Garden of Lies Read online

  Beside her, an arm around her shoulders giving her support, was a man. Why, it was Mr. Rosenthal himself, the boss of the whole bank! She felt alternately hot and cold, alarmed and thrilled. She thought she’d seen him looking at her, though he’d never actually spoken to her. The other girls gossiped about him over coffee and sandwiches at the luncheonette—his wife had died more than twenty years ago, leaving no children, and they all wondered why he hadn’t married again. She’d thought perhaps other women were too much in awe of him to get close. Sylvie recalled how intimidating he always looked, striding through to his office, his suits always perfectly pressed, gold cuff links winking at monogrammed cuffs, issuing orders in a quiet but commanding tone.

  But here he didn’t seem at all frightening. She saw kind blue eyes caught in a fine net of wrinkles, older than she would have guessed, at least fifty, silver-blond hair so fine the white ridge of his scalp gleamed through it. He was taking her to the hospital, he’d told her. To her mother. Hearing him, Sylvie could feel the calm strength radiating from him, flowing into her.

  Then, afterwards, taking care of Mama’s hospital bill, making all the funeral arrangements, then looking after her when she was so sick she couldn’t get out of bed. Never once, not once, being forward, trying to take advantage, until he’d asked her to marry him. Him wanting to marry her, oh the miracle of it! She’d done nothing to deserve it.

  And, oh God, look how she had repaid him.

  [9] The memory of Nikos chafed like a pebble in a shoe. For a whole year, each morning when she woke up, it was there, sometimes more irritating and sometimes less, but always there. It lodged in her throat when she tried to eat. It tormented her sleep. It mocked her fierce yearning that the baby growing inside her would look like Gerald.

  Sylvie laced her fingers over the hard mound of her belly. The tightness was beginning to subside, and the pain. If only, she cried to herself, I could have gotten pregnant before Nikos, then I would be sure.

  It wasn’t for lack of trying, God knew. Taking her temperature every morning and marking it on the chart Gerald kept by the bed—three years of that! And those visits to the doctor! Lying there spread out like a chicken to be gutted. Cold steel probing inside her until she’d wanted to scream. And then being told there was nothing wrong. Give it time. What did doctors know?

  She’d wept seeing the disappointment in Gerald’s face each month when her period came.

  Why couldn’t she give him just this one thing? Look at the glorious new life he’d given her. Not her fault, three different Park Avenue specialists had told her; but Sylvie knew better.

  She felt sure she could get pregnant if only she could find a way not to hate having sex with him.

  How could she feel this way? Why? What husband in the whole world was ever more kind and generous?

  Yet the memory of their wedding night, seeing him naked for the first time, still made her cringe. In his crisp, hand-tailored suits he’d looked large, prosperous. Naked, his belly a sagging pouch, he looked old, grotesque almost. And he had breasts, breasts like a girl’s! To this day, Sylvie felt revulsion when he lowered himself on her, no matter how many million times she told herself she loved him and he loved her. His doughy belly pressing against her, making her gasp for breath, his thing inching its way into her. Then such grunting and heaving, as if he were in pain. It’ll get better, she’d told herself over and over, it has to. It’s only because we’re not used to each other.

  But when he announced his desire by taking off his pajamas and folding them at the foot of the bed, after eight years her flesh still shrank.

  And then Nikos …

  [10] A flare of pain in her abdomen jerked Sylvie from her reverie. She twisted in the back seat of the cab, as if that somehow would let her escape its hot punishing grip.

  As the taxi jerked right and left, weaving its way through the clotted traffic, she leaned forward against the front seat, gasping, cradling her huge belly as gingerly as if it were a bomb about to explode.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she told the driver. “Please take me to St. Pius instead.” She gave him the address and in the rearview mirror saw him roll his eyes. He’d never get a fare back downtown from that part of the Bronx, but up there in her old neighborhood she would feel, well, safer somehow.

  Just in case Gerald called, she’d leave word with Bridget that she was visiting her old friend Betty Kronsky. Later she could say that the pains had become so bad there hadn’t been time to get back downtown or to call that stuffy Doctor Handler, who was Gerald’s college roommate.

  She knew this was crazy, hopeless really. Eventually Gerald would have to find out. But for now at least it felt easier. Back in the old neighborhood, she would feel closer to Mama, almost as if Mama were soothing her, protecting her. And maybe, well, she’d have a miracle—a baby that looked just like Gerald, or her.

  Out of midtown now, the taxi picked up speed, gliding past the stately apartment houses that lined Park Avenue. Sylvie glanced at the diamond-studded Patek Philippe watch Gerald had given her last Chanukah. Past two. God, would they get there in time?

  Abruptly, it seemed, the elegance of Park Avenue became the sordidness of Harlem, and they were rattling over cracked pavement, potholes, debris littering the streets. And worse. Old drunks crumpled on the sidewalks. She shut her eyes. But she couldn’t shut out the stink. The smells from mounds of uncollected, rotting garbage.

  Then the humming vibration of the taxi’s wheels crossing the Third Avenue Bridge into the Bronx. Sylvie opened her eyes. Turning off Bruckner Boulevard, she saw the streets were filled with children—children of all sizes and colors, splashing in the gush flowing from uncapped fire hydrants, darting in and out, oblivious to the traffic, so heedless of danger. She saw a nappy-haired boy with smooth chocolate skin chasing a little girl, her long black braids [11] whipsawing wildly at her back. Sylvie shuddered, imagining her child here, a wild brown thing playing hide-and-seek behind garbage cans.

  The cab lurched to a halt. Sylvie paid and maneuvered her bulk out the door, her legs threatening to buckle as she stood.

  She stared up at St. Pius Hospital. Its brick and granite facade was so blackened with grime it made her think of an oven, one that hadn’t been cleaned in years. She felt her stomach knot in dismay. It would be like an oven inside, no air-conditioning, probably no fans either.

  The street noises assaulted her, children shrieking, radios blaring, voices yelling in Spanish from open windows. Fighting back waves of dizziness, she trudged up the hospital’s front steps.

  A deafening crack caused her to reel, her heart smashing against her rib cage. She was so startled she stumbled against the top step, and only barely kept from falling by catching the iron rail. Then she saw. Kids. They were setting off firecrackers on the sidewalk. Of course, tomorrow was the Fourth of July. She’d forgotten.

  Glancing up past the kids to the tenement window above, Sylvie saw a pregnant woman in a faded print duster, her enormous stomach sagging over the sill, following Sylvie’s progress with an impassive stare while a plump brown baby squirmed at her breast. Sylvie turned back and pushed her way inside, feeling unsteady. Gray spots skated across her field of vision.

  She could feel the contraction beginning to tighten. Sylvie was suddenly so dizzy she didn’t trust herself to let go of the doorknob. The floor tilted sharply.

  Please ... someone ... help me ... , she opened her mouth to say as a hood of gray gauze slipped over her eyes, but no words came.

  The black and white floor tiles swam toward her. Something cool and hard smacked her cheekbone. Pain rolled through her like distant thunder.

  Then darkness.

  Opening her eyes, Sylvie found herself in an iron bed with rails on either side. A green curtain surrounded it. Through the slit where the two ends didn’t quite meet, she could see the opposite wall. A [12] framed picture of Jesus hung between two tall windows, His eyes raised heavenward, palms extended to show puncture wounds dripp
ing blood.

  Sylvie hoisted herself onto her elbows. The effort sent hammers of pain smashing into her temples, causing her to cry out. Her face felt stiff. She touched her nose, her fingers meeting coarse adhesive.

  With a clattering of metal rings, the curtain was yanked back. A woman, in a white uniform, with a short white wimple covering her head, stood over her. The overhead fluorescent light reflected off her eyeglasses, giving her an odd expressionless look. Her face was as white and rubbery-smooth as a boiled egg.

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “It’s not broken.”

  Sylvie groaned. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  The stern reply so startled her Sylvie forgot how sick she felt.

  “It only feels that way,” she kindly assured Sylvie. “You’ll be fine.”

  Then the nun-nurse began rolling a tight rubber glove over her hand. From the tray she’d carried in with her, she selected a tube and smeared something white and creamy over her gloved fingers.

  “I’m going to examine you to see how far you’re dilated,” she said. “My name is Sister Ignatious, by the way,” she added as she pulled back the sheet and roughly inserted two greased rubber fingers into Sylvie’s vagina.

  Sylvie arched backward, her whole being shriveling from the invasion. A cold crampy feeling spread throughout her lower half as the fingers probed and prodded.

  Sister Ignatious withdrew, and clumsily patted her arm. “Six centimeters,” she announced. “You’ve a while to go yet. Your first?”

  Sylvie nodded, feeling suddenly like a very small child, scared, helpless, and so alone. Tears gathered on her lower lashes.

  Sister Ignatious disappeared, returning a few minutes later carrying a basin of soapy water and a razor.

  Sylvie, alarmed, asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Now, now, let’s not make a fuss,” clucked the sister. “I’m only going to shave you. It’s for your own good.”

  Eyes squeezed shut, Sylvie submitted to having her gown raised once again. A rough wet washcloth scraped over her abdomen, [13] moving lower. Water dribbled uncomfortably between her legs. An icy hand was placed across her stomach. How could anyone’s hand be so cold in this heat?

  Sylvie was ordered to hold still. “Never mind your contraction, dear.” While the razor scraped over her pubis like a small animal, pinching and clawing, the rest of her body rippled with great thundering waves of pain. She struggled not to cry out or move. She wanted to be good, to do what she was told.

  And what else could she do?

  Finally Sister Ignatious straightened up, removing the basin and lowering Sylvie’s gown. “Dr. Phillips will be in to see you shortly,” she said. With a clatter of metal curtain rings, she was gone.

  The next hours were agony beyond anything Sylvie would ever have thought possible. In her torture, she forgot about Gerald, and Nikos, even the baby inside her struggling to be born.

  There was only the pain.

  It no longer was coming in waves, with lulls in between, but had become a never-ending surge.

  White-gowned figures flitted in and out of her vision. A gum-smacking girl with a clipboard took her name and asked questions about insurance. Then a tall gray-haired man wearing a green smock who introduced himself as Dr. Phillips and asked her to open her knees so he could examine her. She felt no embarrassment, as normally she would have. Only discomfort. She cried out. Sweat dribbled down her face. Her skin prickled as if it were on fire. Gentle hands placed a cool wet cloth over her forehead.

  Sylvie heard a scream, which seemed an echo of her own. She realized dimly that there was a bed beyond her curtain that must be occupied by another woman who was also in labor.

  She could feel the baby moving lower, becoming a fiery pressure. Sylvie instinctively bore down against it, grunting and heaving. It seemed to shift. Could this horrible pain inside her be dislodged? Could she push it out?

  “Don’t push yet,” a voice commanded.

  Through the red veil of her pain, she forced herself to focus on the face hovering above her. Sister Ignatious. “I have to,” Sylvie whimpered in protest.

  [14] “Wait until we get you into Delivery,” the nun said.

  Sylvie was resisting the urge to push, but it felt unbearable. She felt as helpless as if she were being strangled, and could do nothing to save herself. But it wasn’t only her neck being squeezed to death, it was her whole body. She’d never survive this without being torn in half.

  How in God’s name did women get through this, and live? And not once, but several times. How could anyone choose to go through this again once they knew what it was like?

  She wouldn’t. Never. Not for Gerald. Not for any man.

  Strong hands lifted her from the bed onto a gurney. Sylvie shivered, even though it was so hot she was gasping for breath. Her body was drenched with sweat, her hospital gown twisted underneath her like a wrung-out rag. She tried to clamp her knees together, to keep the pressure from tearing her apart, but her knees would not stay together. She clutched herself between her legs, humiliated at being seen doing this, yet desperate to relieve the horrible burning pressure.

  She was dimly aware of being rolled down a corridor, rubber wheels bumping over uneven linoleum. A new room. Sudden, blinding brightness. Light from a huge lamp in the center bouncing off shiny green tiles. Stainless steel everywhere.

  Sylvie groaned, twisting helplessly. Panic inched its way up her throat, blocking her air, causing her to fear she might choke to death. This cold awful place, like a public bathroom—nothing could be brought to life in this place.

  She was hoisted onto a table. Her legs spread apart, feet strapped into high metal stirrups.

  “Relax, Sylvia. It’s going to be all right. You’re doing just fine.” Dr. Phillips’s voice behind that mask. Kind blue eyes, and a shaggy gray hedge of eyebrows.

  But who was Sylvia? Then she remembered. She was. The girl with the clipboard hadn’t gotten her name right.

  She began to push. It was terrible. Pushing was almost as bad as not pushing, but she couldn’t stop herself. She heard gobbling animal sounds escape her. She couldn’t stop those, either. She no longer had any control of her body. It was controlling her.

  Voices filtered through the roaring of blood in her ears, telling her push. PUSH.

  [15] A black rubber mask was clamped over her nose and mouth. Sylvie fought it, trying to push it away in panic, afraid she would be suffocated, but the hand holding it only pressed down harder. A sweetish aroma enveloped her, followed by a spiraling light-headed sensation.

  “I’m giving you a little gas,” Sister Ignatious said. “Breathe in. It’ll help.”

  Just when she could feel her body about to split open, Sylvie felt the pressure abruptly ease. Something small and wet—far smaller than the gigantic thing inside that had caused her so much pain—slithered free.

  She heard a tiny gurgled cry.

  Sylvie sobbed, this time from relief. She felt as if a crushing boulder had been rolled off her. She seemed to float, weightless, at least a foot above the table.

  “A girl!” she heard someone shout.

  A moment later a tightly wrapped bundle was thrust into her arms.

  Sylvie blinked as she stared at the tiny face peeking out from the white folds of the blanket. The vast relief she’d felt turned to crashing despair.

  It’s so dark! A mass of glistening black hair framed a tiny squashed-looking face the color of an old penny. Its eyes opened, and Sylvie saw with a shock two gleaming jet buttons. Weren’t all babies’ eyes supposed to be blue?

  Sylvie felt her insides funneling down like sand through an hourglass. She had a falling sensation as she stared into that tiny dark crumpled face, as if she were slipping down into a black void.

  Nikos’s child. There could be no doubt. None.

  But still, she longed to hold it. Felt her nipples stiffen painfully with the desire to clasp it to her breast.


  She turned her face away, a new kind of pain welling up in her, tears sliding down her cheeks. God, I can’t. I don’t want to. She’s his baby, not mine and Gerald’s. How can I love her? It will kill Gerald, make him stop loving me.

  “They all cry,” she heard Sister Ignatious observe knowingly to the young nurse at her side as she relieved Sylvie of her burden.

  Sylvie was wheeled into another room. It looked the same as the previous one, except that her bed faced a window overlooking [16] a brick alley. There were three beds besides hers, all occupied. Two of the women were asleep, the other one eyed her sympathetically.

  “Well, it’s over at least, ain’t it?” She addressed Sylvie with the Bronx twang she herself would have had if Mama, thank God, hadn’t constantly corrected her speech, kept her insulated with all those afternoons in the Frick, and Saturdays at the plays, concerts, dance recitals to which Mama often got free tickets.

  Sylvie acknowledged her with a nod, too exhausted to speak.

  “My third,” the roommate continued, unfazed. She had an open face framed by curly brown hair. Large, merry brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. She sighed. “Another girl. Dom was countin’ on a boy this time. Boy, is he gonna flip! Not that he don’t like girls, mind you. It’s just he was kinda hopin’ for a boy.”

  “He doesn’t know?” Sylvie had trouble forming the words. Her mouth felt stuffed full of cotton.

  The girl gave a raspy laugh. “That’s the U.S. Navy for ya. Baby wasn’t due for two more weeks. They’re shipping Dom home next week for the big event.” The smile faded and her expression darkened. “His ma, I coulda called her, you know. The old bitch, excuse my French. But I figured she’d just give me a hard time like she always does. ‘You shoulda waited,’ ” she mimicked in a whiny, nasal voice. “ ‘Doncha think Dom’s got enough on his mind being at sea without worryin’ about more babies. Isn’t two enough?’ Ha! She oughta talk some sense into her son when he climbs into bed. Who does she think I’m married to, the friggin’ Pope? Whew! Damn good thing she’s in Brooklyn. Don’t see much of her since me and the girls moved up here to be with Ma ... just until Dom gets home, that is. Ma’s lookin’ after Marie and Clare right now, or she’d be here.” She reached for her handbag on the metal stand beside her bed, fishing out a pack of Lucky Strikes.