Garden of Lies (4 page)

rubber fingers into Sylvie’s vagina.

Sylvie arched backward, her whole being shriveling from the invasion. A cold crampy feeling

spread throughout her lower half as the fingers probed and prodded.

Sister Ignatious withdrew, and clumsily patted her arm. “Six centimeters,” she announced.

“You’ve a while to go yet. Your first?”

Sylvie nodded, feeling suddenly like a very small child, scared, helpless, and so alone. Tears

gathered on her lower lashes.

Sister Ignatious disappeared, returning a few minutes later carrying a basin of soapy water and

a razor.

Sylvie, alarmed, asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Now, now, let’s not make a fuss,” clucked the sister. “I’m only going to shave you. It’s for

your own good.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Sylvie submitted to having her gown raised once again. A rough wet

washcloth scraped over her abdomen, [13] moving lower. Water dribbled uncomfortably between

her legs. An icy hand was placed across her stomach. How could anyone’s hand be so cold in this

heat?

Sylvie was ordered to hold still. “Never mind your contraction, dear.” While the razor scraped

over her pubis like a small animal, pinching and clawing, the rest of her body rippled with great

thundering waves of pain. She struggled not to cry out or move. She wanted to be good, to do

what she was told.

And what else
could
she do?

Finally Sister Ignatious straightened up, removing the basin and lowering Sylvie’s gown. “Dr.

Phillips will be in to see you shortly,” she said. With a clatter of metal curtain rings, she was

gone.

The next hours were agony beyond anything Sylvie would ever have thought possible. In her

torture, she forgot about Gerald, and Nikos, even the baby inside her struggling to be born.

There was only the pain.

It no longer was coming in waves, with lulls in between, but had become a never-ending surge.

White-gowned figures flitted in and out of her vision. A gum-smacking girl with a clipboard

took her name and asked questions about insurance. Then a tall gray-haired man wearing a green

smock who introduced himself as Dr. Phillips and asked her to open her knees so he could

examine her. She felt no embarrassment, as normally she would have. Only discomfort. She cried

out. Sweat dribbled down her face. Her skin prickled as if it were on fire. Gentle hands placed a

cool wet cloth over her forehead.

Sylvie heard a scream, which seemed an echo of her own. She realized dimly that there was a

bed beyond her curtain that must be occupied by another woman who was also in labor.

She could feel the baby moving lower, becoming a fiery pressure. Sylvie instinctively bore

down against it, grunting and heaving. It seemed to shift. Could this horrible pain inside her be

dislodged? Could she
push
it out?

“Don’t push yet,” a voice commanded.

Through the red veil of her pain, she forced herself to focus on the face hovering above her.

Sister Ignatious. “I have to,” Sylvie whimpered in protest.

[14] “Wait until we get you into Delivery,” the nun said.

Sylvie was resisting the urge to push, but it felt unbearable. She felt as helpless as if she were

being strangled, and could do nothing to save herself. But it wasn’t only her neck being squeezed

to death, it was her whole body. She’d never survive this without being torn in half.

How in God’s name did women get through this, and live? And not once, but several times.

How could
anyone
choose to go through this again once they knew what it was like?

She wouldn’t. Never. Not for Gerald. Not for any man.

Strong hands lifted her from the bed onto a gurney. Sylvie shivered, even though it was so hot

she was gasping for breath. Her body was drenched with sweat, her hospital gown twisted

underneath her like a wrung-out rag. She tried to clamp her knees together, to keep the pressure

from tearing her apart, but her knees would not stay together. She clutched herself between her

legs, humiliated at being seen doing this, yet desperate to relieve the horrible burning pressure.

She was dimly aware of being rolled down a corridor, rubber wheels bumping over uneven

linoleum. A new room. Sudden, blinding brightness. Light from a huge lamp in the center

bouncing off shiny green tiles. Stainless steel everywhere.

Sylvie groaned, twisting helplessly. Panic inched its way up her throat, blocking her air,

causing her to fear she might choke to death. This cold awful place, like a public bathroom—

nothing could be brought to life in this place.

She was hoisted onto a table. Her legs spread apart, feet strapped into high metal stirrups.

“Relax, Sylvia. It’s going to be all right. You’re doing just fine.” Dr. Phillips’s voice behind

that mask. Kind blue eyes, and a shaggy gray hedge of eyebrows.

But who was Sylvia? Then she remembered.
She
was. The girl with the clipboard hadn’t gotten

her name right.

She began to push. It was terrible. Pushing was almost as bad as not pushing, but she couldn’t

stop herself. She heard gobbling animal sounds escape her. She couldn’t stop those, either. She no

longer had any control of her body.
It
was controlling her.

Voices filtered through the roaring of blood in her ears, telling her push. PUSH.

[15] A black rubber mask was clamped over her nose and mouth. Sylvie fought it, trying to

push it away in panic, afraid she would be suffocated, but the hand holding it only pressed down

harder. A sweetish aroma enveloped her, followed by a spiraling light-headed sensation.

“I’m giving you a little gas,” Sister Ignatious said. “Breathe in. It’ll help.”

Just when she could feel her body about to split open, Sylvie felt the pressure abruptly ease.

Something small and wet—far smaller than the gigantic thing inside that had caused her so much

pain—slithered free.

She heard a tiny gurgled cry.

Sylvie sobbed, this time from relief. She felt as if a crushing boulder had been rolled off her.

She seemed to float, weightless, at least a foot above the table.

“A girl!” she heard someone shout.

A moment later a tightly wrapped bundle was thrust into her arms.

Sylvie blinked as she stared at the tiny face peeking out from the white folds of the blanket.

The vast relief she’d felt turned to crashing despair.

It’s so dark!
A mass of glistening black hair framed a tiny squashed-looking face the color of

an old penny. Its eyes opened, and Sylvie saw with a shock two gleaming jet buttons. Weren’t all

babies’ eyes supposed to be blue?

Sylvie felt her insides funneling down like sand through an hourglass. She had a falling

sensation as she stared into that tiny dark crumpled face, as if she were slipping down into a black

void.

Nikos’s child. There could be no doubt. None.

But still, she longed to hold it. Felt her nipples stiffen painfully with the desire to clasp it to her

breast.

She turned her face away, a new kind of pain welling up in her, tears sliding down her cheeks.

God, I can’t. I don’t want to. She’s
his
baby, not mine and Gerald’s. How can I love her? It will

kill Gerald, make him stop loving
me.

“They all cry,” she heard Sister Ignatious observe knowingly to the young nurse at her side as

she relieved Sylvie of her burden.

Sylvie was wheeled into another room. It looked the same as the previous one, except that her

bed faced a window overlooking [16] a brick alley. There were three beds besides hers, all

occupied. Two of the women were asleep, the other one eyed her sympathetically.

“Well, it’s over at least, ain’t it?” She addressed Sylvie with the Bronx twang she herself would

have had if Mama, thank God, hadn’t constantly corrected her speech, kept her insulated with all

those afternoons in the Frick, and Saturdays at the plays, concerts, dance recitals to which Mama

often got free tickets.

Sylvie acknowledged her with a nod, too exhausted to speak.

“My third,” the roommate continued, unfazed. She had an open face framed by curly brown

hair. Large, merry brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. She sighed.

“Another girl. Dom was countin’ on a boy this time. Boy, is he gonna flip! Not that he don’t like

girls, mind you. It’s just he was kinda hopin’ for a boy.”

“He doesn’t know?” Sylvie had trouble forming the words. Her mouth felt stuffed full of

cotton.

The girl gave a raspy laugh. “That’s the U.S. Navy for ya. Baby wasn’t due for two more

weeks. They’re shipping Dom home next week for the big event.” The smile faded and her

expression darkened. “His ma, I coulda called her, you know. The old bitch, excuse my French.

But I figured she’d just give me a hard time like she always does. ‘You shoulda waited,’ ” she

mimicked in a whiny, nasal voice. “ ‘Doncha think Dom’s got enough on his mind being at sea

without worryin’ about more babies. Isn’t two enough?’ Ha! She oughta talk some sense into her

son when he climbs into bed. Who does she think I’m married to, the friggin’ Pope? Whew!

Damn good thing she’s in Brooklyn. Don’t see much of her since me and the girls moved up here

to be with Ma ... just until Dom gets home, that is. Ma’s lookin’ after Marie and Clare right now,

or she’d be here.” She reached for her handbag on the metal stand beside her bed, fishing out a

pack of Lucky Strikes.

“Cigarette?” Sylvie shook her head. The girl shrugged, tossing away her match. “Name’s

Angie. Angelina Santini.” She squinted at Sylvie through the haze of smoke drifting from her

nostrils. “How ’bout you? Got any other kids?”

“No,” Sylvie said with a shudder, wondering again why any sane woman would go through

that kind of torture more than once. Yet in some small way she felt comforted by Angie’s easy

confidence. [17] As far as Angie was concerned, they were two soldiers sharing the same

foxhole.

“It’s rough, I know.” Angie nodded knowingly. “Especially the first time. But you have a way

of forgettin’. It’s ... whadayacallit ... human nature. You sorta blank it out ... like when your

man’s on shore leave and you ain’t seen him for four months. ...” Angie sighed wistfully, then, at

the squeak of footsteps outside their door, she jerked upright and quickly stubbed out her

cigarette. “If the sisters catch me smoking in this old firetrap ... say, I didn’t get your name.”

“Sylvie.” She instinctively felt that Angie was someone she could trust.

Angie flopped back on her pillow, elbow cocked, hand supporting her head. “You look like

hell, Sylvie. No offense. I know I do too. Why don’t we get some shut-eye while we still can?”

Sylvie managed a weak smile. “Yes. I am tired.” She felt half-dead, as if she could sleep for a

year.

The same picture of Jesus she’d had in the other room hung on the wall opposite her bed.

Bloody palms outspread. Eyes upturned in agony. A bloody welt on His chest, making her think

of the purple scar above Nikos’s left knee.

Drifting asleep, Sylvie thought of her lover.

She remembered that first day. She had expected the person applying for the handyman job to

be elderly, or a kid like the others she’d interviewed, males not eligible for the draft. She’d

opened the service door, and there was Nikos. She saw him as clearly as if he were standing

before her now. It had been raining, and his boots were wet and dirty. At first, that was all she’d

noticed. Those knee-high, heavy-duty work boots, so unlike the sleek black rubbers that fit neat

as sealskin over Gerald’s Italian shoes. And this new man was tracking muddy footprints all

across her immaculate kitchen’s black and white tiles. He walked with a slight limp, and she

wondered if he’d been wounded in battle.

Then her gaze had traveled upward, taking in the stocky figure in a beat-up khaki mackintosh,

a mass of black curls glistening with raindrops, a pair of eyes black as new moons in a face that

seemed to throw off light. Tiny creases radiated from the corners of his eyes, though he couldn’t

have been more than thirty.

[18] A sturdy arm thrust forward, and she had taken his hand. Huge, she remembered, the skin

calloused, his wrist matted with black hair. She had stared at that hand, fascinated, unable to meet

those piercing black eyes.

Then he took off his mack, and she saw the small triangle of black hair that crowned his sturdy

chest, disappearing into the collar of his khaki shirt. She’d never seen so much hair on a man.

Gerald’s body had practically no hair, except for the sparse silvery fluff between his legs. And

Gerald had small hands for a man his size, smooth and dainty as a girl’s. He sometimes reminded

her of the tenors in the operas he loved so, barrel-bodied men with a woman’s grace, flitting

about the stage like bumblebees.

“I am Nikos Alexandras,” he boomed. Then grinned, a brilliant show of teeth. “You have

work? Good! You work for me.”

She thought his broken English oddly charming.

She learned he was from Cyprus, that he’d been a seaman on a British tanker, torpedoed near

Bermuda, but survived six days without food or water on a raft. He was one of the lucky ones, he

explained in his halting way, though his leg had been nearly crushed. Sylvie understood, now,