The House of Closed Doors (12 page)

TWELVE

M
y little girl had a sleek head of bright copper hair, and the women exclaimed that they had never seen a newborn child with hair that color. Her skin was translucent white when she was at rest, bright pinkish-red when she cried, and softer than the finest velvet. The eyes that squinted up at me from a puckered-up face were a cloudy shade of green-blue.

I called her Sarah Amelia: her second name was for my mother, of course, and the first because “Sarah” simply popped into my head when Lizzie, her withered face radiant, placed the little swaddled bundle in my arms.

I scrutinized her face, wonder and puzzlement chasing each other around my brain. What was I supposed to do with her? She would not be my responsibility for long indeed. But it had not really occurred to me that for a while, I was expected to look after her. She was no longer the mysterious force that somersaulted in my belly and kept me awake at night. She was, indubitably, a person.

A sudden spasm passed over the person’s face and her mouth moved convulsively. Her face screwed up into a crumpled red ball, and she began to make squawking noises. I looked at Lizzie in alarm.

“You must put her to the breast,” the old woman said. My answering expression must have been a perfect picture of mingled astonishment and apprehension, because Lizzie, usually so gloomy, was still gasping with laughter when she took Sarah from me and showed me how I must adjust my nightdress.

M
rs. Lombardi sent my parents a letter announcing that I was safely delivered of a girl, and I wrote a brief note on the end stating her name and sending my love. I did not want to write anything more, as I knew that Stepfather would read the letter first. I would have to find some way to communicate with Mama, whom I missed with a constant ache in my heart.

I found it hard to believe that I was myself a mother. The first shock of feeling a tiny mouth clamp onto my nipple with the strength of a terrier intent on its prey led me inexorably toward my initiation into the mysteries of dressing, cleaning, diapering, recleaning, and rediapering this small yet incredibly messy being a dozen times a day. At first, these tasks seemed to take up every waking moment; I had little time to think. When Sarah slept, my own eyes closed immediately, and I would sleep like a stone until awakened by the plangent wail that meant I was expected to do something.

I had help, of course. My three roommates waited on me hand and foot; there was always one of them who seemed to be excused from her regular duties to attend to me. Mrs. Lombardi suggested that I be moved to a tiny bedroom sandwiched between a storage room and the staircase so that Sarah did not disturb the other women with her crying but laughed when Tess and Lizzie said “No!” simultaneously, and Ada shook her head with emphasis.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Lombardi, “the vote of the majority carries the matter. I have never, since I came here, seen a child so welcomed; but then, this is the first baby born in the House for many years. In the dormitories, the women usually complain about the babies’ crying and are happy when they leave.”

Our small fire burned constantly now, and the room, although not very warm, was comfortable enough for Sarah. I clad her in the tiny boots, mitts, and hats that Bet had knitted, and her bright hair peeped out from under a lacy cap fastened with a button. As the days went by and Sarah began sleeping for longer stretches, I asked for my sewing to be brought to me. I had recovered from my initial exhaustion and even read one novel supplied by Mrs. Lombardi, but I was not fond of books and soon became bored with idleness.

Tess often sat beside me to do her work, of which she was very proud. She constantly asked if her stitches were small and straight enough; I advised her gravely, trying not to be impatient with her incessant need for affirmation. Sometimes I would stop working and watch her as she sewed, her face wrinkled in concentration, and wonder if this was what it felt like to have a sister.

A week after Sarah’s birth, Mrs. Lombardi came to visit me as I sat alone, creating felled seams inside a set of men’s nightshirts. She pulled a chair over to my bedside and fingered my work appreciatively.

“These will be very comfortable,” she remarked.

“And last longer,” I said. “The edges will not fray or tear when the men are moving around in bed. And seams are easier to do when you’re sitting in an incommodious position.” I grinned at her; I had protested several times against my enforced confinement. I felt strong and well, and Sarah was nursing lustily several times a day. I wanted to do something more interesting than take care of a baby and look out at the snow.

Mrs. Lombardi was silent for a moment, watching me out of her splendid hazel eyes. The weak winter sunshine struck vivid reds and greens from the plaid ribbon she always wore at her throat, fastened by a most unusual brown and cream cameo brooch.

“Nell,” she said softly, “I wish to ask you about your anxiety on the day of Sarah’s birth. Whatever made you so worried about summoning me through the snow? We are quite accustomed to the weather here and well organized for emergencies. This is not an easy place to manage, as you can well imagine, and we expect unusual events.”

I fidgeted with my needle, weaving it into the fabric. I had guessed that she would ask me, and I did not want to tell the story. We had not talked about that day for a very long time at home.

Sensing my discomfort Mrs. Lombardi looked away, toward the small hump that Sarah made in her crib. She reached over and touched my baby’s hair where it was already beginning to escape from its cap.

“What a color.” Her voice held a note of admiration.

I felt my throat tighten. “Just like my father’s,” I whispered.

Mrs. Lombardi did not reply, and the silence stretched out for minutes. I could feel my heart pulsing as if the story were trying to beat its way out of me, crying out to be told. I waited for Mrs. Lombardi to say something so that I could answer and turn the conversation elsewhere; but she was silent, gazing at my sleeping baby.

My resolution broke. “My father died in the snow.” The words tumbled out of my mouth in a rush.

Mrs. Lombardi did not turn her head. “Really?” she said in a whisper. “I thought it might be something like that.”

Another minute went by in silence as I drew several deep, painful breaths, staring resolutely at the cameo brooch at Mrs. Lombardi’s throat, not daring to meet her eyes. The silence seemed to grow and expand until it became a huge empty space, waiting to be filled with my words.

“I was six years old,” I began.

THIRTEEN

“M
y mother had a baby‌—‌the first since I was born. She is not in good health, you know. She has a heart condition that makes her tired and out of breath.”

Mrs. Lombardi nodded. “Was she very ill?”

“Back then, not so much. She has become much worse in the last ten years. But I remember she was always tired, and the birth was …” My voice trailed off, and I chewed at my lower lip, keeping my eyes fixed on Mrs. Lombardi’s brooch.

“She had a bad time.” Mrs. Lombardi’s voice was matter-of-fact, and that helped me continue.

“Terrible. For a few hours it didn’t seem so bad; Bet, our housekeeper, and my nursemaid, Daisy, and the maid we had then were quite cheerful. They gave me candy and told me I would soon have a little brother or sister. My father also seemed happy, although he could not keep still and walked in and out of all the rooms in the house until Bet was nearly driven crazy. I remember asking her why Papa couldn’t go into the bedroom to be with Mama; Bet laughed and said that it was women’s work. And then later when the doctor came I argued that he was a man, but by that time nobody was listening to me.”

I lapsed into silence, remembering my tall father with his flame of red hair bursting into the kitchen where I sat playing with an abacus. He swept me up into his arms to pace with him, up and down the room, until Bet firmly told him that he would make me dizzy.

He had swung me back down into my chair and taken a seat by the fire, staring at the ceiling where I could hear muffled noises. Outside the snow was swirling; it was almost Christmas, and I had made a line of little snowmen to represent Mama, Papa, myself, Bet, and Daisy. I put an acorn that I’d kept from the fall into one snowman’s arms to be the baby. I did not like our maid, so I left her out of our little snow family. Daisy was bossy, so I made her snowman crooked.

“Why is baby taking so long to be born?” I asked Papa.

“Babies take a long time to come, Nellie,” he said, his eyes crinkling.

I yawned. I had woken up before dawn with the sound of the midwife arriving, and it was now five o’clock. I hoped I would be able to kiss the baby before I went to bed that night.

The evening dragged on, and the mood of the house changed. Bet was frequently absent from the kitchen, and the maid with her; Daisy played with me but darted out into the hallway whenever she heard footsteps on the stairs. I suppose I fell asleep on the kitchen floor, and Daisy took me to bed; the cold sheets woke me, and I had only just started to drift back to sleep when the screaming started.

“Nobody came to see if I was asleep,” I told Mrs. Lombardi. “I expect they all thought I was, but I sat up listening, hugging my doll and sucking my thumb until it was red raw. The screaming got worse and worse, and there were voices and feet rushing up and down the stairs and from one room to another. I could hear my father’s voice, frantic to be let into the bedroom, but the doctor shouted at him that he could do no good, they were doing all they could to save my mother.”