Which takes me to this moment. In the shelter of an alley hung with clotheslines, I’m seated on my valise, holding Albert’s handkerchief at my nose. It smells of my milk and his musk.
Church bells are tolling noon. Mr. Lambert arrives at Blockley at one and leaves at four, and this is the last day of the week when he takes applications. I’m a dollar short, but that won’t stop me. I’ll go find out if Charlotte lives.
NOTEBOOK EIGHT
Sixth Month 8
Swirls of traffic and noise perplex my brain. My eyes droop with exhaustion. Yet I wish to write of how I found my Charlotte—Charlotte!—whose dear diminished weight is propped against me!
I set off yesterday with determination building in my chest like the heat of a slow coal fire. I crossed the bridge over the Schuylkill River by streetcar, reached and passed through the almshouse gate, and knocked hard at the Children’s Asylum door.
On entering, I told the young man at the desk that I would tour the foundling department, and if Mary Foundling was my Charlotte, I’d give him nine dollars and change—every cent I had—and take her. He didn’t answer my proposal but merely consulted his ledger.
“You owe the city ten dollars for Mary’s care and must pay in full.” His flat eyes regarded me. “This isn’t a market where you can bargain, miss.”
When I retorted that the city would be better off with nine dollars than a failing infant, he gave out a guffaw. I steadied my feet on the floor and yelled. “I’ve spent four days gathering the items you require. Thee will take me to the foundling department. If my baby’s there, she will leave with me today.”
A man in a doctor’s robe appeared at the doorway. He poked his head in the room, then crossed to the desk. “Is she the mother of one of our charges?”
The young man raised a hand and ran it along his chin whiskers, suddenly anxious. “She claims so, Doctor.”
“Does she have proof?”
I pulled the birth certificate and forged letter from my skirt and handed them over. The doctor raised the round spectacles from a string at his neck, set them on his nose, and examined the pages. He fixed me with a keen look. “How did your baby come to be admitted here?”
“The Germantown Hospital sent her after a fire. They couldn’t reach me. This man said that if I got certain documents, and two dollars per day—but every time I return, there’s a new requirement, and more money due.” Pressure came to my eyes. “I will take my daughter today if she still lives!”
The physician raised a sturdy arm and pointed at my adversary. “You again! Who told you to charge a daily fee to a parent taking back a child? You know this no longer applies.”
I was dumbfounded. The young fellow paled. “Mr. Malos requires us to collect the costs of support,” he stammered. “He—he’ll have my job if—”
“Mr. Malos! That scoundrel. He shouldn’t be allowed on the Board of Guardians. Yesterday he carted out of here at least sixty pounds of mutton and ten of tea, all belonging to the city. As if our patients don’t need to eat!”
The young man appeared to have deflated. His shoulders sagged beneath his suit; his head dropped forward. The doctor put a warm hand on my shoulder.
“You owe nothing. I’ll take you to the foundling department. I work in surgery, but I did a rotation there in my student days.” He turned to the young man, whose gaze stayed downward. “If Mr. Malos gives you trouble,” he advised, “say the chief surgeon forbade you to follow his orders in this case.”
I thanked the universe for sending a reformer my way as I traveled beside the doctor down a stifling hall. We passed an open door that revealed a room of dining tables in rows; upon one table sat several dozen blocks of bread. Apparently they’d failed to rise. A worker with a long knife was struggling to cut slices from a loaf.
“Bakery rejects,” my companion explained. “The guardians pocket the price difference.”
We stopped on reaching the nursery. The stink of waste accosted us through the open door. How could any baby survive in such a thick miasma? The surgeon stepped past and nodded to a nurse standing by.
“We’re looking for this young woman’s baby,” he explained.
She nodded and pointed to the cribs. The other nurses sat in rockers, observing us with heavy-lidded eyes, each with a swaddled baby at her breast. Behind the doctor I traversed the rows of infants—some with rashes showing at their necks, some with eyes encrusted, all silent in the small metal cribs bearing numbers and hastily assigned names: Stephen Infant, Anna Market. The doctor muttered oaths until at last we found the crib labeled “Mary Foundling.”
The baby’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling; its limbs were immobilized by swaddling. But red wisps poked from beneath its cap. From the face poked a pert nose, a pair of dry, familiar lips.
“Praise God!” I called. I lifted her; she was far lighter. The tight brown wrap felt sodden at her bottom, and her tiny face was pursed with discomfort. But when I caught her red-rimmed eyes, a glint of recognition sparked there.
She summoned a high, short cry, and her cracked lips pursed into a suck. With no regard for the physician at my side or for what diseases she might have fallen prey to, I opened my clothing. She latched on hard enough to bring me pain, and for the first time I was glad for that.
It proved she had the power to want.
“You’ll need to feed her often,” the doctor instructed, “but not much at once. You’ve got to go slow when rehabilitating a baby.” He let me nurse a moment longer, then asked, “May I examine her?”
With reluctance I removed her, and she began to cry with a high, brittle sound. The doctor held her gently in his articulate hands and moved away. I assembled my clothes and rushed after him to an examination table against a wall. Setting her down, he removed the cloths, the binder, the diaper—and revealed her visible ribs. Diarrhea soaked her diaper, and her bottom had a red-rimmed, oozing sore.
What a rule-following excuse for a mother I’d been. I should have forced my way in on my first visit and refused to leave without her. I understood then why someone might tear out her own hair.
“She’s been here five days?” he asked.
I counted but lost track, my mind too panicked. “I believe so.”
The doctor moved his agile fingers above her face; she made no effort to follow. “She’s already marantic. She has little strength apart from what it takes for basic functions.” He pointed to the wrinkled skin on her arms. “And she’s dehydrated. See the pap boats by the nurses’ chairs?”
I nodded.
“The grains in the pap cause diarrhea—and perhaps she’s caught infectious diarrhea as well.” He sighed. “We simply don’t have enough willing mothers here to nurse so many babies.”