Chapter 6 insert-D

TWILIGHT SLEEP

"I looked for that which is not, nor can be,
And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth:
But years must pass before a hope of youth-
Is resigned utterly." - Christina Rossetti, A Pause For Thought

The day began as any other uneventful Monday. I was making breakfast, for it was Mrs. Wilson's annual vacation week, and her temporary replacement had proven unreliable.

Malcolm pushed through the swinging kitchen door, as if he was already fifteen minutes late leaving for work. He peered at the contents of my mixing bowl, and raised his eyebrows in question.

"Isn't this what I pay servants to do, or have they all quit?" he asked, with a twist of the lips that could be taken for a smile, though his voice did not reflect that.

I wasn't amused.

"As a matter of fact, Mrs. Laskey has walked out, with no prior notice." I stated, querulously. "What would you like?"

"Just toast. I'm in a hurry. My God, Olivia! Are you completely oblivious to this racket?"

Joel was happily beating a pair of spoons against the wooden tray of his high-chair. Malcolm took them away, causing an even louder disturbance in the form of a vocal protest.

"Quiet!"

Mal looked up from his cereal to gaze in curiosity from one parent to the other.

"If he has something to occupy his attention, he'll quiet down, Malcolm."

"Quiet." said Mal to his brother, in a loud whisper.

"You must be hungry." I said to Malcolm. "You should have something besides toast. Sit down and have breakfast."

"Only if you can have it ready in the next five minutes. No, I'll just get something in town." He decided, taking an apple from a crystal bowl at the center of the table.

"You're so clever." said Mal to Malcolm, repeating something I often told Mal. Over the years as he grew older, it became something of a joke, often repeated to diffuse tension.

"I should hope so," he said, admonishing Mal to behave, today. "Olivia, I'll be late, this evening. I have to drive to Richmond, this afternoon."

I nodded, and turned back to my work.

Mal abandoned his breakfast to follow Malcolm out of the kitchen, loudly announcing that he wanted to go along. When he was told that he could not, the predictable tantrum ensued. Now I had two screaming children on my hands.

"You can go next week." I told Mal, knowing he did not understand the concept of "next week," and knowing I shouldn't make such a promise, even to a child young enough to have a short memory span.

Mal refused to be calmed. I lifted him onto the counter top, where he could kick and thrash about, but couldn't do any damage. He demanded to be let down, but I ignored him, until he stopped screeching.

I carried Joel's bowl of cereal across to the table, placing it carefully beyond his reach.

"Wait, Malcolm, if you're going past Timberlake, could you get-"

"I shan't have time." he said as he left, glad to be going, not waiting to hear what the request was. He hated being sent on other people's errands.

Was I so unimportant that he could not do the simplest of favors for me?

We didn't have a driver-Lucas had gone to Maryland to attend to some family obligation. This did not much inconvenience Malcolm, but I had to postpone my planned excursions for the week. Furthermore, Mal had developed a disturbing cough the day before, and I'd wanted to get a particular remedy.

Feeling as cross and as easily dismissed as a child, myself, I stalked back into the kitchen, my exasperation verging on rage, disproportionate to this incident.

"Mal, drink your juice." I said dully, falling into a chair to rest for a minute.

It was only seven o'clock in the morning, and already I had a headache, and the boys' nap time was hours away. They seemed to awaken earlier and earlier, in the mornings. The prospect of being trapped in the house all day, in this unseasonably high temperature, with two fretful children wasn't a good one.

For a moment, I resented Malcolm for going off, unconcerned, to stimulating conversations and pursuits, while I spent another monotonous day reading the same stories and nursery rhymes, and thinking up new ways of entertaining his sons. I was never given a word of encouragement, and never a break.

I rarely complained; Malcolm wouldn't have listened, and a contrary disposition would only make him stay away from home. But did I really want him home all day? Probably not, for his presence would agitate the boys, and he did not relate well to them.

On occasion, in those early years, Malcolm did try, but he frightened Joel by speaking too loudly, tossing him too high in the air in his attempt to play with the baby. It was always easier with Mal, though often, he reproved Mal when the little boy acted up, trying to win his father's full attention away from Joel, or from me.

Both boys learned to be cautious, and eventually Mal became a less affectionate child than I'd have liked him to be. If Malcolm saw Mal climb on my lap or kiss me, he would say that I was spoiling my son.

"He's getting too old for that sort of thing." was his frequent refrain, once Mal was past the age of five.

My glum spirits affected the boys, and Mal became nearly unmanageable, during the day. I often felt disagreeable, and at the end of my rope. Tears came all too easily, and I struggled to calm Joel and Mal into a better humor, in preparation for the time when Malcolm would arrive home, in the evening.

Malcolm's intolerance would only worsen matters, and he had already complained once that week of my peevishness. He could be brutally insensitive. I did not wish to give him cause for complaints, so I refrained from sharing the strain of my day with him, though he never extended to me the same courtesy.

That night as I finished putting the boys to bed, an agitated Malcolm appeared in the nursery. I signaled to him to keep quiet.

Mal was just drifting off; he had resisted all the way to bed. I'd read him three stories, before his eyes finally closed. I tucked his favorite bear in beside him, and pulled a second blanket over him. I switched on the night-light, and cautiously turned to leave the room.

"What is THIS?" demanded Malcolm, brandishing a letter. I recognized John Amos' handwriting. "I'd like you to tell me what he means by this."

"Who? John Amos?"

"What sort of "bond," he said this last scornfully, as if he spoke profanity, quoting from the letter, "What sort of bond do you have?"

"You're jealous." I said easily, and I must admit to enjoying the look of annoyance this provoked. Malcolm, in arguments, often accused me of jealousy, when he could think of no other ready insult.

Our exchange began upstairs, and progressed as we walked through the foyer and into the front parlor.

"Stop evading the question. You may call me many things, Olivia, but to say that I am jealous of anyone would be inaccurate. Anything anyone else has, or could have-"

"Keep your voice down, Malcolm." I admonished. "I've mentioned to you before that John might visit. You just chose not to hear it. You make it sound so...
so indecent! He means," I said, gesturing toward the letter, "that we are family. He was such a comfort to me when I went to New London, that is all."

A vision of John's countenance flashed in front of me. I saw him sitting in my father's parlor, his knees drawn together, his eyebrows contracted into a wrinkle of frown. I saw his honest eyes, his concern for me.

"I suggested he might visit Foxworth-"

"Impossible! I won't agree to it." exclaimed Malcolm.

"I don't want to talk about this now, when you're determined to oppose anything I ask. I'm going to bed."

I brushed past him.

"To bed? But I've just come in."

"Well, if you didn't work until all hours, you'd have company in the evenings, when you come home."

"Is that why this cousin of yours is visiting?"

"Malcolm, I am tired. I don't feel well, and I'd rather not argue with you."

"Then write to this man and tell him this isn't a good time for a visit."

"Oh, all right!" I said, seeing that he wouldn't let it go, unless I gave in.

I left Malcolm alone with his newspaper, and went upstairs. But I could not sleep.

Later that night, I began to experience pain. It was a dull ache that grew in intensity, until a band of pain encircled my waist and lower back. Strangely, what was happening did not alarm me. The doctor had been wrong, I thought; there was no baby, only an overdue period.

I felt immensely relieved, even welcoming the discomfort that hourly swallows of the Lydia Pinkham liquid and raspberry leaf tea did not alleviate. My supply of flannel cloth-ordinarily enough to last a week-would not suffice, clearly. Still, it did not occur to me that what was happening wasn't normal.

At one o'clock, attributing my weakness to hunger, I went downstairs to make a sandwich. When even that small task proved too much, I poured a glass of milk, instead.

All at once, I felt light-headed. I just managed to put the glass down, before sinking to the floor in a faint. When I regained awareness, Malcolm was there,
having come from the library when he heard me fall.

The medicine left me pleasantly withdrawn, but even so, I noticed his pallor. He was aware-even if I wasn't-that something wasn't right.

I should have known what was happening, but I can only conclude that I experienced a curious kind of mental block, induced by shock, in which one's mind refuses to accept the obvious.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I need to go upstairs," I kept saying, but he insisted that I not try to stand. I was beyond mortification, and I felt too weak to protest. I remained on the kitchen floor where I'd fallen, leaning against a cabinet.

Malcolm could be depended upon to take care of things, under pressure; his aloof but consistent steadiness was comforting. From the front hallway, I heard him begin to give instructions to Mrs. Steiner, whom undoubtedly disliked being summoned, at such a late hour. She would stay with Mal and Joel, until we returned.

"I've just looked in on the boys," Malcolm said in a level voice, as if nothing was amiss, as if to allay my concerns before I spoke them. "They're both asleep."

During the drive into Charlottesville, we said little, the tension reminiscent of the night when Mal had been born.

Both of my children had been born in the hospital, rather than at home, as was still customary, at the time. We had not been told much of what to expect, and when the time came, Dr. Braxten could not be reached. We both had been nervous, as Malcolm drove through a snowstorm to the nearest hospital, where an unfamiliar doctor tended to me. I was just as nervous now.

The waiting room was full. Tempers flared, complaints were ignored all around. One man had broken an arm while cranking his motor car. He claimed to have walked three miles after that, and was particularly strident in his demands to be helped.

I was taken to a room, and Malcolm was asked to wait elsewhere.

"How far along are you, Mrs. Foxworth?"

"About eleven, twelve weeks." I answered, as I was examined.

A second doctor was called to finish the procedure, which began to be more painful than I could endure. A sedative was administered.

I don't remember the point at which I dropped out of consciousness, but I must have. I dreamed. I remembered.

"You've been so brave! It's almost over-just a little longer now, and then you can rest."

My mother's voice came to me, through the haze of pain that bore my child toward life. She stood by my bedside, offering encouragement, as she smoothed the hair from my damp forehead. She let me hold her hand, endured my tight grip as the pains washed clear thought from my over-tired brain.

"Never... again!" I breathed.

"We all say that, but we never remember it after." commented the nurse, disengaging my hand. It had not been my mother, only a nurse who said she came from Boston. My mother's sweet voice, her presence beside me had been all in my mind.

It had still been snowing, that Saturday morning of Mal's birth, and I was far from home-far from anyone whom would comfort me. My room was full of flowers and cards from well-wishers, from people Malcolm knew and some he didn't, and none of it meant anything to me. These were congratulations for something which had happened to me before I had time to ask myself if I even wanted it. Other women did not question or doubt; this was the price of marriage.

"She's a good girl. Didn't carry on so, like most of 'em do, not until the end." the doctor had told Malcolm.

I heard only fragments of conversation after that. The baby weighed just over eight pounds. Malcolm was congratulated, as if it was all his own accomplishment, and not mine-not the result of seven long hours of anguish, which the doctor blithely referred to as an "easy, short labor."

"Mrs. Foxworth? Are you ready to see your husband? He's been waiting for hours. Come on, wake up now."

Ignoring the nurse, whose manner had grown imperious, I had dozed off again. Some time later, I awakened from my fog, looked around, confused. I panicked, and began to cry.

"Now, there's no need for that." said Malcolm, a trifle impatiently. "I've sent a telegram to your father. He ought to be here by the end of the week."

"Thank you." I murmured.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm all right." I'd claimed, though the truth was that my body felt battered, but the blood, the sensation of searing, bone-splitting pain, and the fear of not surviving it was not something I could tell Malcolm about.

"Good, good." he said, and started to turn away.

"The baby-"

"He's all right. A fine boy. I've already seen him."

I felt both relief and distress, and hadn't been able to stop my tears.

"They took him right away to clean and... whatever they had to do. What does he look like? Tell me, Malcolm."

"He looks like a baby." was Malcolm's unhelpful reply.

"When can I see him?"

It was Malcolm who brought our baby to me. In Malcolm's arms, the child looked tiny-smaller than he was. He had a lot of hair for a newborn, and he looked perfectly healthy. Carefully, Malcolm laid the warm bundle in my arms, and I looked down at the son who had instantly become the center of my world.

"Malcolm, he's precious."

"He's quiet now, at least. You'll wake him up if you keep on like that, Olivia."

"I can't help it. I don't know what makes me cry. I couldn't be any happier." I said, marveling at the velvety warmth of my baby's cheeks and his tiny,
helpless, aimless hands.

"Well, what shall we call him?"

I was lucky, and so grateful. I felt such love at that moment for them both.

"I want him to have your name." I said. "Malcolm Neal."

I looked up from my son briefly, to see what Malcolm thought of this. He was so rarely happy. Times of being in his favor were few and far between, but on that morning I knew he was pleased. I had made him a father; I had given him what he wanted.

"Mal." he said. "We'll call him Mal."

"Mrs. Foxworth? Can you hear me?"

A different nurse spoke to me now, as I was jolted back into the present. I woke unwillingly, feeling as if I hadn't slept, but instead had been paralyzed for hours, my consciousness suspended.

I'd had a miscarriage, we were told.

"How can that be?" Malcolm asked the nurse. "The last time, they were able to prevent that from happening."

"Unfortunately, miscarriage is quite common, even for women who have had healthy children. The doctor will come in soon to answer your questions."

We waited, enfolded in silence.

Malcolm looked tired, his expression strained. I was not fully awake, but too edgy to sleep; whatever had been put through my IV line made me shiver, though I wasn't cold. All I could do was stare blankly out the window, where the sun was just coming up. It was a beautiful sunrise, but it was a lost sunrise; I had lost my daughter, or the hope for a daughter.

This was nothing like my previous visits-the awful time when I'd nearly miscarried Joel, and the month later when he'd been delivered by emergency Caesarian. Why couldn't it have gone as smoothly as Mal's birth? I hadn't known so at the time, but I had been fortunate. I had not been as fortunate today.

"I strongly advise you not to try and have any more children." said Dr. Raynham, gravely.

Recalling Malcolm's reaction to Dr. Braxten's judgment on this matter, I waited for Malcolm's vehement opposition. He managed to remain in command of his emotions, but his disappointment showed. Perhaps now he would believe the validity of Dr. Braxten's assessment.

"If you please, sir," he indicated that he wished to speak to Malcolm privately, but Malcolm refused. "If you intend on conducting sexual relations in future,
I recommend that your wife undergo this procedure. It would be permanent, you understand."

"Permanent?"

"Salpingectomy is a fairly simple procedure. I'd like to schedule the date for the operation." said Dr. Raynham.

"No." said Malcolm.

Though it was the most practical solution, and I would have agreed to have the operation, had Malcolm given the consent that was required, I, too, felt uncomfortable with the finality of such a decision, particularly on that morning. There would be time later to realize all the implications.

"Talk it over, then." rejoined the doctor, as he turned to go.

"There is nothing to talk over. I won't agree to it, you understand?"

Dr. Raynham frowned, disapproving, but wisely, he did not comment.

"Malcolm, we don't have to make a decision this morning." said I, placating, then wondering why I bothered.

Although Malcolm and I both knew it would not happen, he seemed to need to hold on to the belief that it was still possible to have more children. Why did it matter so? How could a man possessed of such vast potential, who continued to achieve so much and live so well, feel incomplete?

"Very well," said the doctor, addressing me. "Come back in a month. I'll refer you to someone who can explain your other option." he looked toward Malcolm. "If not, this will probably happen again. You do understand the gravity of the situation?"

I felt chastised, and irritated.

"I'm ready to go home." I told Malcolm. All I wanted was to rest in my own quiet room, and to be away from this place.

And so we drove home, as silently as we'd left it; we went back to that house where, just yesterday, my child had been growing inside me. I'd been ambivalent, and so God had decided to lift that burden.

I was glad not to have much memory of that "minor" procedure which permitted my body to resume its natural courses. I was relieved to have it over. The drug was already gone from my system, but I was too listless to do anything but separate myself, to sit alone in the parlor, or lie in bed with my sin, my shame, my secret blood draining away-that which might have nourished the little hope I had let go of, that I had willed away. Such a little hope, that life. Such a little blood, and such a little time.

Dreamless sleep would be my solace; it would cleanse me, as I waited for my mind to forget what my body had already forgotten.