Sunlight on My Shadow (14 page)

Each day, when the horizon darkened, I made a mental note that another day was done. I spent a good amount of time in my room, yet I longed to escape the evil eye of the stuffed fish. Eventually the cabin fever got worse than the fear of facing my shame. I ventured out to the town of Waupaca, imagining the thoughts of the townspeople. “That young child had sex?” “What’s wrong with her?” Ugh. Dad had sent me some spending money, so I thought I might get a project in town, perhaps knit something.

As I drove down Main Street I remembered the day we arrived. A lot had happened since then. My belly had doubled in size and I was walking with a slight backward tilt. The barrels on the corner were now planted with red- and yellow-headed petunias. There weren’t any kids hanging around the lampposts; it was 10:00 am and I was sure they were in school. I found Sew ‘n Knit and pulled into an empty slot right in front, where there were plenty of parking choices.

The clerk said “Good afternoon,” and asked if she could help me find something.

“I’m just looking.”

I didn’t like it when salespeople hovered while I was trying to make a purchasing decision. I peeked down the aisles and found the knitting section. I picked up a skein and squeezed it, then brushed it against my face to assess the softness. I wondered what color would look good on Mom. With her dark hair and blue eyes, she always looked good in yellow. The clerk moseyed over and planted herself a few feet away. She pretended to rearrange the spools of thread, but I thought she was probably just spying on me.

“Are you finding everything you need?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.” I wished she’d just bug off.

I picked out some creamy yellow skeins of soft angora and a pair of shiny blue aluminum needles. Mom would probably like a scarf for Mother’s Day. It had been a few years since I knitted and hoped I remembered the knit and perl. I loved the sound of the needles clicking as I wove the loose yarn into a solid piece. Our housekeeper, Helen from Hungary, had taught me to knit the European way, which was faster and more efficient than the way most Americans did it. I liked it.

I brought my knitting things to the front of the store. The clerk followed and then got behind the cash register.

“That will be $6.97,” she said. I reached into my wallet.

“I haven’t seen you ‘round before. You new to town?”

“Yes, I’m visiting.”

“You gonna be ‘round awhile?”

“Oh, I’m not sure how long.” I turned to look at something behind me.

She probably sensed my discomfort with her nosy chatter and didn’t press for more. “Oh, geez,” I thought. “She knows. She knows I’m an unwed mother in hiding. Why else would I be so young, pregnant, and visiting Waupaca, Wisconsin?” I took out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to her, anxious to be on my way.

The summer heat felt good on my skin after the store’s air-conditioned coolness. These trips to town were infrequent, but they were the highlight of my stay in the country. It was good to feel the breeze on my cheeks, smell the pines, and warm my cheeks with the sun on my skin. None of the townspeople asked me any more questions. I made it a point to keep my eyes otherwise occupied so as not to appear friendly. I was getting good at hiding.

It took a few rows, but soon my knitting stitches were uniform. I was a little disappointed that one edge was slightly longer than the other, but Mom always loved anything I made by hand, no matter how imperfect. I designed a card out of notebook paper and colored the punches with squirrely circles to make the holes look like they were part of the design. I used my paints to color the words “Happy Mother’s Day,” and then the scissors to scallop the edges. I mailed the package. I thought that next year at this time I would be a mother myself, even though I had no child, so it wouldn’t really count. I was the farthest thing from a mother.

A few weeks after Mother’s Day, I got a call from Dad telling me that there was now a spot for me at the Home for Unwed Mothers and that he and Jackie would come to pick me up on Saturday. Mom was healthy enough now to be up at the cabin with Thelma, her nurse, and Hugren. She was getting things ready for their summer stay.

Although I dreaded seeing Dad in my enlarged condition, I was looking forward to a change in my living arrangements. I was glad Jackie was coming along. She was the equalizer and took the spotlight off me. I didn’t love being alone with Dad. Our conversation was stilted, and I never quite knew how to answer his questions. He seemed to ask them in a leading fashion, like he was baiting me for the right answer. It was like he used his interrogation as a way to teach me something. Pressure to speak boiled inside me. This was my shame speaking.

I never knew what kind of arrangement Dad had with Helen and Ed, or if he paid them for my room and board. I am sure he did. They were retired, and I thought they could probably use the money. Besides, Dad didn’t like to take things from people or owe them anything. He was stubborn about that to a fault: he was good at giving but not receiving.

Helen and Ed had tolerated my presence, letting me be, and they went about their daily business. I didn’t play my part in Ed’s prediction that we would have a lot of fun, because I stayed in my room most of the time. They didn’t have any visitors at the house during my eight-week stay. The best times were when they went out and left me in the house alone. I liked the quiet feeling with no pressure to interact. I imagine they were relieved that their boarding duties were coming to an end and they could have their place back to themselves.

I mailed in my last batch of assignments; school would soon be out for the summer. I wondered if Annie and Jane thought about where I went and what I was doing. Oh, how I missed them! If I looked at my watch and it was 3:00, I would think, “School is out. They are probably getting in their car to drive home, chattering about the silly nuns or a test they bombed.” I wondered if anybody had a new boyfriend and if they had any new meal selections in the cafeteria. I missed the roast beef and giggles for lunch.

I thought about the home. It would be refreshing to be with girls my own age, even if they might be the “less” desirable types. Maybe their hair was all ratted up into piles on their heads. Maybe they were all greasers with low-cut blouses and tight skirts above the knees. Maybe they were all painted up with white lipstick, red nail polish, and black mascara. There couldn’t possibly be any “good” girls, like me. I didn’t care, though. Just being around people closer to my age would add intrigue to my jail sentence.

On Saturday, the sun was streaming through the pines outside my window. I woke with a remote feeling of excitement. What was it? Oh, yes! I remembered. Today, I would be leaving Waw-lacka, aka Waupaca, and embarking into the next chapter of life as an outcast. They even had a special place for people like me, and I was going there. I looked forward to fitting in. My flashing belly would blend in with all the others: all in the same boat, even if it was sinking.

I got up, gathered my clothes, and went into the bathroom to take a shower. Before I stepped under the sprinkling shower head, I looked at my naked silhouette in the mirror. Many moons ago, my belly was tight to my backbone, flat and smooth. Now, it was swollen and heavy. The weight of the baby caused the skin to fold into a crease at the bottom. Sweat collected there and caused an unbearable itching. Tiny red bumps dotted the crease and spread out from it. The pesky itch was a constant reminder of my discomfort. The only time it stopped was when I was in the shower and for a few minutes afterward. I was amazed at the size of my breasts. I had always been so small. Now they were full and turgid. My nipples had turned from pink to brown. They looked ancient.

I barely used to fill a cup size AA, and now I had cleavage. I guess that’s what happens when you get knocked up—you get knockers. As much as I wanted a full figure a few years ago, it was now something I tried to hide. But I would feel differently about it when the belly was gone. I had hopes that the chest enhancement would be a permanent condition. Little did I know that months after I had given birth, the fullness would deflate like an old balloon and I would be left with a couple of dollar-sized pancakes of stretched-out skin and dried-up milk.

I heard a car pull up in the driveway. I answered the door to let Jackie and Dad inside.

I led Dad back to my room to grab my brown suitcase, book bag, and velvet case.

“Wow, you sure had a nice pad while you were living here, didn’t you?”

“Sure. I miss home, though.”

Dad glanced down at my middle and his eyes lingered. I hated my body.

My pregnant body was me and with me, yet I felt that I was wearing a costume. I was stuck in a mother’s body while in my mind I was a flat-bellied, slim and spunky teen. My body was mortifying, inconvenient, and uncomfortable. Only a little over a month and I would be free.

It is incredible what sacrifices must be made to keep a lousy secret. Was it worth all this? How can shame and maintaining a reputation be a motivator for such unnatural gyrations? I don’t remember watching TV at Helen and Ed’s except in the late evenings. I suppose I could have turned it on during the day, but I thought watching TV was a lazy thing to do and it wasn’t on my schedule. I don’t remember listening to music. I had no radio. I don’t remember reading much, except I finished
Catcher in the Rye
and opened my missal once or twice. I brought some other reading material but fell asleep or got bored when I tried to read. So what did I do? Just school work, paint, knit, drive to town a few times, and look forward to meals, naps, and sunsets.

We meandered through county roads lined with red barns and white-painted farmhouses, slowing through the middle of towns only because the person driving in front of us slowed. The towns were deserted and lonely. It seemed like every other building was abandoned, although they looked as if, once upon a time, they had been thriving. Once out of town, Dad would step on it until we were speeding along at an alarming pace. He would often pass with no safety margin, getting back in his lane just before the approaching car passed us. The blaring honk from the oncoming car never seemed to faze Dad. He was often in a hurry and always seemed to know where he was going.

When we got to Milwaukee, Dad exited at Glenview Road. The name made me homesick as I thought about what it was like back home right now. We entered a residential neighborhood in Wauwatosa. There were signs of decoration and activity about the houses: a dragon-shaped windsock was stationed off the porch, and a toddler’s Big Wheel sat on the grass on the front lawn. Piles of brush and leaves were neatly stacked on the curb in front of each house; perhaps it was spring cleanup day when the city’s garbage trucks picked up organic debris. The brick bungalows were shaded by leafy elm trees that lined the street in a perfect row. The neighborhood felt organized and well thought out, unlike my life. I wondered how on earth I got into such a predicament and how it would all turn out.

Summer was in the air. Now that we were moving slowly, I rolled down the car window and felt the fresh air blow across my face. It was tinged with the scent of lilacs and tickled my hair. I felt free and light for a second. I wished we could just keep driving for the rest of the afternoon, so I could gaze inside the cozy homes and dream about life in the real world, and watch the neighbors going about their simple, everyday lives.

My nose was extremely sensitive. Now I could smell something like rotten oranges. What happened to the lilacs? I feared we were nearing the HOME. My sightseeing cruise would come to an end. Who would I meet? What would it be like? My heart quickened as I thought of meeting the girls. What if they were hoodlums and mean and stole and stuff like that? What if they swore all the time and didn’t care about life, or anyone?

Dad pulled over to the curb at 6306 Cedar Street. There was a small bronze sign by the walkway that read: Booth Memorial Hospital–Salvation Army. But by convention it was known as the “Martha Washington Home for Unwed Mothers.” It was both a home and a hospital, convenient for the attendees.

It didn’t look much like a home but more like county offices or a big old school. It was red brick and built in 1893. Long cement steps led up the hill to the double front doors. I had heard it started out as a hospital and then a place for recovering soldiers during WW II, and in the 40s it was changed to house “unwed mothers.”

I wondered what would be in store for me and how I would feel in a month or so when I walked back down the steps, free to leave because I had delivered my baby.

Dad turned off the ignition and got out. I followed him to the back of the car to gather my things. He unlocked the trunk. He set my things on the curb. A few books had slid out of my book bag and were lying on the floor of the trunk. Dad opened my Algebra II textbook and saw that my name was signed on the inside cover. He took out his Parker pen, which he always kept in his front shirt pocket, and in the place where it said “This book belongs to Judy Liautaud,” he scratched out the Liautaud part. I watched his scribbles and started to simmer. I didn’t like that he was wrecking my books. I kept quiet as he inspected the inside covers in earnest. He went through them all, scratching out the identifying letters, my—our—last name. It was out of character for Dad to be crossing words out with his pen. I was always taught that you rewrite something and never scratch it out. Dad had beautiful penmanship and I never saw him scribble or mar any papers that passed his hands. Dad must have been aware of me looking over his shoulder. He explained himself.

“While you’re here, you’ll be Judy L. This is the policy of the home. It’s to protect your identity. There’s no reason you’d ever give your last name to anyone. The girls here go by their last initial. Be sure to adhere to this, Judy.”

OK, so at least there was good reason for vandalizing my books. He sure was thorough about it. I wondered what would happen if someone found out I was his child. My gut squeezed with shame. I figured he was doing what was expected, but when it came to my white leather prayer book, I found his diligence over the top. I loved my missal. It was my sacred channel to God. It was a special-order item, placed through the church, and a gift for my first communion when I was eight years old. I loved its soft, white leather cover, embossed with gold leaf trim. When the book was shut, the tissue pages glistened with their golden edges. The book was my constant companion at Sunday Mass ever since third grade. God himself lived within the pages. When I opened that book, a peace and serenity came over me. I thought back to those winter days when I walked to the city bus stop with my white leather missal clutched in my hand, feeling reverent and good, on my way to daily Mass in the morning darkness so I could praise the Lord before my first class of the day.

The sharp wet point of his pen sheared the fragile page and the blue ink bled to the page behind. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Watch out, Dad,” I said, “you’re ruining my missal.” My voice quivered as I held back the tears. The sound of the page ripping was the final straw. I loved that white leather book and he was crucifying it.

Dad closed the cover and put it back into my book bag. “You know, we have to take care of this before you get inside.” There were only two more books. He opened them but didn’t see my name, so he shut them back up and was done with the Liautaud-name massacre.

So now I would be Judy L. No identity, no history, no family, just a belly with arms and legs waiting until the time was ripe to give birth. Then I would resume life with a first and last name, just like nothing happened. I saw the disgrace in Dad’s eyes. I knew he didn’t want anyone around here to know that I was his daughter.

Before we picked up my bags and started up the cement steps, Dad gave his final words of advice.

“You’ll forget about this, Judy, and you’ll never have to speak of it to anyone again. Later, you may get married, and there’s no reason to even mention this to your husband.”

His plan sounded like the only reasonable one. I would just slice this whole nightmare from my mind. I wouldn’t have to think of it again. It would just be some bad dream I had back when I was sixteen. I was still angry about my books and couldn’t wait for him to drive off and leave me here.

Dad was following policy by scratching out my last name, but the action coincided with Dad’s desire to protect the Liautaud name. My dad always signed John N. Liautaud, and when people asked what the “N” stood for, he said it didn’t matter what it stood for, it was just “N.” When it was suggested that the middle name of one of the grandkids be Numa, Dad was not flattered; instead, he said, “Don’t you dare.” I never learned the significance of the name Numa, but I suspect it was tied to the secret he was holding about us passing for white in the early 1900s. Thirty years later, Dad was still fighting for the protection of our reputation as he scratched out our last name from my books.