One Infant Girl by Abe Margel

One Infant Girl by Abe Margel

Worn out but unwilling to go straight home Theresa decided to walk through the park, past the off-leash dog enclosure and close to the children’s slides and swings. True she was tired but more than that she felt a terrible, aching emptiness in her heart. There was no obvious way of filling that huge void. Perhaps seeing happy children might help.

“Hi, Mrs. Gerrard,” she said raising her hand in a hesitant wave.

Mrs. Gerrard, a thin tall woman, half-smiled then turned her gaze back to her nine-year-old daughter. Two children were on a teeter-totter giggling with delight as their father, in tight jeans and red sneakers, stood nearby. Head down his eyes searched his cell phone.

Pickering in the summer was a paradise for little kids, Theresa thought. She stopped for a moment to stare at the frolicking children then continued on her way. No it wasn’t Pickering in the summer that was the paradise it was the good-humoured children that made it so.

 Just then a Black Lab jumped up at her but its owner pulled it back.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Pongo is just a big pup and hasn’t learned manners yet.”

“That’s okay. No harm done.” She stood a moment and brushed the long dog hair off her pants.

The dog ran off after a squirrel. The rodent made its escape among tall maple, oak, and birch trees.

“Come back Pongo, back Pongo,” yelled the dog’s owner. Pongo, however, did not return.

Theresa saw the humour in the situation but could not find the energy to laugh.

She was looking forward to relaxing in her own quiet apartment. It had been a long Sunday visiting her sister, Susan. Theresa ran the day through her mind. Susan’s three small children had rushed around making noise, arguing, playing, being kids. It had only been a short time but she already missed their scent, their high voices, their childish disagreements. It was great fun being their aunt.

“Aunt Theresa, catch the ball with me,” her four-year-old niece had said.

“I’m not very good at catching. But I could try.”

“No, we’re going to play house with Theresa, right?” said the six-year-old girl, Lilly. Of the three children she looked most like her aunt, freckles, aquiline nose, reddish hair. She was Theresa’s favourite.

“Take us to the store for ice cream,” said the eleven-year-old boy, hands on hips. “It’s not very far.”

“I’ll have to ask your parents. For now I’m playing house with the girls. You can join us if you want, Trent.”

“What, me play house. No way. Call me when it’s time for ice cream. I’m going up to my room and play videogames.”

Theresa followed Lilly and her sister Shawna down into the basement where a large dollhouse filled with miniature furniture and figurines filled one corner of the room. The elaborate structure and its accessories had been a Christmas gift from Theresa.

“You’ve spoiled them,” said Susan her eyes shooting daggers. “Please stop buying them treats, toys and clothes. For their birthdays and Christmas it would be fine but not all the time. It’s not good for them. Anyway you didn’t win the lottery, did you?”

“No,” Theresa said, laughing.

“Dan and I think its best you bring gifts for the kids only on special occasions, okay?”

“Of course, Susan. You and Dan are the parents and I’m only the visiting aunt.”

“And this time we mean it. It’s become a problem and we wouldn’t want to have you cut back on you visits, right?”

“Yes, I’ll stop, I will.”

Theresa felt hurt. Shopping for Susan’s and Dan’s three children was very important to her and now it was being taken away. She resented both of them for not understanding her need to be involved with their kids. Lilly, Shawna and Trent were after all her nieces and nephew.

Theresa loved these children, loved all small children, especially infants, their innocence, their unquestioning affection. Sadly she had none of her own and it hurt her heart.

“I told Olav again I wanted to have kids. I’m thirty-six, I said to him, and I can’t wait, I can’t. The next day he moved out. Gone, this time for good.”

“Yes,” Susan said. “You told me on the phone. And I told you, you were lucky to be rid of the bastard. He lost one job after the other. He hardly worked. In the three years he lived with you, he had a good time, food, booze, weed, use of your car and he gave you what? Nothing.”

“But he could be sweet, real sweet.” Theresa said defensively. Long silence. “Of course you’re right he used me, took my money, wasted my time. But now I’m alone, all alone.”

“You’re not alone. You’ve got me, Dan and the kids. They adore you. Whenever you come to Toronto to visit us, it’s a celebration.”

Some celebration, when you’re not allowed to bring gifts for the small children you love. But she kept that thought to herself.

“Yeah, I like coming down here on a Saturday or Sunday but now you’re moving further away. Even by car Barrie is at least an hour away from where I live.”

“Yes, Barrie isn’t as close to you as Toronto. You’ll have to drive but it’s not an unreasonable distance. Anyway the new house won’t be built for a year.”

Getting to and from Toronto from Pickering, Theresa took the commuter GO Train into town. She left her car parked at home and avoided the traffic on Highway 401. This day, a Sunday, her visit over she exited her sister’s place, she took the Queen Street East streetcar to University Avenue, next walked south toward Union Station and her commuter train home. It was sunny and humid so she wrapped her white cotton sweater around her waist and adjusted her floppy straw hat above her short auburn hair. Looking like a tourist she strolled past the hospitals on the east and west side of the street and took a few minutes to rest at the foot of one of the monuments adorning the boulevard’s median strip. After treating herself to a cappuccino from the coffee shop at Mount Sinai Hospital, she made her way to Union Station. 

On the GO train she sat down opposite a young woman holding an infant. The child, bundled in a yellow swaddle wrap, was asleep.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Theresa said leaning into the aisle. 

“It’s a boy,” said the woman sounding proud.

“Very nice,” Theresa said indifferently. She wasn’t keen on tiny boys.

A couple of hours later, having left the park, the dog and frolicking children behind, she picked up her pace. When she got to her basement apartment on Glenanna Road she kicked off her sandals and poured herself a large glass of red wine. She carried the wine to her cracked leather sofa and put her sore feet up on its matching ottoman. Glancing to her left where an end table stood, she reached into a stack of ‘Infant and Mother Magazine’ and retrieved the latest edition. She read a story on breast feeding before returning the periodical to the table. Her stomach growled so she got up to put together a meal. Supper consisted of left over stew and more wine.

Before going to bed she paused in front of her Victorian glass display case. Inside arranged in rows were dozens of miniature baby carriages some very old and valuable. Looking at her collection gave her great pleasure. Tomorrow evening, it being Monday, she would remove all the little baby carriages, minutely examine each one, dust it carefully them return it to the exact spot it always occupied in the case. Olav never understood her hobby, never appreciated the beauty of each tiny object.  She sighed. He was a crude, foolish man. She didn’t need him. Her life, however, would be complete if only she had a child she could share this lovely collection with.

Groggy with wine she went through the motions of brushing her teeth. Before crawling into bed she turned off her cell phone so as not to be disturbed during the night and placed it in the top drawer of her dresser. The cell lay next to a small pile of pink infant clothes.

As she slept she found herself in a recurring dream. She was in a large room filled with hundreds of little children. They were giggling, playing tag. All of them were having a good time. The floor was soft and elastic so that whenever a child fell, he bounced right back unhurt. In the middle of all this joyous tumult Theresa saw herself sitting on her old couch with a wide smile, ecstatic.

“My children, all my children,” she said her arms stretched wide.

“Mommy, mommy we’re coming,” a toddler cried out.

And the little boys and girls immediately surrounded her in a circle, singing and laughing.  All at once it began to rain blueberries and the cheerful children disappeared in a hazy, navy blue ocean.

“Oh,” she said out loud. Her eyes still closed she reached over to Olav’s side of the bed but he wasn’t there. She popped her eyes open, remembered he was gone for good, took a deep breath, closed her eyes and fell into a restless sleep filled with misgivings and regrets. 

It rained the next morning as she drove to the bank where she worked as a teller. She was as usual early so she grabbed a coffee in the little staff lunch room at the back of the bank.

“Here,” Georgiana Trail said to her putting her cell phone directly in front of Theresa’s face. “Look at this. Isn’t she beautiful? She’s my fifth grandchild. Fifth!”

“Yes, she is lovely.”

“It was a C-section. She came in at nearly eight pounds.”

The middle-aged woman in her short dresses, heavy thighs and bleached blond hair was not Theresa’s favourite person at work. She both envied and resented her. What hurt Theresa most was Georgiana’s repeated references to her wonderful grandchildren, their intelligence, athletic prowess, musical talents.

“See how he’s made it to the top of the ladder all by himself. Not many kids his age would be able to do that, you know. I’m so proud of him and his little brother.”

Sometimes Georgiana’s annoying behaviour gave Theresa a pounding headache. Yet there were times Theresa herself asked to see the most recent photos of the little grandchildren. If only she could hug them to her breast, hold on to them, make them her own. It was of course impossible, just a silly dream.

The following Saturday she again made her way to Toronto but this time she drove her eleven-year-old Toyota Yaris. She tapped the Spotify app on her cell and a stream of pop songs celebrating having a baby filled the car. Soon she joined in, singing at the top of her voice. Her favourite tune was ‘You’re Gonna Be’ by Reba McEntire. Tears ran down her cheeks when that song was playing.

It was drizzling but highway traffic was light at six in the morning. Forty-five minutes later she entered Mount Sinai’s parking garage. She checked the back seat of her car to make sure she had brought with everything she needed. After getting out of the Yaris she pulled on a blue surgical mask. Around her neck hung a white and blue lanyard. She turned the ID badge so that the blank back faced forward.

“Okay, get on with it,” she said firmly to no one.

Her anxiety turned into an adrenalin rush. Beaming, she slammed the car door shut and briskly made her way to the elevator that took her to the second floor. Her head was swimming but she didn’t stop to think, to question. She was on a mission. Resolutely she walked into the newborn nursery. A vague scent of disinfectant assaulted her nose. In a corner a nurse sitting on a straight back chair, her eyes half-closed, gave Theresa a glance then returned to staring at the floor. Among the dozen infants in the nursery a tiny, pink baby girl smiled at Theresa or so she thought. She reached down picked up the infant and hurried out of the unit. The nurse’s head, still bowed, didn’t move.

Theresa was overjoyed and terrified at the same time. A baby, I have my baby. My baby.

Swinging the back door of the Yaris open she placed the child in a car seat for newborns. She quickly buckled the tiny infant in, got behind the driver’s wheel and sped to the parking garage’s exit. Anxious to get home with the baby she made a sharp turn into traffic and was rear-ended by a minivan. She panicked, put her foot on the Yaris’ gas pedal and heard a horrible squeal coming from the back of the car. The vehicle rolled a few inches then came to a complete stop. A side panel, firmly crumpled against one of the rear wheels, prevented Theresa’s car from moving.

“Oh, God, oh God,” said the minivan driver as he approached the Yaris.

Theresa heard sirens coming down University Avenue and felt tears welling up in her eyes. She opened her door but didn’t get out.

“Please, lady don’t cry,” said the minivan driver. “Look, the baby isn’t even hurt.”

Theresa turned her head. The newborn, safe and sound in her car seat, wasn’t upset, hadn’t moved. She was puckering her tiny lips, blinking her tiny eyes. “Yes, she seems to be okay,” Theresa said yanking the lanyard off her neck.

* * * * THE END  * * * *
Copyright Abe Margel 2024