Little does Dr. Couney know that Margaret is not going anywhere she will be seen and admired.
“Bellevue Hospital,” I instruct the driver as we climb into the back seat of the automobile. I hold Margaret tight, but her big eyes stare as if from the face of a disapproving grandmother.
“I will take you home,” I promise the girl. “But we can’t go, not yet. Your mama is sick.” My stomach turns to remember the way Hattie looked last night. I’m not sure she’s even been discharged by now, and she’s definitely in no state to handle her baby.
I’ve planned as much as I could have in twelve hours. I’ve stolen diapers, a bottle, and powdered formula from the teaching rooms, and I’m ready for Margaret to stay with me at the Nurses’ Residence tonight. I’ll send word to Hattie, and when she’s ready to meet with me, I’ll take Margaret back.
Until then, I’ll have to stay holed up in my room, feign an illness that will use up all of the sick days I’ve failed to take in my two years at Bellevue.
The lurch of the automobile fascinates Margaret, and her fascination distracts me from my worries. She’s been rocked in women’s arms, bounced on women’s hips—but never carried through the streets of the city. Not, at least, that she can remember. The last time the girl was in a cab was at two hours old, and that was horse-drawn rather than motored. For Margaret, the difference is probably monumental. Even if for me, they are both trips stained like sweat into the corners of my memory. Indelible, the fear and urgency potent. “I suppose you don’t remember last time, do you?”
The cabdriver glances back at us, my neck bent as I whisper to Margaret. “Yours?” he asks.
“Yes,” I murmur distractedly, then look up in shock. I nearly blurt out the truth—no!—but it’s too late now. For this ride into Manhattan, at least, I will have to pretend Margaret is my own.
Desperate to avoid further conversation with the driver, I keep up a steady flow of meaningless chatter with the baby. Though she can’t lift her own head, I position her so that she is able to watch the people and the streets as we pass them. To her they would appear simply as smudges of light and shadow, but they mesmerize her nonetheless. The ride from Luna Park to Bellevue is a long one, as I know all too well.
“There’s Washington Cemetery.” I hesitate. I wouldn’t tell anyone else, but certainly a baby cannot understand. “My mother . . . that’s where she’s buried.”
Margaret coos in response. I smile softly at her and continue to point landmarks out as we pass. Her wonder is gratifying. “And finally,” I conclude, “we’ll cross the East River. We’re on the Brooklyn Bridge, which will take us back to Manhattan.” I usually take the elevated railway, but this is Margaret’s second time crossing the river in a cab.
The bridge is only a mile long, and Bellevue’s familiar U-shaped outline rises before us. “You were born there.” I gesture to Margaret. “And on the other side is the Nurses’ Residence. My residence.” And ours for the night.
Now that the cab has stopped, Margaret’s head begins to loll. It rests in the curve of my armpit with a precision that seems very nearly intentional, and I gaze down at her tiny fontanel. What responsibility, to have a baby. So mutable and vulnerable and new.
Someone else’s responsibility, I remind myself. Not mine.
I thank and pay the driver and step from the vehicle. Margaret is still so small that I can tuck her into the elbow of my left arm as I approach the building. Though her mouth is shut, a whimper seeps as if from her very pores. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, realizing I am the cause of her distress. I release my tight grip. “Nerves. Quiet, okay?”
I carry Margaret up the stairs to the fourth floor. “My room,” I tell her as I open the door. I know she doesn’t understand what it is I’m telling her, but it seems cruel somehow to carry her silently throughout the city the same way I would an object.
I exhale once we’re inside. For the time being, at least, we are safe. Now I have to think about the future.
I settle Margaret gently on the mattress, pull my desk chair to the foot of the bed, and shove my desk so it is parallel to the long edge of the bed. Margaret isn’t old enough to roll yet, but I’m not taking any chances.
Once she’s set up and content, I stand at my now sideways desk and pull out a sheet of pale blue paper. I run my finger over the embossed crest at the top: Bellevue School of Nursing. It’s the same as on the pin that graduates like Director Rottman wear, and I’m reminded of my probationary status. If anybody finds me here with an infant, I’ll be out on the streets.
But I don’t have a choice, do I? Hattie could still be in the hospital, after all. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.
I close my eyes and think. What to write? I can’t tell Hattie everything in the letter. I don’t want her to think it’s some cruel trick, or be so overwhelmed she never writes back. And most of all, I can’t commit my crime to paper. If it falls into the wrong hands or Hattie chooses to report me, being fired will be the least of my problems.
Dear Mrs. Perkins, I begin with a shaking hand. This is Nurse Althea Anderson, the nurse who was with you for your delivery July 5 and again when you visited Bellevue for a broken nose in September.
I’m writing for two reasons: first, to inquire as to your health. I was saddened to see you in the emergency ward the night of September 2, and write in hopes that the situation has not repeated itself. May I be so bold as to ask whether it has?
Secondly, I want to find a time to meet you at your home. I need to talk to you about your daughter, Margaret. I understand that this may dredge up painful memories, but the information I have to tell you is important. In fact, I would dare to say it is life-alteringly so.
With your permission, I would like to come by your house one day when your husband is out. While I’d like to speak with the both of you, I think this is a matter we will be more comfortable discussing first without Mr. Perkins.
Please forgive the cryptic nature of this letter. I simply have things to share with you that are better discussed in person.
Write back with a date that will work for us to meet.
Sincerely yours,
Althea Anderson
I reread the letter several times, tweaking the details until the corners of my eyes twitch with exhaustion. It will have to do. I fold it into an envelope and print Hattie Perkins’s name and address carefully on the front. I’ve had the address memorized since I signed the birth certificate in July.
The return address is trickier. I cannot put my own. Michael will see it, and quite possibly open the letter himself. I finally settle on Ladies’ Home Journal, Philadelphia. I ink FREE SEWING SAMPLES INSIDE on the back of the envelope.
“What do you think?” I look over the desk to the baby hemmed in on the bed and hold up the envelope. “Harmless-looking enough?”
To my distress, she lets out a wail. I drop the envelope onto my desk and clamber over it in my haste to reach her.
I lift Margaret so I can bounce her gently. I have been part of the delivery of countless babies, but never have I stopped to think what the parents do with them after returning home. Oh yes, I could write a textbook on Margaret’s physical needs. But concerning how she will spend her time or what I can do to make her happy? We don’t cover that in nursing school.
At least I know how to feed the baby. “Look,” I say, keeping my voice calm to soothe her. “I have these bottles from the training room, and formula.” Using one arm to cradle the baby, I pour the powder into the bottle of water and shake to combine. “Sorry, honey. We can’t risk going downstairs to warm it up.”
I maneuver the bottle between her tiny lips, and she begins sucking eagerly. I watch with pride. Just two months ago, she was too small to suckle and had to be fed with eye droplets through the nose. Now, look at her.
Margaret suddenly expels the bottle from between her lips with a hu
ff. Her breath hitches, and then she begins to wail.
Sweating, I push the bottle between her lips again. “Drink, Margaret. I know you’re hungry.”
I hear the sound of her sucking on the bottle’s nipple again, and I exhale. Too soon. She spits it out again, her face twisted in fury.
Abandoning the bottle, I shift Margaret’s weight into both my arms and bounce her gently. My voice is scratchy with nerves, but I sing the first song that comes to mind: “Amazing Grace.”
Margaret’s cries soften, and I begin to relax. A drop of sweat rolls down the back of my neck, but I try to ignore it as I sing to the girl.
And then comes a knock on the door.
My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the bed. Sitting here, I am frozen, immobile, unable to move. Sweat pools under my arms, and Margaret squirms like she’s considering another cry. The knock sounds again, and I rise. My knees are stiff and reluctant as I walk to the door and open it.
Ida from the next room stands on the other side with her eyebrows high in puzzlement. “A baby?”
“Yes.” It’s all I can think to say.
“I heard it crying,” she explains. “Is it . . . whose is it?”
“She,” I correct.
“Whose is she?”
I breathe in. “My cousin’s daughter. My cousin is out for the day with her husband and their maid had to go home sick and didn’t know where to take her. I’m actually—I’m just leaving now. We’re having supper at my aunt’s.”
“Oh!” Ida laughs with obvious relief. “Good. For a moment I thought she was yours, the way you’re holding her so tenderly.”
I force a smile.
“She’s beautiful,” Ida coos. “Look at those eyes! So big on such a tiny thing. But . . . she is so tiny. She can’t possibly be more than a week old?”
I blanch, relieved that at least Margaret has her mother’s green eyes and blond hair rather than my darker features. But Ida’s right. Margaret is too small to be left with a maid or a cousin. “My family has always had small babies.” It’s remarkable my voice doesn’t shake.
“I can imagine that,” Ida laughs. “If they’re as skinny as you!”
I breathe out, but my relief disappears when Ida continues. “Can I hold her?”
No, no, no. “Sure,” I smile. “Here.” My fingers linger on Margaret’s skin as I roll her gently into Ida’s arms. I don’t want to let her go, not after months of being the one to protect her. But when Ida smiles down at Margaret, I have an idea.
“She won’t drink her bottle,” I say. “Do you mind watching her in my room for a moment while I heat it up?”
Ida barely looks up, tickling Margaret’s nose with her finger. “Of course not.”
I usher her into my room and close the door, then take the stairs two at a time. In the kitchen, I pour the mixture into a pot and set it to heat on the stove. I force myself to inhale and exhale as I stir the chalky liquid. My heartbeat is just returning to normal when I hear footsteps behind me.
I turn and take an immediate step back, my elbow hitting the pot. The heat stings, but I try to keep my face neutral. “Miss Caswell.”
“Nurse Anderson.” She nods. “What are you doing?”
I force a cough. “I’m sick,” I say. I know I’ll have to do better than that if I’m to play sick for the next several days and nights, the number dependent on when Hattie answers my letter. Miss Caswell can’t begrudge me an illness, not when I’ve never taken a day off in my two years here. Not even when my father died.
“Oh?” Her eyes narrow suspiciously.
I cough again. “I’m afraid I need to take the night off. I’m running a fever and have gotten sick several times.”
Miss Caswell’s face melts in sympathy. “Thank you for alerting me, Nurse Anderson. I’ll call Director Rottman so she can speak to your supervisor.” She glances behind me. “I think your milk is near boiling.”
“Oh!” I look around for a cup, but none are readily available. Cheeks heating, I funnel the formula into the baby bottle and hope that my back blocks Miss Caswell’s view.
It doesn’t. “A bottle?”
“My hands are shaking,” I say quickly. “With chills. I didn’t want to spill.”
“Hm.” Miss Caswell blinks several times. “I suppose that’s rather . . . resourceful.” She again wishes me a quick recovery and then disappears from the kitchen, leaving me quaking in relief. Thank the Lord it’s a Friday and she has supper party planning to distract her.
With the too-hot bottle folded into my pinafore, I run back up the stairs. I burst into my room to find Ida bouncing Margaret, the infant fussing slightly.
“Thank you,” I say to Ida. “Thank you, so much.”
“Happy to help,” Ida says. “She’s hungry.”
I lift Margaret from the other nurse’s arms, relieved to feel her weight against me once again as Ida waves and ducks out the door. I lock the door and sway with Margaret until the bottle has cooled enough to press to her lips.
This time, she gulps eagerly, and my shoulders sag with relief.
I cradle the child close to me and whisper, “What do we do now, Margaret?”
Her bright eyes stare up at me as she drinks, and I smile. We sink into a quiet relaxation on the bed.
Everything is wrong in our world right now, but peace settles over me like a veil as I feed the baby. The outside world can’t penetrate the soft, milky bubble that is this moment. I wonder if mothers feel like this all the time.
No. Of course not. It’s easy to relax when your duty to a baby is temporary like mine is. I am not a mother. I am not Margaret’s mother, however sacred the girl is to me. And I’d do well to remember that as I begin the process of returning Margaret to her parents.
As I begin the process of losing her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stella Wright, January 1951
I am desperate for answers, so I leave my mother’s things in a heap on the floor, blow out the candles, and run downstairs into the cold to hail a taxicab. “Bellevue Hospital,” I say, naming the hospital in Hattie’s letter. I don’t know what I expect to find, but I must start somewhere.
The traffic is painfully slow. We finally pull up in front of the red brick hospital building, the wind coming off the East River like a whip. Bellevue. I shudder. I may not have been here since the day I myself was born in September 1926, but I know about the place. It’s a hotbed of filth and sin. Just about the opposite of anywhere my mom would step foot.
I pay the driver and walk inside, cautious of what I’ll find as I step through the white-columned door. But the room I enter surprises me. I expect drunk staggering and tortured screams—certainly, those are the stories I’ve heard of the place—but the people sitting in a sad, uneven semicircle around the room are quiet, if teary-eyed. What stands out is the blinking. Some of the patients blink slowly as if stupefied; others blink rapidly in impatience. I must force my twitching eyes not to emulate their patterns.
I approach the silver-haired receptionist. “Good evening. Does the hospital keep records of its former employees? Is there a place I could find a list of those who worked here in the twenties?”
“I was here in those days.” The woman winks. “But I have a feeling you’re not looking for me.”
I smile politely. “I’m actually trying to find the nurses’ records. I’m looking for a Nurse Anderson.” I swallow and force myself to face the possibility that my mother had secrets. “Possibly a Nurse Althea Anderson.”
I don’t know why I bother mentioning the name; obviously, this old woman doesn’t know her.
“If she was a nurse,” the receptionist says, “you should go check across the street at the Nurses’ Residence. I know they publish bulletins and such for the members of the graduating classes. They’re the ones who’ll know.”
“Thank you,
” I say. “Thank you so much.”
I pick my way across the street and knock on the door of the old, multistory structure that houses Bellevue’s nursing school.
No response. I step back and take the building in, wondering if my mother could have studied here, if I might sense her presence. The address of the Nurses’ Residence is carved in stone above the door, faded. It sparks something, and I pull out the thumbprint note.
Michael Perkins
440 East 26th St.
Michael Perkins, here?
My determination redoubling, I knock on the door again. I search without success for a bell to ring, and sigh. Politeness demands that I come back another time, but I’ve come all this way. What’s the worst they can do if I enter uninvited, kick me back out?
I put my hand to the doorknob and test it. To my surprise, the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.
I step in and am met by the suffocating smell of hard work: the sweat of too many bodies, the metal of tools, and the dusty musk of construction. The foyer is stark and empty, but the room beside it is set up to be a lab of sorts: a massive metal table, wooden stools, a skeleton hanging in the corner. I shudder.
I turn quickly and nearly run into a tall, severe woman in a nurse’s cap. “How do you do?” Her words are polite, but her voice is as sharp as her crisped pinafore.
“Good afternoon.” I extend my hand. “I’m so sorry to surprise you. I am Mrs. Stella Wright. I’m here to inquire about a Nurse Anderson who would have worked here in the twenties.”
The woman smiles, her austere face cracking into something beautiful. “Oh, I just love it when young women take interest in our nursing program! We all forget how revolutionary those women were back in that time, what with everything we do nowadays.”
Those women. I think of the address on the thumbprint card and interrupt. “Actually, were there any male nurses living here at that time?”
“Oh, no!” The woman’s face contorts in horror. “Bellevue did have a small male nursing school, but they never lived in this building. God forbid. Anyway, we’ve an old stack of annual reports that list each year’s graduating class. They’re around here somewhere”—she pauses—“though everything’s been moving quite a bit in the midst of all the construction. They’re razing the building next year.”
The Light of Luna Park Page 11
