I was surprised, somehow, because Georgia had been so beautiful. There had been no real reason for her death in utero, except that the doctor said she had gone too late and the placenta had stopped working. From what he said, it seemed clear to me at the time that my infant daughter had slowly suffocated over a period of hours inside of me, unable to cry out or demand help.
My tiny daughter had been so perfect at birth; I could almost believe when I held her that she might yet take a breath. Kurt and I had wept over her, until it seemed that everything I drank that day had tasted of salty tears. We had taken a few solemn pictures of her, of us together, though those photos were now in a box in our basement that contained everything of Georgia’s.
I remembered Kurt holding our dead daughter and ritually blessing her with hands on her head, after he got special permission from our bishop to do so. He had loved her. I knew that from the way that he held her so gently, as if she were still alive and needed that special newborn tenderness. He had touched her tiny fingers and toes, as he had with our sons, counting them to make sure she had all ten. It had been half a day before she had turned so cold that I was certain she was dead, and Kurt was able to convince me that we could leave her in the hospital, for her body to be taken to the mortuary who had promised to pick her up.
There was very little lifelike about Carolyn’s baby, however. I remembered now counselors coming to warn me, before Georgia was delivered, how gray and gruesome a stillborn baby might look. I had not remembered what they’d said in all these years, because in the end, Georgia had not looked like they’d described.
I had never thought to thank God that my daughter had died with so little trauma visible. Through my tears, I did so now.
I wished I could have been stronger for Carolyn, but in that last moment I was unable to help her sit up to deliver the afterbirth. I was sobbing for two lost babies (hers and mine) who might never know each other in any world, mortal or immortal.
By the time I was capable of moving again, Naomi had already wrapped the baby tightly in a serviceable, white blanket and handed him to Carolyn. At least the blanket covered up much of the damage to his deteriorating head.
I put a hand on Carolyn’s arm. “It’s not your fault,” I said. “Whatever you think right now, remember that. It’s not your fault.” It was what I wish someone had told me at that time, but I wasn’t sure hearing it from someone else would have helped me—or would help Carolyn. A mother can never see a child dead in her arms and not believe it her fault, surely.
Carolyn looked up at me. “Thank you,” she whispered, and we shared a moment of utter unity then, the kind that no one ever wants to share, but no one can ever forget.
Then I wiped at my face and turned to Naomi. “What can I do?” I asked, trying to signify that I was ready to be of use again.
Naomi’s eyes whipped over me, and I flinched from the disgust in them. She had wanted me to be stronger—had expected it of me, and I had failed her.
“You can take this and dispose of it,” she said, handing me the mess of the afterbirth. I tried to clear my head, focusing on my task, wondering if there was something special I was supposed to do with it. If Carolyn had been delivered in a hospital, the afterbirth would have been medical waste. But what would it harm going out with the trash? I hoped it wasn’t illegal, but I had no idea what else to do.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I greeted Esther with a mumble. Then I opened the back door and used the big trash can there. Somehow it surprised me that the big plastic can looked nearly identical to the one I used at my own house. But of course the Carters still needed the city to take the trash. It was so ordinary, and so practical. I found myself sobbing again as I reached for the door to go back inside.
I was angry by then, angry at a Heavenly Father who would do this to a woman already grieving the loss of her husband—however complicated their relationship—and who had only wanted to love and care for this child she had spent months sacrificing her own health and comfort for.
I was angry that Naomi had pretended things would be fine and that I had followed her lead.
I was angry at Kurt for not being here when I needed him.
I was angry at Kenneth for getting me mixed up in this whole thing.
I was angry at Joseph Smith and Brigham Young and every Mormon who had ever thought that polygamy was a sacred practice.
And I was angry at myself, for not getting out of this while I could.
After I’d kicked the side of the house hard enough to turn the anger into pain, which then faded, I went back inside and heard the sounds of a child’s inquisitive voice, answered by the older Esther in the kitchen. I checked the time and saw it was now past 6:00 a.m.