idea of having a baby—I wanted Father and me to enjoy some time together, since the beginning of our marriage had been so difficult. You can understand that, can’t you?
I thought about it, and said I did.
But then, I went on, what changed your mind?
Well then, her mother said. Father came home and put you in my arms. I looked into your big eyes. You were so beautiful. Your skin was so soft. You wanted to get down and crawl—you were so ready for life, so hungry for it! And, what can I say? It only took a minute. I fell in love with you.
Her mother looked squarely at her. I really did, you know. Fall in love with you.
I knew I should go over and hug her, the patient told Dr. Schussler. This really should have been a breakthrough moment. The whole thing: Violins. Tears. Hugs. But I could not take it in: this sudden expression of love, out of nowhere.
How old was I? the patient asked her mother.
Let’s see, you were crawling already. So maybe five, six months.
And was I big?
Not too big, not too small. Her mother smiled. Just right.
What color was my hair then?
The smile faded. Like now, she said, brownish—dirty blond.
Mother and daughter sat in silence as the house suddenly shuddered in a gust of wind.
Is there a picture? the patient asked.
Her mother looked up. A picture?
Of the day I came home.
I don’t know why there should be a picture.
It’s the day you “fell in love with me,” remember? You have all these pictures of Lizabeth the day you brought her home from the hospital.
Her mother looked out beyond the leaves again.
No, there wasn’t a picture, she said.
And why didn’t you and Father ever talk about all this? Why was it such a big secret?
Mother kept gazing off into the darkness. It was a long time before she answered. Then she said:
I guess I wanted to believe that you started with me.
She had spoken in a soft voice, very tender, full of longing. But something was wrong, the patient thought. Her mother’s eyes were strangely clouded. She kept looking out the window, into the dark, and her mouth slowly contracted.
Lip lines, Mother, the patient said.
Lip lines! Ugly! Thank you, dear, her mother said, spreading out the skin above her lip with her fingers. And then she fell silent.
So there’s more, said the patient.
Yes, there’s more.
Go on, the patient said.
Are you sure, darling? There are some things it’s best not to know.
But you’ve started—
Yes, I’ve started. What was I thinking? Now that I have begun—
You have to finish.
I have to finish.
You can’t stop now.
No, I don’t suppose I can. Not even for another martini, she said with a smile, much as I would dearly love to. All right. Yes. I have to go on.
I was very happy for the next two months, her mother said. You were a joy, Father was busy with his work, just starting his practice, and I could stay home all day and care for you, play with you, watch you grow.
I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but one day I was looking for something on your father’s desk. One of the drawers was always kept locked. I don’t know why I suddenly felt I had to open it. At our last house I knew your father always kept the desk key taped under the center drawer. And sure enough, I looked, and there was the key.
Among the papers in the drawer was a file with a cover embossed with a curious logo: letters that spelled out C-O-R-P-U-S—CORPUS—below that Jesus on the cross in the center of a globe, and below that the Virgin Mary and child. All of which I thought was odd, having both the crucifix and the Virgin, and also CORPUS. Body, body of Christ. I opened the file and saw a letter from a Bishop M.—no last name, just the initial—to someone named Bill Ryan, whose title was given as President, Catholic Overseas Rescue U.S. I don’t remember the exact wording, but the gist of the letter was that Bill should understand the need for utter secrecy in the matter—what the “matter” was wasn’t made clear in the letter. So naturally I had to turn the page.
Her mother reached for her glass. Oh, right. Empty, she said.
Go on, her daughter said.
So I turned the page. It was a photostat of a document in German. There was a date, sometime in 1946. And then another date. My hands started