Sunlight on My Shadow (19 page)

It was now July 7th, 1967: one week after the baby was born. So much had changed with the birth. I was no longer pregnant. I had nothing physical to keep me in the slot of shame, yet the effects lingered. My belly was a sagging pouch of skin, fat, and fluid. And I felt empty. So empty. I couldn’t walk very far, because the stitches down below started to ache and throb. And sitting caused a burning sensation down there. I preferred to stay lying down. I slept a lot during those days after giving birth. I suppose my body needed to recuperate and so did my brain. Sleep was still my friendly escape.

I looked out the window again and noticed the empty space where the Buick had been. I remembered the scene from a few days ago when the car sped away with my baby inside. I, too, would be leaving soon. Our job was accomplished. Now that it was time to go, I was afraid to face my family. I was scared to have them see me like this. I had always been so skinny, but now I had some meat on my bones. My belly wasn’t tight and slim. Now it shook when I moved like ripples on the lake. My breasts were huge. I hated what the pregnancy did to my body. My bottom was still sore, like it had a hundred paper cuts. I sat down gingerly. They gave me a doughnut, inflated like a small inner tube, to perch myself upon, but how could I bring that thing home? I would be too embarrassed to use it.

I worried about my reentry. After I got home and saw people who knew I had been ill, they would wonder just how sick I was. They would wonder how I plumped up so nicely when I was supposed to be bedridden. I was supposed to have had a deadly disease. I was supposed to have been so sickly that I had to be shipped away to be cared for by an estranged aunt. I thought I should have been elated, but I dreaded going home.

I ran my hand over my stomach. This belly of mine was impossible. It should be flat by now. Maybe in time it would be, but I didn’t have time. I was going home today! I remembered the girdle I had at home, sitting in my drawer. I could wear that for a while. This time it might work, because the skin and my belly underneath were loose and soft. It just might compress things. I felt a slight wave of relief. I thought I was done with the girdle thing. Funny how things go—I just couldn’t seem to shake this nightmare.

I was almost done packing. I left the bottle of Mother’s Friend on the nightstand for the next resident, along with some pregnant clothes. Then I grabbed the last thing in my locker, the calendar. It had been forty-one days since I arrived. Now my life would start a new. Yet shades of the nightmare lingered like bad breath.

The good thing about leaving was that I wouldn’t have to wash any more giant pots and pans. I wouldn’t miss the gloom that haunted this place, and I didn’t have a bunch of friends here that I would miss. I wondered what would become of Linda P. She was still in waiting. “Good riddance to the watermelon seed eaters,” I thought. All of us with extended tummies, like we had sprouted a watermelon right inside our guts. Good riddance to Judy L. Soon I would resume life as a normal person with a full last name.

I had my bags packed. Jeff would arrive soon. I noticed the curtains were blowing from the open window. I walked over to take one last look at the empty parking lot. From somewhere deep inside, tears came again. I told myself to get on with it. It was all over. It was time for a new life now. I told myself to be strong and keep back the tears. Don’t dwell on the negative. I blew a kiss out the window and wished for it to land on my little child, wherever she was. I wished her a good life. I prayed to God that she had a good mother. I clip-clopped down the stairs for the last time, dragging my brown leather suitcase, my green book bag slung over my arm, and my purple velvet case.

Jeff drove me back to Glenview in his red Mustang convertible. It was a warm, balmy day and the wind blew my hair about. I was finally free. I looked up at the crisp clouds that dotted the sky and felt thankful that I was on my way home and it was all over. The sense of movement and speed was exhilarating. I had been so stuck and hampered, so full of boredom, gloomy fear, and regret; now I was free. The force of the summer wind as we sped along refreshed my body and seemed to blow the grief away. I felt like an escaped prisoner; no longer a member of the down-and-out. I had paid my dues. I was free.

Jeff and I talked a little at first. I told him the birth was horrible, and that I was glad my time was over. I said I couldn’t wait to see my friends. I remember thinking as we sped along the highway that I had come through it and I was on the other side now. I was still intact, a normal teen, yet scarred by the shame that I would continue to keep well hidden.

I wondered if the secret had been preserved. I thought it would be ironic if I came this far, performing all these manipulations to keep up appearances, and someone told someone and they all knew about me. I dreaded facing my classmates. I would never know until I saw them in the fall, and then I would know by how they looked at me and how they acted. I hadn’t talked to any of my friends since last March. That was three months ago. I suspected Annie and Jane would be curious. I hoped no one started asking me questions about my disease.

I thought about my inward journey for the past nine months: looking for my period, realizing I was pregnant, telling Mom and Dad, staying in the country at Helen and Ed’s, the lonely Home for Unweds, the hard birth, watching my baby from the nursery window. It was all over now, and I was starting afresh. I felt a spring deep inside of me start to bubble up, a feeling of newfound strength. I thought to myself, “If I could go through this and come out on the other side without going crazy or killing myself, I could handle anything that would come my way in this life.” I was proud of the way I handled this. I was strong. Nothing could ever shake my strength of character. I was overwhelmed with a feeling of empathy and love for those who had suffered hardships of all kinds. I had a desire to offer help in my days ahead. An outflow of compassion swelled inside of me. I didn’t think I could ever judge someone for doing wrong. I wouldn’t know what wrong was unless I had walked in their shoes. The bookstore owner could not know how he caused us to suffer by passing judgment on us. I forgave him. He did not know. He never walked in my shoes. I didn’t know how or what I would do in my future, but I felt like I’d had an experience that would aid me in service to others.

I had a welcome, long-overdue burst of joy on that ride home to Glenview. I found strength in reminiscing about what I had been through and how I had handled it. I thought that I would just go back to being the same kid I was before I got pregnant. But I couldn’t know then that I would be changed forever. Not only would I never return to the innocent, confident teen that I had been, I would hold the sorrow of my lost child for the rest of my days. It would lessen with time, but it would never be easy to forget and I would not heed my father’s words to keep it all in my past.

After being gone for three months, I was finally back in Glenview, snuggled into my own bedroom with the pink lacy bedspread and matching skirt on my French provincial dresser. My rosary with the clear blue beads was still on my dresser. It had been a long time since I picked it up and prayed the chains of desperate Hail Marys. I took the circle of beads, held them close to my chest, and put them in my top drawer. I didn’t have anything to pray for.

I loved having a window I could open without worrying if it bothered my roommates. I could leave the curtains open. I would let the summer wind send its softness over my skin as I slept. It was strange to be home at this time of year. From the time I was a baby, I had spent every summer up at the Wisconsin cabin. Mom was still up there, but Dad was home because he was working. He usually came up to the cabin for long weekends. Dad would soon be driving me up north so I could finish my summer at Bond Lake. When Sunday came along, I wouldn’t go to Mass. Dad never went on his own, but I didn’t really want to risk running into people I knew just yet, so I stayed home and slept in.

The day after I got home, my breasts started swelling. I thought this could be a good side effect of the pregnancy. But by the second day, they were freaky big and they hurt and were hot. I didn’t know what was happening. I was embarrassed to tell Dad, but I just had to. It hurt too much. I heard Dad in the kitchen and went downstairs. He was putting coffee grounds into the percolator.

“Dad, I think I should go to the doctor. My chest is really sore.” I hated saying the word “breasts”; I didn’t think I was supposed to have those.

“I’ll call Keller,” Dad said, as he put the pot on the stove. He walked over to the wall phone in the kitchen.

After a few minutes on the phone, Dad relayed the doctor’s advice. Dr. Keller said it was a crime that they hadn’t given me some dry-up pills, but at this point I just had to ride it out and could suppress the swelling with cold compresses.

I walked back upstairs like I was balancing a plate on my head, smooth and slow, up to the bathroom. I let the water run until it was icy cold, soaked a couple of washcloths, and wrung them out. I took them to my room. I lay down on the bed and put the cloths on my swollen breasts. The coolness felt good on my hot skin. I thought that this milk just showed how much my body was aching for the baby that should be next to me, hungry and nourished by my milk. It was only right. It felt like she was ripped from me, a hundred miles away, drinking a bottle full of fake formula, given to her by some stranger. I felt cold and freaky. This was only what I deserved, though. She wasn’t to be mine. I found it loathsome that I didn’t deserve my own child. I thought, “I am too bad and dark to deserve my own child.”

Soon, the washcloths warmed to body temperature. I took them off and threw them on the floor. I lay there and gingerly rubbed my hands over my breasts. They were full of knots, throbbed, and kept expanding. It was like my belly; how big could they get? The bulge spread under my arms. When I put my arms down to the sides, I could feel the swelling and it hurt to rub against the swollen knots. “I hate this,” I thought, and rolled over on my side and drew up my legs. Then I cried from the hurt of the fullness in my breasts and the emptiness in my heart. I fell asleep. I dreamed I was babysitting for my niece: she was crying and I didn’t know how to make her stop. When I woke up, I was in a puddle of milk. I changed my clothes and sheets.

The next day I woke up in a funk. Being home wasn’t like I expected it would be. I remembered the days of summer: I rose, full of anticipation for doing fun things with my friends. I was hardly able to wait for the day to start and vibrated with the excitement of a whole free day ahead of me. But I didn’t feel like that now. Normally I would have a million phone calls to do this or do that, but no one was calling. Of course not. No one knew I was home. Besides, I was scared to face anyone and I didn’t know what I would say to them. I thought my friends were probably all involved in their summer activities and might not have time for me. I hoped when I finally saw people I could act joyful and lighthearted, even though I felt dark and worn-out.

After the sixth day at home, my loneliness prompted me to call Annie and tell her I was back. I thought it would substantiate my story if I made an appearance before we left for upnorth. I had only been gone three months, certainly not time enough to carry and have a baby. Right? I hoped no one would be asking details about my kidney disease.

Annie was sweet to arrange a get-together with Jane and some of our other friends over at her house. It would be great fun to see them. Jane, my sweet Jane, always listened to me and was interested in what was up. She had a resident quip on the tip of her tongue waiting to be spilled out at the first opportunity; funny words that made laughter bubble as easily as water from a mountain spring.

I picked out a madras plaid blouse, but while buttoned, it pulled too tightly across my chest. I shuffled through my clothes and tried on three different shirts until I found one that was tight but tolerable. I pulled out the girdle that was still in my bottom drawer and put that on too. It helped. I found a pair of shorts that fit.

I thought I looked a lot different from when I left. Those two raisins on a breadboard had morphed into mammoth muffins. I wondered if I should stuff some Kleenex in my bra in case I started to leak, but that would just make me look bigger yet. I carefully folded two tissues so they would lie smooth and flat and I put one in each cup of my bra. It seemed that milk seeped out when I least wanted it to, but of course I never wanted it to. I thought it would be better to suffer the extra bulk than to risk a wet bull’s-eye in a conspicuous area.

When I got to Annie’s, I tried to round my shoulders and make my blouse sag. I gave Annie a hug hello and could feel the rocks smash with our embrace. Annie’s mom had a look of disapproval on her face. Was it for my benefit? We were sitting on the couch when one of my friends, who was not privy to my secret, said, “Wow, you got big while you were gone,” obviously referring to my full chest. I didn’t expect anyone to comment on the obvious. I flushed neon with embarrassment, and then fright shot through me—fear that my secret was exposed. Annie’s mom was in another room, yet I feared she could hear the reference to my large chest. Then I was afraid that someone who knew would say something that gave me away. Embarrassment prickled my skin. I just said, “Yeah. I’m older, you know. I guess I grew,” or something dumb like that. What to say?

Even though I could hear Annie’s mom shuffling around in the other room, she didn’t come in and talk to us. I had a weird feeling about her, kind of like she could smell the rotten aroma of a lie.

Many years later, Annie told me that when I left that day, Mrs. F. quizzed Annie.

“Ann, what was wrong with Judy?” she asked.

“She had some kind of kidney disease,” Ann said.

“But why did she have to leave home for so long?”

“I guess because her mom is sick and couldn’t take care of her.”

“I never heard of such a thing,” she said. “Tell me what really happened to Judy.”

“She was sick, Mom, I told you. Quit asking about it. She was sick, that’s all I know.”

Years later, Annie confessed to her mom, and told her the truth about me. She was a good friend to stand by my story, and I feel rotten that I asked her to lie for me. I shouldn’t have gone out in public until my chest shrank, but I didn’t know if it ever would. I guess I had hoped no one would notice that my breasts were large, but Mrs. F. was no dummy.

When I first got home, I hid behind an invisible wall that gave the message: off-limits. I think Dad had instructed everyone, too, to keep a tight lip and just act like I had never been gone and nothing had ever happened. This was the best way to ensure the secret was preserved, like it was stuck in formaldehyde: dead and isolated. Each time I saw someone for the first time after being gone, I dreaded it; as minutes and then hours went by without any reference to my absence, I’d relax with silent relief. Everyone seemed to be playing the hush-hush game, and I was thankful.

Anytime my mind lit on the vision of Catherine Cavanaugh leaving the parking lot with the baby, or the pull of the forceps, or the hot dogs and ketchup at Helen and Ed’s, I just stuffed it down and didn’t dwell on it. Like a burning rise of fluid in my throat, I continued to swallow until it formed into a dark feeling, like something was wrong, but I couldn’t name it. I wrapped my emotions with a protective coating and buried them deep within me.

The silence let me grieve in some dark unknown place within my own heart, alone and secret. I don’t even think I knew I was grieving. Perhaps I felt nothing. I was numbed by stuffing the grief of losing my baby, and my shame. I tried to put it all behind me like I was told to do.

My brother-in-law, Jackie’s husband, Dave, was an exception to the silence. Although he didn’t say much, I could tell by the tone of his voice that he understood. The first time he saw me, he walked up with arms outstretched and gave me a substantial hug. Then he said, “Awww … God bless ya, Jude.” He had tears in his eyes. I knew he understood. I felt like he accepted me and didn’t judge me either. I never forgot that precious moment when I needed the understanding and love the most.

After a week at home with Dad and Jeff, I went back up north to spend the rest of the summer with Mom. When I walked in the cabin, Mom said she missed me. She gave me a big hug and said something like, “It’s all over now, honey. No need to look back. Now you can get back to your normal life.”

“Yeah,” I said, and felt relieved because of the way she hugged me. It meant that she still loved me. No further references were made to my time away. Not that day and not ever.

After I arrived at the cabin, it was sunny and pristine but my heart was heavy with a mustiness that thickened the air with an unfamiliar gloom. I didn’t understand my sadness and internally lashed out at myself for feeling that way. I thought I should be happy it was all over. This was what I had been yearning for the past nine months. After all, I was getting back to normal. My breasts had dried up and now they were back to their tiny selves. My stomach was almost as flat as it was a year ago. I should be happy for my child. I should be happy she had parents who were taking care of her. Most of those summer days were gray and colorless. No ups and downs, just steadily flat. I had no friends to hang out with at the cabin. My days were filled with reading books, swimming, and some waterskiing whenever I could get Jeff to tow me behind the boat. Mom always went to Mass in Minong or Gordon and I felt obligated to accompany her. So I went each Sunday, but I wasn’t getting any spiritual uplift from my visits. I just sat there, going through the motions and waiting for the Mass to be over. I didn’t go to communion because I hadn’t been to confession—and I knew you had to have your soul clean to accept the sacred host. Perhaps it was because my sins were too weighty to confess, but I never did return to confession.

In the past, I had always been excited about school in the fall. Childhood summers at the cabin were isolating and lonely for the most part. I loved getting back to my friends and the days of having too much to do. This fall was the same, but I had some serious apprehension as I worried about someone asking me about my sickness and details of where I was and what I did. I was thankful to have had the summer vacation as a buffer between the two months of school I had missed. Regina was situated in a quiet neighborhood in Wilmette, Illinois. It was a sprawling building with a bridge that connected the auditorium with the classrooms. Large, grassy areas with stately maple trees surrounded the school. The freshly waxed linoleum made the halls shine. We had lockers that were assigned alphabetically. I had the same kids next to me and also in some of my classes, the ones whose last names started with “K, L, or M.” So the first person I saw when I came back was my friend Katie K. She wasn’t in on the secret but knew I had been gone. She said she was glad I was better and back to school. Then she wanted to know what was wrong with me. “I had nephritis,” I told her. But I said I was better and asked if she remembered the assignment for French class.

I watched my classmates, but didn’t see any expressions of suspicion. I came to believe that I had pulled it off. I was sick and now I was back. I resumed my spot at the lunch table with Annie, Jane, and Carol, but was serious and heavy hearted. I didn’t seem to come up with any clever words or jokes until I had been back for several months. Still it was good to see them again and all be together. Each said, they had kept the secret but none asked what I did, where I went, or what happened to my baby. It was better to keep it all unsaid. I was glad at the time but oh how I needed to talk. I eased back into my senior year, clunky and unsure of myself, but present and having a period every month.

Forty years later at my high school reunion, I asked some distant friends if they knew what happened to me back in 1967. Not a one of them had any idea I went off and had a baby, which is just a testament to the great friends I had in Annie, Jane, and Carol. I loved them for “crossing their heart, hope to die, swearing to God, no peein’ in the pot, and no pickin’ your snot.” They were the best a wayward girl could ever hope for.