Only the Beautiful, page 6
When we talked, I confessed to her that it wasn’t the stamps I loved most about her letters; it was what she’d written about her life in faraway places. I knew she’d traveled across Europe and had even visited Egypt and India. The names for the places Helen had been to and the children she cared for and the names of the food she ate had such happy sounds when I said them out loud. And the colors of those words were just as magical. I’d been forbidden by my parents to tell anyone about what I could see that no one else did, but I couldn’t help whispering to Helen that her letters made me see all the colors of the world. It was the closest I’d come to telling anyone what I saw in my mind when I heard words like Paris and Cairo and Bombay.
Helen had loved that. Loved the way I’d said “all the colors of the world.” She didn’t know what I’d truly meant by it, but I didn’t care. It was enough that she’d been delighted to hear me say what I did. I felt the glow of her attention and friendship then.
After she returned to Europe, she occasionally wrote a letter addressed only to me. When Helen moved to Vienna the year I turned ten, she wrote to me about the opera house and the taste of good Viennese coffee and how big the horse fountain was in Salzburg and how beautiful the meadow flowers were in summer, high up in the Alps. I wrote her back, as I always did, careful to mind the secret I’d promised I’d keep, even though it weighed on me to do so because Helen’s words brought so many colors to mind.
In time it became easier to stop replying to Helen’s letters than continue to withhold the truth from her. It seemed deceptive to say nothing of the colors when she’d ask how I was, how my family was, and especially how the vineyard was. The two letters she wrote to me when I was twelve I left unanswered. She did not write to me again, though in her subsequent letters to Celine and Truman she always ended them with “and give my love and the stamps to Rosie.”
Helen had surely supposed I’d outgrown my interest in her letters. That was not the case. I still read the contents of every envelope Celine gave me.
Truman now set a wet dish on the drainboard. “I forgot to tell you we’ve just had a new letter from her. She spoke of you in it.”
“She did?” I grabbed a towel and lifted the clean dish to dry it.
“She was very sad to hear of the accident. But glad to hear we’d taken you in.”
He kept his eyes on the bubbles in the sink.
“How is she?” I said.
“She says she’s fine, though I don’t expect Vienna is a pleasant place to be at the moment with Germany having marched in there like it owns the place. She loves it there, though, and is devoted to that family she works for. She won’t leave. Not even now, when it seems like there might be a war.”
I had been hearing the radio broadcasts from the Calverts’ living room when I cleaned up the supper dishes. I knew there was unrest in Europe and that an angry man named Adolf Hitler had risen to power in Germany. I knew this man had marched his troops into Austria a few months earlier to absorb the whole of it. The sound of those broadcasts had summoned willowy streaks of gloomy gray.
“She’s not afraid?” I asked.
“Europe is home to her now, she says. And that family she’s with in Vienna has six or seven children. I can never remember. She’ll be an old woman by the time the last one’s out of that house.”
“My goodness,” I said, imagining for a moment the colors I might see if I lived a life as thrilling as that. “I think she’s very brave.”
“Brave is an interesting word to describe it. Her deciding to become what our father said is an overpaid babysitter drove him nuts. God, how he blew his top over that. And then he blew it again when she announced she was leaving for England to be a nanny over there. All these years later, he’s still not happy about her choices. But then Pops has never been an easy man to please.”
“What does your mother think?”
“She died when I was four. It wouldn’t have mattered if she thought it was a great idea. He wasn’t a fan of things that happened without his say-so. Helen going off to Europe because she wanted to travel and then staying there happened without his say-so.”
“Oh.”
“He liked it when I married Celine, though. He sure liked that. Until he realized it wasn’t going to benefit him in the least.”
I didn’t know what to say to this. I wiped a drinking glass dry and said nothing.
“I don’t know why I told you all of that.” Truman felt for the stopper and pulled the drain open. The dishwater swirled and gurgled as the sink emptied. In my mind’s eye, pops of aquamarine went with it.
“You see your father very often?” I hadn’t known Truman’s father was still living.
“No. He lives in Oregon now. In a cabin in the woods. A decade ago, he decided to become a hermit, basically.”
“Oh.”
Truman dried his hands on a second dish towel. We were finished.
“Thanks for helping with the dishes,” I said.
“Used to do them all the time growing up. Wouldn’t want to forget how. I’ll find out where Helen’s latest letter is. I know you like the stamps.” He turned and left.
The kitchen seemed to diminish in size the tiniest bit after he was gone. It had been nice talking with Truman. I realized with a start that I missed that more than anything now, talking with someone while doing an ordinary task, like I used to do with Momma and Daddy and even Tommy.
When Alphonse arrived to start supper, I went into the kitchen to assist, and the promised newly arrived letter from Helen Calvert was sitting on the countertop. I slipped it into my apron pocket to read later.
When the supper dishes were cleaned and put away and I was alone in my room, I opened the envelope:
May 4, 1938
My dear Truman, Celine, and Wilson:
I hope this letter finds you all well. Thanks for your package, Truman, and the boxes of Boston Baked Beans! They are the only American candy I miss. That was sweet of you. And many thanks for the letter with all the news of home.
I was so touched to hear that you have taken in Rosie, and so sad to hear of the terrible accident that took her family from her. Please pass along my heartfelt condolences. I am sure the loss has been tremendous. My thoughts and prayers are with her.
I appreciate your plea for me to come home before tensions rise further here, but I feel that I must stay. I belong here. I can’t recall if I’ve told you that the youngest of the Maier children, Brigitta, was born with only three fingers on each hand and a few other health problems. She is learning to master skills with six fingers that the rest of us can do with ten, but she still struggles with almost every developmental step a child takes as she grows. My guess is she will likely always remain at home. My employer, Captain Maier, had a demanding position before, in what had been the Austrian Army, and it is even more so now that he is part of the German Wehrmacht. His duties often mean travel. And Frau Maier is heavily involved in the related activities expected of an officer’s wife. They need me here to help care for Brigitta during this especially tumultuous time in Vienna.
It is actually quite important that Brigitta is seen to be well cared for and not a burden to society. The government here doesn’t like people who are different in any way, and there are more and more rumors about what they are doing to people seen as inferior. The new leadership here feels toward the weak and disabled the way they feel about the Jewish residents. They do not like them. It is appalling. So you see, it is important that I remain here and make sure the child is cared for. Surely you can understand.
I have to say that in spite of all this, Brigitta Maier is a sweet child, nearly made of sunshine. Always happy, always laughing, always in good spirits. Life did not give me a family of my own, but with Brigitta, it is almost as if I do have a daughter. And with the rest of the Maiers, I almost have a family like yours.
Please turn your concern for me into prayers for the Maiers and this country and the world. These are dark days. I fear they may grow darker.
I hope to write again in the summer.
All my love,
Helen
I folded the letter and put it back inside its envelope and then added it to the collection of letters from Helen Calvert that I kept—even though this letter wasn’t full of the usual descriptions of gardens or concerts or the ski chalet that she and this family she worked for sometimes went to. I found myself worried for this little girl named Brigitta whom I did not know. That night when I went to bed, I said a little prayer for her, like Helen had asked of us.
But then my thoughts turned to Wilson’s expected visit, a much happier thought, and one that I wanted to fall asleep thinking about, rather than a little disabled girl in Vienna who apparently needed to be shielded from her own government. I nodded off imagining Wilson liking the idea that I was now living in his house. And that I was a young woman now.
* * *
• • •
Over the next few days, I allowed myself to daydream about what it was going to be like to see Wilson again. I wondered if he’d notice how much I had changed since the last time we were in the same room together.
On the day I changed Wilson’s bed linens with fresh sheets, I wondered crazily what it might be like to be kissed by him. The thought made me giggle, and the giggle felt good. It had been a long time since I’d laughed.
As I fluffed Wilson’s bed pillows, I fantasized that maybe after seeing me again he’d end up wishing he hadn’t planned to stay on Cape Cod for the whole summer.
It was a silly thought. So silly. But still . . .
Maybe he would tell me that he hoped the next time he came home for a visit, I would still be there.
7
FEBRUARY 1939
I’ve been to the fifth-floor dayroom and seen the therapy rooms situated directly across, and I’ve heard nurses talking about treatments received in those rooms. None of them sound like they entail a great deal of time talking to Dr. Townsend, not as Mrs. Crockett described it.
From what I have seen, residents who have trouble speaking or walking properly or who struggle with manners or simple sums are given exercises to practice their skills. Those who suffer terrible fits or from severe melancholy are placed in warm, bubbling baths or icy-cold ones. I have seen others that the nurses describe as “exhibiting deviant conduct” listening to a recording of a gentle-voiced woman reciting standards of good behavior. Some do appear to spend time talking with Dr. Townsend about why they are here, and some probably have to endure a combination of all these things. There are a handful of other doctors who use the rooms, some on staff and some who come in on weekdays from the outside world. Some of the residents never go into a therapy room at all but sit in chairs and drool, or they pace in the corners of the room while endlessly muttering to themselves.
I have seen Dr. Townsend only from a distance since my arrival. He sometimes pops into the dayroom to say hello to some of the residents and to perhaps see who is there and who is not. He often has a teenage boy with him, who I now know is his son, Stuart. I’ve also learned that Dr. Townsend and his family live in a nice house outside the gate but on the property, and that the doctor spends a great deal of time at the institution, even on weekends. Stuart is often with him. It’s obvious by the way Dr. Townsend behaves with his son that he is grooming him for a career like his own. I overheard Norman tell another orderly that Dr. Townsend has even put the boy on night sentry duty and given him a whistle and an hourly wage.
“Next thing you know the kid will be signing our paychecks,” Norman said to this other orderly in a disgruntled voice.
Dr. Townsend, with Stuart at his side, waved to me from the entrance to the dayroom the day after Mrs. Crockett said my therapy sessions would begin. It was a polite acknowledgment that he remembered me and maybe even that he was looking forward to our first session. I hope he is as fatherly to his patients as he is to his son.
On the first Tuesday that I am shown into a therapy room, Dr. Townsend is already seated at the plain wooden table, waiting for me. Several large boxes are stacked around him. There is nothing else in the room but the table, two chairs, the doctor, and those boxes. The sight of them startles me, and I lay a hand instinctively over my tummy to protect my baby.
He smiles slightly. “Not to worry, Rosie. Nothing in the boxes will hurt you.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” I sit down across from him, hoping I sound at ease.
The doctor’s smile intensifies. “We’re all pleased to see you have settled in well here.”
“Yes. I am sorry about what happened when . . . on my first day. I wasn’t . . . I hadn’t been properly prepared. I thought I was going to a home for unwed mothers. That’s not what this place is, so I was . . . unprepared.”
Dr. Townsend studies me for several seconds. “Do you still feel that you don’t belong here?”
I’d said too much. I should’ve said nothing but “thank you” when he praised me for adapting well.
“I . . . I didn’t at first.”
“And now you do?”
I lick my lips, which are suddenly very dry. “Um. Yes.”
“I’d like to hear more about that. But first there are a few things we need to go over again for our records.” He opens a folio of papers in front of him and takes up his pen. The piece of paper on top is filled with lines upon lines of typed words that I can’t read. They are too small, too far away, and upside down. “The state requires we go over this, as you are now in our care,” he continues. “Now then. One more time. Are you able to tell me who the father of your child is?” His pen is poised above the piece of paper, ready to record my answer.
I hesitate a moment. “No,” I say simply.
“Because you can’t or you choose not to?”
I decide on the answer that seems the least defiant. “I can’t.”
“Because you don’t know who the father is?” he presses.
“Because I can’t.”
“Have you been threatened in some way? Do you feel you are in danger if you answer this question?” I sense concern in his voice, and for a moment I waver. But only a moment.
“No.”
“Then why won’t you tell me?”
“If I tell you, will you let me go?” I ask, fairly certain he won’t.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then it doesn’t matter if I know or don’t know.”
“All right,” Dr. Townsend says in a resigned tone, almost as if he doesn’t have an opinion on the matter, but he had to ask and he had to record that he’d asked. Twice. “We also need to talk about what will happen when your baby is born.” He glances down at the piece of paper. “Our Dr. Melson here projects a mid-July due date for you.”
“But I haven’t seen a doctor here.”
Dr. Townsend looks up from the folio. “He saw you when you were on Ward 2. He examined you there. You don’t remember that?”
I very much don’t. “Those first few days are a little foggy,” I reply, licking my lips again.
“You had to be sedated much of the time. The narcotics often impact short-term memory.”
I feel my face flush at the reminder and the slight recollection that I had been so uncontrollable. “I’m so sorry about that.”
Dr. Townsend smiles at me, but he returns to the conversation at hand. “A mid-July due date, then. Dr. Melson says your baby appears to be healthy and developing normally. A good sign.”
I don’t know what to say to this. How had this Dr. Melson been able to discover all this? What had he done to me? I say nothing as I ponder this.
“Since you will not be an adult when the baby is delivered, nor married, and since you do not have any responsible adult family members or next of kin, and as the state is custodian of your care, and hence your baby’s care, it is the state’s decision that the infant be transported to a state-approved facility after delivery so that a proper home with two parents can be found through adoption. I need to know if you understand this.”
I know it is to my benefit to say yes, I do. But the words are slow in coming and my eyes burn with ready tears. This place would likely take my very soul if I let it. But I will not let it. I have a plan. I just need to get out. I blink the tears away as he waits for my answer. I don’t care what he thinks or what he writes down on that piece of paper. I will not be here when my child is born. I won’t. It is only coming on March now. I have four months to find a way.
“I understand,” I say.
“Good. I’m glad we’ve taken care of that.” The doctor makes a notation on the paper in front of him and then looks up. “Now we can concentrate on you. Mrs. Crockett says you’ve adapted well to our routines here. You have duties in the kitchen, a job you chose, yes?”
“Yes. I like to cook.”
“Good.” He again consults the papers in front of him. “And you’re in our modified classroom in the mornings, I see. Behind in your studies, though. You have some catching up to do.”
“I stopped going to school so that I could work.”
He looks up. “Why is that?”
“I didn’t enjoy school that much.”
“Any particular reason?”
I am about to say math had been hard and the colors relentless and the looks from my classmates upsetting. But I lasso those words before they fall from my lips.
“I liked working better.”
He studies me for a moment. “I hear from Nurse Tipton that you were unhappy about a flower bulb that was in your bag when you arrived here and which had been disposed of.”
He continues to study me, waiting for me to acknowledge that this is true. The loss of the amaryllis still haunts me, but I don’t want him to know it and somehow use my sadness over it against me.
