The Unfinished Child (35 page)

The phone rang and Marie jumped. Was it the doctor’s office calling to tell her today was the day, instead of tomorrow?
No,
she thought,
not yet.
She let the machine take the message.

“Hi, Marie, it’s me, Elizabeth. Are you there? Pick up if you’re there.”

Her voice echoed in the cavernous kitchen.

“I don’t mean to bother you, and I’m sorry if I surprised you at the café on Tuesday, but I wanted to give you Dr. Maclean’s phone number.” She paused. “Remember I told you about him? He’s the doctor who specializes in Down syndrome. Well, actually, he’s retired now, but he still lives in Edmonton. I spoke with him yesterday and he said he’d be happy to talk to you.”

Again there was an awkward pause.

“He took your name down, so he won’t be surprised if you do call. Okay?” She recited the seven numbers slowly. “I’m sorry you’re not home so I could talk to you, but given the time constraints with your decision I didn’t want to wait. So, I guess that’s it. Can you call me and let me know what’s going on? You know how to reach me. At work or home, okay? Anyway, I’m thinking about you. Love you.”

Oh, leave me alone! Marie thought as she sat at the table. I can’t deal with this! Of
course
Elizabeth was trying to be helpful—she had her sights set on mothering Marie’s baby. Would she be as helpful if she knew Marie would keep the baby? Marie hated even thinking that way. Of course Elizabeth would be happy for her. Despite Barry’s belief that she only had her own interest at heart, Marie knew her friend wasn’t that cold-blooded in her selfishness. She wrote the doctor’s phone number on a pad beside the phone and then immediately erased the message. Barry did
not
need to hear it.

Her appointment at the hospital was likely already made. She and Barry had discussed it into the small hours of the night. How many more conversations could they have? Did she want to phone Dr. Maclean and open up a new discussion? What good would it do to talk to him? If he’d made a career working with children with Down syndrome then clearly he’d have a soft spot for them. If every mother chose the route she was about to take, the good doctor would have been unemployed.

Right now, she didn’t want to hear how those children brought joy to their families. Obviously, if she
met
her daughter she’d feel love, but didn’t it make some sense to choose
not
to have her now, before they even met? How many parents, after having a handicapped child, would confess to wishing it hadn’t been born? And how many marriages didn’t hold up under the pressure?

No. The decision had been made, and she wasn’t going to muddy the waters by calling on some specialist. Why was Elizabeth making it so difficult?

At noon, Marie
phoned Barry and told him what the doctor had said.

“When will you know?” he asked

“By this afternoon.”

There was silence on both ends.

Ask me how I’m doing, Marie thought. She could hear Barry tapping his pen on the edge of his desk.

“Can you let me know as soon as you know?” he asked. “I’ll need to shuffle a few things at work.”

Say you want to be with me. Say you won’t let me go through it alone.

“Marie?”

“I’ll phone as soon as I hear,” she said coolly, hoping he would hear the distance in her voice.

“Okay, talk to you then.”

She held the phone long after Barry hung up. He’d survived the uncertainty and turmoil of her pregnancy, and now he was getting back on track, back to his schedules and precise routines, back to the Barry who had cereal, toast, coffee, and juice for breakfast each morning. Back to the Barry who believed he knew things about things he didn’t know anything about.

At one o’clock,
the doctor’s office phoned. She was lucky, they said. There had been a cancellation. She was to come in tonight for a small, initial procedure. Her appointment was fixed for the following day: Friday at two o’clock. She was to pack a bag and check in after lunch. She would be released Saturday by noon.

Marie thanked the receptionist and phoned Barry. Then she went upstairs and crawled into bed, pulling her knees to her swollen belly, curling her hands beneath her chin. She had two hours before the girls came home.

The afternoon sun streamed in her bedroom window and fell in wide shafts onto the bed. Marie closed her eyes and positioned herself so the sun was on her face. Through the thin flesh of her eyelids she saw red. She regulated her breathing until it was soft and rhythmic. The sun’s heat warmed her. She inhaled and exhaled and felt the tension leave her body.

In the dream,
she swam underwater, able to breathe without scuba gear. Her arms pulled long, hard strokes in the translucent water. Her feet fluttered just so and her hair streamed out behind her like untangled seaweed.

The water was warm and salty; it did not burn her eyes. Tiny fish with electric colours circled the clear bubbles that came from her mouth and nose.

She swam closer to the surface, where sunlight streamed into the emerald water. The sun’s heat penetrated through to her skin and into her bones. Something swam toward her and nestled in her outstretched hand. It curled into her cupped palm and stretched to its full length—two legs, two arms, little nubs of fingers and toes, a short torso, and an enormous head. Blue veins mapped its skull; she saw the pink mass of brain pulsing beneath the translucent skin,
ba boom, ba boom, ba boom
. It climbed up her arm, onto her shoulders, and into the thick matting of her hair.

Both hands free now, Marie swam on, wanting nothing but to please the small, clinging creature. She felt the power in her arms and shoulders as she pulled hard strokes to gain speed. They swam through great schools of slumbering fish, past mountainous rocks and coral reefs, and through beds of kelp that swayed and danced. She felt the pressure of the sea surging all around her, rising and falling as the waves at the surface built and built and finally crashed into the shore.

Small hands caressed
her face. Marie gasped for air. Nicole and Sophia stood over her, smiling. “We’re home, Mom,” they chanted in unison. “We’re home.”

Across town on that Thursday
afternoon, Elizabeth stood in her flower shop in a heightened state of expectation. Every time a customer came in, her eyes darted to the door, hoping it would be Marie.

Two days had passed. Surely Marie and Barry had had time to talk things through. And now that Marie had Dr. Maclean’s phone number, she’d be able to talk with him and possibly be reassured.

Elizabeth pulled her hair into a bun so that the stray pieces wouldn’t distract her. The glass door swung open, the little brass bell jingled, customers streamed in and out. The day was the same as any other except she was the daughter of a mother with Down syndrome, waiting to see if she’d soon become the mother of a daughter with Down syndrome. When would Marie stroll in, her thick hair tucked behind her ears, her swollen belly arriving just slightly ahead of the rest of her?

Elizabeth was not sure how long the silence could go on. It seemed ludicrous that she and Marie should eat their meals and go about their days in separate spaces without actually speaking.

The phone rang. Elizabeth raced to the counter and tried not to let her disappointment be obvious in her voice. It was just another customer requesting flowers. She was breathless and tried to calm herself. A pang of hunger radiated outward from her stomach. She hadn’t eaten breakfast. She’d felt too queasy. For Ron’s sake she’d tried to nibble on a piece of toast, but her body hadn’t been interested. She’d almost been ill watching Ron dip his toast into the runny yolk of an egg.

She’d been thinking about names for the baby and, given the nature of its predicament, two names had sprung to mind immediately—Faith and Hope. She said the names quietly to herself, marvelling how each one required a different movement from the tongue and lips.
Faith.
A deep exhalation of breath to form the
F
. All she needed was faith. Maybe she would have Faith in the end. Faith . . . She closed her eyes and saw little pink sleepers, tiny socks and shoes, soothers, and stacks of flannel receiving blankets.

Hope.
Air pushed from her lungs for the
H
; her mouth formed an
O
, then her lips closed tightly and popped open to form the
P
.
Hope
.

The door to the flower shop jingled open. A middle-aged woman entered and headed straight for the cooler with the expensive flower arrangements. She was an attractive woman who looked well taken care of, as if she had enjoyed a facial every week of her adult life.

“Can I help you find something?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes. Roses. I’d like a dozen roses, please.”

“Certainly. Any colours in particular?”

“My mother’s always been a fan of red,” she replied. “But I’m partial to yellow. So perhaps just a mix of yellow and red. How about half and half?”

Elizabeth nodded and began pulling roses from their oversized vases in the cooler.

“Do you need them double-wrapped?”

“That would be good, yes,” the woman replied. “I’m just going across the street to the hospital, but even so, it is a bit windy outside.”

Elizabeth took the woman’s credit card. Dr. Rebecca Harrington. Rebecca; that name had come up before. And she was buying roses.

“Are you from Montreal by any chance?”

The woman looked surprised. “Yes, I am. How did you know?”

“Your father comes in every week; we get talking sometimes, and he told me you were a doctor. He always buys roses,” she added as further explanation.

She laughed. “I bet my father told you all about me, didn’t he? Everywhere we go he starts a conversation with someone. I can’t blame him, though, it’s not like he’s got a lot of people to talk to. He lives alone now.” She stopped suddenly. “Look at me! I’m about to tell you all about him! I guess I’m my father’s daughter, aren’t I?”

Elizabeth completed the transaction and returned the credit card. “I enjoy visiting with your father. I never find he talks too much, I guess because he doesn’t only talk about himself. I bet you’d find that he could tell you quite a bit about me if you asked him. I’m Elizabeth Crewes.”

Rebecca smiled, revealing straight, white teeth, and extended her hand across the counter. “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth.”

“How is your mother doing?”

“Well, she’s definitely failing, but she could also go on in that state for years.” She paused for a moment before adding more. “Even though I’m a doctor and I spend lots of time in hospitals, I have to say that Alzheimer wards are depressing places. But I guess I’m grateful that they exist because my father couldn’t care for her at home anymore. She had started to wander, and a couple of times he woke up to find her gone and heading to a bus stop. I have no idea where she’d have gone, but I guess she was pretty determined.”

“That must have been scary for him.” She wanted to add that putting her in care must also have been difficult, but she didn’t. This woman knew that helpless people at the mercy of strangers didn’t always bode well. But then again, helpless people at the mercy of their own families didn’t always fare much better.

“How old is your mother?”

“She was born in 1925, so she turns seventy-seven next month.”

“That’s not old these days,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, well, sadly my mother has been in decline for the past few years, although she’s really gone downhill in the last month.”

“Your father was worried she wouldn’t recognize you.”

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, he was pleased that she knew I was her daughter. But she keeps calling me Carolyn and saying how sorry she is. It’s the strangest thing.”

The hair on the back of Elizabeth’s neck rose. “Does she have someone close to her, like a sister or best friend, named Carolyn maybe?”

“Not that I know of.”

“That’s odd. Does your father have any idea who Carolyn is?”

Rebecca shook her head. “He says he doesn’t, but he gets a funny look on his face when he doesn’t want to be interrogated, and that’s what he looked like when I asked. Likely there’s some story there, but I don’t think he wants to talk about it.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Well, we all have our secrets. I just found out that my mother’s name was Carolyn.”

Rebecca looked confused.

“Oh, sorry. That must sound strange. I was adopted, and I only recently, just yesterday, in fact, found out some information about my birth mother. Her name was Carolyn.” Elizabeth shrugged, embarrassed by her sudden disclosure. “Are you here for long?”

“I’m going back to Montreal tomorrow,” Rebecca said. “Although I might come back for my mother’s birthday next month.”

Elizabeth found herself doing some quick math, knowing that this moment was going to pass if she didn’t seize it. “If you don’t mind my asking, what year were you born?”

“1949. Why?”

That fit. But it couldn’t be that easy. She taped the paper over the flowers and stole a quick glance at Rebecca. This time she noticed that her cheekbones were similar to her own—high and sloping at a dramatic angle. “You don’t think your mother ever gave up a child, do you?”

Rebecca looked startled. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sure she didn’t. We would know about that, for sure. No, it’s just my older brother and me.” She shouldered her purse and gathered the wrapped flowers in her arms. “It was nice meeting you,” she said. “I appreciate your kindness to my father.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe I’ll see you again next month.”

The bells jingled and echoed throughout the empty store. Elizabeth stood at the window and watched as Rebecca Harrington, wrapped flowers cradled in her arm, walked briskly down Jasper Avenue to the corner, where she waited for the light to change. A steady stream of pedestrians marched by, enjoying the more temperate spring weather despite the occasional gusts of wind. The light changed for Rebecca and she hurried across the street and was soon out of sight.

Carolyn H. Maybe the H stood for Harrington. If so, that would make Rebecca her aunt and Mr. Harrington her grandfather. Dr. Maclean had said he wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. H. had never told her other children about Carolyn.