For her part, Frau V. refilled my supply of tinctures and teas and applied a hot linseed poultice. She said my cut is healing fast. Then she brought up, from her own garden, a salad of the first tender and delicate lettuces of the season.
“Don’t tell,” she whispered, “because the doctor said cooked, not fresh. But these first shoots have extra force. To help you recover. I raised seven children on roots and herbs. They all have children of their own now.” She insisted that I nurse Henry soon, whether or not the doctor allows it. “No milk, no job. You’ll be off to the poorhouse, and your baby, too.”
I intend to heed her counsel.
This is my second birthday without Mother. The locket with her hair and picture nestles at my neck. The warmth of its shining metal makes it seem alive—though that warmth comes from my own body.
Which makes me think how, in my very body, my mother does live.
Perhaps our bodies are like patchwork quilts, made up of kin from decades and even centuries past. Charlotte contains all these patches and offers her own as the next in line—one more reason to cherish her.
*
Margaret has gotten the afternoon off and is right now rushing to Gerda’s to visit Charlotte. She perceived my worry and decided to take action, since I’m too weak to travel. What a caring girl! I gave her my last coins for her streetcar fare.
Godspeed, dear Margaret. I hope thee finds my baby well.
*
Margaret has returned, and my life has shifted on its axis.
“I don’t like to tell you,” she said upon entering my garret. “But that place is not right for babies. And your Charlotte—her condition isn’t good.” Her blue eyes were intent; her freckled face was drawn.
“How did thee know which was Charlotte?” I asked.
“She wore the white gown you said you sent her in, which is filthy now—and she was the only one with red hair. There were three babies, and all looked bad.”
“Was thee allowed to hold her? Was she thin?”
“I asked to get close, but the woman said she couldn’t allow that for anyone but the mother. Your baby did look thin. The place is terrible, no more than a shack. The smell was awful. I doubt there’s clean water.”
“Bless thee for finding this out.” I rose from bed with her hand to steady me.
She shook her head, distraught. “Don’t bless me. I should have taken her away.”
I descended to the second story in my bedclothes. In the hallway mirror outside Clementina’s bedroom, I saw my disheveled state—the swollen, red skin around my eyes from crying, the many hairs straying from my bun like torn filaments of spiderwebs. I burst in on Clementina, who appeared to be arranging her clothes into outfits for the season.
“Please forgive me,” I said. “I have to fetch my daughter at her wet nurse’s and bring her here. She’s been in an unsafe situation for ten days.”
Clementina gave a sigh. “I’m concerned about your milk,” she replied. “We need to build it up again. Strong emotions will injure it.” She pulled more skirts and bodices from her wardrobe, considering how well they went together; her leisure increased my agitation.
“I’ll be much happier when my baby’s faring well,” I said, trying to keep my voice soft. “Besides, she might unblock my milk and increase my supply for Henry.”
Clementina removed a satin-trimmed polonaise from her massive wardrobe and laid it atop a skirt and overskirt of brown satin. At last she nodded yes, and I took a full breath in and out. “But only,” she said, her face stern, “until your milk is re-established and pure enough. For Henry.”
I thanked her and started from the room.
“Wait,” Clementina said. “How far is this place?”
“A few miles north.”
“I doubt you’re strong enough to walk, or even to take a streetcar or a train.”
“Oh.” I turned to her. I hadn’t one coin remaining for my fare.
“Take our carriage and driver.” She looked me up and down. “As long as you neaten your hair and change to suitable dress.”
She returned to her task, and I didn’t dare ask another question. So I went to the kitchen to find out how to get the carriage. Since the cook was only waiting for her dough to rise, she offered to walk the several blocks to the stable while I changed my clothes. I wanted to embrace her, but she brushed my arms away.
“I only do what’s right,” she said.
The carriage is here!
Fourth Month 29, First Day
My darling has taken her fill many times since yesterday and slipped into a happy stupor. But I can never get my fill of her. I stare and stare, as in her rightful place she breathes and rests, milk clinging to her tiny lips. I feel giddy and uncoordinated, like a bee covered in pollen, unbalanced and heavy from touring flower after flower.
The stuck milk of recent days is bursting out, and it’s more than my little one can hold. Periodically I lean over a bowl on the washstand and squeeze my breasts, and milk sprays in all directions. I tasted a drop from my finger; it was sweet and light and left a powdery texture on my tongue, perhaps from the sugar in it.
Margaret’s description was too restrained to have prepared me for Gerda’s street. The carriage driver referred to it as Drunkards’ Alley and said even the street cleaners avoid it, to its inhabitants’ detriment. The air stank from heaps of manure that were circled by hordes of insects. Piles of rags, bones, and rotting rubbish littered the dirt. The front doors of many of its two-story shacks hung off their hinges; most windows were covered in boards or newspaper. And naturally the Burnhams’ shiny green carriage drew attention there. As the horse brought it to a halt, barefooted children in ragged clothes ran up, holding out their hands and calling, “A penny! A penny for food!” I rose from the padded bench, stepped out, and walked to the house, feeling heartless for not giving them coins but having none.
Gerda’s shack had a functioning door. I knocked on it as children whispered behind me: “Who is that? Why is she here?” No answer came from within, so I called, “Gerda! Please open the door!” In quick response came a baby’s cry.
I knew that cry! The flimsy door easily gave way. I pushed into an unlit, smoky space that appeared unoccupied. I walked around a table of rough boards to see, along the back wall, three crates. I stepped closer; each crate contained a baby, tied down by strips of cloth fastened to the lattice of the crate. One was my Lotte, bawling by then and clumsily craning her head toward me. I praised her with every cell in my body for holding on to life.