Italy, Chelsea Naval Hospital
Gregory and Brigit
I used to be somewhat adventurous. When you live in Maine and along the coast, the ocean does that to you. You walk the beach or sit on the rocks or ledges and watch the ocean in its varying moods, its magnificent but dangerous anger when the waves roll in white caps and crash against the rocks, or in its days of peace when in a tide pool you may see sea gulls floating or gliding above you and the calm blue sea. There are times when you want to see the anger, for it is beauty that hides the dangers, something like in my life when I grew older. There had been a wreck of a schooner that beached in the frosty wind of a winter storm. It enchanted me.
This day I remember was sunny. The wreck of the Nancy – I called her the Yancy – perhaps too young to pronounce it correctly no matter how many times my mother or aunt or a brother told me N – Nancy – not Y – Yancy. Well, still not old enough to be left alone, I managed to wander away from my mother, Jocelyn, and an aunt. I was determined I was going to see that hulk I’d seen before and that bewitched me. What did I think it would tell me? I left them sitting on their blanket and finally came to her. The wood was gray and rough and splintery. At first, I looked back and couldn’t see my mother. That scared me, but the magnetism of the Nancy swept fright away. Waves wound about the listing hulk. I touched the side, the rough wood, looked up, somewhat apprehensively, then smiled, because she was there for me. But what was she telling me? There were secrets to uncover. That’s why I had to see her, talk to her.
I looked back. I didn’t see the family. I was scared and ran along the shore, yelling for my mother. I had lost my direction. I cried, walked, called. The Nancy was no longer there. I yelled at her, blamed her. “I’ll never come see you again.” Because of the secrets, though, I knew I was lying. Then a Park Ranger found me, then my mother. But I was still afraid and crying. You see, the Nancy did that to me. She churned my life. Looming, invulnerable, she withheld the secrets – the future to come – the ships – the women.
She kept them until I found the answers, or thought I did. For some years later it was another ship. Why is it that ships and women are thought to be in communion? Because they are both female, according to Roman prayers to a sea goddess?
_______________
But I have never told you about my town. My mind wanders. You see, you do not know the state of my mind or of my body. It’s a lovely town, three traffic lights that you can never pass through without a stop. There’s no such thing as synchronization. Perhaps it’s because Main Street is somewhat long with its grocery, jewelry, clothing stores, and a bank. Oh, and there’s an Indian shop that sells woven baskets and blankets. We call them American Indians; perhaps we don’t want to confuse them with India Indians. They like to be called Indians, so they told me. Well, this is the town of Cape Astraea, Maine. Mostly everyone knows one another or about them, at least so people think. We lived in a Victorian house, two blocks off of the main street. A stream flows between the main part of town and where we, my family and I, lived. Later I inherited the house. For a few years it was vacant, oh, occasionally rented with trepidation. Here’s why the worry. There is a portico in front held by two Doric columns. The front doors have the original engraved glass. The entrance hall separates the dining room and the living room, and beyond that is a pantry through which you cross to the large kitchen. A curving banister rises along the rather high stairway, and there along the upper hall are the bedrooms, and beyond these is a sitting room that looks out on the street. Well, at least you may get the idea. We loved that house, my family and I. My mother, the singer, my father, Aaron, a doctor, my brothers and sister, Mary, who would go to medical school. She’s a lesbian. Yes. We’ve come to accept it. Intelligent people must. That’s what we call ourselves. But, you see, they knew nothing about my secret with ships and the sea and wouldn’t for years.
~
Oh, the other ships. That was supposed to be a holiday. My mother took Mary and me, thinking it would be fine for us to see other places. We were just out to sea. Our Captain did not see in the fog the large freighter headed toward us. There was a sudden shudder. The lights went out, the door fell; I could hear water loudly flowing in not far from us. I heard screaming. It was so fearful. My mother had fallen to the deck but pushed herself up quickly, grabbed my arm, pulling Mary and me along the passageway. I heard the music but was too scared to look. People rushed along, pushing one another. My mother stopped for a moment, seeing a closet with life jackets, grabbed two to put on us. I protested. “You don’t have one.” She just pulled us along. Suddenly a ship’s officer was there directing people to a long gangplank down along the ship’s side. As we went down, I looked up. The hull of the huge freighter seemed as though it would fall and bury us. It was gigantic, fearsome. We stepped in water while I kept looking at the looming hull of that freighter that made me shake. I felt my mother pulling at me as she gripped Mary. She swam, pulling us somehow toward a tug boat that had turned back when the crew heard the cries and perhaps the crash. A crewman dragged us aboard and took us to a cabin. We lay on a bare mattress with one bare pillow. I listened to my mother breathing so hard trying to catch her breath while sobbing, “Why no life boat, why no life boat?” as I listened to my heart pounding against my chest. I don’t even remember how they got us to the hospital.
When we returned home, I was the hero to my schoolmates. And I bragged, hiding from everyone the fear that would embed itself, only I didn’t know it then. And my mother. There was this large photo of her on the front page of the paper. The phone kept ringing at home until finally my mother wished she could tear the phone lines out of the house. There being more than one, I would imagine her going from one room to room, ripping out phone cords. “But, mama, we’re heroes.” “Gregory. We aren’t heroes. We’re three fortunate people who lived to come home. You remember that. Sometimes everything works out well and other times not so well.” That was one of the rare instances I remember my mother going to church, taking me with her. I still see her lighting a candle, kneeling, crossing herself. She was brought up Catholic, but my father was Jewish. Religion in our house was barely ever mentioned. But when I think back, I see how brave my mother was. She was a woman who often kept things to herself, unless my father and she argued or tried to talk alone without one of the children hearing. Sometimes she would go to her room and ask not to be bothered, that she needed time to think. She was beautiful, such an ordinary word. But she was. Her hair was light brown and her eyes blue, her nose small and straight, her small lips, full and red, though I liked her without her lipstick. The redness faded but only to a degree. She was tall and later I realized how sexually appealing she was with her shapely legs and a fairly thin waist broadening to her hips, her breasts that seemed so slightly low but straight out. I admit there were times I wondered what she looked like naked. But what went on in her mind? Did she think about love, my father, of other men? When she put on her cosmetics, was she thinking of a seductive look, of her lithe body’s appearance, of the men and women who fawned about her after a performance? Well, she could be seductive with her smile, her soft voice, and soothing hands. I used to think that probably most of the time she was concentrating on her music. But growing up, what I do know is that she spent as much time as she could with her children, kissing us, smiling, and she could make us laugh. Other times she would sing to us, a lone personal performance. Sometimes when she sang to us like that, so intimately, I thought that the shipwreck bound her to Mary and me more than to my brothers. The mind of a young boy – he dreams of glory on a battlefield or as fast-draw sheriff in the Old West. But how that fancy changes when the sea is cold and about to drag you down into its unknown world.
Years later, 1942, there was another ship, a frightening sight taking me back to the Nancy. It was the burned hulk of the Normandie lying on her side, some frantically, incorrectly, crying it was sabotage, the former majestic liner that fled the German invasion, a symbol of fallen France. “Why,” I asked myself, “always wrecks?” How ironic. It was just before I entered, of all the services, the Navy.
~
Now I lie here. The doctors allowed me to come home, because the town is near a large hospital. And I can always get to Portland, perhaps Boston, rather fast. Sometimes I walk around town with Pamela, one of my daughters. My wife wanted her to leave Wellesley in her last year and attend a college near us, then wait for graduate school so she could look after me when my wife was away on one of her mysterious trips to look with some older guy – what the hell is his name – oh, Étienne, a very important guy she always reminded me, she just has to work with – searching for art or archeological items for that antiquities museum. Sometimes I wonder. But there’s still Melinda, my oldest daughter, a M.D., not so far away. So it’s obvious the war and the oceans I sailed couldn’t kill me. But . . .
_______________
We had swept the minefields at Anzio, and now our wooden YMS – yard minesweeper – lay at anchor. On board, we could hear the shellfire and small arms weapons. Part of the horror was watching as men fell near the shore. Soon German bombers were coming over every hour on the hour while German Messerschmitts flew low across the water machine-gunning ships and men.
A lieutenant junior grade, I was standing on the bridge. Suddenly another German fighter came at us and at a destroyer anchored nearby. I dived for cover, listening to bullets strike the boat. As I dived I felt a sharp pain. A bullet had grazed my arm that I had raised in an effort to protect my head. I grabbed the arm, yelled at the plane, “You fucking son of a bitch.” Grimacing, I called a corpsman who gave me a shot of morphine. I began to relax, even smiled despite the havoc around us. “Now the bombers,” I thought. “Typical German bastards, everything by the clock.” I looked at my watch.
Soon I heard the engines. My heart pounded. My head felt warm. The bombs always fell too close. So far we had been lucky. One hit on us and there would just be splinters. Others in my squadron just disappeared, had been sunk either by mines or blown apart, shredded, by the bombs. Our sweeper was one of the last of the squadron left, eventually the only one. How kind the waters that protected us. Perhaps Neptune was weary of the shattered hulks cluttering his sea bottom.
Six bombers. There were vapor trails and a swirling of fighter planes. Anti-aircraft fire threw up shrapnel. One bomber, hit by an American fighter, exploded. I watched the pieces and flames falling, cheered, shaking my fists in temporary glory at the planes, as did others on deck.
Another bomber flew below its fighter cover and the American planes sweeping toward the anchored ships. Bombs fell, one between the destroyer and our minesweeper, grazing the destroyer, exploding, throwing shrapnel in so many directions. Men ducked. Then I felt the shock. Something hit my leg. I screamed, grabbed, looked down, watching the blood flow. I tried to stand, fell to the deck. “Christ. Fuck.”
I pulled off my belt with my uninjured hand and arm, but could not use it, finally realizing the wound was at or above my thigh, not at my lower leg. I couldn’t move. Finally, the corpsman crawled to me, looked at the wound, shaking his head, grabbing a gauze pad, holding it tightly where the blood flowed. He administered another shot. I tried to move. “Relax, Lieutenant.”
The bombing continued. I could barely hear the corpsman. “Jesus. Why don’t those fuckers stop,” I kept yelling. “STOP.” I tried to raise my head but fell back wearily.
Not too long after, I was transferred to a Hospital ship. A doctor came to me. “Does it hurt?” The first thing I thought was, “You stupid bastard, of course it does.” Instead, I answered softly, “Yes, Sir.” “Don’t worry.” It was obvious my hip was damaged. And probably I may have seen the last of action. At that I smiled despite worrying about my body, how I would be affected, what would happen in the future.
In the operating room, they pinned my hip, arthroscoped my knee, played around with the nerve, I found out later.
The hospital plane left Italy, landing in Boston. From there, we were transferred to the Chelsea Naval Hospital. The navy tried to place us as close to home as possible.
Once settled, however, near other officers, nurses took me to the OR where doctors unpinned my hip, did several more arthroscopies. The entire time I lay in bed, either talking on the phone to family or friends or to nurses and doctors. One medical officer finally told me my leg was permanently damaged because of nerve destruction, that my navy days were over. On that day, depression hit me, thinking of future plans, how family and those I had known would see me. I would not be able to keep up with my friends who made it home after the war. For the rest of my life I saw myself walking with a limp, supported by a cane – a cripple. In fact, when I got back to Maine walking with crutches, a neighbor who saw me asked my mother what happened, exclaiming how sad the wound but how marvelous I survived.
Later, I pushed myself from the bed and managed to shove a chair by a window. The Boston skyline, that always brightened my thoughts, seemed dull in sunlight. It made little difference to me now, almost disappearing from view as I imagined a crippled future. My leg hurt, kept reminding me of a dim future, no matter how much I tried to ignore it. I don’t know how long I sat by the window. The voices of the other officers disappeared as I sank more deeply into self-pity.
Four of us were in a room, the door open so we could see into the hall to the nurses’ station. Usually officers get privacy or perhaps a roommate. I was partly asleep when one of the guys raised his voice. “Hey, Greg,” one of the men called. “Look what’s comin’ in this time. We got it made. Christ, the nurses, all this female stuff around us. We can make out. Look at that one over there standing by the desk. What a beautiful ass. What’s wrong with you? Wake up.” I finally heard. “Shut up, Frank. You’re goddamn lucky we have them to take care of us and in the States too. Just shut up.” I turned toward the window. Perhaps I was something of a rarity. I could not stand hearing lewd remarks about the nurses or just generally about women. I loved them as much as any of the other men, would gladly have one to lay. It had been a long time since Sicily where a woman seemed so easy to get. Yet, I looked at them as human beings who wanted attention as much as did the men, who had sexual or any needs like men.
A while later I listened to one of the other officers talking to a nurse, asking for a date when he got discharged, one telling at another time how beautiful she was, my roommates at one time or another making lewd remarks. One day a nurse they had never seen before entered the three-bed room. The man nearest the door whistled softly when she entered. Some one near the door said, “Hi, Lieutenant.” She glanced at me. “Hello,” she spoke softly, kindly. I took her smile as an invitation or hoped it was. “How about a date, Lieutenant, when I get out of here?” Ignoring me, she walked further along. Another man, watching her, spoke loudly to another patient as she passed, “What a piece of ass she would make.” I lay there upset by his remark while watching her.
The nurse grimaced, commanded the wounded officer to hold his mouth. Obviously, if she could, she would never take care of him. I wanted to say something and turned my head toward the voice. I have a habit of looking at a woman’s face, her eyes, and then at her breasts. But it was her hair, her face and eyes that struck me. I watched her walking toward me. She was fairly tall, perhaps five foot seven, her hair light reddish brown, her eyes green. About her small, straight nose there was a hint of freckles. “Irish,” I told myself.
“How are you, Lieutenant?” as she leaned slightly toward me. Her voice was soft, with almost a musical lilt. She had a slight southern accent that she seemed to be losing, perhaps from having been in Boston for so long. I don’t know. I don’t know where she came from, how long she had been here. I just liked hearing her voice and the way she pronounced her words.
“I’m O.K.” I tried not to stare, but our eyes met just momentarily in the attraction and instant recognition that occurs occasionally between people. In following days, she came by aware of my depression and lingering pain. Eventually, I asked her name.
“Brigit.”
I smiled.
“Do you know who I am?”
“What? No. I don’t. We just really met,” like I was crazy.
“I mean my name. Brigit was a Celtic goddess of doctors, for one thing and could foresee events. I even worry about impending births to look over and protect.” She laughed. “Oh, I’m all that.”
I knew she was kidding, or I thought she was.
She interrupted. “But don’t try to hit on me, Lieutenant. You’d disappoint me,” she continued softly as she began to raise my blanket to look at the wounded area.
There was a kindness and gentleness that enlivened her, so it seemed, each time she came to my bed. One time she came in and said, “Hello, you,” took my hand and just held it, comforting me. Every day, I watched for her, and began forgetting myself as I anticipated her shift, talking to her, feeling her hand on my shoulder. Then, during one of her shifts, I rang for her. I couldn’t urinate and I hurt.
“What’s wrong, Gregory?” She had never used my first name before. I felt a chill in my spine, gazed at her, as she put out her hand toward my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“My bladder, Brigit. I haven’t been able to go.”
She threw back the white blanket and sheet, raised my Johnny. I watched as her hand moved toward me, fascinated by her fingers yet afraid but wanting to feel her touch. She opened the string of my bottoms, pushed them down slightly. I felt her fingers against me gently moving about my lower abdomen.
“It’s distended. You need to get an x-ray, fast.” She hurried from the room, returned, and without waiting, wheeled me herself. A wet plate indicated my bladder was filled with urine. Brigit took me back.
She left, returned with a catheter and other materials she needed. “I’m going to put this in. It will relieve you. She gently pulled down my pajama pants. I watched, felt, as she placed her gloved hand about my penis. How long had it been since a woman had her hand on my cock? She smiled, as she pushed, withdrew the catheter some, then pushed again. “You know, it’s easier with a woman. It just goes directly in.” She said it with a slight smile. I laughed quietly. How I liked the way she held me there despite the momentary discomfort. It felt so warm, despite her glove. I wished she’d leave her hand wrapped about it. I imagined her playing with it.
“There.” She made certain the catheter was working well. “You’ll feel better now. Remember. Don’t let anyone give you morphine.” I don’t think she could help herself as she pulled off her glove and put out her hand and lightly touched my face.
~
When they transferred me to a private room, I was aware I’d be in the hospital for a long time. It depressed me more, thinking of home and how distant it seemed, yet by train one could travel there in short hours. There were visitors. My mother came, my father when he could, and also my sister, often accompanying my mother. Then there was that one time my sister came by herself, peeking in the door to see if I was awake. I heard about most of that visit later from Brigit, because my sister barely mentioned what happened.
I was in pain and had been for some time but didn’t want any more medication. Looking up as the door opened, “I don’t want any visitors. Get out!” I didn’t even know who it was, whether a nurse or another visitor. A nurse would have been upon me with one of those commanding looks.
My sister came to the foot of the bed, smiling. “Get the hell out of here.” Her face flushed, she started to speak. “What’s . . .” “Get OUT.” Hurt, shaking, she quickly turned and left, waiting hesitantly in the hall. I know she was crying and I didn’t care. When she looked up, she saw Brigit at the station, unknown to her, just a nurse lieutenant jg.
“Please,” Mary interrupted her.
Brigit answered, “Yes.” Instantly, she saw the redness, the distress on Mary’s face. “What is it?”
“He’s never like that – my brother.”
“Who?”
“Lieutenant Hurwitz. He’s my brother. He was just terrible, shouted at me to get out of the room.” Her eyes teared. “There’s something wrong.”
Brigit left her chair, went to Mary, placed an arm about her. “Don’t worry. I’ll go see what’s wrong. You wait. Sit here. She gently touched my sister’s hand. Brigit left her, hearing her softly crying, perhaps both for herself and for me.
Opening the door, not knowing who it was, I shouted again. “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE.” The pain was almost unbearable. It had never been this bad. When I saw Brigit, I began to apologize.
“What’s going on?” Her voice was cold, acerbic. “What’s the reason for that disgusting display, especially for nothing, Lieutenant?” It annoyed me that she didn’t use my first name. “I’m in pain, goddamn it. It’s terrible.”
“Don’t you swear at me.” I started to interrupt, to tell her I wasn’t swearing at her, but she didn’t give me a chance. “Then why didn’t you call? What’s that button by your bedside? How many times have you been told to use it? You also left your sister in tears.” She started to walk away, glanced back at me, “I’ll be right back.” She returned with a pill. “Take this,” she commanded, her cheeks flushed with anger.
Her attitude both annoyed and hurt me.
“You ought to feel better soon,” Brigit icily told me. “You also ought to see your sister and apologize. She drove from Maine by herself on those narrow roads and down that horrible Newburyport Turnpike.” Brigit started to say, “And she’s so . . . .” “Young,” I finished. “She knows how to take care of herself.”
Now Brigit was really angry. “Yes. She’s young. She loves you. And that young woman driving by herself to see YOU. Anything could have happened to her. And to be thrown out of your room, because of your vile temper.” Brigit turned away but not until she said, “I never thought of you with such a temper.”
“I just didn’t WANT to see anyone. I just want this pain to stop. I want to get out of here,” my voice softened. “Please, Brigit.”
She stared at me. The stare faded though as she continued looking at me. What was she thinking? What did she see?
~
His black hair and hazel eyes, the semi-round face, yes, I like those. But his chin. I love it, fairly sharpened with the cleft. Below the sheet and white navy blanket – I’d like to raise them and look at that trim, tall body, 5 foot 11. His thing, oh, I can feel my face getting warm. I wondered what it would look like when I put in that catheter. He is handsome. And his face is always smooth shaven. His nose? Well, it’s a bit large but straight. Admit it, Brigit, you like everything about him and enjoy looking at his body when the blanket is thrown back. Good heavens. That was an unguarded moment when I told Kaye when we were on duty that night I liked that he was not one of those muscle bound officers like some of the others, and their dirty remarks. I hate it. I could slam them; I also told her how I liked his voice. That knowing smile on her face. But I couldn’t help myself and went on and on about his usually kind, often soft but strong voice. I love art and music and imagined he could sing beautifully in a tenor voice. Funny, his sister told me he had done so professionally on the radio before he went to war. He’ll wonder why I’m silent. Stop dreaming. I’d enjoy his arms around me, feeling his fingers wandering up my arms and about me. Stop it. My face is really hot. He sees me blushing. Before he says anything . . .
~
“Let me tell your sister to come back. And you apologize.” She smiled. Each time I saw her, there was that tremor I felt, the gladness throughout my body. Only right now, I wondered how much of it was the medication she had given me.
“O.K. Lieutenant. You win.” I felt a sting in my leg, forced a smile beyond the grimace that she noticed. “Brigit.” She stopped. “Are you mad at me?”
“Yes. I think your treatment of your sister was abominable. Do you know how fortunate you are to be near enough for your family to visit as often as they do? And your sister is lovely, a lady.”
“You’re right.” I answered contritely. I did not like my temper either, disliked treating people poorly, and got angry when I thought of others being maligned improperly or being needlessly hurt. “You see that sea gull on the sill,” I tried to joke. “It was pecking at my leg, thinking it had found a new fish flesh.”
“See your sister, Gregory.”
The medication made me somewhat sleepy. There was a silly smile on my face. “I like you, Brigit.”
She ignored me, opened the door, but I know there was a smile on her face that she tried to hide from me, as she went for my sister.
~
I turned my head toward the window, opening my eyes, rousing myself from the drowsiness and the crappy thoughts that had been bothering me. “Fish, flesh,” I whispered. My pillow was a little damp. I rubbed my neck, then ruffled my hair, grimaced, smiled as I thought of my sister and Brigit. Long ago, I kept telling myself, the naval hospital. Now it was almost no different. I felt as though I were still a cripple, that I had never recovered. In effect, perhaps I never had. I’ve been ill for so long, taken care of by my daughter, occasionally by my wife, Deirdre, also a nurse she hired. Brigit, too, the healer. I let her go. Wonderful daughters. Perhaps they have some of Brigit in them, because we were so close. I want to believe it, Brigit. The goddess in you gave them some of your healing and protective force. And you’ll watch over them when they give birth – if I live to see that. They’ve always been loyal, the way they always seem to be standing between my wife and me. I can feel their admiration and love. They know I feel the same way about them. My wife, always busy, selling her archeological artifacts or always off at some socially important function that will help her business or give her notice. The girls, Melinda and Pamela and then Kaitlin – now gone. They were no longer girls but young women. My God, Kaitlin – dead. Why?
Kaitlin. My God. She wandered away like I used to do. When I heard, I sat there, my heart pounding. The whole family sat, no one saying anything. Suddenly, everyone was crying. Either Pamela or Melinda screamed. My wife had her hand over her mouth, mumbling, weeping, “Why did we do it? Why did we let her go?” And I sat there repeating, “My Kaitlin – five years old.”
I never recovered from the emptiness left by her death. I often thought of her, expected to see her in some part of the house, even thought of talking to her about her music. Occasionally Melinda and Pamela with tears talked about her, once in awhile my wife. I could not forget. How could any of us?
I’ve got to stop thinking about her. I forced myself to think of other things. Then I smiled. I’m a doctor, and I can’t even take care of myself.
_______________
When I was in high school, somebody asked me what I wanted to do when I went to college. “College? That’s not the end for me. I’m going to medical school.” The guy smiled. “How do you know that?” “I just know.” “Nuts. You’re just doing it or saying it because of your father.” “I am not.” I stopped. “Well, I guess he does influence me, my oldest brother too.”
Then there was the girl who has a summer place by the water in our town. We liked each other, became good friends, dated. As we went along in school, I talked more of what I wanted to become. Then, one night, when we were in our senior year, when I dared to kiss and fondle her, when she seemed glad, she pushed me away, but as I moved toward her again, she relented when I felt her breasts. We kissed, I lay on top of her and rubbed against her - we were on the beach - but then she said, “That’s enough. I mean it.” She suddenly said, “You’ll get married and be a rich doctor.”
“I don’t care whether I’m rich. But I do want a good wife. Don’t you want a good husband?”
“Silly, you know I do.”
“Would you ever think of marrying me?”
She did not answer.
“O.K.,” I continued. “Suppose I told you I love you.” I hesitated. She had always left me with an ache “I do, you know.” I hurried on, unaware of the surprise on her face and the smile. “Would you wait for me until I finish med school?”
“Greg. We may be carrying this too far, don’t you think?” This time she hesitated. “Greg. I would wait.” She moved closer to me. Pressed her breast against my arm. I put my arms about her, drew her nearer, ran my fingers through her hair, along her neck and went to her breasts again. She was so relaxed, more than she had ever been before with me. When I went lower on her body, she grabbed my hand. “Cut it out.” She sounded angry, and I said “I do love you. I wish . . . .” “No. I know what you’re going to say or ask. I won’t do it, Greg.”
_______________
I was perspiring again. I thought of changing my pajamas. How I wished I could get back to the laboratory, to the work that had given me my standing, my place.
And then Pamela came in. “Dad, are you all right?” She could see the perspiration on my forehead, looked at my pillow. “Do you want a clean pillow case?” She didn’t wait for an answer but left for the bathroom and returned with a wet face cloth, put it to my head and held it there. “Oh. You hold it. I have to get the pillow case.” She ran from the room, as though she were about to cry and wanted to hide her face from me.
~
Deirdre was lying in the bed, holding Pamela who had been born a short time before. The baby was an accident, just a night of sex, we thought. When Deirdre knew she was pregnant, she asked me if there was someone who could give her an abortion.
“What the hell are you asking me? Are you nuts? So you’re having another baby. I want it. And if you ever ask me something like that again, so help me God, I’ll throw you out.”
Abortions were forbidden then. I believed in them, thought of the women who died because they couldn’t have them or who went to the back alleys. But I would never have given up everything for that, illegal, disgraced and banned from the profession. Deirdre scoffed. “You brave man, war hero. You’d throw me out. Bull shit you will. You have more prestige in this community because of me. I made you what you are. Bull shit, Gregory. Piss off.”
I watched her in the bed, thinking perhaps now she would love the child, would be happy she had it. I sat there watching her.
She grimaced. She hurt and still bled. Another pad was becoming wet. She wanted to scream at the indignity she had to suffer for this. She seemed to force her fingers back from squeezing the baby’s tiny arm.
When I entered, I knew she forced that smile when she lied, “Look at her. Isn’t she adorable? Another girl. You don’t stand a chance, Gregory.”
I smiled. “I don’t care.” She wrinkled her nose. “Look at her. What have you got there?”
“You’re terrible. She’s beautiful,” as she wrapped two fingers about Pamela’s tiny hand. I believe she may have meant it. But then she immediately said, “Gregory” – she never called me Greg – “I’m bleeding some. Get the nurse. I need more pads,” and grimaced.
~
I wasn’t listening any longer or looking at her face that once mesmerized me so. Rather, lying against the clean pillowcase, I saw Kaitlin standing near me, “Daddy, I love you,” as she put her arms around my neck.
“Dad, you’re smiling. Do you feel better? Is there something funny?” Pamela interrupted.
“I was thinking of something.”
“What?”
“Your sister, Kaitlin.”
“What was so funny?”
“It wasn’t funny, just a thought.” I looked at Pamela and the quizzical expression. “Oh, Pamela, maybe when you’re a mother. . . . No. I was thinking of one time when she . . . .” I tried to hide my tears.
I thought of Pamela delaying grad school to be with me, and the sadness hit me. How I still missed Kaitlin as I did Melinda, Melinda the doctor, alive. The rent within my heart overwhelmed me as I thought of my beautiful, young daughter forever the same as on that day but lost, yet still there for the remainder of my life.
I had gained so much, lost so much, so much of love.
~
Brigit. Whatever possessed me?
I see her clearly now, that first time she stood before me – after the hospital – when our arms were about each other, kissing, tongues heatedly seeking one another. She drew back then, gently moving away from me, standing, reaching for her blouse, slowly, ever so slowly, it seemed, her straight slender fingers moving to the buttons, loosening each, the blouse flaring open. I reached for her. “No.” She smiled. “Wait,” her voice so soft. In a swift movement she unclasped her bra.
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