CHAPTER 6
C HAPTER 6
W HEN SPRING ARRIVED THAT YEAR, M ARY’S BATTLE INTENSIFIED. Her father’s warnings echoed in her ear, burning through her mind until she clutched the sides of her head in agony, her eyes squeezed shut as she willed a shred of peace to enter her soul. When she realized she was with child, the days crept by with alternating bouts of vomiting along with the debilitating mental anguish. Every day was an insurmountable challenge, every hour she stayed on guard, carefully preserving the picture of herself that she presented to Steve.
He remained her loyal helper, giving his life the way Christ gave His for the church. Together, they tilled, mulched, fertilized, and planted a large garden. Mary smiled as they worked, desperate to hide her struggles from Steve. But by the sixth month of her pregnancy, she crumbled. She stopped speaking to Steve almost entirely and stayed cocooned in her house, leaving dishes unwashed, laundry in piles all over the house, the beautiful garden grown up in weeds.
Steve contacted the midwife, Sadie Fisher, who did her best to help. She supplied Mary with an arsenal of holistic medicine and herbal pills, and even showed her gentle yoga poses to quiet her mind. While Sadie was there, Mary felt marginally better, but she sank back into her depression as soon as she left.
Steve’s mother came to do laundry. She noticed the yellowed covering and unwashed hair, as well as the alarming number of store-bought snack cakes and cookies she consumed with coffee heavily laced with hazelnut creamer. Her heart clanged with real fear as she watched Mary wipe her mouth with the back of her hand before waddling to the couch where she sat, legs splayed to accommodate her girth.
Mary laughed, a strange brittle sound. “Finally, I can eat what I want. No dieting for my little one.”
Becky replied with grace, “ Ach yes, Mary. We certainly enjoy our food when we’re in the family way, don’t we?”
Steve watched as his beloved wife changed into a person he barely recognized. She refused to go to church, then stayed home and binged—a whole can of ravioli, a full pint of Moose Tracks ice cream, a can of cola—before sinking into bed, exhausted but unable to sleep.
Steve knew something was terribly amiss. He begged her to see a doctor, begged her to go for help, but never forced her. He felt there was nothing he could do until she was willing.
With communication at a standstill, she took to sleeping in the guest room. She felt herself an obese monster, one who would be revolting. She was too ashamed to be close to her handsome husband and his honed physique. She was gross, unworthy, a huge overblown elephant, she told herself repeatedly.
Word of her condition reached the ears of her siblings in New York, who promptly loaded up a van and came to express their concern on a hot August morning.
It was on a Saturday, with Steve in the garden with the cultivator, finding rotting tomatoes and worm-infested corn, his spirits at a new low, his heart bearing the pain of his disappointment.
Mary was in the kitchen, furtively stuffing potato chips into her mouth and washing them down with iced coffee as perspiration beaded her upper lip. She watched Steve pushing the cultivator and felt a pang of horrible guilt, like the edge of a sword, but ate two more chips to assuage the self-loathing that accompanied the guilt.
What was this? A van filled with Amish people.
She swallowed and wiped her mouth, releasing a shower of salt and grease, then crumbled the potato chip bag and stuck it in the bread drawer.
Oh no. Abner, Jonas, their wives, a herd of little ones.
She looked around, a hand to her throat, her mind dashing here and there, searching for an escape route. Why had they come without warning? To catch her in this state of neglect. To rub her nose in the mess she’d made of her life, marrying the wrong person, the one without the blessing.
She swallowed, felt the bile rise in her throat.
Steve looked up and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, wiping his forehead, then walked between the rows of lima beans to greet them, breathing a prayer things might go smoothly.
Mary’s mouth was set in a grim line. Here they were, poking around for another excuse to knock her down. Well, go ahead, guys. Here I am, everything you expected—a mentally ill, obese woman living in a filthy home. You were right—I missed the blessing. I hope you’re happy.
But as she opened the door, some kind of muscle memory kicked in and she put on a smile, extended a hand in greeting, and spoke to the children, exclaiming how they’d grown. For the first time in many weeks, she looked directly into Steve’s eyes, smiled, and said warmly, “You are working too hard, Steve. A good thing we have company.”
She moved slowly, but she showed off her house, asking them to excuse the “lived-in look.” She laughed convincingly, then got out a plastic tote of books and toys for the children. She cooked a delicious noon meal of lasagna and put together a fresh spinach salad. She poured meadow tea over ice and kept up a lively account of her life with Steve.
After dishes were washed and put away, they retired to the back porch, which was unfinished, but had comfortable chairs with a view of the backyard and garden, the stately oak tree and surrounding pines.
“So,” Mary asked innocently, “what made you decide to come visit?”
Abner cleared his throat. “Mary, we’d heard you weren’t well, and since we knew how you can be unstable in your mind, we came to have a talk out of love and concern for your welfare here in Lancaster.”
Jonas nodded assent. There were sharp gazes from the sisters-in-law. Mary lifted her chin, her small eyes beady, cunning as a ferret.
“And what have you found?” she asked sweetly.
“It seems it was only rumors, for which we are glad.”
Steve watched Mary, saw the lowering of eyelids, the righteous tilt of her mouth. His own thoughts churned, divided between honesty and helping Mary with this charade. To blow her cover might have devasting repercussions, so he stayed silent.
“Yes, I’m glad, too. As you can see, I have gained weight, but with good reason. And it has been a bit of a struggle keeping up with the housework while I’m in the family way. But Steve is all I have ever wanted in a husband, so you must never fear for my well-being.”
“Of course. And it does seem as if Bennie Lapp and Rachel are quite a pair, for which we are grateful, although we think you would have found a blessing in that union as well.”
“That may be,” Mary said sweetly, “but I much prefer Steve.”
He could not meet her eyes, filled as they were with a strange light.
The remainder of their visit was occupied with ordinary subjects, the children running in and out of the house, laughter, the weather in New York, the women quietly inquiring about her pregnancy, her midwife, her expectations of motherhood. And Mary had all the right answers, the appropriate smiles at the correct times.
They were sent away with smiles and waves. Mary and Steve stood outside as the van disappeared down the drive, turning right, the line of trees obliterating it from their view. Steve turned to Mary, bright hope on his face, thinking this visit might have been the boost she needed. But he was crestfallen when she turned on her heel without a word and went into the house.
He followed her, found her splayed on the recliner.
“Mary, please talk to me. Seeing you like that today—it made me miss you even more. I miss the sound of your voice, your touch.”
“There is nothing to say.”
“But there is, Mary. You are not yourself. I don’t know how you pulled it together for your family today, but they were right to be worried about you. I’m worried about you.”
“Why would I be myself? Why? I’m nothing but a . . .”
She stopped, bit her lower lip.
Gently, he reached out to touch her knee.
She struck at him, viciously. “Get away from me.”
At that moment, he wanted to walk out, walk away and never return. He realized he was married to a kind of emotional con artist, a miserable woman who could turn into a happy caricature of herself when the need arose. He had been so sure, so confident of his ability to help her to a new life in Christ, to set her feet on solid ground and keep her safe from the fear and anxiety she wrestled with.
How did one go about this? Was prayer sufficient? Or should he insist she get help? How?
He left the room, his mind tumbling with thoughts, his face crumbling as tears coursed down his tanned cheeks. He’d done all he knew—been kind, gentle, picking up the pieces after her.
She no longer got up in the morning, but lay in bed till who knew when. He ate Wheaties for breakfast, alone, packed his own lunch, and often ate Wheaties again for supper, or sometimes a can of soup. He bought groceries, cleaned the house as best he could, never complained, never told his family.
He had to go on, he reasoned. Perhaps it was just the hormones from pregnancy and soon she’d be better. He set his hopes on the birth of their child. He tried to picture her caring for their baby, getting her mind off herself, proving to be the competent girl he married.
Lord, you have to take charge. I don’t know how. I thought I had it all together, felt capable, ready to do your work, but I have no idea what I’m doing.
M ARY ’ S SITUATION CONTINUED to spiral out of control. Her overwrought nerves coupled with the deluge of unprescribed pills and potions were too much for her fragile mind. Now that she was well into the third trimester, she was also weighed down with the guilt of knowing she did not want this baby.
She had no reason to believe this child would have a chance at living a normal life, not with a mother like herself. Every movement, every light tap inside of her, served as a sounding bell, her child expressing its dislike of her. She was a gruesome whale, an unfit mother, and she could not see her way through, could not confide in one single soul. She could have told Aunt Lizzie, but she was dead.
Steve made an effort to speak about the baby, to get her interested in buying a crib, some clothes, perhaps fixing up the guest room as a nursery, but she turned her face away, refused to acknowledge his voice.
Steve’s parents came and spoke their alarm quietly to their son, who was clearly distraught. Church ladies sat in stern, silent groups, watching Steve come to church by himself, whispered rumors after he left. Ministers arrived, kindly men who offered help. There were places of rest for someone like Mary.
Steve summoned her, told her the ministers wanted to speak to her, perhaps find her help. She was a mound of flesh now, unspeakably tortured, only a shadow of the real Mary remaining, and she only turned her head long enough to snarl her refusal at him.
He told the group of men there was nothing he could do, she wouldn’t agree to help, so they laid their hands on his shoulders, offered their support, and told him they would pray without ceasing. Steve bent his head and cried so that his whole frame shook. The ministers cried with him, wished him God’s blessing, and left him with a little more peace, a sense of being upheld by strong arms.
B Y HER NINTH month, Mary no longer wanted to live. She spent her hours contemplating the ways in which she might end her life.
She could feel the distaste her unborn child had for her, could decipher Steve’s utter disgust, felt her own body ballooning like a foreign thing. Gluttony. She was caught in one of the unforgivable sins, but there wasn’t much to be done. She slid down the slippery slope of wretchedness, one sin piled on top of another, her life a thing of dejection and fear.
Steve pleaded with her, begged her to seek help, cried and reached out in great tenderness, and assured her of his love, which only escalated the feelings of self-hatred. But now, she just wanted to die, wanted a way out of this constant, life-draining battle of keeping her mind intact. It was like walking up a glass mountain, like climbing a waterfall, or a tree with no branches. Her mental strength was ebbing, her days made up of dense fog. The only thing to hold onto was the taste of food in her mouth.
Mary opened the cupboard door in the bathroom, looked at the blue and white bottle of Advil, shook it. Yes, there were plenty. Her mind took on a new clarity, a sharp vision of how this could be done, but she replaced the bottle with shaking hands, thought, no, no .
What else, then?
She could no longer fit into any of her dresses or aprons, so she looked down at the cotton housecoat she wore, the stains of food and drink, her feet mammoth below the hem. Her ankles were swollen to twice their size, her toes like small clubs.
She peered at her face, a pale, sickly mound of flesh protruding from scraggly red hair, having seen no shampoo for weeks. Her lips were thick, swollen, grotesque.
Steve would be glad to have her gone.
And so she found a new purpose in the bottle of Advil, a thing to occupy her weakening mind, her tormented thoughts. She decided to write a note to Steve, who deserved to know what she was planning, but abandoned it after she realized she could be responsible for a life other than her own, that of her unborn child.
She had no feelings for it, had no idea how she’d get through the ordeal of caring for it. She did not want Steve to know, so she kept it to herself, and he knew his pleading only made things worse.
It was on a Friday afternoon that she developed a severe headache, so bad she thought perhaps she was having a stroke or an aneurysm. She got down the Advil bottle and calculated her weight, the amount she might need. For a long moment she held the bottle, then counted out four. She looked at the swollen palm, the bizarre pudginess of her fingers, and counted out four more.
Two thousand milligrams. Four thousand?
Suddenly her marriage, Steve in all his perfection, the impending birth, the days and nights keeping her sanity with the added burden of caring for a helpless infant screaming out its needs when she didn’t know what to do, was a crushing weight, one she could not fight.
She shook the bottle of Advil, shook again. With a deliberate plodding gait, she went to the kitchen, got down the thirty-two-ounce tumbler. She opened the top, filled it half full, then went back to the guest room, taking the Advil bottle with her.
She had to make things right with God, somehow, knowing He was the only one who would witness the swallowing of these pills.
She couldn’t gather a remnant of her thoughts, only a shred to tell Him she was too tired to fight anymore.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she looked down at her swollen feet, the huge knees below the stained housecoat. She looked around the pale walls of the guest room, the thin curtains hanging limp, and swallowed too many of them, knowing or not knowing she’d finally find rest from the battle she was definitely losing.
S TEVE CAME THROUGH the door, bone weary after a day spent laying a complicated patio wall for an extremely finnicky customer, his spirits at an all-time low. He didn’t expect to see Mary, so when the house was quiet, he found nothing amiss, set his lunch on the counter, and opened a cabinet door for a glass, then to the refrigerator for some of the lemonade his mother had brought.
He drank it down, sighed, thought he’d look for Mary in the guest room, where she often lay in the afternoon. The door was ajar, so he pushed it open, saw the large form in the pink housecoat, the sheets rumpled, the quilt sagging to the floor. He took notice of the pink glass, then turned to leave, figured she was asleep. He was walking down the hall when it registered in his brain: the blue and white bottle of Advil. A sickening thud of his heart, and her name rose on his lips.
He was beside her bed, calling her, pleading, a hand to her forehead. Her big wrist, his thumb searching for a pulse, his breath coming in gasps. He tried the inside of her elbow.
Was it a weak flutter, or his imagination?
He called her name over and over, then left the room, burst through the back door and to his office, dialed 911, said “Hurry, hurry!”
Back in the guest room, he realized it might be too late, but asked God to spare her, to please let her live. He had failed her, was failing her now, as she lay between life and death.
He went to the front window, vaguely aware he was crying yet again.
The sound of a wailing siren was music, heavenly God-sent music to his straining ears. Chills raced up and down his spine as two men clad in navy blue dashed up to the house.
M ARY ’ S EYELIDS FLUTTERED , closed again. A deep sigh escaped her, and she slept. Steve lay on a recliner by her side, the room at Lancaster General clothed in semidarkness, the flashing lights on the monitor at the head of her bedside coupled with small beeps of sound the only disturbance. Soft-soled nurse’s shoes whispered along the hallway, and there were distant voices, the clattering of wheels.
He was not yet asleep, his mind unable to fully grasp all that had occurred in twenty-four hours. Mary had been delivered of a daughter by Caesarean section, an emergency, then sedated since her mental state was unable to face her situation. Trained medical professionals would supply information as they saw fit, and Steve could do nothing but give himself to their expertise.
He could not sleep, thinking of his beautiful daughter. She was so perfect, with a thatch of hair sure to be as red as Mary’s. The pills Mary had consumed meant the baby had to be cared for in the NICU unit, but she would be fine, they assured him. He had been allowed to hold her, and the love he felt, and the intense desire to protect her, was almost overwhelming. He had been so worried about Mary throughout the pregnancy that he had found it hard to feel much happy anticipation about the coming baby. But that first time holding her, the reality of being a father hit with so much joy and gratitude that tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes as he cradled her in his strong arms.
Mary would recover too. But he knew there was a long road ahead, albeit paved with hope.
As he lay awake, he thought over the last year of his life, the burden of Mary’s mental anguish so much heavier than he could have thought possible. Oh, he thought he had it down to a science. She would call on him to have her questions answered, and he’d be ready to supply all her needs with his vast store of spiritual wisdom. What a farce. He felt a deep sense of humility, a sense of being a speck, a mere bacterium in the vast space of the earth, and God a holy, great, and glorious being far above anything he could count. God was so much bigger than anything else, especially himself, poor wretched mortal that he was.
He felt a renewed vigor for life, a possibility of happiness restored. He could see his daughter, perhaps her siblings accompanying her, walking to school, an aging Mary waving from the porch, he with his own mason company in their new shop.
Oh Mary, wake up, wake up, we need a name for her. But for now, he would be patient, abide by the doctor’s orders.
He was awake at six, his hand on her shoulder as she slept. The IV bag was almost empty, and he jumped when a shrill beep sounded through the darkened room. Her eyelids fluttered. She turned her face, moaned.
A nurse hurried in, turned on the light, brought a fresh bag to hang on the pole. The nurse turned to Steve and wished him a good morning, which he returned.
“When will she be allowed to wake up?” he asked, feeling hopelessly inadequate.
“The doctor will be in around eight. He should have an answer for you.”
He ate his breakfast in the cafeteria, brought his coffee to her room, then asked to see his daughter, but had to wait till ten.
No, Mary wouldn’t be able to breastfeed, but he had agreed to allow his daughter to receive donated milk through a donor bank.
The doctor gave him an honest evaluation in as few words as possible. The fluid buildup, the ravenous appetite, her depression and ongoing mental issues would be addressed after enough time had elapsed, but for now, she’d remain under sedation. He suggested he prepare for the possibility that the baby would need to be in someone else’s care for some time. He said typically in these cases, the mother didn’t want her child.
And Steve’s heart broke again. Would he lose both Mary and his daughter?