The Unfinished Child (15 page)

The two sisters stared at each other. The vegetables sizzled in the frying pan. Max grabbed a fistful of his mother’s hair. The radio droned on in the background.

Frances finally averted her gaze and sat down at the kitchen table. “I’m only trying to help.”

Marie heard the self-pity in her sister’s voice and wanted to scream. “I didn’t mean to snap your head off. I’m just a little worried right now.” She picked up a cookie and walked toward her sister, extending it as an offering of peace.

“Mom says to say hi, by the way. She called yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, hi back. She never calls me.”

“That’s because she loves me more,” Marie said. They laughed, fully aware of the truth in her joke.

“Have you told her yet that you’re pregnant?”

“No, not yet. I’m going to wait until the test comes back before I do.”

“You’re going to wait two months?”

“Frances, we’re not sure we want this baby, okay? Until we decide, I’m not telling Mom or Dad anything.”

“That’s probably wise,” she said. They both remembered Fay’s response to the abortion Frances had when she was seventeen. It was the first time Marie had ever seen her mother cry. But she’d made all the arrangements and drove Frances there herself. She never did learn who the father was because Frances wouldn’t tell her. There was a price to pay after all for not listening to your children. They didn’t suddenly start talking to you when things got bad, just like a person didn’t run a marathon without first training. Marie knew that Frances had secretly appreciated that neither parent had asked too many questions, but she’d resented having to include Fay in her life at all. If she could have arranged the abortion herself and not told her mother, she would have, but she was a minor; she had to have an adult with her for the hospital to perform the procedure.

Marie added red peppers and mushrooms to the mixture in the frying pan. Then she put a big pot of water on the stove to boil.

Nicole and Sophia came running into the kitchen. “Hi, Mom,” they said. “What’s for dinner?”

Marie opened her arms for a hug. She kissed both girls on the head and glanced up at the clock. Almost six o’clock. Barry would be wandering in at any moment, ready to eat. Well, supper would be a bit late today. Hopefully it wouldn’t wreck his entire evening.

She hugged her daughters again and asked them to set the table.

“What did you do in school today?” she asked.

Their noncommittal responses echoed softly off the walls.

It happened so quickly that
Dr. Maclean wasn’t prepared for the patient’s mother to tumble headlong from the chair onto the floor. He rushed to her side and took her pulse, but she quickly came to and was determined to leave immediately.

“Rest for a moment,” he said and helped her to her chair. He poured a glass of water and handed it to her. “Drink this.”

She drank deeply, as if she’d been parched for days.

Carolyn, meanwhile, had found the couch and had slumped into its corner.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Harrington said, smoothing her dark hair in an attempt to restore some order. “This is more than a shock. I can’t quite . . .” She removed a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes and nose. “How did this happen?” she moaned, gesturing with her hands around the room and at her daughter, who had nodded off. “None of this was supposed to happen!”

Dr. Maclean understood intuitively that she was talking about the big picture of her life. She wasn’t supposed to have had a child with Down syndrome, she wasn’t supposed to spend an afternoon a month in a place like Poplar Grove, and she certainly wasn’t supposed to discover that her mongoloid daughter was pregnant. He himself didn’t want to dwell on the possibilities of how that pregnancy had occurred, or on the possibility of what that pregnancy might produce. The doctor had small children of his own at home; he remembered how his wife had worried when she was pregnant, largely because he’d made the mistake of bringing her to Poplar Grove when he accepted the job. He had wanted Joanne to be able to imagine him in his work setting when he was gone for nine hours a day. But all she took in was the room lined with cribs housing damaged babies. So many in one place made the odds of it happening to her seem that much greater.

“I have to go now,” Mrs. Harrington said, standing more steadily this time and moving toward the door.

Dr. Maclean put his hand on her arm. “I must repeat that this might not be what it seems. To my knowledge, mongoloid pregnancies are not possible.”

“Forgive me, Dr. Maclean, but I am sick to death of doctors’ so-called knowledge.” She glanced at her watch.

“The bus doesn’t leave for another ten minutes. Why not sit and rest a moment to steady yourself.”

She ignored his comment and removed a pair of white gloves from her purse before meticulously pulling each finger firmly into place.

“Goodbye, doctor.”

He nodded. “Once again I ask you, please, don’t jump—”

She held a gloved hand up to silence him. Such a large gesture for a petite woman. Yet one that suggested she could be formidable if pushed. He noticed the cut of her clothes, and her well-coiffed hair. All the more surprising, then, that she was able to visit Poplar Grove at all. For if ever there was squalor, it could surely be found here.

Mrs. Harrington nodded her official goodbye, took a long look at her daughter, and then marched deliberately down the hallway. Her posture was erect, almost regal, as she walked out the front door and down the steps to where the asylum bus waited.

Dr. Maclean closed
his office door. What was he supposed to do now? He looked at Carolyn. In her slouched position she looked so obviously pregnant that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed earlier. She could be as much as five to eight months along. But all the literature maintained that mongoloids weren’t able to bear children. He’d had no cause to look for pregnancy in a population in which it wasn’t supposed to occur.

But what if the literature was wrong? What kind of child would she produce?

He watched as Carolyn stirred and stared at the closed door. She made some incomprehensible sounds that were slurred by her thick tongue. If only she could tell him what had happened.

He stepped toward her and gently touched her arm. Pointing to her belly he asked, “Who did this to you?”

Carolyn’s chin dipped forward until it rested on her chest.

Taking her hand, he placed it on her swollen stomach and asked again, “Who did this to you?”

The girl pulled back as if she’d touched a burning surface. “Un uh,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Un uh.”

Was she even capable of connecting the two events? Sex and pregnancy? He couldn’t expect her to understand she had a baby growing inside of her.

He grabbed the stethoscope from his desk drawer and approached the young girl, rubbing the end in his hands to warm it. “I’m just going to have a listen now . . .” She pushed his hand away as he lifted the edge of her shirt. “It’s okay. Just a quick listen.”

There it was. He shook his head in disbelief at the sound travelling through the stethoscope. Another heartbeat, clear as a bell. She was at least seven months along.

Dr. Maclean moved quickly toward the row of metal filing cabinets along the opposite wall. He pulled open a drawer and muttered distractedly to himself before removing a file. Then he opened another drawer and repeated the process before carrying his findings to his desk.

He opened the first file. “Carolyn Jane Harrington,” he read out loud, glancing again at the patient before him. Born at the Misericordia Hospital on June 15, 1947. The attending physician, Dr. Morrison, provided the standard counselling and suggested immediate institutionalization. He and the parents subsequently signed the appropriate paperwork for the infant’s confinement at Poplar Grove Provincial Training Centre.

The doctor continued to flip through the papers, reading the various comments of other doctors over the years. “The patient is delayed in nearly all of her milestones.” “The patient did not walk until age five.” “The patient was not completely toilet-trained until age eight.” “The patient is extremely dull-witted.” The doctor threw the file to the corner of his desk, disgusted by the useless information it held. He could be reading about any of the 967 patients under lock and key. There was nothing unique about Carolyn.

Until now.

He reached for the other file and flipped carefully through the papers inside until he found a mimeographed copy of an article that had been published in a recent issue of an obstetrics journal. Scanning quickly, he finally came to a passage that caught his attention.
One of the characteristic deficiencies of mongoloids is in sexual development. Next to nothing is known about the reproductive powers in mongols, since the majority of patients succumb to some acute illness or to congenital heart disease and thus do not reach reproductive age.
He nodded and recalled the many deaths at Poplar Grove and its large cemetery that constantly pushed against its borders.

The majority of those who survive the first years of life are committed to institutions for the feeble-minded, which precludes any possibility of reproducing offspring . . . although one could well imagine that this would not be absolutely impossible in mongols of both sexes with a higher grade of intelligence and good physical development.

The latter part of the sentence appeared suddenly as if printed in bold red letters . . . 
one could well imagine that this would not be absolutely impossible
 . . . He snapped the file closed. Across the room, Carolyn had drifted back to sleep. He stared at her face, took in the short nose with the broad nasal bridge; the thickened, averted lower lip; the open mouth with the protruding tongue; the dark, matted hair framing her round face. When had someone last put a comb through her hair? And what about the man who’d done this to her? Was it at all possible that Carolyn might have been a willing participant? Or was it yet another example of her being roughly treated and abused? Dr. Maclean shook his head in dismay. Hadn’t he turned a blind eye from time to time when he’d seen a patient being roughly treated? And why? Because even he, a professional in charge of helping these patients, sometimes leaned on the convenient belief that they didn’t really know what was happening to them anyway.

He rummaged through his desk and pulled out a black notebook. He cracked the spine, turned to the first page, and wrote the date.

May 16, 1963

A remarkable event has occurred of which I’m trying to make sense. Today one of my patients’ mothers stormed into my office with her daughter in tow. The cause of her rage was not immediately clear to me, but when she explained herself more fully I understood. It appears the girl is pregnant. What is remarkable here is that she’s not one of the regular mental defectives (who are healthy in body but not in mind), most of whom, I believe, if they’ve reached sexual maturity, have been sterilized. In this case, Carolyn is a sixteen-year-old mongoloid who, after my examination, appears to be into her seventh month of pregnancy.

I will search for other cases, but to my immediate knowledge I do not know of other female mongoloids who have become pregnant. One article from an obstetrics journal published in 1960 did mention, however, that in terms of the reproductive powers of mongoloids with good physical development, one could well imagine that pregnancy would not be absolutely impossible.

Whether or not Carolyn will deliver a child remains to be seen. If she does carry to term, I can only assume that the child will also be a mongoloid.

He stopped writing and shifted his attention to a name and number on the Rolodex. With trepidation Dr. Maclean picked up the phone and dialled the board chair.

“Dr. Stallworthy? It’s Michael Maclean. Of Poplar Grove. I think we have a rather unfortunate situation here.”

In her chair, Carolyn’s head slowly tilted to the side as she entered a deeper phase of sleep. The fabric covering her belly stretched taut. A red rose, whose stem she clutched tightly in her left hand, lay wilted in her lap.

Elizabeth took the elevator up
to her new apartment and changed from her work clothes into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Then she uncorked a bottle of red wine.
TGIF
, she thought. The red liquid gurgled from the bottle’s mouth and reminded her of the rock fountains she sold at work, the ones designed to make you think you were sitting beside a babbling brook, a half-clad Buddha at your side.

She dropped heavily onto her new couch and brought the thin-lipped glass to her mouth. The wine was dry and made her pucker. She put her feet up onto the low-slung coffee table. It was also new. So was the dark brown leather chair that matched the couch, the glass-topped end tables, and the burgundy lamps with the gold leaves embossed on them.

Despite the February chill outside, it was hot in her apartment. She could grow orchids in it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to walk around in bare feet and a T-shirt in her own home in winter. Her house had always been drafty; to keep it warm would have cost a fortune.

She opened the patio door a crack to let in some cool air. The winter sun had already set, but the eastern skyline remained lit with a soft pink glow that hinted at the coming spring thaw.

“If you’re dead set on living by yourself,” Ron had said, “then
you
stay in the house and I’ll find a place of my own. The house is more yours than mine anyway.”

He was right about that. She’d made all the decisions that had turned the old and impersonal wartime bungalow into something warm and unique to them. She had done everything she could to make the house a home, everything but fill it with children. It was supposed to be the starter house that would grow too small for them, but the kids never came. She’d sent out hundreds of invitations and prayers, but not one child had come to play.

How did Marie get so lucky? The thought came out of nowhere. Another sip of wine fuelled her self-pity. Pregnant again. Oops! And so sorry about it too. Boohoo.
I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s just not fair.
She hated the way Marie’s forehead had scrunched up, the way her eyes oozed pity. How hypocritical because what Marie really wanted was to be comforted. She was like a little baby caught doing something wrong, a baby who was desperate to be picked up and forgiven. It brought out a perverse desire in Elizabeth to say something cutting, to chastise Marie for her stupidity.