, paring down layer after layer of nail as if he were trying to strip the last bit of chicken from the bone. It bothered her to see his fingertips raw and wet with saliva.

  She wandered down the hallway and stood in the doorway of Nicole’s room. Her daughter was at that age when she had one foot in childhood and the other stretching toward adolescence. Sometimes it was a precarious balance. She was still young enough to have a few stuffed animals propped up on the pillow of her made bed, but not for much longer. Her room decor was already changing. Two bottles of nail polish stood side by side on her dresser. Earrings were lined up on the mirror over her desk. A poster of some young female singer was tacked over her bed. Marie couldn’t remember the singer’s name. She should remember if it was important to her daughter. She resisted the urge to crawl into Nicole’s bed and pull the covers over her head. Such a powerful love, parenting. It crept up on a body and could knock you down if you weren’t careful. Nicole—her first-born child. The being that had thrust her into another dimension—mothering. Did Nicole know how fiercely she was loved?

  Downstairs, she checked again to make sure she’d unplugged the kettle.

  Then her eyes landed on the phone. Elizabeth. I should call Elizabeth. But it was too late. There was nothing to say.

  Give her to me. I’ll raise your baby.

  She heard the front door open and close.

  “Marie?”

  Barry’s voice sounded as if it were coming from far away.

  The baby kicked, a soft volley of heels. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, instinctively rubbing her hand in a slow circle over her belly.

  “Marie?” Louder this time and inflected with worry.

  She heard his feet on the tile floor heading toward the kitchen. They followed the sound of his voice echoing through the quiet house.

  Marie turned away from the window as he entered the room.

  “There you are,” he said, obviously relieved. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  He checked the time on his wristwatch. “Are you ready?”

  “My bag is in the foyer.”

  Barry checked the time. “We should go.”

  We should go . . .

  Marie nodded mutely.

  You should call.

  “What’s wrong?” Barry asked, seeing the pained expression on her face.

  Marie looked away. Wrong? she wanted to say. What could possibly be wrong?

  “I should call,” she whispered.

  “Call who?” he asked, confused. “The doctor already knows you’re coming, right?”

  “I should call Elizabeth.”

  Barry looked afraid that she might change her mind. “We don’t have time,” he said. “It’s now or never.”

  The statement hung heavily in the air and echoed off the walls. Was “never” an option? Barry moved first. He retraced his footsteps down the slate tiles lining the hallway and into the foyer. He picked up her bag firmly and called back to her. “Do you have everything?”

  A siren blared in the distance. Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are alone.

  Everything? No. She didn’t. She was sure she’d forgotten something.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Marie willed her feet to follow.

  FORTY-SIX

  By the following day Elizabeth’s nerves were on red alert. Three days had passed since her meeting with Marie, and she still hadn’t called even though Elizabeth had asked her to when she left Dr. Maclean’s phone number. She didn’t know how to interpret the silence and was afraid to delve too deeply into the possibilities. She had relived their conversation countless times.

  Rush hour traffic was always heavy on Fridays, and today it was even heavier than normal. Elizabeth reached the south end of the High Level Bridge and thought how different her life was today than it was two days earlier, when she’d driven this same route to Dr. Maclean’s house. She’d gone because of Marie’s baby, but she’d come away with something for herself—a new life story. Had Marie ever called him?

  A car honked behind her and she put her foot on the gas. She knew there were few guarantees in life, but she’d always believed that she and Marie would remain friends to their graves. Now she was having doubts. No matter how she tried to rationalize Marie’s silence, she knew if the shoe had been on the other foot, she would have called Marie by now. Guaranteed.

  The black notebook in her purse contained her entire history from birth to age twelve. The entry about her adoptive parents was particularly poignant. They had known her entire history—that she was an illegitimate child born to a mother with Down syndrome—and they hadn’t balked. Instead, they’d wanted to know more about her birth mother.

  January 1964

  There could not be two happier people in the world than Frank and Cheryl Crewes, who were today granted custody of Carolyn’s child. The infant now finally has a name—Elizabeth Rose. I must admit that I had some influence in her middle name. The Creweses were given ample opportunity to ask questions regarding the background of their new baby. They know, for instance, that the mother had Down syndrome and that nothing is known about the father. But what touched me greatly was Cheryl asking about Carolyn. What did she like? she asked. Did she have any favourite colour, or animal, or joke? Was there any particular craft she enjoyed? I found myself flustered. How little they knew about the workings of Poplar Grove, where the patients had few personal objects and often sat staring at blank walls. But when I put my mind to it I remembered that Carolyn’s mother used to bring her roses and take her out into the garden when the weather permitted. Apparently she enjoyed watching the birds, particularly the red-breasted robin. Yes, I told Cheryl, she liked roses and robins.

  A van the same colour as Marie’s pulled up behind her, but it wasn’t her friend at the wheel.

  The sun glimmered high in the sky, big and orange and heavy with a pre-summer heat.

  She tapped her wedding ring on the steering wheel and felt it spin slightly at the base of her finger. Ron would be home soon, but the idea of sitting and talking about her day exhausted her. She wasn’t up for it. No, she didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

  Elizabeth switched lanes suddenly and turned left onto Saskatchewan Drive. She dr
ove on, following a rusty homing instinct that was still surprisingly powerful once she gave in to it. Most of the single-family dwellings that had looked out over the valley when she was a girl had been replaced with expensive high-rise condos that boasted of their view. The road curved around to a set of lights. She continued on, past the old Ritchie Mill that was now a pub on one floor and a real estate office on another. Frances still lived around here somewhere, didn’t she?

  She crossed 99th Street at the lights and drove into the Mill Creek neighbourhood. Suddenly, the pulse of heavy traffic was gone and she found herself in a quiet residential area, the streets lined with old elms.

  The years slipped from her. These were the same trees she’d played under as a girl. These were the same streets her small bare feet had run down. Some of the houses were bigger and more affluent, but despite that change she could still see her young self running, and for a moment she felt lighter and more compact.

  She drove after the image of herself, down a steep hill, and parked at the small cul-de-sac where the river valley trails began. It was peaceful when she turned the engine off.

  She sat quietly for a moment, and then once again gave in to the pull of the black notebook nestled inside her purse.

  March 1969

  Today is the two-year anniversary of Carolyn’s death. On my way home I will buy a red rose to place on her grave. It has fallen to me to acknowledge the occasion.

  April 1969

  Mrs. Crewes made a special appointment for Elizabeth today. Even though the child had a routine case of the chicken pox, I was pleased, as usual, to see her. When I asked Elizabeth to lift her shirt she happily displayed the dozen or so fluid-filled blisters that covered her torso. I gave Mrs. Crewes a tube of calamine lotion and told her to keep Elizabeth home until all the blisters had formed scabs. Until then, she would be highly contagious. And dear Elizabeth seemed to notice for the first time that all the children waiting with their mothers had a similar condition. With a seriousness that surpassed her five years she asked me if she could catch what those children had. I smiled and explained that they were born that way.

  Elizabeth closed the notebook and listened to the birdsong from the woods: robins, blue jays, magpies, sparrows. If she listened hard she could isolate each song. Now she would never look at a robin without thinking of her mother.

  She stepped from the car and onto the dirt path. Caragana and wild rose bushes lined the way. The air was heavy with spring scents: damp earth, grass, and new leaves. She could almost feel the energy bursting from the pods on the trees and bushes.

  Gravel crunched under her low-heeled pumps. Hope, Hope, Hope. A squirrel reprimanded her from a wooded hollow, Marie, Marie, Marie. A cool breeze pulled at her collar. Where was Marie now?

  The road disappeared behind her. Soon, the gravel path turned into dirt and opened into a large field.

  She had skipped down this trail daily in her childhood summers, her hand linked with Marie’s, their laughter swallowed by the wind. And Marie’s little sister Frances had often followed them, believing herself to be stealthy and unseen.

  Marie, Marie, Marie.

  At the bottom of the hill, the trail intersected with the main bike path. Elizabeth crossed the path and followed the dirt trail alongside the creek.

  Water trickled surely along the glistening rocks. Up ahead, the old railway bridge spanned the creek. When she reached it, her footsteps echoed dully on the wooden slats. The water was high. Below the bridge it had formed a dark pool, a large mirror reflecting the clouds in the sky.

  The sun fell deeper into the woods. Only its top rim was visible over the stand of trees along the trail. The shadows lengthened.

  Elizabeth reached into her pocket and pulled out some change. Five coins. Five wishes. Each silver coin dropped through the air like a tiny orb of light. Each coin carried the same desperate cargo. Please give me the baby. Plunk! Please let me have the baby. Plunk!

  The coins disappeared into the water’s darkness. The creek stared back at her: greedy, cold, and selfish.

  Where are you, Marie? What are you doing?

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Elizabeth was moody that night at dinner. She felt Ron watching her from across the table as he ate, dipping a piece of bread into the creamy dill sauce beside his salmon and wiping his plate clean.

  “Are you going to finish that?” he finally asked, eyeing what remained of her salmon.

  She pushed her plate to his side of the table. “Go ahead.”

  When he had wiped her plate clean too, he said, “I’m going to say something that you might not like. Are you ready?”

  She put her hands into her lap and nodded.

  “I was relieved when you wanted to quit all the interventions to have a baby. I thought maybe we could move forward with our lives. No more tears. No more bitter disappointments.”

  “I know,” she began, but he held up a hand to silence her.

  “And then, presto! You pull Marie’s baby out of a hat, and here you are again, desperate for a baby and spiralling into another depression.”

  “I’ve always wanted a little girl,” Elizabeth whispered, feeling her chin quiver. Marie had little girls.

  “Well, you’re driving yourself nuts moping around and waiting to hear from Marie. It’s been three days already. Why don’t you call her?”

  Elizabeth saw his point. Maybe Marie hadn’t gotten her phone message. That happened sometimes, especially with kids in the house.

  “Just call,” he repeated more softly. “Isn’t it better to know than to be left wondering? Then we can move on, find out more about your past, and just move on.”

  He squeezed her hand. What had he just said? Something about Marie. That she should be there for her, no matter what.

  “You’re right,” she said, nodding. “I’ll phone as soon as we finish cleaning up.”

  “I’ll do the dishes,” he said and pushed her gently out of the room.

  Elizabeth took the phone to the bedroom. She closed the door and rested her forehead against it for a moment. Why was it so hard to phone?

  She sat on the bed and stared at the phone in her lap. Seven numbers. That was all that separated her from Marie’s voice. Seven little numbers. She recited the number in her head and willed her fingers to move. Do it. Do it now. Ask how she’s doing, how she’s feeling. Keep your voice light. Don’t ask for any more information; wait until she offers it. Remember, you’re concerned for her.

  Her fingers dialled the numbers; her stomach clenched into a tight fist. She put the phone to her ear and listened as it rang.

  “Hello?”

  The voice wasn’t Marie’s. Had she dialled the wrong number? “Marie?”

  “No, I’m sorry, she’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

  “Frances? Is that you? Sorry, I was expecting Marie to answer.”

  “Elizabeth? Oh, hi. I thought you might be Marie, actually. Or Barry. I haven’t heard from them yet and I’m getting a bit worried.”

  Elizabeth’s body flushed with heat. She tried to keep her voice calm. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is,” Frances said. “But Barry hasn’t called yet from the hospital.”

  A soft rush of air escaped from Elizabeth’s mouth. She put the phone beside her on the bed and placed her head in her lap.

  “Elizabeth? . . . Elizabeth?”

  She picked up the phone again. “I’m still here.”

  Frances’s voice dropped an octave. “You did know, didn’t you? I mean, Marie told you, didn’t she?”

  Elizabeth nodded, as if Frances could see her. She kept her voice even. “Yes, she did. We had coffee on Tuesday. She told me about her test results.”

  “Well, then you knew they only had a few days to make their decision. Marie’s doctor scheduled her appointment for some time this afternoon or early evening. If all goes well, she’ll be home tomorrow morning.”

  If all goes well.


  The room began to spin. She took a small gulp of air. “Well, thanks for the news, Frances. I’ll try Marie tomorrow. Say hi to the girls for me.”

  She put the phone down. A high-pitched wail escaped her lips. She curled into a ball on top of the covers. Her hands became fists as they nestled in the crook of her neck. You stupid idiot, she spat at herself. You stupid, stupid idiot. She rammed her fists into her eyes to stop the flow of tears. As if she’d give you her baby! What on earth were you thinking?

  A mixture of rage, self-pity, and raw hatred vibrated through her body. It was hard to know which one was which, but they were all hard-edged and sharp, wanting to do damage. Any minute now she’d hear her adoptive mother’s voice, as if responding to one of her frequent childhood rages. “Elizabeth Rose Crewes, settle down this instant.” Or “Lizzie, contain yourself !”

  But this was worse than a scraped knee or a rusted nail in the ball of the foot. This wound sliced right through her, and if she didn’t get a hold of herself and stop the freefall, she might not surface again.

  Elizabeth cried like she’d never cried before—for the baby, for her birth mother, and for her friendship. Did everything have to die?

  Fifteen minutes later, the bedroom door softly opened. Elizabeth tensed and held her breath. The mattress dipped as Ron sat on the edge of the bed.

  “What happened?” he whispered.

  She kept her eyes closed. She felt Ron pull the moist hair from the side of her cheek. “Marie’s in the hospital,” she said dully. “She ended the pregnancy.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  The last glow of light filtered in through the white sheers on the bedroom windows.

  “She wouldn’t be there otherwise.”

  “How do you know she was there?”

  Elizabeth didn’t feel like explaining. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone until she was ready to tell him?

  “Don’t shut me out, Lizzie. Please.”

  He was right to be afraid. People often had warnings when bad weather was coming, but sometimes the tornado never touched down. Just because you got a warning didn’t mean it would actually happen.