Chapter Thirty
Meg.
The first few days after Sébastien was born were the best of my life, despite my physical discomfort. I was radiant as I held my baby boy to my breast and felt him feed, watched him explore the world with eyes that I was told may well change from that stunning blue soon, but which seemed to focus on me alone, and who communicated with me with a gurgle and a cry, but whom I felt I understood more completely than anyone else in my life.
I had worried that the bond I had heard tell of between and mother and baby was just a myth, and that we would feel estranged from each other, but I knew that I loved him with all my heart and that he loved me the same.
People flocked to see us in the infirmary where we were staying for the time being, the patients first because of their proximity, under the watchful eye of Nurse Barber. Even Tillie Maynard, who was definitely not a fan of mine, leaned forward to get a look at the baby.
"We have a gift for you," Annabella was carrying a large, soft parcel wrapped in newspaper and tied with string. "May I hold the baby while you open it?"
"Of course." We traded child for parcel and Annabella cooed down at my little boy.
"Oh, look at you, aren't you precious? Look at your tiny little fingers and those big, beautiful eyes." Sébastien sneezed like a kitten. "Oh, bless you! Bless you!"
"You look good with a baby in your arms," Nurse Barber commented. "Perhaps we should find you a man to service you with one of your own, and then you will forget all this deviant nonsense about sleeping with women. Not that it would help on the marriage front, no man is going to want to marry a fallen woman."
That hurt, as I was sure it had intended to, and I struggled to undo the knot in the string with fingernails that I had bitten down to the quick.
"No fear, Nurse," Annabella did not even look up from Sébastien. "I do well with little ones for about half an hour, after that I am perfectly happy for them to go back to their mothers." She gave Sébastien her finger, and he seized hold of it. "Oh, what a good, strong grip, young man!"
"Do you need assistance, Giry?" Nurse Barber asked me. "We cannot stand in this infirmary all day, some of us have things to do."
"No need, thank you, Nurse Barber," I replied as I finally managed to loosen the string. The paper fell away and I found that I was holding a blanket made up of dozens of knitted squares, all of different colours and knitted with varying amounts of skill. As I shook it out, I found that it was enormous, easily big enough for a double bed.
"It is from all of us," Sally told me with a smile. "It was just supposed to be a small blanket that you could wrap the baby in, but I suppose we got a bit carried away. Peggy Atwood taught us how to knit—well, those who didn't know how to already—and we've been working away at this for weeks. It's been a devil of a job keeping it from you, I must say. You have no idea how many times I have had knitting needles poking me in the bum because I had to sit on them when you came into the room."
"Well, it was an excellent deception," I laughed. "And a very generous one. Thank you so much for this. Sébastien will know that people were looking after him even before he was born. And that just because people are unwell in their minds it doesn't mean that they are not, warm, kind people."
"Oh, dear girl, he'll know that already, from you."
I wondered if that was true; I would surely be home with my baby soon, but I did not think that I would ever want to discuss my mental illness with him. I did not want to make Sébastien as frightened of medical persons and surroundings as I had once been.
I stroked the wool blanket on my lap, watching as Sébastien was passed from arm to arm, until he became tired of this manhandling and started to grizzle.
"Alright ladies, that's enough." Nurse Barber began hustling everyone away. "Let's not overcrowd Miss Giry and Baby Giry."
"Danton," I corrected as she put Sébastien back in my arms. "He has a father, and his father's name is Danton."
"You're not married, Giry," she told me. "And your baby will always be a bastard because of that."
"Nurse Barber?"
She had turned to follow her charges from the infirmary, but swivelled back to me, hands clasping over the front of her apron.
"You are good at your job. In my time here, I have seen women get better and go home because of the care provided by you and your colleagues. But you are not a nice person, and I think it would benefit you to avail yourself of a better bedside manner."
"Giry, I have never been one to sugar-coat things. It's a cruel world out there and I am only saying what others will say, that will be said to your baby for the rest of his life. I am here to provide medical assistance, not to be a shoulder for you to cry on, and I would not be doing my job if I let you believe that when you and he enter the real world, everything will be easy."
"You can't talk to me of an easy life, Nurse Barber. I live and work with people who are freaks of nature, who are rejected by society as a whole, but they have more humanity in them than you, and are closer to God."
"Thank you, Giry, for your opinion of my character, however unsolicited. But you know a thing or two about solicitation as well, it seems."
I went red and jiggled the baby in my arms.
"There are rules, and I follow them. You and your ilk do not. I advise you not to speak to me in such a way again, or there will be consequences. If you think I am not a nice person now, then you should see my when my temper gets riled up."
She turned and left the infirmary, and I looked back down at Sébastien.
"Don't pay any attention to the mean old witch," I told him. "Whatever side of the blanket you were born on, you are loved and appreciated. Here, see what has been made for us." He quietened down and I push the corner of the blanket into his little hand. "We'll use this to learn the names of colours when you're old enough, you and I."
He sucked at the corner of the blanket and starting whimpering again, and I felt my breasts heavy with milk.
"I know, Sébastien, I know… here you are…"
Feeding him just felt so natural, even if he sucked so hard that it sometimes hurt, my back was sore and my nipples raw. It didn't matter; his needs came before my comfort.
There were outside visitors as well, flooding in like brightly coloured butterflies among Kirkbride's sea of white and red and grey. Over and over again, Sébastien was admired as he was circled around the group.
"Here, Sébastien, are all your aunties and uncles," I told him as Dr Gotreich cradled him, looking more like a friendly giant than ever. "This is your Uncle Wilhelm, and your Aunties Irene, Julia, Helen and Lucy."
With them, they brought a telegram that contained just six words:
Congratulations on birth of son CDC.
It must have cost a small fortune to send those six words from France to America, but it meant the world to me that Erik had informed Christine de Chagny of the birth of our child, and that she had responded.
They were not allowed to stay with me for long, but I felt their affection surrounding me with warmth, like the knitted blanket I wrapped Sébastien in.
I knew that it could not last, and dreaded the ending of the week, when Erik and Mrs Hoffman would arrive to take my baby away from me.
"It is for his own sake," Erik said gently when he visited the day after Sébastien was born. "This is no place for a child, you understand that, don't you?"
"Of course I understand, a child cannot grow up in a madhouse, especially if we do not know how long am I still to stay. Understanding it doesn't make it any easier to bear."
On the day that they came for him, I could not help seeing both Erik and Clara Hoffman as ogres from a fairy story, here to take my child away. I knew and trusted Erik if not the nanny, but that image was as clear in mind as if it had been plucked from the pages of that same storybook. The blanket the women of Kirkbride had knitted was far too big for him to be wrapped in, so he was folded in one layer with the rest bundled beneath him like a multicoloured cushion.
Sister Constance arrived to check up on me just as Nurse Ricci told me that Erik, Mrs Hoffman and Dr Lockwood were waiting for me in the doctor's office. I was holding poor Sébastien so tightly that I think I might have hurt him, for he was crying in my arms, and looked at the nun in desperation.
"Will you come with me? I'm not asking you to do anything, I know this is what has to happen for Sébastien's benefit but I would really appreciate another woman with me."
"It's why I've come, Marguerite. Mr Danton told us what the circumstances were, and there are some things that I need to talk to you about afterwards. I'll stay with you for as long as you need me."
"What things?"
"Afterwards," Sister Constance repeated gently. "I know this is a difficult thing, but putting it off will not make it any easier."
"You'll make sure he has everything he needs?" It took all my efforts to suppress my tears. "You'll keep him nice and warm?"
It was the first week of October and starting to turn chilly.
"I promise you, Meg, Sébastien will be well cared for."
Erik was so gentle with him, in a way that I had never seen before.
"He needs to be fed every three of hour hours, he's a hungry little thing. He will grow up to be tall and strong like his father."
He smiled at that, the Mrs Hoffman also spoke:
"You have my promise also, Miss Giry. I will take great care of your boy. I know how precious he is."
"And you will bring him to visit me?"
"Every week, little dancer."
My heart was heavy and my voice tight when I placed Sébastien in his father's arms.
"Goodbye for now, Sébastien," I gave him a last kiss on his brow. "I'll see you very soon. I love you so much. Be good for Papa and Mrs Hoffman, won't you?" It was no use; I could feel the tears filling my eyes, threatening to spill. "Please take him out of this place before I fall apart entirely."
"We'll be back in a week, Meg," Erik promised me. "Look after yourself. You've been doing so well, and I know that you will be back at The Grand Circle with Sébastien and I soon."
I sank into a chair as Erik and Mrs Hoffman left Dr Lockwood's office, taking my baby with them. I had planned to count, slowly and calmly to ten before letting myself cry, but in the event, I started to gasp like a landed fish the moment the door closed, and then to sob properly.
"It's alright," Sister Constance crouched and offered me a handkerchief with the initials Z.W.S embroidered upon it in loopy blue script. "Let it all out, there's a good girl."
I clutched at her, and sobbed so hard that I felt like my body would break, as my heart had broken. When the storm had passed, and I had no more tears to shed, she gently helped me to my feet.
"I'm going to take you back up to your room now, Marguerite. As I said, there are some things we still need to talk about. Come along now."
She helped me up the stairs and into the room I shared with Sally, who was filling a suitcase with her belongings, as she would shortly be going home.
"They took the baby away?" She asked gently, and I burst into fresh tears, amazed that I still had fluids in my body. Sister Constance nodded and Sally came to me and wrapped me in her arms.
"Oh, you poor kid. But at least you know that your boy is with his father, safe and happy." She rubbed my back.
"Would it be acceptable to ask that Miss Giry and I have some time alone in here?" Sister Constance asked. "I don't want to throw you out of your own room, but we do have some things to attend to."
"Of course. I've waited eleven months to pack my things up, an hour or so won't make any difference." She gave me another squeeze and then let me go, chucking me under the chin. "Chin up, kid. All will be well."
When she left, Sister Constance sat me down on my bed, rubbing my back slowly. We sat like that for a several minutes as I struggled to control myself.
"Take your time," she murmured. "Don't feel like you have to hold anything back, there's no shame in being upset over what has happened."
"Who—who is Z.W.S?" I asked at last, for want of a distraction, my voice still shaking due to the outburst of tears, and Sister Constance smiled.
"That is me. When we become nuns, we take another name. We're not supposed to keep personal possessions either, but Reverend Mother didn't seem to think that a hankie counted. Constance means 'steadfast' and I have always been told I was that, so I felt it was the perfect name. Before I took my vows, my name was Zaïre Worthington-Smith."
"Zaïre?" I repeated, and she smiled.
"I know. Far too flouncy for a nun."
I made a noncommittal sound, and she smiled.
"What can I say? My parents loved the Voltaire play of the same name and named me after it. But when I took Holy Orders, I wanted to go for something more… down to earth."
"I was named in a similar way. I was born during a performance of the opera Faust in Paris, and the leading lady is called Marguerite."
She nodded. "Now that you are calmer, we need to talk about what happens to your body now that little Sébastien has gone away with his father. I'm going to give you Epsom Salts, to dry up your milk."
"Dry it up? Why? Can't I keep it?"
"Because your little boy is no longer with you and you can't breastfeed, but your body doesn't know that, so it is still producing the milk. If we just let it carry on then your breasts could swell, you can experience pain or leaking, or even an infection. Mixing half a teaspoon of the Epsom Salts in a small glass of water will stop that from happening. I want you to do that, and drink it three times a day. It won't taste very nice, but follow it with something sweet and it won't be so bad. It will stop your milk in a week or so, and then you won't be in pain because you can't feed your baby. I'm going to bind your breasts too, to prevent infection. Can you undress for me?"
I did as she asked, and she wrapped bandages so tightly around my breasts that I felt utterly flat-chested, like I might pass for a boy.
I cried still more after Sister Constance had gone, and I was amazed that I was not a dried up husk of a woman. Maybe it was the breastmilk, still flowing within me since I had not yet taken the Epsom Salts, that I wept instead of real tears.
The nun was right in that the flow of milk to my breasts did stop after about ten days. What did not stop was the ache in my heart, and I felt that all the good work that Dr Lockwood had done had dissolved away, just as the Epsom Salts did in my thrice daily glasses of water.
Dr Lockwood was worried by what he called my lapse in progress, and deeply concern that it may cause some sort of reversal to the work he and I had spent so long doing. I sat in our regular appointments in his office, staring at the picture of the King Charles Spaniel on the wall, and longing for my lost baby.
"Miss Giry, please," Dr Lockwood was almost begging. "I cannot help you if you do not tell me how you feel."
"How I feel? Oh…" I let out my breath in a long sigh. "When I first came to Kirkbride I felt like I was at the bottom of a very deep well, so deep that I could not see the light that shows there is a surface. The months I have been here have been like climbing that well, slowly, yes, but climbing towards the light. Now that Sébastien is gone, even though I know it is what is best for him and that he cannot stay here with me, I feel like I have fallen all the way to the bottom again."
"I must ask you not to be alarmed by the way that you are feeling. It does not mean that we have failed in our work together or that that work has become undone. When a woman goes through a pregnancy all sorts of things change in the body and that can also affect the mind. Many new mothers experience a period of melancholia, even when they can keep the baby with them. You are also going through another bereavement."
"Bereavement?" I repeated, my voice still a monotone. "My son is alive and well."
"But has been taken away from you for the time being. It is perfectly natural for you to be feeling low. But you are not at the bottom of the well, Miss Giry, we have climbed it together, you and I, at least halfway. You have put your trust in me for six months now. Please say that you'll trust me further."
Before Sébastien was born I would have believed him, but again I felt numbed, like I was in a block of ice. Lockwood sighed.
"I told you, several weeks ago, that there were other methods we can try to help you, but that I could not do them while you were pregnant. Now that your baby is born, we can amend your treatments. Starting tomorrow, we will begin a far more intense regime of hydrotherapy."
'Far more intense' was certainly one way to put it. While pregnant, I usually quite enjoyed the 'hot bath' portion of these sessions, in which I stepped into a warm, calming tub of clear water, still wearing a specified shift for some reason. Having the water too hot would be harmful to the baby; apparently, there were some women who, when finding themselves pregnant and wanted to illegally terminate the pregnancy, would climb into a bath of scalding hot water and drink gin. The combination would kill the unborn child. Since the doctors and nurses at Kirkbride had no intention of that happening, my bath was at a pleasant, comforting temperature, and I would lie back with my eyes closed, thinking or remembering or daydreaming, depending on my mood.
The cold bath portion of the hydrotherapy was always unpleasant, causing a shock to my system when I moved from the warm water to the cold, but I would just sit there stiffly with my teeth chattering, and grimly wait for the allotted time to pass. It was supposed to soothe my 'nervous impulses' and wash away my depression. It reminded me, strangely, of the illustrated Bible I had had as a child. The story of Jesus Christ being baptised by John had been illustrated with John plunging Christ backwards into the river and fully immersing Him, rather than the infant baptisms I had witnessed in church, where the priest sprinkled blessed water onto a baby's head. Like baptism washing away sin, hydrotherapy was supposed to wash my depression away
I had no idea just how lenient the staff had been with me with regards to the temperatures. When I entered the hydrotherapy room it was so full of steam it was like walking into the laundry. As usual, I stripped down to my shift, but winced and drew back the moment my foot touched the water.
"Ow! That's bloody hot!"
"Language, Ciry," Nurse Barber told me. "Into the tub now, don't make a fuss."
"But it's too hot," I protested.
"It is exactly one hundred and nine degrees, as it should be. You'll acclimatise soon enough, now get it."
I got into the water and lay back as ordered, but the heat was still strong enough to tingle against my immersed skin and the steam rose around me in billows. Then, Nurse Barber and Nurse Donovan began tying a sheet of oilcloth over the top of the tub so that only my head was exposed, trapping all that steam in with me.
"Please—" I began. "Please, Nurse Barber, let me out's too hot!"
"Nonsense."
"How long do I have to stay in here?"
"Fifteen minutes. Just relax now."
I pressed my lips together, whimpering and feeling like a lobster being boiled for supper. I would never eat seafood again, I promised myself.
"Into the cold bath now," Nurse Barber said after a small eternity, and Nurse Donovan hurried to undo the ties of the oilcloth before the two of them lifted me out of that horribly hot water. I still had my eyes closed, and the ice that struck me made me buck and flail like a trapped bird.
"Stop that now," Barber commanded. "Five minutes in here, and it will all be over."
It was literally iced water, with cubes floating throughout it, and I was trembling so hard within seconds that I could not even wonder how ice was made and stored in this facility, how they stopped it from melting. By the time the five minutes were over, I was numbed to my bones, as limp as a rag, and could not feel my fingers or toes. The orderly Rowley had to carry me up the room that Sally and I shared, and even when I was covered with the blankets I was still shivering like a kitten in the snow.
I remembered Annabella Lawrence being so sneering when I said that I had had hydrotherapy before, and wondered if this was what she endured to cure her of her lesbianism. I wasn't sure how long she had been a patient at Kirkbride, but it had certainly been longer than my six months. To have to undergo that every week for months on end seemed to be nothing short of torture; I would have lied and offered my body to whatever man would take it if it meant that the hydrotherapy would stop. And yet, if such treatment could truly cure me and mean that I could return to my son, then I would endure it for however long it took.
The day that Erik brought Sébastien in to visit me was the brightest part of my week, like a firework bursting into light in a midnight sky. He was awake and alert in his father's arms, and when Erik passed him to me in the visiting room, the baby gazed up at me with eyes like sapphires, and I could have sworn that he smiled at me, even though it was apparently impossible for two months.
"He remembers me," I beamed.
"Of course he does," Erik assured me. "You're his mother."
"Oh, my little angle, I thought you would forget me." I offered Sébastien my little finger and he began to suck upon it contentedly. "How is he getting along?"
"I am assured that he is doing very well. Your nun friend says that he has gained two ounces of weight in the two weeks since his birth, and he is feeding every three to four hours."
"Good; I had forgotten that the midwives would be calling upon Sébastien at home too, but of course they must. But are you sure everything is alright, you look exhausted."
I had not seem him look so tired since those early days in Brooklyn, when he was working himself to the bone in order to raise the money he needed to put his plans for the Imaginarium into action. Erik sighed.
"I cannot complain, least of all to a woman in your circumstances, but I can tell you that he has a very healthy pair of lungs and he puts them to good use."
"You mean that he cries a lot?"
"It is almost constant, although Mrs Hoffman assures me that it is normal for this stage in his development. The only thing that seems to soothe him is music."
"Then he must take after you."
"I suppose so, although you are musical too. When he is old enough, maybe you can teach him to play the piano, as your father taught you."
"I would like that."
"And you, Meg, how have you been?"
"It's—it's been a very difficult week," I smiled down at my baby. "But all the better for seeing you, my darling boy. Yes it is, yes it is."
"In what way difficult?" I should have known that Erik would not just let the subject lie, and I sighed.
"You took my son away from me, Erik, it was always going to be a difficult week. But Dr Lockwood has intensified my hydrotherapy sessions. I will be home in no time."
"What do you mean by 'intensified'?" He was looking at me worriedly. "Meg, what is going on?"
And so I told him, haltingly and with great reluctance, and the frown was visible even with the mask covering most of his forehead.
"I do not like the sound of that."
"It is the normal way of carrying out the procedure. It's what happens to all the women who aren't pregnant—that or the cold spray of water. If it is going to make me well then I will submit to it, like you all wanted me to all along. We are going to try this new electroconvulsive therapy as well."
Erik drummed his fingers on the table and opened his mouth to say more, but I spoke before he could. "Please, I don't want to talk about it any longer. This is the only time I get to spend with Sébastien and I do not want to waste it, especially when he's not crying. Let us take him to the music room here and play something for him, hmm? I am resolute, Erik. I am more determined than ever that I will get well enough to come home to him."