Chapter 32
CHAPTER 32
Maura
I have long grown used to the bruises. A swollen eye or an aching jaw is just part and parcel of life as Mrs. Christy Davenport. But lying in bed, beside my snoring husband, I feel an ache like no other. It’s not the hot, burning sensation between my legs. That’s uncomfortable, of course, but I can bear it. I think, by now, I can bear most of the physical pain Christy dishes out. This ache is something else—something new, something I cannot bear. Shame sits inside me like a dirty thing. I want to take a kitchen knife to it and cut it out of me. I lost count of all the times I said no. I said no when he tore off my clothes and when he kissed me and when he pushed me onto the bed. I stopped speaking and closed my eyes when he forced inside me.
“Good girl,” he said. “Good girl.”
I am so tired of being a good girl. Christy has taken my consent, my choice, my dignity, and pulverized them. He has made it very clear that I do not own my own body.
I cannot sleep. I toss and turn all night, and at first light I finally go downstairs and make myself some cocoa. I’m stirring milk in a pot when Dan comes skidding into view through the front window. He hops off his bicycle before it comes to a stop and races up my garden path. I drop the spoon and meet him at the front door.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I say before he has time to open his mouth.
“It’s Bernie. She’s turning blue. We need Dr. Davenport. Oh Jesus. Oh suffering sweet Jesus.”
“Christy,” I yell over my shoulder. “Christy.” The guttural sound comes from somewhere deep inside me. I’m racing up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. “Christy, come quick.”
Christy meets me on the landing. He’s still in his checked pajamas and he’s rubbing his eyes. He takes one look at me before he hurries back into the bedroom. He reappears seconds later with his shoes on and his medical bag in his hand.
“It’s my wife, Doctor,” Dan says as Christy runs down the stairs, with me hot on his heels.
Christy grabs his car keys from the hall table and says, “Come on.”
Dan follows him outside; they hop into the car and drive away without another word.
I lean against the doorframe, my legs thinking about buckling, and I stare at the front wheel of Dan’s bike, which hasn’t yet stopped spinning.
“Oh, Bernie,” I say. My eyes are wet.
I step outside, close the door behind me, and pick up Dan’s bicycle. I pull my nightdress above my knees and hope I can remember how to keep my balance. Then I pedal hard and off I go. My floral nightdress is no match for February winds, and my teeth chatter. I whip past a sleeping Rathmines and pick up the pace as I head downhill into the city. The milk van passes, with bottles rattling. Cars begin to pull onto the road. Pedestrians appear and other cyclists too. Dublin is awakening. It’s all very normal—habitual, even. I pedal faster, almost losing my footing and tumbling into the canal running alongside me.
Finally, I reach the city center. It’s bustling with folks heading about their morning business. The back wheel skids as I turn onto Talbot Street. Shop shutters are rising and voices are carrying in the wind.
“Morning. Lovely day,” I hear someone say.
“Sure is,” someone else calls back.
The shutters of McCarthy’s are firmly shut, but the windows in the flat above are open. I hop off Dan’s bicycle and lean it against the wall. I listen. I expect to hear the sounds of a woman in labor. I hope for it. But the flat is silent.
I raise my hand to knock on the door when I hear voices inside. Thank God. The door swings open and it’s Christy I see first.
“Maura, step aside,” he says, calmly commanding me.
I move. Dan comes into view next, with Bernie in his arms. Her face is gray like the stonewashed building and her head and arms are dangling lifelessly.
“What is it? What’s happened? Is she all right?”
No one answers me. They don’t even look my way. Christy’s car is waiting. He opens a door and Dan lays Bernie across the back seat.
“Should we call an ambulance?” I say.
Christy shakes his head. “There’s no time. It’s faster if I drive. Get in,” he instructs Dan.
“The girls,” I say. “Where are the girls?”
Dan looks at me blankly, and for a split second it feels as if he doesn’t know.
“Where are the children?” I try again.
“Sleeping. They’re still sleeping.”
“Go. Go. I’ll stay with them. Go.”
Dan nods and squeezes into the back of the car with his wife. The engine purrs and they drive away, and I wonder if I will ever see Bernie McCarthy again.