Comfort and Mirth

32. Mirrors

>32. Mirrors September 18, 1919 Dear Mother, If a broken mirror brings seven years of bad luck, how long would it take the world to right itself if the sky shattered? I ask because the southwestern winds have sheared the clouds into a sheet of glass with the luster of quicksilver, and lately, I have come to understand how incredibly fragile the firmament is. I don’t suppose one could catch a glimpse of what’s really going on in Heaven before the future fell into crystal pieces at her feet? It seems like a lifetime since I left you in Seattle. I was so excited about starting my new life in Texas with Brooks, I never could have foreseen myself writing you a letter like this one, but I have great news and great regrets. I’ll start with the regrets, for they threaten the rest of my thoughts like a pair of open scissors in an apron pocket. First, I regret I don’t write this news with the joy I’d always imagined I would—this is also the deepest edge of my guilt. Second, I regret I did not write this letter last month when it actually was news, but I have a daughter. I named her Margery Rose because she is so small, sweet, and beautiful—at least to me. I went into labor just after midnight on the tenth of last month; it wasn’t difficult, but lasted a long time. Dr. Steiger administered a sedative, and of course, that’s all I remember until I awoke in a hospital room the next morning. I rang for the nurse.When she finally came in, I asked her if I’d had a girl or a boy. She told me it was a 271 girl.When I asked to see my daughter, she didn’t respond, but as she took my temperature and blood pressure, I could tell from the look on her face something was terribly wrong.As she left the room, she said she would call for the doctor. I waited for an eternity before Brooks rushed in with red and white roses; he spilled water all over the floor as he set the vase on the window ledge.“Where’s our daughter?” I asked. He glowered at me.“Now, Camille,” he started, and I knew my initial fears were about to be confirmed. He looked around the room, put a clammy hand on mine, and told me our daughter was a mongoloid idiot. I had never heard of such a thing before. Dr. Steiger came in and stood by the bed with a long white face. I asked him if I could hold my baby. He and Brooks stared at one another for a long time before he said he strongly advised against it. He told me in such severe cases, it’s best to take them straight to the lunatic asylum, where they are equipped to handle their violent tendencies and care for them properly, and it would be easier for me if I didn’t have the chance to become attached. I insisted on seeing her at once, and despite their various pleas and attempts to sedate me, I would not take their pills or words in exchange for firsthand knowledge of my own daughter. At last Brooks nodded, and the doctor called the nurse to bring her in. I can’t describe the montage of feelings that overcame me as I held my baby girl. She weighed less than six pounds and felt so small and light in my arms—it was like holding a little cloud. From the start it was obvious she did not look like other babies, and no amount of mother love could look past this fact; her coloring was yellow , and she had folds around her eyes that made them look as if they slanted outward and upward. Dr. Steiger said this is how they came to be called “mongoloids,” because their eyes look like those of the eastern Mongols. Naturally, I counted fingers and toes, and she had them all, but her hands and feet were shaped differently from those of other babies. 272 Comfort and Mirth But Mother, I still loved her instantly with all my heart, and in light of her defects and the ferocity with which Brooks and the doctor insisted on having her immediately institutionalized, my maternal...