She took the baby to bathe her. It was nearly six p.m. and Steve wasn’t home yet. A church council meeting. Always something. He would be late. The only fact that mattered. She put her hand on her belly, going still for a moment as the baby kicked. This one, the inside one, could take her breath away with his punches and kicks. A boy, she thinks – already looking for a playground.
Molly she has to hold out to her side propped on her hip, moving through the narrow bathroom door sideways. A big girl, her Molly. At ten months, Molly’s working on her first teeth, and fitful. A bath to quiet her. Squatting on the floor between the toilet and the tub, Marie undresses Molly, tugging her shirt over her head and elicits a bit of a smile. There’s Mama’s big girl. She releases Molly from her diapers, steadying her with a warm hand to her back as Molly lurches for the side of the tub, making little excited hops and dips.
Marie checks the temperature of the water, dipping her elbow in. Molly is impatient. Tears now. Mama is taking too long. Marie lifts tearful Molly into the little ring seat that holds her up. She hands Molly a set of plastic measuring cups and spoons. She likes these. Splashes and giggles. Marie takes one cup and pours a bit of water over Molly’s shoulder. Just get her used to the water and Mama can wash her hair. No hurry now. Molly is happy. Marie settles herself onto the floor beside the tub, her legs sticking out alongside the toilet. She tries to find a way to position the rest of herself comfortably. She shifts her shoulder against the side of the old tile of the tub/shower combo. It juts out just a bit from the wall. Old, and a little off kilter, like most features of this parsonage.
Marie ignores the ache in her shoulder, settling her hand on her belly again; rubbing, rubbing. Settle down, little guy, she says, settle down. She watches her daughter play; thinks how unready she is for this. Squeezing her eyes shut against all that is before her, in her, she lets a few tears roll down her face unchecked. No one here to see them. No need to pretend. She is just so grateful for this moment of peace. Molly playing happily. And so sad that she can expect no more of life than this small moment.
Bending her head over the hump of her belly, she lets herself go, just for a few minutes, she thinks. Just a cry to wash her clean. Her body heaves with sobs, her big belly shaking with her. Snot and tears dripping down her face, her long hair mussed and sticky, with a mixture of her own and Molly’s tears. What a sight I must be, she thinks, raising her head to look at her daughter, who is no longer happy; wanting mommy, wanting something – something different than her bath. This blurry vision of her daughter, the two of them crying together, each unable to ask for what they need, bothers Marie.
She hopes again that the child within her is a boy. No more prisoners, she whispers to Molly, no more prisoners. Molly begins throwing her measuring cups. One hits the toilet; one clips the side of Marie’s face. Okay, okay, let’s get you out of here, she says to her daughter. Grasping the tub, she gets herself turned to her knees, facing Molly. She reaches for the nearest cup-missile and wets her daughter’s hair. There is no comforting Molly now. Marie waited too long, taking her moment.
She squirts a bit of no-tears shampoo into her hands, works up lather and softly massages it into Molly’s hair. You will smell so good tonight, sweetie, she says to her daughter’s howling red face. Picture her in her jammies, her pink ones, Marie tells herself, powdered and sleeping. She pours clear water over her head, rinsing the no-tears away. Reaching for the towel bar, she pulls at the corner of Molly’s pink bath wrap. Laying it on the bath mat, Marie lifts her daughter out of the water. She wraps her carefully in the soft terry cloth, tucking her head in the corner pocket. Molly goes suddenly quiet in the confinement of the tight wrap. Relief floods Marie. I can do this. She gathers Molly close to her breast, and sits a moment longer, not sure how to hoist herself and the child up.
~
Steve comes in whenever he does. No one is awake to notice. The house is quiet, which is a mercy he had hoped for, feeling slightly ashamed, but relieved nonetheless. He goes to the fridge and pours himself a glass of milk. Looks for something to snack on, but the cupboards are nearly bare. Nothing much to entice him. A box of his daughter’s zwieback sits, open, on the table. He decides to take one, dunk it in his milk.
He thinks a while about the meeting. What he learned in seminary. About how different being the pastor of a church is than he thought. He can’t figure out who the power players are. He has this feeling the discussions about building maintenance and bulletins are fraught with meaning he can’t catch. They are all sizing him up. And the parsonage. A stone’s throw from the church. He feels guilty about Marie here, cooped up, so close by. He wishes he had an office a good bit away from home; a commute would give him some distance, lift that burden of knowing she’s right here, and it’s not easy for her, and he doesn’t want to be in here helping her even if he could.
He comes home for lunch every day. A pretence that Marie has lunch ready for him. She can barely manage herself and the baby. And he wonders, is this normal? Do other women manage better? But whom could he say that to? He puts the empty glass in the sink atop a stack of dirty dishes, and tosses the half-eaten zwieback. He leaves the kitchen, but turns back. He’s thinking he can do the dishes for her. He opens the dishwasher and sees it’s full of clean dishes. Suddenly tired, he closes the door, leaving the dirties in the sink.
~
Upstairs, Steve goes first to Molly’s room. She’s not in her crib. Must be in bed with Marie. He opens their bedroom door. Empty. He feels the beginning of dread. He rests his hand on the bathroom doorknob a minute. Horrible images flash through his mind. Things he would never admit to anyone. He turns the knob, heart thudding in his chest. His eyes find not the horror he imagines, but the life his wife lives. She has somehow fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, her head not even cushioned by the bathmat, Molly in the crook of her arm, the huge hump of Marie’s stomach rising between them.
He feels such a relief it scares him. What he had been thinking? What he saw in his mind. These thoughts. These thoughts make what he finds seem a deep relief. He moves forward quietly, trying to figure out how to get his girls out of here. Molly. He lifts her first from her mother’s arms, willing her to stay asleep. She wriggles a moment. He stands very still and she settles. Her hair is damp, and he realises with a twinge of annoyance that she is not in her jammies. He shouldn’t put her to bed like this – no diaper. Still a little damp. But to change her will wake her. He stands with her in the hall, swaying back and forth, to comfort himself. It’s late. He’s tired. He wanted to come home to them all in bed. He nuzzles Molly’s head a moment, that sweet smell he loves. Raising his head, he can see into the bathroom, where his sleeping wife lies on the cold tile floor. He watches – just for a moment – unsure of what he should do next.
Marie sleeps heavily, no cut on her head, no blood on the floor, but she knows in her dream she has fallen, fallen deeply. She knows she has to get up. She has to. Someone needs her. But she can’t see her way. She twists and turns, fighting against this thing, this simultaneous wish to rise and to sink. Steve sees her lips moving, as if in silent prayer.
She shifts her body a bit to the side. Her hand goes to her belly, in one swift movement, a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes open wide. Steve steps towards her as she awakens, struggles to sit up. Their eyes meet. Molly, she whispers hoarsely, her arms already reaching. She looks up at him – her expression beseeching, tearful. Molly, he thinks. She looks at me like Molly does. Handing her the baby he is aware of himself as a separate being. His wife, his daughter, his unborn child before him. Needing him. Holding him in place.
(c) Helen Silverstein, 2009
Helen Silverstein weaves her experience as a therapist together with her work with low-income families (frequently African-American in Alabama – where she currently lives – and Maine, her former home) to create stories that take an authentic look at family relationships and societal hardships. She is a student on the Stonecoast MFA Creative Writing program.
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