Why the Sky Is Blue (12 page)

16

What stands out above all the aspects of that day is not the pain of childbirth, though there was plenty of that, and not the waiting, though it seemed to take forever. What rests just on the edge of this present moment is an overwhelming feeling of emptiness, like I had been completely poured out. When she slipped out of my body, I instantly felt naked and unnamed— like I was the one who had been born, not the one who had just given birth.

It was like the timeline of my existence—the one that began December 1, 1948—stopped and a new one commenced. I felt young and old at the same time, like I knew everything and I knew nothing.

I felt empty—not in an aching way—that is, not in the way I thought I would. I felt raw. Exposed. As tender and weak as a new blade of grass.

When I awoke with labor pains, I was still in my old, full life. The day ticked by slowly, much too slowly, and tried everyone’s patience. My mom was at our house by noon, and Rosemary and Ed arrived an hour later. I was still at home, pacing the rooms, trying to speed up the contractions that never seemed to settle into a routine. Even though my due date was a week away, the hospital wanted to see me when the contractions were five minutes apart. By five o’clock everyone was hungry, bored, and agitated. I had no appetite, but my mom made spaghetti for everyone. I went for a long walk.

When I returned, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I stood there sipping it, the contractions slipped into a quickened rhythm. I waited half an hour before alerting anyone. When I finally told Dan, the contractions were four minutes apart, and we got ready to leave for the hospital. Nick and Becky came and got Katie and Spence. They took along things to stay the night just in case. Katie hugged me goodbye and whispered to me, “You promised,” as though I might forget.

“See you soon,” I said.

It was very strange watching my family stare after me as I was ushered into a labor and delivery room. My mom and Rosemary were surely wishing I would change my mind and allow them to join me. Dan would have come with me in a heartbeat if I had asked him. But I knew he would have only done it for me and wouldn’t have enjoyed a moment of it.

“You send someone out for me if you change your mind, Claire,” my mother called after me.

I gave her the thumbs-up sign. I knew I wouldn’t change my mind. This was going to be my grand moment alone with my daughter. I would share it with no one.

The two nurses assigned to my care were polite but aghast at my refusal to have anyone in the room with me. Twice they encouraged me to at least let my husband come in.

In between contractions and while they were both in the room I said, “Look, I was assaulted. This is not my husband’s child. The couple in the waiting room are adopting this baby. And I want to be alone.”

Then I was thrown into a spasm of pain that left me dizzy, and I shut my eyes, missing their reaction. When I opened my eyes after the pain subsided, I was alone in the room.

For the next few hours I labored, half-sitting, half-lying; working out the greatest and most mystifying of human phenomena. Every so often, a nurse would come and check on my progress, ask me if I wanted something for the pain—which I did not—and offer me a word of encouragement. I saw Dr. Whitestone once, around ten o’clock. He told me it might be a while.

It was a few minutes after midnight when I sensed that the pain was changing, that labor was shifting rapidly into delivery. I could feel the urgency of my body to grant my daughter her freedom.

“I have to push,” I said through my teeth.

“It’s way too soon, Mrs. Holland,” one of my nurses said, and lifted the sheet draped over my legs. Then her voice doubled in decibels as she yelled to the other nurse. “Oh, good heavens! Wendy, she’s crowning! Mrs. Holland, don’t push yet!”

The nurse who had yelled grabbed a stool on wheels and tried to pull out surgical gloves from a box at the same time. She couldn’t do it. The gloves wouldn’t come and the stool scooted past me. I heard the other nurse yell for someone to get Dr. Whitestone.

“Don’t push! Don’t push!” the first nurse was saying as the other one hurriedly wheeled an infant warmer into the room. But I could not stop this child from coming.

The fluttering princess began to slip from me into my own hands as I reached down and held her head.

“Don’t touch the baby, Mrs. Holland!” cried the one nurse who at last had her gloves on.

What a stupid thing to say
, I thought, ignoring her.
I cannot harm her. I am her mother
. Another contraction came and I felt my hands being shooed away from my daughter’s head as the rest of her body glided into the world of light and shadows.

For the first few seconds after the birth, there was such a flurry of activity it nearly seemed comical. A third nurse had joined us, and all three were shouting instructions to one another. Then Dr. Whitestone rushed into the room, and there was more chatter. Then the baby began to squeal, and that became the only sound I heard.

“I want to hold her,” I said when the chaos subsided.

The baby was soon wrapped in a blanket and placed in my arms.

“What are they going to name her?” one of the nurses said to me as she looked at the tiny infant in my arms.

“I don’t know,” I said, because at that moment I didn’t.

I held her for several minutes while Dr. Whitestone delivered the placenta and made me otherwise presentable.

I said nothing as I looked at my baby, not wanting another soul to know what I would say to this child. So I talked to her with my eyes.

She in turn gazed at me, hearing every word, it seemed. The little stocking cap they placed on her head popped off, and I saw a head of dark hair that was as smooth and fine as silk. Katie and Spence had golden halos of blond hair at birth. This child looked nothing like them.

She blinked at me as if she knew I had noticed.

The nurses took her then to measure her and put an anklet on her, putting my last name on it. I guess in the eyes of the law, she was still mine. But I was glad they did all this in the same room I was in. It had not been this way in 1973 when Katie was born.

They handed her back to me and said immediate family could come take a quick peek before I went to a regular room and the baby went to the nursery for a little while.

“Everyone out there is immediate family,” I said.

“How about two at a time, then?” the nurse said. “And just for a few minutes.”

I asked if she would tell my mom and Dan they could come first.

A few minutes later my mom came alone.

“Dan wants to wait and see her when he brings Katie. He just left to go get her,” my mom said. “Katie has been calling, wanting to know. I don’t think she will be able to sleep tonight until she sees her.”

My mom had reached my side and leaned down to look at her granddaughter. She pulled the stocking cap off, and I saw her eyes widen.

“She doesn’t look much like Katie and Spencer, does she?” I said.

My mom didn’t say anything at first. She looked like she had just remembered something that filled her with joy and yet also left her feeling sad.

“No, she doesn’t. She looks like Matthew.”

Rosemary and Ed could not control their tears when they came in next. I lifted the baby to them as I expected I should, but Rosemary said she could wait. She came to me and, as best she could, hugged me, though I was sitting upright in bed.

“It’s all right, Rosemary. You can hold her,” I said. “I think you should.”

She hesitated and then reached down, but she didn’t take the baby from me. She entwined her arms with mine and bent her face close to me.

“Let’s just hold her together for a few minutes.”

Ed came and stood next to us, kissing first Rosemary on the forehead and then me. Then he placed his hand on the baby’s head as he led us in a prayer of blessing. I don’t remember what he said, but I do remember thinking everyone’s life should start out that way.

When he was done, I was aware that my cheeks were wet.

“What will you name her?” I said, wiping them with a free hand.

“We’d like to name her after my mom, actually,” Rosemary said, resting her head next to mine. “Her name was Lara.”

I loved the way the name rolled off Rosemary’s tongue. Lara. It rhymed with the “star” if you added an “a” at the end. It sounded like music.

“That’s so beautiful,” I said.

Rosemary smiled. “My mother was a remarkable woman. I wish you could have known her.”

“Do you have a middle name for her?” I asked.

Rosemary hesitated for a moment, not because she had forgotten the name or had decided to suddenly come up with one. I think she was gauging what my reaction would be because she didn’t want to cause me any additional heartache. She must have judged me wisely, for when I heard it, I felt peace, not pain.

“Claire,” she said.

By the time Dan arrived with Katie it was after one o’clock in the morning. I had been shown to a room of my own, but I was not in the bed they had prepared for me. Instead, I was sitting with my mom in the open waiting area by the nursery. Ed and Rosemary were at the huge plate-glass window watching Lara being poked, bathed, and diapered.

Dan and Katie’s footsteps were the only sound in the hall as they made their way to me, both of them glancing at the window as they walked for a glimpse of the baby. I could see Katie was torn between wanting to come to me and wanting to head straight for the window. I decided to stand up and join her so she wouldn’t have to choose. I winced as I rose, and my mom reached out to steady me as she got up also.

Dan enveloped me in his arms, and I could sense he was feeling many other things besides relief that it was over and I was safe. He held me tight.

I was still coming to terms with the raw emptiness I felt and broke away from him first. His touch was too much for me at that moment. I felt as fragile as crystal.

I led him to the window where Katie was and put my arm around her shoulder. Rosemary was next to her and she had an arm around Katie’s waist.

The neonatal nurse taking care of Lara noticed the audience at the window and smiled. Then she quickly finished, wrapped Lara in a receiving blanket, and walked over to the window. She held her up for us. Lara blinked at the overhead lights.

“Her hair is so dark,” Katie said softly.

Dan, I think, noticed this too. I was looking at him when the nurse brought Lara to the window, and I saw a wave of needed assurance wash over him: There had been no quirky twist of fate, no reversal of what had been done to Dan’s body. There didn’t seem to be any way that little girl could be biologically his.

We stood there for probably half an hour before my mom convinced me to go back to my room and the rest of us to go home and get some sleep.

“You’ll be so tired tomorrow,” I said to Katie as I hugged her goodbye.

“It is tomorrow,” she said. “Besides, there’s no school. It’s Memorial Day.”

Memorial Day.

Even if I wanted to try and forget everything that had happened to me those nine months of my life, I knew it would be impossible. Lara had been born on Memorial Day.

I would never be able to forget.

And I didn’t think I was meant to.

17

I left the hospital at noon the next day but I did not go home.

I made the spontaneous decision to spend a week recuperating with my mom and Aunt Elizabeth in Saint Cloud. I didn’t want to go back to my house. I didn’t want to sleep in it or eat in it or be in it. I had been given a fresh start. I wasn’t about to destroy it by plunging into the dregs of my old life.

There wasn’t much left to do there. The movers were coming on Wednesday anyway.

I asked Katie if she wanted to come with me when she, Spencer, and Dan came for me that morning. She asked to hold Lara for a while when the two of us were alone in my room. Spencer—after we had asked him if he wanted to—had taken one casual but contented look at Lara and then announced he wanted to see the cafeteria.

“I would miss the last week of school,” Katie said, holding Lara close to her heart and not taking her eyes off her.

“I think that would be okay,” I said with a smile. “I don’t think anyone will make you repeat sixth grade if you miss the last week.”

She was thoughtful for a moment.

“I have to be there. I have to say goodbye to my friends,” she said, still not looking at me.

“I see,” I replied.

“Don’t you have friends to say goodbye to?” she asked. I think she wanted me to know this move was going to be harder for her than it would be for me. She knew I was a bit of a loner. Both Dan and I were. It was one of the things I planned to change about my new life.

“I’m sorry you have to say goodbye to your friends, Kate. I really am,” I said, not really answering her question. ““I want you to know we can have them down to the farm as often as you want this summer. They can even stay for a few days or a week. You know, Dad thought maybe you and he could start looking for a horse right away. Maybe Ashley or Lisa would like to come down and help you find one.”

She just nodded her head without raising it to look at me.

“Can I be alone with her for a little bit?” she said.

This was a request that frightened me, yet I knew from where in her heart the desire had sprung. I knew what it was like to want to be alone with Lara.

“Sure,” I said and rose to leave. “Kate, you
do
understand why we’re doing this?” I said as I turned to go. “You understand why Ed and Rosemary are adopting her?”

She kept her eyes on Lara while I waited for her answer.

“I understand your reasons,” she said and then lifted her face to look at me. “But I don’t agree with you.”

She looked back down at Lara, and I left her because I didn’t know what to say in response.

There was no medical reason for Lara to remain in the hospital another day. I signed for her release. I hated doing what we had to do next, but I did not want to prolong it either. Technically, I was under no obligation to hand over my infant daughter until seventy-two hours after her birth. But I didn’t want to wait that long.

It didn’t seem right to say goodbye to Lara and Ed and Rosemary in the hospital parking lot, and I didn’t want to go to the house.

In the end Dan did an amazing thing. He loaned me our special park in Saint Paul for my farewell to my old life and my new daughter.

Rosemary and Ed followed us across the river in their own car. They offered to let us borrow the infant seat they had bought for Lara so she and Katie could ride together with Dan, my mom, and me. Spence wanted to ride with Ed and Rosemary. We let him.

The park was crisp and green and full of new things—as beautiful as it was that autumn day Dan and I had come there to set in motion this plan that would reshape all of our lives, but it was an altogether different kind of beauty.

Katie gently removed a sleeping Lara from her infant seat and carried her to the quiet place by the river that Dan had chosen. We gathered in a circle. A few teenagers were playing Frisbee nearby. They stared. I didn’t care.

We joined hands, except for Kate, who still held the baby. Ed and Dan put their arms around her.

Ed began to pray.

I don’t know why I could never remember Ed’s prayers. The few that I had heard left me breathless, including that one. I was glad Katie was there to hear it. At least I hope she heard it.

When he was done, he and Rosemary backed away and gave us a few moments alone. Dan and Spencer both kissed Lara’s forehead, Spencer following Dan’s lead. It surprised me that Dan did that. I asked him about it later.

“She is half yours,” he had said.

Katie was crying as she handed Lara to me, and together we walked over to Ed and Rosemary. I kissed my little girl and placed her in Rosemary’s arms.

“You know you are welcome to be as much a part of her life as you want,” Rosemary said, tears streaming down her face. “I will send you pictures; I will send you anything you want. Whenever we come home on furlough, we will come visit you, or we can send Lara to you alone when she’s older. Just tell us what you want, Claire.”

I want to be free
is what I thought. That’s what I wanted. But I did not say this.

“I don’t think I can say goodbye to her more than once,” I whispered. “It would kill me a little more every time, and I have to live.”

“They should just take her and go,” Katie said softly, surprising me. “I don’t want to see her anymore.”

“You let us know if you ever change your mind,” Ed said gently.

I nodded.

Katie placed her hand on Lara’s head and rested it there for a moment, then she turned and walked past Dan and Spence and got into our van.

I leaned down and brushed my cheek against Lara’s. It was softer than down. She didn’t look like me. She didn’t look like Kate or Spencer. I was glad she didn’t.

“When we have the court hearing to make this final,” I said, tucking Lara’s blanket around her legs, “please don’t bring her.”

Ed and Rosemary promised they would not.

Lara slept through the exchange. She was as much unaware of the moment she passed from my life into Ed and Rosemary’s as I was aware of it. It was a moment that scraped my newness like a razor.

I could not help but flinch as they drove away.

*

The following day, I left Dan, Katie, and Spence in Minneapolis and drove with my mom back to Saint Cloud, back to the place where I grew up. Back to the place where I had flown for cover once before, though I cannot remember it.

Elizabeth’s motor home was spacious enough for the three of us, but the closeness of the walls began suffocating me within moments of our arrival. My mother was quick to pick up on this. The motor home was parked in the driveway of the house where Gene’s funeral reception had been held, so my mom hastily made arrangements for me to stay inside the house with Leo and Margaret Talbot. I remembered them vaguely from my childhood as being good friends of my aunt and uncle, but they seemed like strangers to me, even after having spent a day with them the month before when my uncle died.

I liked it that way. I liked it that they barely knew me and I barely knew them.

Dan had asked me to call him when we got there, which I did. I talked with Spencer for a little while and with Katie for only a few minutes.

When Dan got back on the phone, he asked how I was doing. Did I want him to come get me?

I didn’t know how to say that if he came right then, I would come, and if he didn’t, I wouldn’t care. The truth was, nothing seemed right. Being in that strange house didn’t seem right and going back to Minneapolis didn’t seem right, even if we did stay in a hotel instead of at the house.

“I’ll be all right. Eventually.” I said to him. I figured that much was probably true.

I couldn’t sleep when I finally went to bed. I was sore physically and emotionally, and I was restless. I got up.

The house was dark, and the Talbots were fast asleep as I made my way downstairs into their living room, which seemed strange and uninviting to me.

I went into the kitchen and to a back door, which led to a screened porch. Pale cushions on a set of wicker furniture glowed like pearls in the moonlight. I sat down on one of the chairs, and it squeaked a greeting.

I didn’t have my Bible with me, and there was no light, so I couldn’t escape into the Psalms like I suddenly wanted to do.

I was alone with my pain and my God. Both overwhelmed me.

For the first time since I had been attacked and left for dead, since I learned I was pregnant and knew we could not keep the child, I sank to my knees in supplication.

I suppose I had been afraid to be completely and brutally honest with God, to truly lay my heart bare before him in my own words, because I knew it would reveal to me my displeasure with him. And that scared me to death. I didn’t want to acknowledge that I was mad at the God of the universe.

And I was deeply afraid to admit I had grown to hate Philip Wells for what he did to me, what he had done to my marriage, and how he had come between Katie and me.

I don’t know how long I cried out to God. I just know that I awoke at six o’clock on the sunroom floor stiff, sore, and utterly drained. I thought I had been emptied before, in those hours after Lara was born, but that emptying had only been at surface level. During the night of prayer I had gone deeper. I had poured out the last ounce of my tortured being.

I felt exhausted and refreshed at the same time. It seemed like something untouched and unblemished was beckoning me after the long night of sorrows. I stepped out of the porch and onto the backyard lawn, which was wet with morning dew. The cool wetness sent a shock through me, and I felt an even sharper sense of rawness than I had before. Night was slipping away, birds were beginning to sing, and the stars were fading into the approaching light.

I was no longer in the abyss. I was on the threshold of something white, blank, and new. The journey had ended. It was finished.

The dawn was breaking free all around me. In every direction I looked, everything looked new. I watched in silence as the sun peeled back the night and then broke across a cloudless, blue sky.

A cloudless, blue sky.

The new day had begun.