by John Coyne
Sara managed to walk to the stuffed chair across the room and sat precariously on the arm. She did not answer, only remained perfectly still, trying moment by moment to maintain control, to let the first wave of his response sweep by. She had not realized until he said the word abortion how much she wanted the child. It was as if it were a secret she had kept from herself. The thought of an infant alive inside her made Sara feel immensely secure, as if she had discovered a great wealth.
And Sam had spoiled everything.
Sara looked up and saw him watching her. His book lay open in his lap and his face was in shadows, hidden behind the bright lamp. When he moved, the silver frame of his glasses flashed.
“I’m going to keep the baby,” she said, and this time her voice was strong and resolved. Saying it out loud, declaring her intention, made it seem possible. “I want to have a child, Sam.”
“Your work is more important, Sara. You don’t have to prove anything by having your own kid. Just think how many children you save by your research in endocrinology, research that will suffer if you go off and be a mother.” He spoke slowly, carefully, as if he had thought it all out.
“My research isn’t enough,” she answered softly. “I need something more. I realize that every time I go into the children’s hospital. It hurts to see the children in pain—but it would be wonderful to know a child that you’d saved. To save him with your own hands, instead of with a drug you tested one day in the lab. I need to share my life—with you, with patients, with a child of my own. Don’t you understand?”
Tears blurred her vision, but she could see he was coolly shaking his head. He did not need that kind of feedback, that kind of human contact and love. His research, his laboratory work was enough; individual patients would only drain him and tie him down. She had always known there was this fundamental difference between them, but before it had not mattered, and now it did.
“Unlike you, I don’t want to have a child,” he answered, disregarding her plea. He was angry, and when he sat forward, moving his head into the bright light, the reflection off his glasses made him look sinister. “Sara, you’re being irrational. I’m not prepared to marry you. It’s not a decision I’ve had time to process.”
“I’m not asking you to marry me.” She stood and took off her coat. She would not need to flee the house. She knew exactly what she had to do.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he announced.
She went to the hall closet and hung up her coat. “I’ve made up my mind, Sam. I’m having it.”
He threw the book across the width of the room. He hadn’t aimed at her, but the heavy textbook flew right past, smashing against the front door.
“We’re not having any goddamn kid,” he shouted. He was out of the chair, standing, holding onto his rage with the thin edge of self-control. He did not like confrontations, Sara knew; she had learned how to adjust her remarks, to keep quiet when he became upset, but now walking back into the living room, facing him again, she was resolved in her decision.
“Sam, I’m having this baby.”
“I’ll leave you, Sara.”
She managed to shrug. “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t want you to leave me.” She kept her eyes on him, kept searching his thin face for some explanation, a reason for this hostility, and then his face swam out of focus as more tears flooded her. She was trembling, shaking violently from his abuse. It was all over, she realized.
“Sam,” she pleaded, “please understand.”
He hesitated for a moment, as if to contemplate once more his decision. Then he walked past her and out of the room.
A week later, while crossing Mount Auburn Street on her way to lunch at Ferdinand’s, Sara slipped on the icy street and miscarried.
Sara took one long look around her new house, and was turning to leave for the picnic, when a fine spray of dirt filtered down from the temporary plank ceiling on the second floor.
“Oh, God!” she swore, moving quickly aside and ducking her head to shake off the construction dirt from her hair and shoulders. She had no business, she now saw, wandering through the empty house.
A plank overhead moved again, stopped, and more dirt showered the room. A fist of fear flew up Sara’s throat and she caught her breath.
“Who is it?” Sara shouted.
Another plank moved, and more dust and construction dirt seeped down from between the cracks. No one answered.
Whoever it was upstairs was not walking, only stepping back and forth. The same two planks moved again.
Sara rushed to the front door, but stopped before stepping into the sun. It was her house; she would not be chased off.
At the first step of the stairs she halted, and standing on her tiptoes, tried to see through the loose boards into the second floor. The squeaking came from the area that would be her dressing room and walk-in closet; she couldn’t see into that far corner of the second floor.
Oh, God, she thought, it must be some animal. She leaned against the wall and breathed deeply. The tension had taken her breath away. She should just leave. Whatever it was would go, or the carpenters would chase it into the fields on Monday morning.
Yet she hesitated. She was frightened and that angered her. Whenever she found such a weakness in herself, she fought back.
On the first floor she found a short piece of two-by-two and went back upstairs, thumping the steps as she walked, hoping to scare it out of the house before she reached the second floor. At the top of the stairs she stopped once more and shouted, “You better watch out—I’m coming up,” then giggled at the absurdity of what she was doing.
She stepped into the upstairs hallway, holding the length of lumber like a club. The walls had been finished with plasterboard and the rooms were closed off; she had to peep around an open doorway to see into the dressing room. It was empty, except for a stack of lumber that had been left behind, and in one corner a small workhorse.
Then she heard it, inside the walk-in closet. She stood quietly, listening to the steady creaking of the floor boards. It would not be frightened out; she would have to go into the closet and chase it away.
Sara went into the room, keeping her distance from the closet, giving herself room in case it charged at her. She was very scared now and the lumber trembled in her hands. She would see what it was before approaching.
It couldn’t be anything too big, she told herself. There were no brown bears or bobcats this close to Washington. At worst, it would be a beaver or muskrat from the river. But it was neither. Sara sighed thankfully and let her arm drop.
Sara recognized the child. It was the girl she had seen earlier in the barn, Bruce Delp’s daughter. The girl had her back to the opening of the closet and was sitting on the rough planks, her legs pulled up and her arms wrapped tightly around them, as if she were in a fetal position. The child did not look up at her, just kept rocking back and forth in a slow, steady cadence.
Sara thought briefly of just leaving. The child would be all right; obviously her parents let her run wild in the fields. But Sara could not walk away. She had a responsibility, as a woman and as a doctor. She set aside the wooden stick and stepped inside the closet, moving carefully so as not to surprise the girl.
“Hello, Cindy,” she said, but the girl did not respond.
Sara took a few more steps forward, stopping in front of the child. There was very little light in the closet, but she could see the girl well enough.
She was more beautiful than Sara had realized, and it was not a child’s beauty. This girl had grown out of her fresh, innocent look, and her fair face was serene and reserved. She had the look of a woman in her twenties, a look that was mysterious and romantic, as if she knew certain secrets. It was not the face of a child, but of someone with a past.
Sara knelt down in front of the girl and said softly, “Cindy?”
There was no response. Sara watched closely to see if the child registered her presence, but the girl still swayed back and forth, her large
round eyes staring blindly at the dark, bare wall of the closet.
Sara could smell the child’s body odor and it shocked her. The girl needed to be washed. Her dress was soiled and her body stank of sweat and barnyard filth. The child had been playing with pigs. Where was her mother? Sara was immediately enraged that the girl was not better cared for. Still, this was rural Virginia. What more could she expect?
“Cindy?” She kept her voice soft, but even that, she knew, was an intrusion into the secret, silent world of this child.
The young girl stopped her gentle swaying and very slowly turned toward Sara. There was no fear on her face. Sara reached out and touched the child’s shoulder and the girl scuttled away on all fours and sat hunched over, her back to the corner, her black eyes fixed on Sara. She was angry now. Her breath came quickly, in thin, rapid puffs.
It was a mistake to have touched her. She had not built up enough trust with Cindy, and now Sara was disappointed with herself for not being attuned to the child’s emotional condition.
“Cindy, I won’t hurt you,” Sara began once more. “I think we should go home. Your mother will be looking for you.” Sara was still kneeling on the floor, though her knees hurt from the hard wood.
In the dark corner of the closet the child had curled herself up again, her long, thin arms wrapped around her legs. She stared mindlessly ahead.
“I think we should go home to the farm house, Cindy. Your mother and father will be looking for you. I’ll go with you; you won’t have to go home alone. I’m going to stand up and walk toward you. I’ll help you stand.”
Cindy did not respond. She continued to rock gently back and forth, her eyes unfocused.
Sara knew she towered over the girl, that in the small closet her size was threatening, but there was nothing else to do. She moved slowly forward, talking softly as she walked, watching the girl’s eyes.
She came within two feet of the crouched child and still the girl did not react, but then Sara’s body blocked Cindy’s view, the bright space of light from the outside room, and Cindy screeched and, bolting from the floor in one smooth violent motion, struck Sara with her arms as she passed. Her forearm caught Sara in the stomach and doubled her; Sara cried out from the unexpected blow, and the girl was out of the closet and the room, running wildly.
Sara could hear her footsteps on the stairs, then across the first floor and out of the house. She slid to the floor gasping for breath. She would be all right in a few minutes; the girl had not hurt her. And it was her own fault. She should have gone for help. The child was ill, seriously ill, and she had been stupid to become involved so cavalierly.
Sara knew better. She always knew better, but that did not stop her from repeating the same mistake. It had happened before. It would happen again. She could not keep herself away from anyone who was suffering or in pain. Others saw it as her special strength, but she recognized it for what it really was, her greatest failing.
TWO
September, 1980
Kevin Volt stood before the fireplace in his new family room and rocked back and forth, as if adjusting his weight to the gentle roll of a ship.
His left hand was in the deep pocket of his gray flannel slacks, and his right hand was around a tall glass of Perrier water and ice. While he talked, he gestured with his right hand, clicking the ice against the thick glass. He liked the sound the ice made and he gestured more than was necessary, feeling that the sound effects added importance to what he was saying. He was talking to his dinner guests, telling them how he had improved his new house, and he had been talking for a straight fifteen minutes.
“This model is called Locust Grove. It’s styled after one built during the colonial period. The original house was occupied by Major Samuel Wade Magruder. I’ve made some changes, naturally. What would have been a guest room upstairs I’ve turned into a nursery for the baby, and I’ve made a small workshop in the basement.”
Kevin was uncomfortable standing with his back so close to the fireplace. The blazing fire was too hot against his legs, but still he did not move. He could see himself in the hall mirror, and he knew he looked commanding and attractive. Peggy had shaved his head that morning, and in the soft glow of the fireplace, his scalp reflected golden in the mirror.
Distracted by his reflection, he lost the point of his story. He stopped to sip his Perrier and then abruptly said, “Neil, what about your place?”
“It’s the Portsmouth,” Neil Cohoe replied, speaking too forcefully, as if he’d been called on when he wasn’t paying attention. “That’s the split-level colonial.”
“Four bedrooms, right?”
Neil nodded, sipping his drink.
“Do you have plans for the other three?” Kevin kept grinning and glancing back and forth between Neil and Marcia Fleming, who finally stared down at her hands, embarrassed.
“What’s your house, Marcia?” he asked next.
“The Rambler.” She jerked up her head and answered his question coolly, establishing some distance between them. Then she smiled as a compromise. She had brilliant, perfectly white teeth, brown eyes the color of wet suede, and olive dark skin.
“That’s the two-bedroom ranch house, isn’t it?” He raised his chin, as if making a point.
“Yes.” Her smile was gone.
“Little tight for you and the boy, right?” He sipped his Perrier as if camouflaging the question.
“We don’t need much space.” The smile returned like a cold sunrise.
“Well, in that case, why don’t you move in with Neil?” Volt continued relentlessly. “A single guy like him must be rattling around in all those rooms.” He laughed aloud and alone. Neil and Marcia, on the sofa, glanced at each other without comment, and Sara Marks, sitting in a deep leather armchair, looked away toward a vague, empty mid-distance in the long family room. Peggy sighed, exhausted from tension. And then the baby cried, and she was on her feet immediately.
“We have to do lots of adjusting because of Amy.” She smiled apologetically, but her eyes flashed with pride. “We’ll eat as soon as I look at her.”
“May I come with you, Peggy?” Marcia Fleming quickly asked.
“Yes, of course. Sara?”
“I’d love to see the baby.” Sara was out of her chair, eager to get away from Kevin Volt.
“We’ll be back in a few minutes,” Peggy said, her face flushed from the heat.
Her anger toward him built quickly, racing through her like a speeding ball of flame. By the time she reached the second floor, she was clenching her teeth to keep from screaming.
“Are you okay, Peggy?” Sara whispered, touching Peggy’s arm reassuringly.
“I’m fine, Sara. It’s only the baby, I guess. I get nervous, you know, when Amy cries.” She managed a small laugh as she went down the dark hall toward the nursery. The soft nightlight had been left on and the room was filled with gloom.
Peggy flipped on the overhead light and went to the crib in the far comer. The room smelled of a child, of soiled diapers and baby powder. It was a smell Peggy had come to love.
She lifted the infant carefully from the crib and cuddled Amy to her, patting the baby and whispering softly. The baby’s face was red and wet with tears.
“She’s really wonderful,” Peggy said, turning to face Sara and Marcia. “She’s asleep all the time, except when I need to feed her.”
“Then everything is okay with you?” Sara asked. It was the first time the women had been by themselves all evening.
Peggy shrugged.
“And what about Kevin?”
Peggy shook her head and immediately tears rushed to her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Sara stepped closer and briefly hugged Peggy and the child. The baby had quieted, but now all of them shared a silent, muffled moment of crying.
“It will be all right,” Sara whispered, trying to reassure her.
Peggy pulled away. Amy was again fast asleep, and Peggy set her gently on the mattress, then stood and sighed
.
“No, it won’t be all right,” she answered, still looking down at her child. “I was going to leave Kevin after Amy was born. I didn’t know what I was thinking; I mean, where would we go? What would we live on?” She turned and stared at them, searching the women’s faces, as if they had the answer.
“I’m trapped here in this house, this phony country village, trapped here in Virginia until Amy is old enough for me to leave her with someone. But then, I don’t know. Where will I get a job? I’m going to be two years out of the job market. And you know how Washington works. You have to know someone to get a job. I don’t know anyone. Everyone is Kevin’s friend, not mine.”
“Peggy, you’re just suffering from postpartum depression. You’ll be fine in another few weeks,” said Marcia.
“No, I won’t,” Peggy answered back. She knew what was wrong with her life.
Her husband and Neil Cohoe had come upstairs. She could hear Kevin at the top of the landing, explaining in detail what changes he had made in the construction model. He was more involved in this new house than with their child.
“We better leave,” Peggy whispered. “I want to shut the nursery door before he wakes Amy.”
Kevin and Neil were in the front bedroom now, the master bedroom of the house. For the last several weeks Peggy had not slept with her husband. Instead she had moved into the guest room, telling Kevin she wanted to be nearer the baby. It was a lie. She could no longer bring herself to be in the same bed with him, to be close enough to smell his body.
“Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?” Sara offered. She wanted to help Peggy, to see her through this terrible time.
“No, thank you. We’re just having veal stew with red wine. It’s really quite simple to make. Have you ever tried it?” She started to talk again in a surge of forced enthusiasm; any kind of conversation to keep her mind off Kevin.
She led the way down the back stairs to the kitchen. She was concentrating on dinner now, moving back and forth between the stove and the butcher block table. Marcia and Sara wanted to help, if only to slice the warm. bread fresh from the oven, but Peggy would not let them.
