Permanence (12 page)

I see myself turning my back to baby for only a moment. I see myself stepping out of the bathroom. Then, quite suddenly, I am back inside the bathroom. I see the tub filling with water, the sight of baby beneath the water, not moving, floating face down, lifeless. I see the water spilling over the basin and onto the ceramic tile floor.

I squeeze doctor’s hands, feel my fingernails dig into his flesh.

“Listen!” I shout, “what happened to baby should not have happened at all.”

Doctor will not release my hands. He is staring into me, the wetness from the rain against my face, against doctor’s face. Doctor pierces my heart, my soul. He is hypnotic. What I tell him now I have never told anyone. Not like this. Not in detail.

“Baby was not a baby at all,” I say. “He was two years old. Baby was old enough to sit up on his own in the bath. I had a cigarette burning in the kitchen. I left baby alone in his bath and took some time for one, maybe two puffs. No more. Maybe more. But I’m not sure. All it took was one fragile moment and it was all over. I mean
it
was all
over
. It was at that moment that baby must have hit his head and gone under.”

“Let it all out,” insists doctor, holding so tightly to my hands they are beginning to hurt.

“I stood inside the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. The kitchen was directly across from the bath and baby’s nursery. So I could hear baby. But the warning that came from baby going under was not the kind of warning you might expect. There were no sounds of flailing arms or kicking feet; no yelling, no screaming. There was only the downpour noise of water filling the tub. And baby? My God, when I stepped inside the bathroom, I saw baby floating face down in the water.”

“What did you do then?”

“I screamed, naturally. My feet wouldn’t move. I was paralyzed. Jamie came rushing in from the living room. He stood there in the doorway. I bent over and lifted baby from the tub. The water was still running, filling the basin. Baby’s arms and body were limp, lips purple, his skin pale. I cradled him like a newborn. I tucked his head between my neck and chest. I held him there, tightly. I thought I could bring baby back just by holding him.”

“Did you know then?”

“Yes, I knew.”

“How did you know?”

“There was no movement, no breathing. Just nothing. And believe me, a mother knows.”

“Yes. A mother would know.”

“Bath water covered baby’s body and soaked into my clothing. Jamie just stood inside the doorway. He seemed to have no idea about baby. He seemed startled. When I screamed, I woke Jamie from a sound sleep. Listen: Jamie was smiling at the natural sight of me holding my baby. Everything must have looked as it should have looked.”

“But nothing was the same.”

“I screamed again. I held baby out for Jamie to sec, to feel. ‘Baby’s not breathing!’ I screamed. Jamie’s smile dissolved, naturally. He stood there, frozen. He said nothing. He seemed paralyzed, until he staggered forward and caught himself against the sink.”

“And the bath water…the bath water was still running?”

“The bath was overflowing, the water running over the sides of the basin. Jamie ran out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. I followed him with baby inside my arms. Jamie lifted the telephone receiver. His hands were shaking, trembling. I watched him dial 911, Emergency. He was silent, but breathing heavily.”

“At least Jamie was doing something.”

“I waited until I knew that the operator had come on the phone. Jamie tried to speak, but he couldn’t. Until he said, ‘Ambulance. I need an ambulance.’ Then he went silent again. It was only a moment or two later that I realized Jamie couldn’t remember our home address.”

Like a mother

Doctor and I sit in silence.

The heavy rain is now reduced to a cool mist. Doctor releases my hands. I touch my fingers to my wrists as though my hands have been severed and reattached. I still feel the presence of doctor’s grip. I make circular movements about my wrists with my fingers. Now doctor leans back in his chair. His eyes are back to normal. His eyes are no longer the hypnotizing eyes. They are eyes that have become somehow saddened. Doctor is looking at me.

“How do you feel?” he begs. “How do you feel right now?” He takes a small sip of beer and wipes his mouth. I take a deep drink of my wine. I feel as light as a feather. I am no longer crying, my tears having dried on my face.

But I ignore doctor’s question. Because I don’t know how to feel or how I am supposed to feel now that I have let go of baby’s story.

So here’s what I do: I lift my wine glass above the table to make a toast. This gesture is not for the remembrance of baby. This gesture is for doctor. A congratulations for forcing baby’s story out of me.

“Never more,” I say. But I’m not sure doctor understands. I’m not sure I understand. I smile, but of course, doctor will not smile. He lifts his glass, half-full with beer, and tips it against mine. The glasses clink.

“Never more,” I repeat as we bring our glasses to our lips.

And then it happens again: when doctor drinks, his eyes widen, nearly roll back inside his head. He makes a small choking cough and beer runs over his lips and onto his chin. Doctor quickly places the glass of beer back down on the metal table. He holds to his throat with his hand.

I raise myself from my seat, poised to save doctor.

But this time, he does not choke.

Doctor catches himself before the choking begins.

I go to doctor anyway. I slap him once, twice, on the back. But doctor raises his head while placing his fist over his mouth, squelching a cough.

“I’m fine,” he says, quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

But I know this is a lie.

“You were about to choke again,” I say, stepping away from doctor and returning to my seat.

Doctor retrieves a cigarette from the pack in his chest pocket and lights it. Naturally. The smoke rises up to the canopy above us.

“You don’t have to fuss over me,” he says, but he is only trying to divert my attention from the problem he is clearly fighting.

I feel my stomach and doctor’s baby. I feel rainwater misting against my face.

I see the sight of baby being rushed down the concrete stairs of my apartment building in the arms of a paramedic. I see the water from the bathtub that had soaked through the bathroom floor and stained the plaster walls of the stairwell.

“There I go again,” I say, sitting far back in my chair and taking one last sip of the Chianti.

“What do you mean?” asks doctor, his voice scratchy, his voice forced and raw. He is taking small, careful drags of his cigarette.

“Acting like a mother,” I say.

“Well, you know what they say.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t.”

“Well,” says doctor, coughing, his voice returning to normal. “Once a mother, always a mother.”

Doctor offers me an unusual smile that screams,
Bad choice of words
.

Here’s what I do: I raise my empty wine glass far above the table. Doctor just sits there frowning. “Well,” I say. “One last toast.” Doctor chooses silence.

“Come on,” I say. “Join in.” I am on the verge of shouting now.

“No,” says doctor, “don’t do this.”

“But I want to. I have to.”

“Please, Mary, stop it.”

“Here’s to motherhood!” I shout, allowing the empty wine glass to slip away from my hand so that it shatters against the cobblestones. “Never more!” I scream. “Do you understand me?”

Doctor just sits there, stunned.

“Never…fucking…more.”

Mind and soul

Doctor and I spend the rest of the afternoon at the outdoor cafe, drinking and smoking. It isn’t long before I begin to forget about the baby I am carrying for doctor. And through this uneasy time, doctor does something that is so unlike him: he tries to make me laugh. He attempts to force a smile onto my face. But I am not smiling any more than I am laughing.

“Try not to be so serious,” he says. “My God, now that you are releasing the tragic memories of baby, try to concentrate on the happy side of life.” He lifts his glass above the table.

I glance down at the glass that has shattered at the cobblestones.

“Happy times,” doctor continues, “like having a drink at an outdoor cafe in lovely Venice.”

Doctor frowns again, as though for him, holding onto a smile is a supreme effort.

“Your face,” he says.

“How’s that?” I ask, before sipping from a new glass of Chianti.

“Your forehead wrinkles when you become serious,” says doctor, issuing a short laugh.

“Oh,” I say, remembering my father. “I know.”

“But I like it,” says doctor. “It makes your deep almond eyes even deeper. Even more attractive.”

“You’re sweet.”

“And you’re beautiful, Mary Kismet.”

“You’re embarrassing me,” I say, my face feeling blood warm and yet wet from the rain. I pull back my hair with my hands.

Doctor sits back in his chair. He raises a smile and crosses his arms.

“Well, it’s about time,” he says.

“For embarrassment?” I say, laughing now.

“No,” says doctor. “Time for a smile.”

Gondola

The voice of the gondolier is soft and soothing. The wake from the other boats on the canal is gentle and calming.

Doctor and I huddle together inside the gondola on the Grand Canal, beneath the woolen blanket the gondolier has given us to protect us from the mist-like rain that seems so appropriate for romantic Venice. The gondolier does not look at doctor and me. He stands atop the tall tail of this sleek wooden boat, and looks beyond doctor and me into the distance. He sings songs for us in Italian and propels the boat with a long, wooden pole.

Doctor and I say nothing, but there does not seem a need to speak. We have been speaking for hours. Now is the time to reflect.

As the crescent-shaped bridges pass overhead, doctor and I squeeze together, our laps hidden beneath the woolen blanket. I feel the warmth of our bodies against one another, my head against doctor’s shoulder. The gondola bounces and bobs in the wake created by the other boats that pass us by. I reach beneath the blanket and feel for doctor with my hand, slowly, cautiously. I place my hand on doctor, where I suspect he wants me to. Slowly, gracefully, I unzip doctor’s pants and pull him out. Looking straight ahead at the narrow canal and the buildings along the stone banks, I begin the slow, forward and backward motion with my hand. I move to the up and down motion of the gondola and make sure that the movement of my hand is not noticeable against the underside of the thick woolen blanket. I move my hand, never letting up until I sense a slight lurch from doctor and feel the warm, thick liquid leaking onto my hand.

Doctor retrieves a handkerchief from his coat pocket and slides it beneath the woolen blanket. Then I turn my head, not noticeably, to face the gondolier. He looks straight ahead, never looking at me for a single instant. He is singing and moving the long black poll from side to side in order to propel the gondola through the waters of the Grand Canal. If he has discovered anything about doctor and me, he makes it none of his business.

I place my lips near doctor’s ear. I place my hand through his arm and pull him closer. I whisper: “I do love you.” But I’m not sure I should say this. I’m not sure I mean it. Doctor turns to me and smiles.

“I know,” he says, “about your love.”

The love I will have for doctor

Doctor and I take one last look at the Adriatic seascape from the floor-to-ceiling window in our room above the Grand Canal.

“I know it sounds entirely sad,” says doctor, his tone defeated, his words lacking oxygen. Lacking life. “But I can’t help feeling I’m never going to see Venice again.” He turns and looks at me with his usual, indifferent expression.

“Of course we’ll see Venice again,” I say, my eyes on the never too serene water of the canal.

“Just a feeling,” says doctor.

“Sometimes your feelings can mislead you,” I say. “I mean, if I listened to my feelings, I would have never stepped onto the jet plane that brought us here.”

There is a knock at the door. It is the porter come to take our bags away.

Doctor and I are not used to hangovers. We rarely drink, but since arriving in Venice we find ourselves drinking constantly—with every meal and before and after every meal. This morning we are recovering from one whole day spent beneath the canopy of an outdoor cafe, doctor drinking beer and me, Chianti. I spent the day drinking, despite the danger—despite the baby that is developing inside my stomach.

But there are other dangers too: it was last night, when we were sharing a dinner of pan-fried fish, that I noticed just how badly doctor’s throat was getting. He made an effort to cut his food into tiny, child-sized bites. He chewed each piece of food far longer than a person of his age should be expected. When he drank, he took small sips and waited for the liquid to go down before he attempted another. Through it all, I never said a word about doctor’s behavior, never once pried. Doctor is my doctor, after all.

I appear happy now, no matter what, in order to combat the worry I have for doctor.

This morning, even the perpetual gray light that illuminates the stones of Venice seems too bright for my eyes. I am dead tired after a full night’s sleep. But I feel I have become a small part of Venice now, as doctor said I would. And I do not want to leave it, ever. Together we stare at the canal and the ever present, up-and-down bobbing of the black gondolas and their pilots—polers balanced perfectly on the stems, propelling the vessels by waving a single oar from side to side. How they manage to keep balance against the unsteady motion of the water and the boat is beyond me, but I assume they have a talent or a gift they are born with.

The gondoliers are artists.

Doctor has become unusually silent this morning. He is no more used to hangovers than I am. He seems to be deeply involved in thought. He is preoccupied. I say as little to him as possible so that he is not inclined to answer me. Perhaps his conferences have overwhelmed him. In the five days since we arrived in Venice, doctor has left the hotel room at seven in the morning, every morning. I would pretend to be asleep with only the water from the Grand Canal audible as it slapped against the stone docks and against the wooden boats. I would bury my head deep inside my down pillows while doctor quietly showered and dressed his slim body. When he returned to our room finally, just before lunchtime, I would wait for him with a cup of cappuccino in my hands or perhaps a glass of champagne delivered by the porter. Doctor would enter into the room in silence. No explanation, no nothing. Just a somber-looking doctor. Normal. But I knew better than to press doctor for information. So I would leave doctor alone in his world.