Whenever she considered the need for amends, her thoughts always circled around to that tiny baby who was born in her house. And lately, they circled often, as Berta, throttled with free time, continually replayed the birth, the aftermath. With knowledge that only a hundred plus years could offer, Berta now understood that she had stolen something from that baby. And the mother as well. A moment. That’s all it was. A single moment. But at the time, it had meant so much to Berta, and she found the moment irresistible. Wanted so badly for it to belong to her. Now, she was certain that single act of thievery held her in a state of suspension, not moving forward, unable to move back.
Some days, while Eldred tapped out a harmony on the piano, Berta would go into that cramped bedroom and perch herself on the edge of the bed. Though the bed had not been used in decades, it was still neatly made, and Berta knew if she tore back the sheets, she could identify evidence of the birth. Sometimes she did this, just to make sure it really happened. And she viewed the faded earthy stains, a large mark in the centre, several smaller blots creeping down over the side of the mattress. That was how Miriam Seary, no more than a girl herself, had pushed the baby out, right at the very edge of the bed. One foot on the floor, another foot pressed squarely against Berta’s hip.
No other child had ever entered the world in Berta’s home. Stella Abbott, now Stella Edgecombe, was the first and only. While Berta and Uncle had had many children reside there over the years, helping out on the farm, minding the animals, the fleeting presence of this baby was different. When Berta had touched her for the first time, the baby was still streaked with blood, and dull white cream still resided in the crevices around her neck, under her arms. Once the cord had been severed, it was Berta who plucked up the child, swaddled her. Miss Cooke was occupied, massaging Miriam’s fleshy near-empty abdomen in order to help finish the job, and Miriam was lying back, hands up and shaking in the air, crying. Without a word to either of them, Berta stood, cradled the baby, and crept away.
In the privacy of her own room, she sat on the bed and stared at the newborn. She marveled at the perfection of the pug nose, the ears like the tiniest clam shell, fringe of feathery hair. She felt certain that God was right there in the room, existing in the baby’s expression of pure, blessed serenity. Berta reached out, nervously, touched a dry finger to one pink cheek. As soon as the finger grazed the skin, the baby’s lips opened into an eager O, head knocking side to side, searching. Berta felt a sudden rush of elation within her chest. Before her mind could register, her hands were unbuttoning the front of her dress, exposing the purposeless contents. Released, her fat old breasts hung down, divided, as though they were at odds with one another, independent, unwilling and showing it. But Berta ignored their defiance, lifted and positioned, guided the baby’s mouth onto a wizened nipple. Why should she be denied this one simple experience of womanhood? When she felt the certain pinch of suction, Berta leaned back against the headboard, closed her eyes, and pretended this was her holy child, a miracle, still warm from her own insides.
A flat knock on the door, and Berta jumped, unlatched the baby, hauled the flap of her dress over her chest. She pressed the baby against the buttons to disguise her nakedness. The knob slowly turned, door creaked open a foot or so, and there stood Miss Cooke, halfway in, halfway out. Berta could barely look at her, pin thin, righteous rigidity in her spine, all-knowing expression.
“You did a fine job, Miss Cooke,” Berta said. She wanted to push her damp hair away from her face with her forearm, but didn’t dare move her hands. “Don’t know what we would’ve done without you.”
Miss Cooke stared at Berta’s chest, and Berta wondered if she was looking at the baby, or looking right through the baby at what was hidden just beneath. A shameful sign of Berta’s foolishness. Evidence that a few nuts were missing their bolts. Surely, proof that Uncle had made a poor choice in wife. Berta held the child tighter, forced herself not to glance downwards.
“You should bring her to her mother.”
“What?”
“Bring her to her mother.”
“To Miriam? That I won’t then.”
Miss Cooke folded her arms, like two pieces of kindling, across her front. “’Tis only right that the woman should see her baby. Have some time to herself to say goodbye.”
Berta turned her back to Miss Cooke, stared out the window. She spoke slowly, calmly. “I knows you means well, Miss Cooke, but I’ve been living with Miriam Seary for some time now. She got no idea about a baby. No idea at all. I doubts she even knowed what come out of her. She’s as simple now as boiled cabbage.”
“Be that as it may, she still got her rights.”
A moment of silence followed, and Berta hoped that Miss Cooke had taken her leave. But no, her voice slit the air again.
“Look, ’tis your house and all, but I got to say my piece. Speak my mind. I’ve birthed all kinds of babies to all kinds of mothers in all kinds of conditions. Those mothers deserves their moment. ’Tis an honest shame for a woman not to look upon the face of her own child. If only for a minute.”
Berta held her breath, then sighed as she heard clicking of shoes on the wooden floor, fading, fading. With her foot, she nudged the bedroom door, then laid the baby on her bed, straightened her clothes. In those minutes, Berta’s exhilaration had leached away completely, replaced by an ever-handy sourness. She would forget this imprudence, never bring it to mind again. She would focus instead on getting the baby ready, handing it over once and for all to Uncle.
With warm water from the kitchen, soft scrap of fabric, Berta washed the baby, dressed her in a nightgown she had made, and tucked a miniature pair of leather slippers inside the swaddling blanket. Through the thin wall, she could hear Miriam crying, sound like a seal pup, alone, trapped on a shard of drifting ice. Berta convinced herself she was being kind to Miriam by taking the baby immediately, and that Miriam was only weeping due to discomfort. A woman like that won’t miss what she never really had. The fact that the child had lived within her for months, had slid out in a rush of burning waves, Berta pushed those thoughts away.
When Berta awoke a few days later, she discovered that Miriam was gone. She knew Miriam must have enlisted the help of Jimmy Purchase, and he would have taken her around to Squinty Harbour in his trap skiff. In the weeks to follow, Berta never asked him, and he never offered any information. If Berta considered it, Miriam’s disappearance was a relief. One less reminder. One less individual sulking around their house with uncertain intentions. The end of that story. Tattered book closed.
But Berta had been wrong about that tattered book. The story hadn’t ended, and now that she was old beyond imagination, her actions tormented her. She had forced herself between mother and child, and Berta knew she had no place there. She remembered the late Reverend Hickey’s sermon, that following Sunday. The words bore down upon her when he discussed spiritual connections within a family. Their strength, eternal. That divine mother love. She wondered if Reverend Hickey knew what she had done – instead of Miriam-Baby, it became Miriam-Berta-Baby. She was right in the middle of it. What would the world be like if someone had done the same to Mary and Jesus? Surely it was a sin beyond sins. And God was punishing her for it, keeping her tethered to an empty earth.
Sometimes Berta dreamed of telling Stella what she had done. Walking up to her, holding her pale sweet face, and telling her, Once, for a very short selfish while, you were mine. But that would only serve to destroy the foundations that Stella believed were real. She happened to look somewhat similar to Delia and Percy Abbott, so there was never a need to question. And besides, only a handful of people knew Miriam was in the family way, and this was never a subject for idle nattering. Weather, fine catch or bad, so and so’s husband’s sore back, yes. But an unwed mother, simpleton father, necessary arrangements, never.
And beyond that, the appropriate moment never seemed to present itself. In recent weeks, when Berta saw Stella and Leander walking on the lane, she notice
d that they stopped often as he bent slightly at the waist, hacking. Stella would rub his back, and he’d straighten, take some deep breaths. Then they would move on, that mangy wild dog clipping along behind them.
Berta took it as a sign to leave well enough alone. That worked for her, as she was afraid of Leander’s cough, afraid that the illness might transfer into her papery lungs. And the dog, that was another matter. If it bit her, sharp teeth in her withered flesh, surely she would bleed away to nothing.
Best to steer clear. While one part of her was waiting for the release death might offer, another mortal part of her wanted nothing more than to evade it. She was familiar with the loneliness she felt on her weed-riddled farm, like a damp and constant hitch in her heart. But she had no idea what awaited her. She didn’t dare consider how sharp the loneliness would be when she crossed unaccompanied into the great hereafter.
“She’s angry at me.”
“No, she idn’t. Don’t be so foolish.”
“Then where’s she gone off to? Just like that.”
Stella patted Leander’s hand. They were seated side-by-side on the daybed. “She’s scared. Don’t want to see you with that awful bark. Harriet’ll be back. . .when she’s hungry.”
He lowered his head. “You might be right.”
“Feeling any better?”
“About the same. Don’t want to go on about it though. Like it’ll make a difference.”
“Like they does with Gus?”
“That’s right.” His voice was sound and his words emerged with a weary slowness. “Talking about him turning yellow. Comparing colours to him. Pease pudding. Dandelions just after they bursts from their puckered casings. Yes, that’s what someone said. Just terrible. What they all heard. Who was like it. Who got better. Who moved on. Well, it idn’t going to make a lick of difference. All that yammering won’t heal him.”
“That’s how people copes, I suppose. Thinking the more they goes on about it, the more they understands it, the less likely it’ll do any harm.”
“Well, his liver don’t heed them. It’s still rotting away inside him. Soused in liquor every day.”
“Heaven help him.”
“Yes, God help him. Nettie Rose’ll be right lost.”
“Lost.” Stella shook her head, put the back of her hand to her mouth. She took a deep breath, said, “Want a cup of tea? Something to eat?”
“No, maid. Not now.”
“What can I get for you? I needs to feel useful.”
He coughed into his handkerchief, folded it in half, then rubbed his hands over his gaunt face. “Sitting with me is nice. I likes that.”
“Is there nothing else?”
Coughing again, folding the cloth into quarters. “How about you tells me something I don’t know. Something I could never imagine.”
Stella never turned her head, though she knew he was looking at her. She shook her head again, tears welling. “You’ll think I’m foolish.”
“Over what?”
“What I tells you.”
“Go on, maid. I’m asking to hear, idn’t I?”
“Something I loves about you,” she replied. “One thing.”
“Only one thing? Is that all there is?” Bony joking shoulders rising up, dropping.
“No, you goose.” She slapped his leg gently. “Do you want to hear or not?”
“Of course.”
Stella looked down at her fingers, touched the dry skin cracked on her knuckles. “’Tis the sound of your walk.”
“My walk?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled, and when this morphed into a sputter, he held a fresh handkerchief to his mouth until the coughing subsided, crumpled it without peering inside. “You means my hobble. One foot always falling after the other. Clip clop. ’Tis pitiful.”
“No it idn’t. Nowhere near it. That sound walked me home when Father fell over the cliff. Do you remember that?”
“I remembers. No way I was ever leaving you.”
“I felt so safe with that sound behind me. And now, whenever I hears you walking up the path to the back door, I stops what I’m doing and closes my eyes to listen.”
“You does?”
“Yes. And you know what?”
“What?”
Turning to face him now, she ignored the streak of frothy red spittle on his chin. She gripped his hand, squeezed as hard as she could, then spoke with conviction that coated her fear. “Your walk that I loves. It sounds just like a heartbeat, you know. It sounds just like life.”
chapter eleven
Stella was on her knees, once again scrubbing the plank floor with a sudsy brush. Back and forth, back and forth, long reaches that sent pain up through her hips, brought burning to her shoulders. But as hard as she worked, the stains would not release from the wood. “There are no stains,” Elise had said to her so many times. Robert nodding, “No, Mom. There idn’t.” But Stella sensed something was there, something that begged to be cleaned. “Can’t you see?”
As she scrubbed this evening in the shadowy light of a candle, she noticed the bite between her teeth and forced herself to relax her jaw. She remembered Elise asking her recently, “Why do your face always look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Flat. Like nothing. You don’t never laugh no more. You don’t get angry. I idn’t never seen you sad since God only knows when.”
Stella shook her head. “I don’t got no answer for you, my dear. I don’t know.”
“Well, I hates it,” Elise said. “Hates that dumb look.” Robert had been there, listening. He crunched his dogeared Wonder Woman comic book in his fist, growled, “Don’t you go calling her dumb, Elise, or Mother won’t have to knock you into next week. I’ll do it for her.”
“I never said she was dumb.” She ruffled his hair. “Just her look.”
He leaned sideways, away from her touch. “Well, watch your lip.”
Whenever Robert spoke, Stella stopped and listened. He had developed broad shoulders, a solid chest made of heart and rib and muscle. Housed somewhere within this new body was a man’s voice. It was so similar to Leander’s that Stella often shuddered, and upon hearing it, she added this characteristic to her private list of “items I’ll never get used to.”
In the quiet of the early autumn evening, she sat back on her calves, laid down the brush, and touched her face. She was not one for gazing at her reflection, but at this moment, she wondered how she might appear to another. She felt the individual pieces of her face, united, eyebrows to forehead, nose to upper lip, cheek to ear. A flawless series of solid mortise and tendon joints. Secure and necessary. Did she look dumb? Well, if she did, there was no other option. She knew her expressionless face was a gateway, and she worked diligently to ensure the gate was latched. Wide open, and she feared wildness would emerge, sanity might come crashing through, pell-mell, taking gate and entire fence with it.
Just this afternoon, her fused face had been put to the test. Standing on the cliffs that lined the harbour, she had watched the MV Christmas Seal creep in. The retrofitted navy ship moved so slowly, Stella thought it looked like a dying whale being propelled towards shore. Impressive, no doubt, with all its promise, those hospital tools, that tinny music. But what good was it now? To her?
She could see the hoards of children and adults pressed together on the wharves, waving at the good ship, bidding it to glide closer, allow passage. When it docked, they formed a tight line, hopped aboard eagerly, stepped up for x-rays and a quick listen to heart and lungs, cursory nod from the doctor. No sign of tuberculosis. Dreaded TB. Excitement over the proclamation of good health, as though the staff of the Easter Seal had bestowed it instead of simply acknowledging it.
From that cliff far away from the crowd, she watched this scene, face flat. In her mouth, she detected the taste of overgrown greens, and she resisted the urge to spit. Was she so filled with bitterness that the emotion had oozed from her soul, invaded her taste buds? It seemed so, bu
t she was justified. Where was this ship when Leander started pushing his food around his plate? When his fever spoke the loudest, frightened away his energy? Where was it when his relentless cough held his breath in a ruthless fist? But when Stella tried to force blame, she always came around to herself. Where was this ship was a shameful cover-up. Instead, the more telling query might be: Where was she?
Even though nine years had passed, Stella could not let this question fade. She had set the cot on the back stoop, helped Leander to lie down, rest while icy air drifted off the ocean. Healing air, she had thought. She didn’t know what else to do. Dr. Wells said it would be good for Leander, good for his lungs. All that dust from the wood, sawdust clinging to the inside of his chest, had weakened them, made him more susceptible, the doctor had determined. “But he’s still young, Mrs. Edgecombe. Good and strong. Yes, ma’am. There’s plenty reason to hope.”
But Stella could only hope when she didn’t see Leander, couldn’t hear that raspy death knock when he coughed. So, once he was settled in the cot, she left him there, went to Nettie’s for tea, raisin buns, and diversion. She remembered clearly the topic of conversation: Nettie’s mother-in-law. On her last visit, the mother-in-law had scolded Nettie on the unkempt house, the grimy chins on the children. Stella giggled along as Nettie described the too-high pie incident. The mother-in-law had refused a slice of Nettie’s freshly made rhubarb and wild-strawberry pie. In a voice like a pinprick, Nettie relayed her mother-in-law’s words: “There idn’t a fit surface to roll a crust, my dear. Far as I sees. This place is such a sty, heaven knows what I’d find tucked inside that pastry.” More serious pinprick now. “’Tis an awful high pie, Nettie Rose. Awful high. Have you counted the children lately?” And Stella took on the voice of Nettie, replying: “Now, then, Mother Smith, I was wondering where young Milton was gone off to.”
Conversation halted when clouds rolled in out of nowhere and the afternoon light was pinched black and blue. Tea still steaming, she left Nettie’s, ran down the hill towards home, shoes slapping the mucky road. Icy water blankets falling from heaven, one layer after the other, and she found him, still in the cot, drenched, head cricked back, white mouth open. She threw herself across his frame, cried out into the storm, could not excise the loathing that rolled and tumbled inside her. Loathing reserved for herself. She had left him. In his darkest hour. Left him. And all except for faithful Harriet, slobbering his ghostly face, he had gone on alone.
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