I wrote
this story four years ago but never shared it on my blog. It was a secret I had held for too long to
let it go. Now is the time to tell it.
Memories can be patchy.
Some incidents are clear and detailed, others are fragmented and
cloudy. Sometimes it is difficult to
sort out what is an actual memory and what is the result of hearing a family
story told over and over. At family
gatherings my adult children sometimes relate stories that are far from my
recollection of the same incident. We have
shared memories, but our perspectives are different.
The same is true of my childhood memories. When I get together with my brothers, someone
always starts a conversation “Remember the time…” and together our collective
memory can fill in all the details.
There’s one story we’ve never talked about. It was the summer before sixth grade. I was 10 years old. My brother, Leigh, was about to turn 9 and was
going into fourth grade. My youngest
brother was almost 4. My mother was pregnant. We didn’t have baby things. There was no crib and no baby clothes or
stockpile of diapers. I remember telling
my mother that she could have my baby doll’s clothes for the new baby and she
told me that she didn’t need them. The
neighbors held a shower for her and bought her a stroller.
One afternoon my mother walked through the kitchen with a
towel between her legs. “My water broke”
she told me. I had no idea what this
meant. She and my father left for the
hospital.
Later that afternoon I answered the phone. I remember the call because I spoke to “the
marine operator.” Back in the days of
rotary dial phones and party lines, a long distance call was an event, a ship
to shore call was unheard of.
It was an attorney calling and I told him my mother had gone
to the hospital.
Late that night I heard my father come home. I got out of bed and met him in the dark
hallway. Standing in front of the linen
closet by the bathroom door, I was excited to hear the news of the new
baby. I remember the conversation.
“The baby died” my father said.
“What was it?”
“A boy.”
And I went back to bed.
Later we went to the hospital to visit my mother. I had expected to go to Holy Cross Hospital not
far from our house, but instead we went to a small one story building in Van Nuys
and stood outside a window to talk to my mother. I don’t remember any of the conversation.
She came home several days later.
There was no funeral.
The baby was never mentioned again. I don’t know what happened to the stroller
either.
Stay tuned for part 2 later this week.
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