A Summer to Die

  "But you know, Meg," Mom said, smoothing the quilt with her fingers, "when the big, difficult things come, people like Molly and me aren't ready for them. We're so accustomed to laughing. It's harder for us when the time comes that we can't laugh."

  I realized that it was the first time I had ever seen my mother not able to shrug things off with a quick smile and an easy solution. And I knew that, hard as it was for me, with my helplessness, my anger, and the dreams that came like faceless prowlers into my sleep and filled me with fear, it was worse for Mom.

  "Dad and I are here, Mom," I said uncertainly, "if that helps."

  "Oh, Meg," she said, and hugged me. "I don't know what I'd do without you and Dad."

  10.

  It was five in the morning when Ben called on the third of August. Mom was in Portland, staying with friends who live near the hospital where Molly was; she and Dad were taking turns being there. It was Dad who got me up when Ben called.

  I threw on my jeans and a sweater and sneakers, grabbed the camera in a big hurry, and headed across the field. It was going to be a beautiful day. The sun was coming up, very red, so that even the yellow goldenrod looked pink. The baby had obeyed Ben's instruction and elected to come in daylight. It would be a, well, a semi-obedient baby; it wouldn't wait any longer for Molly to come home. Maybe it understood the realities of things better than the rest of us.

  When I knocked at their door, Ben called for me to come on in. "I can't open it!" he called. "I'm sterile!

  "I mean, I'm sterilized. Or something," he explained when I went inside and met him in the living room. He was wearing a long, white, wrinkled shift backwards, and holding his hands up carefully so that he wouldn't touch anything.

  "We blew the timing, I guess," he said, looking apologetic. "Or the book was wrong. Everything's happening faster than it was supposed to. Remember in the book, Meg, about the first stage of labor, which lasts a long time? I figured that was when we'd all be hanging around, planning what we'd do next!

  "I don't know what happened. Maria just woke up about an hour ago and said she felt funny. And now, I don't know, I feel as if we ran a stoplight and ought to go back and do it again the way we were supposed to.

  "I mean, I think it's going to be born right away! And I've forgotten everything the book said. I'm running around holding my sterile hands in the air, afraid to turn the pages of the book to find out what it said about the second stage. Maria's fine. But I feel so stupid, Meg!" He stood there, looking helpless.

  I could sympathize with how he felt, because suddenly I felt panicky, and forgot how the camera worked.

  "Is that Meg?" called Maria. She sounded astonishingly healthy for someone who was about to have a baby any minute. Ben went back in the room where she was, and motioned for me to follow.

  She was on the bed, with her head propped up on a pillow. It didn't bother me that she was naked. We had talked about things like that enough, the three of us.

  It bothered me a little that she was so cheerful. I thought something must be wrong; it wasn't supposed to be easy, having a baby. But Maria looked happy and full of energy. It was only Ben and I who were pale and scared.

  I lifted my camera and photographed Maria smiling. The instant I had the camera in my hands, things felt comfortable. The light was good; the settings fell into place as I manipulated them; everything was okay.

  Ben had a stethoscope, and he listened through Maria's abdomen to the baby. I could see that he experienced the same thing; when he picked up the simple instrument, he felt in control of things again. It was the helplessness that scared us both. "Listen!" Ben said, and handed the stethoscope to me.

  I put the camera down. I listened where he told me to and could make out the rapid, strong heartbeat of the baby. It was full of energy and life; I smiled, hearing it, and nodded in response to Maria's questioning eyes.

  Then, as I watched, she closed her eyes and began to breathe rapidly. I photographed her again, and turned the camera toward Ben. He was leaning over, watching carefully. I photographed the intentness of his face as he waited and watched, not touching her; she bent her knees and arched her back slightly. There was no sound in the room but her breathing, and I could see the strain move through her whole body.

  "Look," Ben whispered to me. I moved to the foot of the bed, and could see, as the passage widened, taut, almost shaking with the action of the laboring muscles, the top of the baby's head. I could see its dark hair.

  Then it disappeared, withdrawing like a mittened fist pulled back into a sleeve. Maria relaxed, opened her eyes, and sighed. Ben moved up near her head and talked quietly to her. "Everything's fine," he said gently. "I can see the head. It'll be soon, very soon." He smiled at her, and I photographed their heads together, and realized they had forgotten I was there.

  Maria closed her eyes again and drew a deep, loud breath. Ben moved quickly again to the foot of the bed; I stood back and watched. Then I remembered the camera, moved farther from the bed, and photographed her whole body as she lay poised, gathering herself, her chin up, mouth open and gasping, waiting. Suddenly she groaned and lifted her whole body from the bed.

  "Take it easy, take it easy," Ben was murmuring. He leaned forward and touched the baby's head carefully, guiding it as it moved from her body. I came closer and photographed his strong hands holding the tiny head like the shell of an egg. The face was toward me, flat and motionless, its features nothing more than lines like a hastily drawn cartoon: the straight line of a motionless mouth, two slits of swollen, tightly closed eyes, and the tiny, squashed curve of a nose. Maria relaxed again. Ben stood very still, his hands still gently around the head, and the small, flattened face was as immobile as the painted face of a plastic toy.

  "Once more," he told Maria. I don't think she heard him at all; her whole being was clenched tight, and then she gasped as the rest of the little body slid toward Ben.

  And still the only sound was Maria breathing. I was shooting pictures but I didn't even hear the click of the shutter, just the long, quiet, exhausted breaths.

  Then, the cry of the child. Ben was holding it there in his two hands, rubbing it between them. He rubbed its narrow, grayish back; finally, the incredibly small arms and legs moved a little, like a sleeper startled from a dream, and it wailed briefly. Maria smiled at the sound and lifted her head to see. Ben grinned at her and said, "It's a boy. I told you it would be a boy."

  He lay the baby on her stomach, waited a moment, and then tied the cord in two places and cut carefully between them. The baby was free of Maria now, but it squirmed against her as if it wanted to stay close. Its face, in those few moments, had changed from bluish-gray to pink, and like a sponge dipped in water, a shape had grown from the flatness of it. The tiny nose had risen into a soft and perfect curve; the thin line of mouth had become a moving, searching thing, and a tongue came from between the lips, tasting the air; the eyes opened and closed, blinking and squinting; the forehead drew up into wrinkles as the head turned against Maria's skin. She reached down with one hand, touched it gently, and smiled. Then she closed her eyes and rested again.

  "Meg?" Ben handed me a soft white towel from the pile of things he had on a table beside him. "Take the baby for a few minutes, would you, while I finish up here?"

  I put my camera on the floor in the corner, wrapped the towel around the baby, and lifted it away from Maria. It was so tiny, so light. I pushed the towel away from the little face, and held it down so Maria could see. She smiled at me, murmured, "Thank you," and I took the baby into the living room.

  I held him for a moment in the open front doorway of the house. The sun was golden now, and the dew was already evaporating from the tall grass and flowers in the field. The birds were awake. "Listen," I whispered to the baby, "the birds are singing to you." But he was asleep, his fingers relaxed and warm against my chest.

  I sat in the rocking chair and moved slowly back and forth, trying with the soft, steady rhythm of the chair to make up for the
abrupt and agonizing journey he had just had. I thought of the overwhelming force that had gripped Maria's whole being at his birth, and the startled, almost painful way that he had moved as he felt his way to life outside her body. I was shaken more than I had anticipated by the awesomeness of the transition.

  With one hand I took a corner of the towel and wiped his face, which was still stained from his delivery. As the towel touched him, he gave a surprised jerk and opened both eyes; his fingers fluttered. Then he fell asleep again, breathing softly. The corners of his mouth moved briefly into what seemed to be a momentary smile, and he made a little sound with his lips as he slept.

  "Ben?" I called softly.

  "Yes? Everything okay? I'm almost through."

  "Everything's fine. He says to tell you he's happy."

  Ben came out of the room where Maria was, wiping his hands on a towel. He leaned over me, looked down at the baby, and grinned. "He says he's happy? I told you he'd tell us his name."

  I gave the baby to Ben, went in the bedroom to get my camera, and kissed Maria on the cheek. She was covered with a blanket, and sleeping. I left the three of them there by themselves, and went back home to where my father was waiting.

  And they did name him Happy. Happy William Abbott-Brady. When Will Banks heard that, he was a little taken aback at first. "Happy William?" he asked in surprise. "What kind of name is that?" Then he thought for a moment. "Well, there's a flower called Sweet William. Dianthus barbatus, actually. So I suppose there's no reason why a boy can't be named Happy William. So long as he lives up to it, of course."

  Suddenly I wanted to be the one to tell Molly.

  I had been afraid to see Molly, and now I wasn't. There isn't any way to explain that. The only thing that had happened was that I had watched Maria give birth to Happy, and for some reason that made a difference.

  Dad drove me to Portland, and on the way he tried to tell me what it would be like at the hospital. "You have to keep reminding yourself," he said, "that it's still Molly. That's the hard thing, for me. Every time I go in her room, it takes me by surprise, seeing all that machinery. It seems to separate you from her. You have to look past it, and see that it's still Molly. Do you understand?"

  I shook my head. "No," I said.

  Dad sighed. "Well, I'm not sure I do either. But listen, Meg—when you think of Molly, how do you think of her?"

  I was quiet for a minute, thinking. "I guess mostly I think of how she used to laugh. And then I think of how, even after she got sick, she used to run out in the field on sunny mornings, looking for new flowers. I used to watch her, sometimes, from the window."

  "That's what I mean. That's the way I think of Molly, too. But when you get to the hospital, you'll see that everything is different for Molly now. It will make you feel strange, because you're outside of it; you're not part of it.

  "She'll be very sleepy. That's because of the drugs they're giving her, so that she'll feel comfortable. And she can't talk to you, because there's a tube in her throat to help her breathe.

  "She'll look like a stranger to you, at first. And it'll be scary. But she can hear you, Meg. Talk to her. And you'll realize that underneath all that stuff, the tubes and needles and medicines, our Molly is still there. You have to remember that. It makes it easier.

  "And, Meg?" He was driving very carefully, following the white line in the center of the curving road.

  "What?"

  "One more thing. Remember, too, that Molly's not in any pain, and she's not scared. It's only you and I and Mom, now, who are hurting and frightened.

  "This is a hard thing to explain, Meg, but Molly is handling this thing very well by herself. She needs us, for our love, but she doesn't need us for anything else now." He swallowed hard and said, "Dying is a very solitary thing. The only thing we can do is be there when she wants us there."

  I had brought the little vase of pussy willows with me. I shifted them on my lap, and reached over and squeezed Dad's hand for a minute.

  Mom met us at the hospital; the three of us had lunch together in the first-floor coffee shop. We talked mostly about Happy.

  "I was the first one to hold him, Mom," I told her. "I think he smiled at me."

  Mom looked as if she was remembering something. She started to speak, stopped and was silent for a minute, and then said what she had been thinking. "I remember when Molly was born. It's a very special time."

  She told me that Molly was awake, that she knew I was coming, that she wanted me there. Then they took me upstairs.

  She looked so small. For the first time in my life I felt older, bigger than Molly.

  But not more beautiful. I would never feel more beautiful than Molly.

  Her hair was completely gone. All those long blond curls were no longer part of Molly; the translucent skin of her face and head were like the fine china of an antique doll against the white pillow of the hospital bed. Above her, labeled glass bottles and plastic bags dangled from a metal rack; through the tubes that led from them to the veins in Molly's left arm, I watched the solutions drip slowly, like tears. The tube that entered her throat was held firmly in place with clean adhesive tape against her skin. I tried to separate all those things from Molly in my mind. Even though pain was knotted inside me like a fist, I saw the way the lashes of her closed eyes were outlined on her cheek in perfect curving lines; I followed with my eyes the moving, blurred patterns of sunshine from the window on her bed, as the leaves of the trees outside moved and swept the sun across her hands and arms.

  "Molly," I said. She opened her eyes, found me there, and smiled. She waited for me to talk to her.

  "Molly, the baby is born."

  She smiled again, very sleepily.

  "It's a boy. He was born in the brass bed, the way they wanted. He came very quickly. Ben was all set to wait for hours, but Maria kept laughing and saying, 'No, Ben, it's coming right away!' And it did. Ben picked him up and put him on Maria's stomach, and he curled up and went to sleep."

  She was watching me, listening. For a moment it was as if we were home again, in our beds, talking in the dark.

  "Then Ben gave him to me, and I carried him to the doorway and showed him that the sun was coming up. I told him the birds were singing to him.

  "Will came over later and brought them a big bouquet of wild flowers. I don't know the names—you would, though. All yellow and white.

  "Ben and Maria and Will all said to tell you they love you."

  She reached out and took my hand and squeezed it. Her hand was not as strong as Happy's.

  "Ben and Maria asked me if I would make another copy of the picture of you holding the Queen Anne's lace. They want to hang it on the wall in the living room."

  But she wasn't listening anymore. She had turned her head to one side and closed her eyes. Her hand slipped gently out of mine and she was asleep again. I put the little vase of pussy willows on the table beside her bed, where she would see it when she woke up. Then I left her there alone.

  On the drive home, I told my father, "Will Banks said a line from a poem to me once. He said, 'It is Margaret you mourn for,' and I told him I never mourn for myself. But I think he was right. So much of my sadness is because I miss Molly. I even miss fighting with her."

  My father pulled me over close to him on the seat of the car and put his arm around me. "You've been great through all of this, Meg," he said. "I'm sorry I haven't told you that before. I've been busy mourning for myself too."

  Then we sang the rest of the way home. We sang "Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore," mostly off-key, and we made up verses for everybody. We sang "Dad's boat is a Book boat," "Mom's boat is a Quilt boat," "Meg's boat is a Camera boat," "Ben and Maria's boat is a Happy boat," and "Will's boat is a House boat," which struck us both as much funnier than it really was. Finally, we sang "Molly's boat is a Flower boat," and when we finished that verse, we were turning down the dirt road to home.

  Two weeks later she was gone. She just closed her eyes one afternoon an
d didn't ever open them again. Mom and Dad brought the pussy willows back for me to keep.

  11.

  Time goes on, and your life is still there, and you have to live it. After a while you remember the good things more often than the bad. Then, gradually, the empty silent parts of you fill up with sounds of talking and laughter again, and the jagged edges of sadness are softened by memories.

  Nothing will be the same, ever, without Molly. But there's a whole world waiting, still, and there are good things in it.

  It was September, and time to leave the little house that had begun to seem like home.

  I answered the knock at the front door and then went upstairs to the study. Dad was sitting at his desk, just staring gloomily at the piles of paperclipped pages that he had arranged in some order on the floor.

  "Dad, Clarice Callaway is at the door with some man. She says she hates to bother you at such a bad time, but."

  "But she is going to do it anyway, right?" He sighed and got up. At the front door I heard Clarice introducing him to the man who was standing there holding a briefcase and looking impatient and annoyed. Dad brought them inside, asked Mom to make some coffee, and the three of them sat down in the living room.

  I went back to the darkroom where I was trying to pack. I was going to have a darkroom in town; Dad had already hired a couple of his students to build the shelves and do the plumbing and wiring in what had been a maid's room, many years ago, on the third floor of the house there. It would, in fact, be a larger, better equipped darkroom than the one I'd had all summer, so it wasn't that that was making me depressed. And Will Banks had almost completed work on the darkroom that he was building for himself, in what had been a pantry of his little house. So my going away wasn't going to mean the end of Will's interest and enthusiasm or skill, and it couldn't have been that that was making me feel sad as I packed up my negatives and chemicals and tools. I guess it was just that we wouldn't be doing it together anymore, Will and I.