Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Diana
April 2002
D iana’s water broke as Allen slept off a hangover on the sofa. For a long time, maybe too long, Diana stood between the kitchen and the living room, focused on her breathing and trying not to cry out too loudly when the contractions came, watching as drool spilled out of the side of Allen’s mouth. Was this really the man she was going to let hold her baby minutes after she was born? Did she really want to start her daughter’s life out with such low prospects? No. Diana knew that motherhood was all about lying to your child until the true evils of the world spilled out. It was better to let them believe in beautiful things before everything crashed. It was a brief yet wonderful gift.
Diana had thought the world was beautiful until age nine, when she was yanked out of Poland, dropped into Manhattan, and forced to reckon with what it meant to be alone.
One of the Polish women from her father’s old neighborhood drove Diana to the hospital and sat by her bed during labor. It was a relief for Diana to listen to the woman’s Polish and imagine that Barbara Nowak was visiting from Poland to take care of her. Delirious from pain and heat and heartache, Diana squeezed the woman’s hand hard and begged her to take care of her baby if she died. The woman said, “Women have babies every day. They have them in Poland, and they have them in Detroit, and they always make it out all right.” Diana knew that this wasn’t true, that accidents in childbirth were far more common than people liked to say. But she knew the Polish woman was too no-nonsense to acknowledge anything quite so painful. What good would it do anyone to talk about the dark things in life—especially now as a baby neared birth?
Diana’s baby was born at two in the morning. Diana held her first; the Polish neighbor held her second and said, “Madeline is a silly name,” but still smiled happily, cooing over the tiniest baby Diana had ever seen. Had Diana been this small, too? Had her mother held her like this? Had Barbara’s heart broken just as Diana’s was?
Miraculously, Allen was awake and sober when Diana returned with the baby. He wept with joy and explained that he’d been terrified that Diana had left him. He held the baby and kissed her fingers and toes and promised Diana that he would be better, that he’d be a doting father, that he’d wake up when the baby cried, that he’d feed her. Exhausted from childbirth and delirious with love, Diana let herself believe him. She kissed him and left the baby with him and went to bed. But not two hours later, he shook her awake, saying that the baby was crying, and he didn’t know what to do. His eyes were rimmed with red. It took another two weeks before Allen left them, and by that time, Diana was so ready to see him go that she popped open a bottle of wine and toasted her house, her baby, and her brand-new life. She didn’t need Allen.
But it was true that he was the reason she had Madeline: her gift, her treasure, her love.
Diana did everything she could to keep herself and Madeline afloat. Tired of Detroit and its suburbs and its dark memories, she moved them to Grand Rapids, where there was a yearly cultural art fair and a university and a beautiful river that glistened and wound through the city. Diana picked up odd jobs as a cleaner because if nobody was around, they didn’t mind if she had a baby in tow. The chemicals frightened Diana, of course, so she made sure to keep the baby as far away from where she was cleaning as possible. Usually, Madeline slept all the way through her shifts, as though Madeline sensed how essential these sessions were for their livelihood.
Diana maintained the mindset of one day at a time. As long as I pay next month’s rent. As long as I buy this week’s groceries. As long as I can always feed Madeline and tuck her in someplace warm at night. They weren’t without their hardships. Some months found Diana skeletal and counting pennies. Some weeks found her sleepless, listening for Madeline’s breathing in the dark. But lucky for them, Madeline was very rarely sick. She was a robust American baby.
For Diana, dating was out of the question. Allen had brought nothing but difficulty to her life, and she felt sure that every other man would bring similar, if different-looking baggage. Besides, she wasn’t sure where in her mind she could find space to care for anyone, not when she struggled so greatly to maintain some semblance of a life for herself and for Madeline.
Diana took the job cleaning for the Hamiltons in early 2005. By that time, Madeline was nearly three and very active, a fact that weighed on Diana’s heart and made it far more difficult for her to clean houses. Madeline didn’t lay quietly and sleep any longer. Obviously, Diana didn’t have the money for childcare, and Madeline was still a year or two out from going to school. Diana brought countless snacks and activities for Madeline to do, setting up Madeline and praying that she’d calm down a little. But Diana guessed she’d have to find another way soon. Maybe she could find a cheaper babysitter, a group nanny situation. Perhaps she could even find a Polish woman, like the one who’d adopted her in her father’s neighborhood and sat by her bedside as she’d given birth. But where in Diana’s life would she find the time to socialize and build such relationships?
It was a Thursday and Diana’s second time cleaning house for the Hamiltons. Based on cleaning their place the first time, it seemed likely that they were hardly ever home, that the wealthy professional couple had had children purely for show and had sent them to boarding school so they didn’t have to deal with them. Diana went from room to room, picking things up and dusting, listening for any sound downstairs from Madeline.
And then, out of the blue, came the sound of a piano.
Diana practically fell down the steps with shock. She found Madeline upright on the piano bench with her fingers on the keys and her face rapt. Slowly, gently, with the air of someone painting a masterpiece, Madeline tickled the keys. It was nothing she’d ever done before. Diana wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen a piano before, and obviously, the song she produced was very simple, just a few notes and chords. But upon Madeline’s face was an expression like she was figuring something out, a language that, impossibly, she’d once known. And when Diana picked her up and put her on the floor again, Madeline burst into tears and hurried to clamber back up the bench. Diana realized it was no use. Madeline wanted to play, and there was no stopping her.
Diana left her on the bench and went back upstairs, thinking about her own mother and about the fact that, if the receptionist had ever given her Diana’s phone number, Barbara had never called. Diana decided to believe that Barbara had never gotten the number. It was easier to carry it in her heart like that. But what would Barbara think if she knew her granddaughter knew the piano deep in her toddler brain? What would she think if she knew her granddaughter was—maybe—a prodigy?
Upstairs, as Diana scrubbed the shower and listened to her daughter play around on the family instrument, gaining momentum, teaching herself, Diana wept until a smile filled her face.
What if this was their ticket out of here?