“It’s just that you don’t want to associate with me anymore. Not if I’m friends with that crowd.”
Now I nearly do laugh; his words are so far from what I was thinking. And what associating does he plan to continue? Mrs. Wallace is nearly well, and I certainly won’t ever attend another one of those AMA meetings. There is no reason our paths should cross again.
The thought makes me suddenly lonesome, and I pull Stella closer into my chest. Perhaps my dismay stems from having no one else with whom to truly talk or laugh. I am not Charlie’s maid or his mother, and so I am able to speak to him freely. Or as much so as I will ever be able to speak with any man; never can I confess the truth of Stella’s origins.
“You aren’t them,” I soothe Charlie now. “I know that.” Certainly, I know that living among a group does not make a person part of it. Even after twelve years of living chest to chest and shoulder to shoulder with bright young girls at boarding school, I am not one of them. I was and remain too serious, too detached, too focused.
“Well, then.” Charlie exaggerates his sigh of relief to make me smile. “Good.” He pauses. “I will hope to see you again soon, then.”
“Likewise.” Does he mean it? Do I? “And thank you for walking us home.” We have arrived at the door to Mrs. Wallace’s, and the Times Square laid out before us is not a place I would relish walking alone. The street pulsates brightly under the dark sky, signs and buildings lit up like the red tip of a cigar.
“Of course.” Charlie bows slightly and begins to turn away. I watch him, his tall, dark figure a solid silhouette against the busy backdrop of Times Square. The crackling bulbs of Broadway’s noisy signs send Charlie’s profile into sharp relief: cheeks whittled into chin, eyes in the shadows of his brows.
I think of his first visit, my telling Stella we’d never see him again. He’d surprised us the next morning with a call.
“Charlie.”
He turns.
“Coffee. Would you like some coffee?” We had left the Burnses’ just after dessert and fruits, as soon as the finger bowls had been distributed for washing. Charlie had not retreated into the smoking room with the others for the traditional coffee and cigar, and I wonder if perhaps he would appreciate the drink now. Does he smoke too, I wonder? Miss Hosken would not have heard of it in her nurses, but a private physician can do as he pleases.
“Of course, if it’s too late . . .” I trail off.
“No. I would be delighted.”
We each pause for a moment, uncertain as to the next move. Finally Charlie reaches past me to hold open the door; I skirt past him into the kitchen and ask him to sit. “I’ll take Stella up,” I say. I do so, tucking her into her bassinet, and then go check on Mrs. Wallace. She is asleep, her blankets pulled up to her chin. I smile. However hysterical Mrs. Wallace claims her daughter-in-law Charlotte to be, the girl obviously loves Mrs. Wallace dearly. I imagine Mrs. Wallace feels the same way in return. “Good night,” I whisper. I know she can’t hear me, but it’s a tradition I began at Bellevue when leaving sleeping patients’ rooms. I was always afraid they would be gone when I returned, that my last words to them would have been “Lie down” or “Don’t let that bandage slip.”
I return downstairs and start the coffee. The routine is a comfortable one: I slip the filter into the Tricolator, spoon the coffee grounds on top, and press them down with the lid. Steam condenses on my face as I pour the boiling water over it all, and I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. Keeping an eye on the stove, I sit gingerly across from Charlie at the table. The house is silent, and I am acutely aware of each movement of my own body: a bead of sweat rolling slowly between my breasts, the slight tremor in my legs beneath the table. The silence is punctuated only by the occasional splinter of ice in the icebox. I am afraid to move, any sound of my skirts rustling or my shoes tapping against the floor a foghorn in the silence. Light-headed, I realize even my breathing is shallow and silent. You must be tired, I scold myself. Go up to bed. But it is early still, not yet time for sleep for any but the oldest and the youngest in the city. The Mrs. Wallaces and the Stellas.
I wonder whether Charlie is sleepy. The shadow of hair along his jawbone, faint like a sketch, lends his face a weary air. But his smile is warm.
“Althea . . .” he begins.
“Yes?” I lean forward in my seat. We’re close enough that our foreheads would touch if we angled our heads just so; close enough that Charlie would need to scoot only an inch closer to kiss me.
I watch his lips as they move. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
Does he move a bit closer, or am I imagining it? “I’d like to take you out to a real dinner one day,” he whispers. “If Mrs. Wallace doesn’t mind my kidnapping you again.”
I jolt back, severing the connection between us. Kidnapping. What a terrible, violent word—a word to describe violence and desperate grief. I’ve kept Stella as my own when she is not—isn’t that the definition of kidnapping?
No. I try to calm my breath. I didn’t kidnap Stella, I saved her. I saved her from her father’s violence, from a home plagued by cruelty and aggression. I didn’t kidnap her.
Charlie senses my shift in mood. “Thank you for the coffee.” He stands, and for one crazy moment I think about confessing everything.
Then he is gone, the crisp nighttime air rushing into the kitchen as if to fill a hole.
“Good-bye,” I whisper.
* * *
—
Stella has fallen asleep immediately after the night’s excitement, but I cannot. My skin still buzzes the way it did with Charlie sitting so close to me at the kitchen table, and I pinch myself in an effort to stop thinking of him. We can’t be anything more than friendly colleagues, as tonight’s AMA supper reminded me. It’s too dangerous. It was right to let Charlie disappear into the night. Wasn’t it?
The reckless urge to tell him the truth possesses me. He’s a doctor; he knows that our mission is to save our patients at all costs. Surely he would understand. Surely he would forgive me.
I stare at the ceiling and imagine Charlie’s face. I move my mouth in the shape of the words: Stella was not born to me. I took her.
No. Stella was not born to me. I saved her. I took her to Coney Island against her father’s wishes, and I was going to take her back.
But what if, at that point, Charlie was already on the phone with the police? What if he sounded the alarm before I explained why I kept Stella as my own?
A new start, then. Stella wasn’t born to me. Her biological father was abusive. He didn’t want her at Coney Island, so I took her myself. She wouldn’t be safe with him, so I chose to raise her as my own.
I picture Charlie’s deep gray eyes. He isn’t one to jump to conclusions or judge, not like those men at the AMA meeting who were ready to discard me without a thought. Charlie is different: a good listener. The type of man who seeks to understand. And, oh, imagine a world in which he knew and understood Stella’s and my truth! I know he has felt the same connection that I have. Maybe one day he would want to be a family the way we seemed to be on the train today: Charlie, Stella, and me. It’s almost too fantastical to imagine: a stable home and two parents for Stella, enough money to live comfortably and go to school. A time when I wouldn’t be alone.
I’m still fantasizing when Stella cries for a feeding at one a.m., and I lift her from her bassinet to give her a bottle. We curl up together the way we did that night at the Nurses’ Residence before Miss Caswell knocked on the door and caught us. And finally, with Stella’s soft body nestled in mine, I fall asleep.
* * *
—
As I wait to see if Charlie will be in touch again, my days take on the quality of that sleepless night: impossible to track and both endless and forgettable. I read aloud to Mrs. Wallace for hours at a time, pausing only to feed
Stella and prepare Mrs. Wallace’s meals. When the woman tires of books, we lay Stella on a blanket on the floor and watch her play. She is beginning to react to our sounds and faces with squeals, and both Mrs. Wallace and I can’t help but laugh at her noises. She still can’t weigh more than ten pounds, but she can scream!
Every time I laugh at Stella’s expressions or clap after she masters something new, I feel a pang of guilt. Hattie will never know of these moments. And though I’m used to guilt, I no longer can rely on tasks to occupy my mind and distract me. Just over three months ago, I worked twelve-hour shifts six days a week. I was taking notes, cleaning sheets, changing bedpans, soothing children, delivering babies, bandaging wounds, attending lectures, monitoring charts, aiding operations . . . and now I barely leave the triangular prison of kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Meanwhile, Dr. May Edward Chinn became the first African-American woman to graduate from Bellevue Hospital Medical College. And I dropped out of even its nursing program.
I pray for Dr. Chinn each night. The road won’t be easy for her going forward.
But at least she has her degree. I have nothing to show for my two years of work. Meeting Charlie’s AMA acquaintances has reminded me of how much I miss medicine. I’m newly aware of what I gave up, though also of what I have gained.
I gaze at Stella beside me on the floor and can’t help picturing Charlie sitting beside her. Charlie: his tall, lean frame. His large hands, one of which had spanned from Mrs. Wallace’s wounded shoulder to her well one. Laid flat against my back, it would easily span one side of my waist to the other. I shiver.
I hold my own hands in front of me, fingers outstretched. My skin has a softness to it that it never used to have, and I don’t like it. I’m accustomed to skin rubbed raw from soaking bandages in antiseptic. While I was expected to remain calm and composed as a nurse, my hands gave away the reality of the hard work. Now, they just remind me of the static nature of my days.
I need to take action. I never planned for this life to be permanent, but now that it is, I need to move forward. I can’t get my daughter a birth certificate, but I can get her the next best thing. And I can make Charlie a part of it.
I broach the subject over breakfast. “Mrs. Wallace, Stella was never baptized. I’ve been thinking about doing it near Thanksgiving, and I wondered if you would like to be Stella’s godmother?”
Mrs. Wallace throws her hands up with such gusto I’m afraid she’ll refracture her collarbone. She hobbles her way over to me and scoops us into a hug. “I don’t know if I’ll live to see a grandchild”—she squeezes me—“but this is almost as good.”
I find myself smiling as widely as she.
“And what do you think,” I ask carefully, “about having Dr. Morrison serve as Stella’s godfather?”
Mrs. Wallace’s wrinkled face contorts into a smirk that makes her look ten years younger. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
I excuse myself from the table to hide my blush. “I suppose I should call him to talk about it.” I pick up the telephone.
“Charlie?”
“Althea!” He sounds delighted to hear from me, and I readjust my sweaty grip on the receiver.
My usual confidence flags a bit. This is utterly improper. Who am I to be calling a man on the phone?
“Good morning,” I begin as if I’m about to give a lecture. “I . . . Are you going to the AMA meeting this weekend?”
“Depends on why you’re asking.” A smile creeps into Charlie’s voice, and my lips turn up in response.
“I’m . . .” I falter. “It’s just—”
“If I didn’t know better,” Charlie teases, “I’d think you were asking me on a date.”
I cover my eyes, mortified, but don’t deny it. “I just have something I’d like to talk to you about. In person. Would you like to come over for supper?”
Charlie doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be there,” he tells me.
“Wonderful. Six o’clock on Saturday.”
* * *
—
Charlie arrives promptly at six. He first attends to Mrs. Wallace, asking after her arm—less because he thinks it necessary, I believe, than to save me from having to jump into discussion immediately. I have never courted before, and I know not what to do with myself. Is this even courtship? I don’t know. A better question: Do I want it to be?
Fortunately, Mrs. Wallace keeps conversation flowing throughout supper, engaging Charlie for me when I must rise to bounce a screeching Stella. With the four of us there at the table, it feels like a Sunday brunch or supper at the Nurses’ Residence; I am among peers. Only after supper do I begin to itch with apprehension. At her pointed request, I assist Mrs. Wallace up the stairs and into bed; then I give Stella her bottle and put her in her bassinet next door.
I creep back down the stairs, embarrassed. Charlie had come over for what is ostensibly a date, and here I am reminding him of my motherhood. As far as he knows, I’ve been married before. Though I’ve never so much as kissed a boy, I’m soiled goods in Charlie’s eyes. The empty bottle I carry downstairs to wash in the sink simply reminds him of it.
“Sorry for all of that.” I rinse the bottle quickly. “I imagine you’re wishing you had gone to Dr. Burns’s.”
I lift my arm to turn off the faucet and encounter a slight weight on my shoulder. I turn. Charlie’s hand is on me, and his face is creased into a deep frown. “Althea.” He directs his pale gray eyes on me. “I do not wish that I were there, not when I could be here with you.”
“Why?” I can’t help but laugh, water dripping down my arms and onto my drab woolen dress. I smell of milk and antiseptic, of which I am all too acutely aware.
“You would never dream of disrespecting those men the way they did you, Althea. And, despite the fact that they did, despite the fact that by all appearances you are accustomed to such cruelty, you persevere.”
“I persevere.” I am ashamed at the edge of bitterness that creeps into my voice. “Charlie, I never even completed my degree. I am not a nurse.”
“I saw you when Mrs. Wallace fell. You are a nurse, Althea. And you’re a mother. A mother who believed in your daughter even when the doctors didn’t. That sounds to me like perseverance.”
I duck my head to hide the red creeping of pride that surely flushes across my neck and cheeks.
“Althea.” He tips my chin up and opens his mouth as if about to speak. I hope he doesn’t; there’s no hope for my gathering the words for a sensible response, not when he holds my face so. His fingers are colder than I would have expected, and they fill me with the same invigorating burst of urgent energy as watching the color fade back into a patient’s pale cheeks or seeing their fingers twitch after a bout of unconsciousness. Tightly coiled. Ready to leap.
He doesn’t speak, not yet. Instead, he closes his mouth, his gray eyes a soft flurry of snow, and leans gently forward.
I am poised like a bird cupped delicately in his hand, and I know as water soaks lukewarm into the waist of my dress from the sink behind me that Charlie is going to kiss me. I still clutch Stella’s bottle in my right hand, but I raise my left to Charlie’s shoulder. My rings clang tinny beside his ear as I do, and he startles. He jerks back.
“I’m sorry.” He wipes both his hands on his trousers as if needing to cleanse them of me. “I’m so sorry.”
I straighten. “Quite all right.” More than all right, by God. I wanted that as much as he did, maybe more. But my rings have reminded us both that I am a widow. Allegedly. And I am still in mourning. And they’ve reminded me of all the lies I’ve told Charlie.
Charlie backs away to sit at the kitchen table. “You had something you wanted to discuss?”
Refusing to let myself cry, I sit in the chair across from Charlie—as far as I can be from him at the small, round table. “Yes. Stella is going to be baptized in a few weeks, and I was w
ondering if you would be willing to be her godfather.”
I sound stilted and formal, but Charlie leaps up. “Stella’s godfather! Oh, Althea, I’d be honored.”
I grin, almost forgetting my disappointment. “I’ll call you when the date is set,” I promise him. “Thank you.”
With our business done, Charlie leaves. I don’t try to stop him. But when I go up for bed that night, I do not immediately collapse back onto my mattress. Instead, I pull off my two thin gold rings and drop them gently into the drawer beside my bed.
* * *
—
When Charlie returns days later, he notices. He is a doctor, after all, trained to observe the body and its changes. And though he says nothing, his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. His head tilts ever so slightly on its axis. A dark strand of hair slips to brush his eyebrow, and my stomach tenses.
“Come in,” I say to him. “You look like you have something on your mind.”
Now he is the one to beam as I pour him a cup of coffee and sit across from him at the table. “You’ll love it, I think. No.” He laughs. “Not I think. I know you will. Trust me.”
I do.
He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been visiting every hospital in the city with an incubator.” He pulls out a notebook bloated with use. “Look.” He passes it to me. Inside are diagrams labeling the incubators’ dimensions and components, statistics on the number of children saved at every weight from a pound and a half to four. I flip through the pages the way I would a Bible. With reverence, for it is the power within these sketches that saved my baby girl.
As I reach the center of the book, the drawings change. Almost as if we have gone back in time, steel replaced by wooden slats and water coils by hot water bottles. “What is this?”
“For those who don’t have incubators. The mothers who give birth at home, in fall or winter or spring. I’m trying to determine the most foolproof way to keep them alive, too.”
The Light of Luna Park Page 20
