The Four Seasons (13 page)

She lay alone in the labor room for uncounted hours, terrified. Only two people inhabited her world: herself and her baby.
Endure. Pray
, she repeated to herself. By late afternoon the
pains that gripped her abdomen escalated quickly, coming hard and fast. Jilly tried not to cry out, digging her heels down and gritting her teeth. She swore she'd salvage some shred of dignity. Then a huge wave of pain swelled over her, then another one right behind, not giving her time to regroup. “Will somebody help me?” she cried out.

The staff moved quickly, wheeling her to a room where bright overhead lights and medical equipment of stainless steel surrounded her. The nurses strapped her arms and hoisted her useless legs high into the stirrups. Jilly was terrified, numb and shackled.

“The baby's crowning,” the nurse called out.

Instantly, the room was charged. Perhaps the nurse at her side got swept up in the excitement, or perhaps she had a moment's sympathy, but she pointed to a small mirror behind the doctor's back and said close to Jilly's ear, “You can look in there if you want to watch.”

Jilly startled, whipping her head around to follow the pointing finger. “What? See the baby?”

Euphoria and gratitude swirled within her, tumbling in her mind with the strict warnings of Sister Benedict—
Do not look at the baby!
Driven by the need to see her child, Jilly pushed herself up onto her elbows, straining her neck and squinting into a small circular mirror over the doctor's shoulder.

“One more push,” the doctor said, guiding the baby's head with his gloved hands.

She took a deep breath, felt the cresting of a wave and pushed. Again and again. Dots swam before her eyes, her elbows shook against the table and she felt she could not keep herself up a second longer. Yet pure determination kept her focus on that six-inch span of reflected glass.

In Dr. Brewster's hands lay a slippery, purply-pink, pugfaced, bloody bundle that was the most beautiful thing she had ever
seen. She flopped back onto the table, smiling, foolishly happy.
Her baby
. Eagerly, she watched every movement the doctor made, mentally devouring every detail of her child. He held her baby up and she saw itty-bitty toes, fingers, a nose, a chin and puffy eyes. She heard a gentle slap, then a lusty wail.

The nurses worked quickly, putting drops in the baby's eyes, washing and weighing it, then wrapping the baby in a thin cloth. Jilly flexed her fingers at her side. She desperately wanted to hold her baby, feel the soft, tender skin. It was a need that came from deep within. “Please,” she murmured, struggling to reach out.

In a flash she realized that the nurse was taking the baby away. Her breath froze in her chest. That couldn't be happening. She strained against the leather straps. “No…no please…stop!” Her voice cracked. Her uterus contracted. Her throat burned with choked cries as she saw her baby disappear behind the closed door forever.

She had had a girl.

 

For years to come, Jilly would often hear stories of delivery room travails while sitting with other women. Whether they were young mothers or older grandmothers, if the topic of childbirth was broached the women would circle around in the upholstered chairs of living rooms or on the hard wood of barroom stools like old soldiers and share war stories. If she was noticed sitting silently, one of them would inevitably tilt her head, pat Jilly's hand and say some equivalent of “Don't worry, you'll know all about this someday.” Jilly always smiled politely and shrugged indifferently.

She did know, though. She was a casualty of that war. For her, there was no ultimate triumph, only terror and unspeakable loss. Lying in the darkness of her small, cell-like hospital recovery room while the rain pattered outside her single
window, Jilly sobbed relentlessly. A maelstrom of tears gushed until she felt shriveled and depleted, without a teardrop left in her. Then the drizzle of depression soaked straight through to her bones, bringing a real, physical ache.

By the time dawn broke, Jilly was lying flat and motionless on her back. She stared at the striated shadow lines across the ceiling, her hands resting on her empty belly, and came to the realization that she was alone. Without parents, sisters, friends or even the kindness of a stranger to comfort her. No one could take away the pain she felt in her heart or understand what it took for her to make the decision to give up her child. She'd had to do this alone. There was only herself to rely on, her own abilities, her own wits.

As she cleansed her tender skin with witch hazel and dressed for her return to Marian House, she felt a lifeless calm that the social worker interpreted as resignation. The truth was, the Jillian she once was had washed out with the tears. Having given birth to a child, she could never go back to being a child herself.

Walking from the hospital out to the sweet spring air of rural Wisconsin, Jilly left a part of herself behind. The very best of herself remained with her daughter. And walking away from her daughter was the very best thing she could do for her.

What kind of a mother could she be to this child? What kind of example would she set for her? What could she offer her? Sister Celestine was right. If she loved this baby, she would give it a good and decent home with the right kind of parents. What her mother said about her was true: she was irresponsible, promiscuous, selfish.

But she had the chance now to make things right, at least for her daughter. She may have done a lot of things wrong, but the decision to give up her child would be the one responsible, unselfish act of her life. It was the best thing she'd ever done. But it felt like the worst.

Jilly stood outside the hospital and, drained but resolute, stared up at the nursery windows for the last time. She felt a tangible tie to Baby Girl Season sleeping there even though she'd never held her child in her arms, touched her skin or kissed her cheek.

“Be strong, my baby girl. Be happy. You
will
survive.”

And so, she vowed, would she.

T
HE MORNING AFTER THE FUNERAL
Rose woke early. Her heart felt ready to receive the morning light and obliterate the darkness of the night before. How incredible that one letter from someone she'd never even met could make such a marked change in her life. With the sun on her cheeks, she felt the dawning of hope.

She slipped into a long black skirt and a gray sweater, worn and comfortable from years of use, then walked through the hall, descended the great wide staircase and made her way into the kitchen. She moved as a dancer would through a well-rehearsed routine, surefooted, smooth and moving to an inner music. She pulled out her largest ceramic bowls, bins of oat flakes, raisins, nuts and small jars of cinnamon and other spices from the pantry. There was nothing like a bowl of her own special, healthy granola to give the day a good start.

Mixing the ingredients, she thought how Jilly had looked shell-shocked when she went to bed the night before. And Birdie was definitely off-kilter, snapping at Hannah and Dennis.
As though in retaliation, Hannah had seconds, even thirds, of the cakes at the funeral. Well, at least while they were here, she would see that they all ate good food.

She added extra cinnamon for Hannah, then stirred the cereal and poured it into big stoneware baking dishes. After fifteen minutes the whole kitchen smelled of cinnamon baking in the oven. Her eyes looked up toward the ceiling as she heard the thump of feet walking across the floor. She smiled, thinking today was fresh and new.

She couldn't wait for her sisters to come for breakfast.

 

Birdie awoke sick. She felt the world spinning as soon as she sat up and her stomach seemed to leap to her throat. Her groan brought a stir from Dennis beside her.

“Wha—” He blinked heavily, raising his head, half-awake. “Are you okay?”

“No. Ugh. I must have eaten something bad. Oh, God, what's that smell? What's Rose baking down there? I think I'm going to be sick….” She put her palm on her forehead and waited several minutes till the pumping in her stomach subsided.

“How're you doing?” Dennis asked, his eyes closed.

“I'm a little better,” she replied. “I could use a cracker or something dry. How about you? Are you sick?” She didn't know why misery loved company, but there it was.

Dennis mopped his face and sat up on his elbows. After a minute he replied, “Nope.”

“I hope it's not the flu. I don't have time to be sick.”

“You never do. Where are you going? The funeral's over. Come back to bed and rest.”

Birdie was already rising, slipping into her chenille robe. “I won't give in to it. I'll just dress and have some weak tea and toast and then we'll see how I feel. Besides, Rose is downstairs
already, probably cooking up a five-course meal. She always knocks herself out.”

“That's Rose. Always doing for others.”

“She needs a rest or she'll crack.”

“So will you. Stay with me, Birdie, come back to bed….”

She ignored his hand that reached out for her. “I'll bring you coffee….” Slipping her feet into slippers, she hurried out the door. Even after the spats of yesterday and with her stomach spinning this morning, she felt a tangible pull to hurry downstairs to the kitchen.

She wanted to be with her sisters.

 

Jilly woke up groggy. She'd lain in a stuperous state for hours, watching the light of dawn change on the blue wallpaper. The memories had left her feeling vulnerable, as though she'd just given birth all over again, except this time she was coming home and everyone knew she had delivered a baby. When she walked downstairs this morning, she realized with both horror and relief, everything would be different.

The secret was out.

After all these years, what did honesty feel like? she wondered, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Did Birdie and Rose have any idea how much she needed them right now? She felt the stirrings of the devotion she felt for her sisters as a child, when they were playmates and Birdie and Rose were her very best friends. It had been so long since she allowed herself this connection and she felt wary. She had changed over the years. And so, she knew, had they. But they were sisters. Bound by blood and history.

She sniffed, catching the scent of cinnamon and coffee in the air. Hunger for food, for coffee, for life, growled within her. Rising from the bed, she wrapped herself in her lavender
silk robe, pulled her wild hair back with an elastic and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. Despite the lack of sleep, she felt lighter, younger, and not the least bit tired. She followed the sound of clanking dishes and soft chatter down the stairs. She was a bit nervous about facing them, but pushed open the door and walked into the room.

She couldn't wait to see her sisters.

 

She found them in the kitchen, laying the table. Birdie and Rose each had hold of an end of a lovely robin's-egg-blue tablecloth and were spreading it out over the long wood table. The mood was chummy and they were chatting without a trace of the tension that had permeated the air the day before. Jilly stood at the door, hesitant.

Birdie spied her first. Her face revealed caution, followed by a searching glance. Then, seeing the openness of Jilly's expression, her face broke into a warm smile without restraint.

“I don't believe it. Look who's up.”

Rose hurried to fetch coffee. “Good morning!”

Jilly felt a tremendous relief that no one was going to dive into angst while the sun was still rising. She also felt a bit sheepish and looked at her coffee, the table, anywhere but her sisters' eyes. “Yes, I'm up,” she replied with bluster. “Me and the birds. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em.”

And Jilly did join right in, fetching tableware from the cupboards. Rose went to bring out the freshly baked granola while Birdie set large earthenware bowls. They readily fell into the old, comforting habits of childhood. Then, while they ate, Birdie brought them up to speed on the estate.

“Mr. Collins wants us to inform him of what to do with the house and estate by Thursday. Let's just table those decisions for the day to give us a little more time to think. Agreed?”

The others nodded their heads, relieved.

“The big job now is to divvy up the household between us. The furniture, paintings, and all the china, crystal and silver. The house is jam-packed with stuff. Mother was a first-class pack rat. But before we do that, we have to catalog what's here. I shiver to think of the attic and basement.”

“The attic is full of treasures,” said Rose, quick to rise to the defense. “I don't want to throw any of it out.”

“Rose, we all know Mother isn't the only one who's a pack rat,” Birdie said teasingly.

“Let's just agree not to throw anything away unless we all agree.”

“It will take forever that way.”

“Then I'll do it myself.”

“Hold on,” Jilly said, holding up her palm. “Let's start with the top and work our way down. We can make decisions as we go. All together.”

A short while later, Jilly stood in the dusty, dimly lit third floor with her mouth agape. It was worse than she could possibly have imagined. The place was imploding. The roof showed signs of sagging and waterstains on boxes, walls and floors revealed numerous leaks. The windowpanes were rotting, the glass was cracked in places and the whole place, smelled of dust, mold and mouse droppings.

This had once been their playground. These rooms were the glorious dominion of the Upper Kingdom where the royal Season sisters ruled. To see the untidy shambles coated with gloom and spiderwebs cast a harsh reality over what was once the realm of the imagination.

The third floor of the large Victorian house had originally been designed as the maids' quarters. There were two cramped bedrooms with pitched ceilings, another slightly larger room that
was once presumably a sitting room, and a single, small bathroom with an ancient, yellow-stained tub and sink fit for midgets. The girls had loved these rooms when they were younger because they were somehow separate from the domain of their parents. Undecorated, unspoken for—theirs for the taking. And they took them, claiming rooms and creating make-believe villages. Until their mother chased them out, furious that they'd foraged through all her storage boxes searching for choice items they could use for their pretend “houses.”

“It looks like a rabbit's warren,” said Birdie, coming up from behind, her arms filled with supplies.

Jilly couldn't deny it. Narrow paths between boxes stacked from floor to ceiling were the only way one could maneuver through the low-ceilinged rooms. What was most daunting, however, was that it wasn't an organized mess. Everything appeared to have been tossed up there willy-nilly. It was a great, giant kitchen drawer full of junk.

“We'll never live long enough to get through it all,” said Jilly, aghast. “It's like the deep Congo in here. They'll find our bodies someday, after a long, arduous search. We'll be in some stage of decay, our bones reaching into the boxes.”

“I say we should just get one of those enormous Dumpsters, open up the windows and pump ship.” Birdie's face was set.

“Don't you dare!” Rose called out, rushing up the stairs.

“Look at this mess!” Birdie opened a plastic bag filled with nothing but wire hangers. “This is what I'm talking about. What in God's name were you saving hundreds of wire hangers for? And old magazines? There must be hundreds of
Good Housekeeping
.” She picked one up, leafed through it, then tossed it into the bag with a flip of the wrist. “Just what we need, another recipe for Velveeta.”

“I meant to take them for recycling,” said Rose.

Birdie rolled up her sleeves, a woman on a mission. “Yeah, well, I'll recycle them, all right.” She pushed her way through the path to the other rooms. “It's not so bad here,” she called out from a bedroom. “I think the worst of it is right by the door. Let's start back here where there's room to move.”

“That's Rose's castle,” Jilly called out.

“What?” Birdie poked her head around the corner.

“Rose's castle, remember? And that room over there was yours. Mine was the big room, of course. The Castle of Splendor, I recall.”

Rose's face became dreamy. Jilly could feel the memories flutter back by watching the expressions on her face.

“See what I mean?” Rose said with heart, seeking an ally. “There are so many memories up here. I don't want Birdie to toss them all out as garbage. She has a one-track mind.”

Jilly wanted to tell her that the garbage dump might be the appropriate place for them, but refrained. “Don't look so worried, Rose,” she said reassuringly. “We don't need to make any big decisions today. Birdie's right, though. We'll keep what we can, but be prepared to dump stuff like hangers and magazines. I don't intend to spend weeks at this chore. We've got to clear it out and we simply can't keep everything.”

They donned aprons, opened plastic garbage bags, set aside twine and scissors and set to work. They chatted companionably while they opened dozens of boxes, groaning when they found old bank records starting from twenty years back, two leather-bound sets of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, old books falling from their covers, framed pictures of the dime-store variety, dusty, plastic Christmas poinsettias and wreaths, and countless odd dishes, platters and bowls, none of them making a single matched set. In another room there was an old pram, miscellaneous tools none of them wanted, rusty silver toasters
and other old appliances with frayed cords and missing parts, bags of rolled wire, and their old skis and ice skates.

Hours later, exhaustion got the best of their enthusiasm.

“Where is that Dumpster?” Birdie groaned.

“Look at me,” Jilly complained, staring down at herself. “In filthy jeans and a sweatshirt. Me! And my manicure…ruined.”

“I've never seen such a collection of worthless junk in all my life,” grumbled Birdie.

Rose's head jerked up.

“No, Rose!” Jilly exclaimed, holding up her hand against Rose's protest and taking sides with Birdie. “Don't even say it. We don't want to hear it. It's all junk!”

In the larger room, however, they found more personal items. Treasures, Rose called them. There were large boxes in which their artwork, papers and report cards from kindergarten onward were packed away. In others, old family photographs had been carelessly tossed, many of them dating back generations, their sepia-toned edges curling. They found boxes filled with their old baby clothes, and more with toddler dresses with frills and pinafores. They howled when they found Jilly's clarinet, Birdie's flute and Rose's ballet slippers.

They sipped iced tea and shared quips, comments and memories. As the afternoon sun waned, however, Jilly felt her old restlessness overtake her. History mingled with the dust and grime to thicken the atmosphere. The rooms were feeling too close and she was desperate for some fresh air. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed Rose and Birdie sitting shoulder to shoulder, browsing through photo after photo with expressions of nostalgic pleasure on their faces. Fidgety, she rose to her feet, eager to be done and out of there.