Chapter 4 Melissa Comes Home by Mildred Krentel

One more......

THE SOUL has a desolate desert.  I discovered mine after the fierce hurricane of emotion had stopped its wild churning and left in its wake a quivering quiet, a hush so tenacious it could deal dry-eyed and grim-lipped with the half-filled can of baby powder, the pair of high-topped white shoes never walked in, and the too-new crib unmarked by tiny teeth. Yet it was a hush so frail it could be shattered by the merest scrap of a lullaby, or a newborn baby’s sob. 

Time passed.  The season slid into each other, and then it was Christmas.

David, Bob, Diane and Steve gathered around the gaily decorated tree in the recreation room in somewhat subdued frivolity.  I sensed that they were all thinking of what this family time would have been like with one-year-old Martha pulling at the packages.

Bob, not quite fifteen, looked at me and smiled a lopsided grin. He seemed ready to burst. 

“Please, open my present to you-all first, OK?”

It was a twelve-by-fifteen-inch oil painting of our baby Martha.  The trace of a smile on her tiny face, a faraway look in her too-blue eyes, and the dark baby hair hugging her head like a cap brought a startling reality to the canvas.

But my eyes were blurred, almost too blurred to find his cheek to say “Thank you, Bob!”

Then the details spilled out. Bob had taken one of our Polaroid snapshots to a talented  friend of ours who had agreed to attempt a likeness.  The sum asked was a modest amount that his babysitting income could tolerate.  It had been a well-guarded secret for the past two months. 

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We put down the most shallow of roots in Middletown, for Paul’s new position, that had offered such a rosy prospect, now seemed to present a dubious future. 

One afternoon, about fifteen months after Martha’s death, Paul walked into the house with a flushed look on his face.  He had just returned from Philadelphia and had been offered the vice-presidency of a company there. This opportunity seemed advantageously timed with his growing discontent.  The children were elated at the prospect of a change.

And so we moved to the Main Line of Philadelphia and Paul joined the briefcase-burdened commuters on the Paoli Local.  We purchased a charming split-level home on the side of a very steep hill near Valley Forge and tried to raise pachysandra on our backyard mountain instead of grass.  

But still there was that empty hole in our family circle. 

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“Paul.”

His name hung there between us as we lay sleepless in our four-poster bed.

“I’m here.”

He was obviously not too conversational.

“I want another baby!”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

I did not answer.

“Miggy, listen!  You are almost forty-one!  Have you thought about that?”

“Long and hard”

“Aren’t you asking God for a replacement baby?”

“I don’t think so, Paul.  I’ve talked with Him about it. We have a lot of leftover love to give.   Doesn’t it seem kind of a shame to waste it all?”

I guess he just didn’t feel up to arguing.  He quietly reached over and gathered me in his arms.

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But the months went by, and still no baby. I busied myself taping some of my stories in rhyme with organ background and sent them off to a record producer in Texas.  He was quite enthusiastic and offered me a three-year contract.  I know that nobody else would ever discover me, so I signed on the dotted line with great dispatch.

Recording proved a marvelous  antidote of the housewife doldrums.  But just when I began to think about my next recording, a reproduction of quite another sort demanded my total attention. 

How would I announce such stupendous news to my family?  They would flip--every last one of them!

Some secrets are meant to whisper and tell,

For most folks can’t hide things awfully well;

But the hardest to keep ( and there are no maybes)

Is the secret of ladies---about to have babies!

And every last one of them did exactly that, including my dear husband who gave one ear-splitting war whoop that set our timid collie to howling.

The baby was due the second week in August and I knew from experience that I was in for a long, hot summer.  David, a junior in college, and Steve, an eighth-grader literally took over my conditioning program those last few months.  Obviously, anyone past forty was well over the hill and would have to embark on a rigorous training schedule to accomplish anything as hazardous a producing a sixth child.

Their inconsistencies were delightful.  I was not permitted to stoop down in their presence or do any talk as rigorous as the dishes, but up and down Valley Forge Mountain they traipsed me over the trails, with Ladybird, our collie, panting at my side. 

“Walk backwards up the hills, Mom , it strengthens the muscles in the back of your legs. “

I was totally exhausted, tremendously expanded, and thoroughly exasperated with the continued hot, humid weather.  At forty-two, you simply don’t bounce around like the young ones. 

Together, Diane and I went up to the attic. 

“It’s still so new!” she said, stroking the smooth teething rail on Martha’s crib.

I turned away.

We handed down the things to the boys---the Little Bo Peep nursery lamp with the yellow shade, the baby scales, and then the size-one dresses, never worn, just hanging there kind of limp.  It was a traumatic experience.  I began to hurry.

We reassembled the crib in the small room, perfect only for a baby and right across from the master bedroom and happily, right next to Diane’s.

None of us openly admitted wanting a little girl more than a boy, but Steve came right out with it one night as “D” day had come and gone.

“Don’t you think, Mom, it would be rather considerate of God to send us a baby girl?”

Well, I did , but I said I didn’t care one speck.

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When I finally checked in at the hospital, it was at the unforgivable hour of three-thirty in the morning on a sultry humid day right after Labor Day, and three weeks late, at that.

It was as though our sixth baby had stood poised at heaven’s portals waiting for divine reassurances before she could be persuaded to be born.

“It’s now your time to leave, small one.  Your family is waiting for you down there, wondering why you delay so long.  They are beginning to worry!  No, you must not cry! No tears are permitted up here.  I know that you are frightened, but you have a special mission to perform just for Me.  There, now, I have placed a tiny dimple in you left cheek, but they would have loved you anyhow.  I have blessed you with a laughing heart.”

And, after a never-to-be forgotten labor of eight hours, baby Melissa was delivered and I heard the relieved pronouncement of my obstetrician:  “She’s a girl-----a 100 percent healthy little baby girl.”

I floated away into a happy-happy world where my body was numb and delicious with no more pain.

Until next week................Blessings, DKH

I remember this May day like no other......Difficult to type this chapter out but it's all about  the fabric of life.  DKH

Chapter Three of Melissa Comes Home by Mildred Krentel

Our new neighborhood was saturated with young couples busily engrossed in raising kids and grass.  We moved into a five-bedroom, all aluminum home and decorated one small room for our new baby, due in two months.

Bambi plaques on the wall candy-striped draw drapes, and a bright blue rug on the floor completed the nursery.  Diane, an effervescent twelve-year-old was chattering like a magpie as we began the final scrubdown of Steve’s old crib.

“Hey, Mom, it looks a bit forlorn, eh?”

I surveyed the nine-year-old relic dubiously. This business of “beginning all over again” was expensive.  Yet, does not a P.S. child deserve something better than an old hand-me-down?  Diane and I decided definitely YES!  But, before we could even locate the car keys to go shopping, the doorbell rang and two big boxes from Michigan were delivered.

“From Uncle Frank, Mom!”  Diane was a bit starry-eyed.  

When we had finally torn the carton open, there was a shiny new crib with an innerspring mattress!  Nothing would do now but a new bathinette, baby scales, and a Little Bo-Peep nursery lamp.  All was in a state of readiness. 

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1959---- Martha Helen was born on December the second!  When six people all suddenly fall in love, it is an awesome thing to behold!  Martha was so special. She was the uncrowned ruler of our busy household.  Three big brothers, and one adorning older sister all paid homage to our new love.  A mere whimper or the tiniest tremble of her baby lips, and we flew into action.

Almost before we knew it, she had been with us half of one whole year, six beautiful months!  And still our hearts were filled with the wonder of her.

And then it happened.  It was the sixteenth of May, on my mother’s birthday, a made-to-order Monday morning.  Under a round-eyed sun, frisky breezed flapped the diapers on the clothes tree merrily.  I sang aimlessly as I tucked Martha into her carriage for her morning nap.  There were moist fat creases in her neck to kiss and dimpled wrists and ankles to pinch before I flew indoors to attack my housework with springtime vigor.  Beds were made, dishes stacked in the dishwasher, and the coffeepot was reloaded.  

Soon the sound of wheels crunching over the driveway gave me ample reason to abandon all thoughts of housework.  I warmly welcomed two friends from my old neighborhood who had come to see this child of my middle years.  

We sat at the table, talking over cups of coffee.  I’m afraid I bored them with my baby talk.  My mind was a delicious jumble of formulas, schedules and doctor’s visits.  I found myself waiting for empty conversational  spaces where I could insert some incredible new thing our darling had done. 

“Look at the time!” I suddenly exclaimed.  “It’s almost time for Martha’s bottle.  I’ll run out and see if she’s awake.”

She usually napped for an hour or two in the morning.  I went to the back door and looked out.  The mosquito netting was billowing gently in the soft breeze.  I ran out and peeked in through the slit of the hood.  We often played peekaboo with each other.  She lay face down in the carriage.

I tore at the netting and turned her over.  Her face was puffed and her closed eyes were bluish and swollen.  I picked her up in my arm.  She lay like a tiny rag doll, limp and life-less.  From somewhere deep inside me there cam a strange unearthly wail.

Did You hear it way up there, God?  That was the veil of my heart being torn asunder. 

I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me!  This happened to other people’s children, not to your own. I stumbled into the kitchen with my bundle and numbly handed her to Marge. She swiftly loosened the baby’s clothing and with her mouth gently began to breathe air into those quiet little lungs.  There was no response.

What followed was a nightmare of neighbor, machines, doctors, ambulances.  And my baby---on the kitchen table. 

I must call Paul, I thought.  Oh, what will he do?  It’s already after twelve; he’ll be out to lunch.  Paul, what shall I say to you?  You loved her so----

Paul was there.  When I heard his dear familiar voice, my words froze in my throat.

“Oh, my dear---our baby.  She’s gone---she’s dead!”

I clung to the phone, dry sobs stuck in my throat.  Tears that would not flow held me, numb and shocked. 

How Paul ever drove those ten miles is something close to a miracle.  He never stopped believing that somehow everything would be all right when he arrived, that somehow the crisis would be over.  He ran into the house, into the confusion of the kitchen, and gathered me in his shaking arms.  There was no need for words. We clung to each other and wept, shut away from the world, encased in a little box of grief.  

We paced from the living room to the kitchen and back again, listening to the steady mechanical breathing of the respirator.  We went to our bedroom and fell down on our knees by the bed.  There we sobbed out our grief. 

Our broken hearts asked the timeless question, Why? There seemed to be no rhyme or reason.  We couldn’t understand it.  There were sickly babies, unwanted babies, mentally imperfect babies----why didn’t God take them?  We had loved her so.  The heavens seemed leaden’.  There was no answer. 

And, still, little Martha lay there on the green formica kitchen table, surrounded by people, strangers looking down at her smallness with pity and trying to coax her back to life again.  They just wouldn’t give up, but kept on trying.  And that was an added “hell” for me. 

But, one by one, they finally left, each on his private errand of mercy.  Flowers were delivered, hot casseroles arrived, and our four children were brought home from their schools.  We opened our arms and joined in their grief.  

The doctor was kind and sympathetic.  I was unnerved by his diagnosis; aspiration of the vomitus in the trachea.  My sick thoughts stampeded wildly.  If only I had gone out to look at her sooner! If only I hadn’t had company!  If only I had put her in her crib! If only I had been there by her side! But no, I was laughing and sipping coffee while my baby was dying.  I would never forgive myself.

“But, Doctor, she was so strong,” I said.  “She could lift her head and turn over.  How could it have happened?”

“My dear, this could have happened while you were holding her in your arms, and you would have been helpless,”  he explained gently.  “Why, just yesterday in the papers there was a case in which a ten-month-old baby died exactly-----”

My ears were deaf.  I had closed my mind to his case histories.  There was cold comfort in the fact that other babies had died in the same way.  At the doorway, he stopped and  asked gently, “Do you have anything that you can take tonight?  Sleeping pills or tranquilizers?”

“Sleeping pills?  Tranquilizers?”  I sobbed convulsively.  “”Yes, we used to have one--just one--a fifteen-pound one, wrapped in a pink plaid blanket.  She was all we ever needed.  But no more; she’s gone.”

The doctor spoke quietly.

“Shall I prescribe something for you both?”  he asked.  Paul assured him that everything would be all right, so he left reluctantly.  Later that night we decided to take aspirin, but in searching the medicine closets we unearthed not even one lone grain.

“Let’s pray!”  my husband suggested simply.

We knelt quietly by the edge of the bed and asked God to give us a night of sleep.  God answered that prayer and the comfort of sleep came to erase, however briefly, what seemed to be God’s mistake of the day.

We awoke, and she was still gone.  We listened, but there was no sound from the nursery.  The house was so quiet, it literally swallowed us up.  I stumbled from our bed and went over to the bureau.  There was a large pink diaper pin on top of my comb.  With trembling hands, I pushed it aside and combed my hair.  The face that looked back at me from the mirror was drawn and haggard: the eyes were cold and despairing.  I was not needed; my baby was gone.

Steve tiptoed in and stood in the doorway watching me.  Then he ran over and threw his arms around me.  I felt his young fierce strength and would not let him see my weakness.

“Steve, the hole is so big and so very empty.”

Then, with the wisdom only a ten-year-old can know, he whispered, “Mom, you just wait and see!  God will fill that empty hole.”

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While dressing that evening to go to the funeral home, I suddenly missed Paul.  I knew instinctively where he was.  There in the nursery, he had rolled up her pink baby blanket and rocked it back and forth in his arms as if he were trying to remember that sweet essence of our faraway angel.

“Don’t do that!”  I said sharply.

Almost automatically he folded the blanket and placed it neatly at one end of the vacant crib. 

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In the funeral home, I couldn’t take my eyes away from her.  I desperately wanted to cover her; her arms looked so cold.  I had the awful feeling that if I looked away even for one second, she might suddenly roll over and fall to the floor. 

And then the minister began to read from the Bible.

“Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

My soul stood on tiptoe to listen.  I drank in the words like a thirsty sponge.  And then, like the old Scottish woman, I wanted to throw my apron over my head and be alone in the tabernacle with my God.

My baby had finished her life’s works.  She didn’t have to try to “become as little children”: she was one--a very tiny lamb that had gone home to her heavenly Father.

A quietness and hush swept over me.  clenching both my thumbs tightly, I shot up an intense little plea for understanding and forgiveness. 

“It’s OK, God, I don’t need to know why You did it.”

It was a sixty-seven-mile ride to the cemetery.  We wanted to be alone together as a family, so Paul drove and the four children. David, Bob, Diane and Steve, sat watching the rain beat upon the car windows.  It was almost as though we were out for a Sunday afternoon ride, only our littlest one rode on ahead of us in a small black hearse.  Diane pressed her tear-stained face against the window. 

“Just think, I have a sister up in heaven waiting for me.”

A sunbeam had shattered right there on the back seat.  

“Remember what we used to do when Martha had all those shots and was so fretful?”

“We’d sing to her!”

So we did--each of her songs---the special ones that we waltzed her around the living room to and the Sunday-school ones that we knew so well.  “Jesus loves me, this I know”---” Jesus wants me for a sunbeam”----”When He cometh, when He cometh.”

As we lay the smallest member of our family in the ground, we knew we were depositing our first treasure up in heaven.  

I went home and composed my own song of Lamentations.  

Now I lay thee down to sleep

here, my little one---here,

blue eyes shut in slumber deep,

in a satin-quilted bier.

Why have you fled so far away?

Didn’t you know you’d be missed?

Loosen my broken heart, small one;

unclasp your tiny fist.

Tell me, dear, is there one your size 

to be your angel friend, 

to play with you forever

in a world that has no end?

Please ask our God one question, dear:

Why did He take you so soon?

Six months is just the break of day:

He could have waited -----til noon.