Keeping Lucy Page 2

  “Gin…” Ab’s chest heaved, squeezing her hand. “The doctor says there could be a problem with her heart. These children, sometimes they don’t live but a couple of years.”

  “This is all a terrible mistake,” she said, yanking her hand from his and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed to get up. Her head felt swimmy and she could still taste the acrid vomit at the back of her throat. “Let’s just go see her. I’ll show you.”

  “Virginia, please,” her father-in-law said, approaching the bed. “Dr. Wells says you need to rest.”

  “I need to go see my baby,” she said to him, bending over to search for her slippers. “Have you been to the nursery?” she asked Ab.

  He closed his eyes, ran his hand through his disheveled hair. “She’s not there.”

  “Of course she is,” she said, irritated. When her bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor, a jolt ran up her spine.

  Ab shook his head and reached for both of her hands, gripping them between his own. He peered out the window at the sky, where the moon was now just a pale scar. When he looked back at her, his eyes were glossy with tears.

  “Ginny, honey, she’s already gone.”

  One

  September 1971

  Everything hissed.

  The roast in the oven, the steam from the iron heating on its board, the katydids in the trees as the sun set. Ginny felt the buzz and hum, that endless drone, in her blood, and it made her anxious. She fiddled with the radio on the kitchen counter, hoping to mask the insidious hiss, but the reception was terrible, and even the music was threaded with static.

  Ab had called earlier as she was putting the roast in the oven to let her know he’d be late. Apologetic, as always, though it hardly classified as “late” given that he’d been “late” every night for the last six months. Still, she went through the motions, setting the table with three settings as if he might just walk through the door, hat in one hand and bouquet of flowers in the other. That goofy Dick Van Dyke grin on his face, and her, his Laura Petrie, in her ballet flats and capris, standing on tiptoes to give him a kiss before ushering him to the table, where the pot roast and their freshly scrubbed son sat waiting.

  But tonight, like nearly every night lately, she and Peyton sat at the table alone. She cut Peyton’s meat for him, sopped up spilled milk with a napkin when he inevitably knocked over his cup, and nodded and smiled as he recounted the injustices committed against him by their next-door neighbor’s son, a towheaded monster named Christopher. The two boys would be in the same first-grade class at St. Joseph’s this fall, and Ginny was dreading the unavoidable daily interactions. It was hard enough simply living in such proximity. She tried to prevent the inevitable front-yard skirmishes by sending poor Peyton to the backyard to play most days. But cooping them up in a classroom together every day would be like caging a hungry cat with a defenseless mouse.

  Now she tried to focus on his story—something about stolen Hot Wheels cars and a sabotaged dump truck. But even his impassioned babbling couldn’t mask the underlying sizzle, the crackle and spit.

  After dinner, she put together a plate of food for Ab, wrapping the entire thing in aluminum foil before putting it in the still-warm oven. She washed the dishes, noting the whine of the faucet, the low groan of the pipes behind the walls.

  Upstairs, she knelt on the furry blue bath mat and gave Peyton a bath, those pipes clamoring, restless. He was six now, able to bathe himself, but he struggled with his hair, and so she helped him, careful not to get soap in his eyes. She was mystified by his ability to get so dirty in such a short period of time, the water turning a weak brown around him. Afterward, she helped dry him off with one of the fluffy towels she’d just washed and folded this morning, then handed him a pair of clean and pressed pajamas.

  He didn’t bother to ask when his father would be home anymore. She feared Ab was becoming little more than a kiss on the cheek in the morning and perhaps the feeling of his blanket tightening as he dreamed his little boy dreams at night after Ab finally came home. He was an idle threat as well, Wait until I tell your father, an admonishment that meant nothing at all, since Ab had never so much as raised his voice to his son.

  Ginny put Peyton into bed, the fresh Fantasia bedsheets tucked in tight, the soft glow from the matching Mickey Mouse lamp, the bulb illuminating an endless parade with Mickey’s marching band on the lampshade. She knew he would outgrow the cartoon mouse soon, in favor of superheroes or cowboys or astronauts, but for now, he was only six. Still just a little boy.

  “Goodnight stars,” she said, as she always said.

  “Goodnight air,” he recited, one stubby finger dancing in the air.

  “Goodnight noises everywhere.”

  Downstairs, the iron was waiting, the bottomless basket of Ab’s dress shirts expectant. Hiss. The iron exhaled its exasperated sigh. Sssss, the spray bottle of starch expressed. She lifted one of his shirts, each of them nearly identical, and stretched it across the ironing board. She always started with the collars and cuffs before tackling the front, carefully nosing the hot iron between the buttons. She saved the large swath of the back for last; there was something satisfying about the sweeping motions across the expanse of fabric. A small freedom. A bit of grace.

  The TV was on, The Carol Burnett Show. But the audience’s laughter sounded sinister somehow, so Ginny reached for the knob and turned the sound down. Hiss, the iron exhaled furiously.

  When the phone rang, it startled her, and she ran to the kitchen to answer it before it could wake Peyton up; he was a light sleeper and did not go back to sleep easily once woken. She figured it was Ab calling to say he was leaving the office soon.

  “Richardson residence,” she said softly.

  “Gin?”

  It was Marsha. She still lived in Amherst, where they had grown up. Usually, she called on the weekends when the long-distance rates were lower. She worked the swing shift as an ER nurse and almost never called at night. Ginny held her breath. Please don’t let it be Mother, she thought. Shirley had been suffering some shortness of breath lately but had been dismissive when Ginny suggested she see a doctor. She was overweight, had always been overweight, and insisted she, like Ginny herself, just needed to lose a few pounds. But Shirley shared a duplex with her sister now; certainly, if something had happened to her, then it would be Aunt Bonnie who called, not Marsha.

  “I take it you haven’t seen the papers this week?” Marsha said.

  “The papers?” Ginny tried to imagine what she could have missed. As a rule, she ignored the newspapers, the news. The Russians could have invaded the country, and she would be entirely oblivious. This willful ignorance was irresponsible, she knew. Foolish, even. But really, what could she do about an unjust war? She couldn’t even keep that little monster Christopher from tormenting Peyton; what could she possibly do about nuclear tests in the desert, bombings in Ireland, or earthquakes in Peru? The only thing she had power over, the only change she could reasonably and predictably effect, was the removal of wrinkles from shirts, of mildew from tile, of dirt from her child.

  “No. What happened?” Ginny asked.

  “No one’s told you? About the report?”

  Ab was constantly buzzing and talking about reports, briefs, affidavits, and subpoenas. His briefcase was overflowing with them. He was still working for his father’s firm, but she knew the plan was to eventually become an assistant district attorney, a DA. Maybe even run for office one day. His life was mapped out in an endless stream of papers.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marsh.”

  “There’s a local reporter, here in Amherst,” she said. “He’s written a—damn, what do they call it—an exposé? There’s been an article in the paper every day since Monday. I just sat down tonight to get caught up.”

  “Exposé?”

  “The school, Gin. The reporter, he went in undercover and took photos. Of course, it’s the newspaper, so the pictures are kind of grainy … but, Gin
, it’s so awful. I read the parents have filed a lawsuit.”

  “The parents?”

  “Yes, of the children there. A class-action lawsuit. Gin? Listen. Will you be home tomorrow? I’ll drive over.”

  “I don’t understand. You mean…” Her voice trailed off. She could imagine it like steam slipping away.

  “Yes, Gin,” Marsha said. “It’s Willowridge.”

  Willowridge. The hum and buzz were now filling her ears, she could see the hiss, taste it. Smell it burning.

  “I’ll be there by noon.…” Marsha said.

  “Oh, no!” Ginny dropped the phone and ran to the living room, where the iron was breathing smoke and Ab’s shirt, the gingham ironing board cover, and the pad underneath were scorched. The smoke alarm began to ring out then.

  “Mama?” Peyton said as he came padding down the stairs, covering his ears with his fat fists. He was crying, his voice a high whine.

  “Stop!” Ginny said to no one. To everyone. To the world. She pressed her hands against her ears to still the deafening noise.

  She heard a car door slam and Ab flew through the door, wide eyed, frantic. “What’s going on? Is there a fire? I could hear the alarm all the way down the street!”

  Normally, when Ab finally arrived home each night she’d feel an odd calm descend upon her, the ceaseless buzzing beginning to quiet. But tonight, it persisted. Even after Ab reached up to the wall and extricated the battery from the alarm, even as he hung up the dangling phone and scooped Peyton up in his arms, nuzzling him before playfully swatting his bottom and sending him back upstairs. Even as he tossed the singed Brooks Brothers shirt into the sink, took her in his arms, and teased, “Hey there! You tryin’ to burn the house down?” Normally, when he held her, he could somehow contain the thrum and hum. But now that incessant whisper would not fade.

  “Your dinner’s in the oven,” she said, her own voice buzzing. “It’s still warm.”

  Willowridge.

  “Marsha’s coming by tomorrow,” she said, her body still vibrating as he released her. The aftershock of an earthquake, the relentless shiver.

  “Oh?” he asked, distracted, as he opened his briefcase and set it next to the plate at the table. He pulled out a stack of briefs, a yellow lined pad. He looked tired. His hair was messy, and there were shadows beneath his dark eyes. The carefully ironed shirt he’d left wearing this morning was now a wrinkled mess. Something about this nearly brought tears to Ginny’s eyes. He sat down, loosened his tie, and sighed, exhaling in one long exhausted hiss.

  “Coming for a visit in the middle of the week? Everything all right? Your mom okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, the words like bees at her lips. “Everything’s fine.”

  * * *

  That night, Ginny watched Ab sleep. At thirty, in sleep at least, his face was still boyish. Untroubled. She’d once marveled at the ease with which he fell asleep at night, able to slip into a peaceful slumber while her own mind whirled with whatever had consumed her day. She used to think it was affluence that assured his easy departure from the world, but even after they’d married and she herself no longer had to worry over finances, she was often turned away at the gate to Dreamland. Now, his ability to shut out the world with the flip of the light switch filled her with a quiet sort of rage. And tonight, while he took his solo flight to oblivion, Ginny was left alone again with thoughts of Lucy.

  Ginny studied Ab in his blissful quiescence, the silence of his absence nearly deafening. She wanted to scream, to shake him from his willful slumber. But she feared that if she were to open her mouth, no sounds would come out.

  Two

  October 1969

  She left the hospital three days after Lucy was born, wheeled out in a wheelchair like all the other new mothers, but her arms empty, save for the little blue train case, the tiny layette still nestled, unused, inside. She’d been sedated again, after her realization that her baby girl had already been swept away. She could recall nothing of those three days besides a prevailing ache that started deep in her chest and emanated outward. It wasn’t until she and Ab arrived back at home that the haze lifted, however, and that ache became the sharp bite of an open wound.

  “Mother’s sending Rosa over tomorrow to stay with us for a bit. To help take care of Peyton and the house while you get better,” Ab had said as they walked down the upstairs hallway to their bedroom, where she wanted to do nothing more than fall asleep and never wake up again. But she stopped at the open door to the nursery. When Ab reached to pull the door closed, she pushed it back open.

  “I have someone coming on Tuesday to paint. I thought we could turn it into an office. At least for now? A place for your books?”

  They had painted the nursery a butter yellow, the exact color of buttercups reflected on the underside of one’s chin. She had sewn the crib bumper and matching eyelet dust ruffle herself. The small stuffed animals still sat inside the caged crib, like a miniature zoo, waiting for the arrival of the baby. Their faces—button eyes and embroidered mouths—looked at her expectantly. She felt a fresh swell of sadness threatening to overcome her. The room smelled of talcum and starch, two of the best smells in the world, she had once thought. Now the scent burned her eyes and seared her throat.

  “Where’s Peyton?” she asked.

  “He’s at my parents’ still. Rosa is taking him to pick out a Halloween costume at the Woolworth’s today. He says he wants to be Peter Pan. Here, let’s get you back to bed.” Ab steered her past the nursery door to the bedroom, which seemed arranged for an invalid. Funny word, that was, she thought. Invalid. Not valid. Null and void.

  He’d brought the television up from the living room and piled a stack of novels next to the bed, along with a glass pitcher of water sweating in the unseasonable heat. Indian summer. At the end of October.

  Suddenly exhausted, she slipped off her heels and climbed into the waiting bed without even taking off her clothes. Ab sat down at the foot of the bed, and Ginny winced. He reached for her hand, studying it as though he had never seen it before. He turned the wedding band so that the diamond was facing outward, ran his thumb over and over the three-carat stone. The ring had belonged to his grandmother, an heirloom no one in Ab’s family was happy about her wearing. Ginny had cut herself on it more than once and took to turning the stone inward whenever she was out in public. This kind of display made her feel uncomfortable.

  Ab shook his head, looked down at her hand. “I don’t know what to say to make this better,” he said. “I really just don’t have the words.”

  Ab’s honesty, his sensitivity, was something that had endeared him to her when they first met. But now she didn’t want his weakness, didn’t want his beating, aching heart laid out before her. She wanted him to undo this damage. To tell his father that they’d made a terrible mistake and that they would like their daughter back. She wanted him to drive to that school, Willowridge, and sign their daughter out, bring her home. Let her live here, God, die here with her family. She wanted him to make this right.

  “When do we get to see her?” she asked, clenching her jaw to keep the words she wanted to say (to spit) from forming.

  Ab took a deep breath.

  “When can we go to the school?” she said, louder this time.

  “They don’t allow visits at all for the first thirty days. It’s too difficult otherwise.”

  “Difficult?” Her voice felt like a balloon, rising, rising.

  “The doctors say that the transition is easier this way.”

  “Easier for whom?” she asked.

  “For her?” he said. “For us, I suppose.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. As soon as my stitches are healed, I’d like you to take me to her. And we will visit her every week. And eventually, I’d like her to come home. What did you tell Peyton?”

  Ab’s head dropped to his chest. His eyes were filled with tears when he looked up at her again. Softly, he said, “Mother explained to him that she’s with the angel
s.”

  “Angels?” she said, her chest crushed with the weight of this.

  “Gin,” he pleaded and reached for her, but as he leaned down, she slapped him. Not once but twice, three times, until her arms ached and her palms stung, and hot milk leaked from her breasts, soaking her blouse and his shirt as he pressed himself against her whispering his futile apologies.

  * * *

  The only people who knew the truth about Lucy were her in-laws, her mother, and Marsha. Abbott Senior and Sylvia hadn’t wanted them to tell anyone at all, but Ginny lashed out angrily and said she refused to lie to her mother. To her best friend. She had no siblings; Marsha was all she had.

  The Richardsons told friends and extended family that the baby had been born with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck like a noose. That she had been blue. That there was nothing anyone could do. There was no funeral, of course, the baby having not breathed a single breath, and the shower gifts were all returned. Flowers had arrived at the hospital and, later, at the house in a steady stream: sickening bouquets of gladiolas, lilies, white roses, and chrysanthemums. The sympathy cards that arrived in the mail spoke of angels and heaven and God’s will. Ginny burned everything in the garden incinerator, all that misguided sympathy turned to ash, floating like snow in the autumn air. She knew that if she didn’t destroy everything, she might begin to believe the lie, might let grief overwhelm her, might even one day let go.

  She refused to let go. Thirty days, in thirty days they would be allowed to visit her. She clung to this; it was the only thing that pulled her from the hazy depths of slumber each morning. The only thing that enabled her to rise from the bed and the sheets (the ones she refused to change—stiff and sour with the milk that continued to leak from her breasts). When sorrow overwhelmed her, pulled her heart in its relentless undertow, it was the only thing that saved her from swallowing that sorrow whole.