As she stood at the side of her son’s crib, she watched his stomach rise and fall, his breath rapidly filling his tiny lungs. He was so small and fragile, so helpless. How could she possibly protect him? She placed her hand on his forehead, certain that it would feel hot. He must be sick. But he wasn’t warm at all. Was he too cold? Did he need another blanket? As he began to shift in his sleep, she was overcome with a wave of elation. He was waking up! He was waking up! But then he settled again, and his breath steadied. He was six months old. It was possible that he could finally be sleeping through the night. More than possible, it should have happened already. Should she just go back to bed? Why didn’t she know the right thing to do?
She sat on the floor of the nursery, leaning against the changing table.
How did she manage to take care of her other two children? She was such a dreadful mother. No instincts.
She didn’t remember drifting off, but suddenly she startled, momentarily disoriented. Where was she? Then she saw William unmoving in his crib. She leapt up. Oh, my goodness, he isn’t breathing. Her heart raced; her body seized in panic as she touched his stomach. She started to shake him. Lightly at first and then harder. For a moment she felt like she couldn’t stop. Like the rhythm of her hands was out of her control. Wake up, William. Wake up. He began to squirm and cry, and Margaret, overcome with relief, scooped him from his crib and held him tightly in her arms. As the tears fell down her own face—she was sobbing hysterically now—she suddenly realized what she had done: woken her peacefully sleeping baby for no reason. And now she would have to get a bottle, get him quiet, put him back to sleep, and, probably, be awake for the rest of the night herself. Yet again, she had made a complete mess of things. She would be exhausted again tomorrow. And it would start all over. The endless cycle of crying and feeding and changing and sleeping. Why did anyone want to be a mother? If this was life, perhaps death would be better.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Come out already, Maggie!” Carolyn called.
Margaret stood frozen, looking at herself in the three-way mirror of the dressing room at Lord & Taylor. Frank was taking her out for their anniversary, and she had nothing to wear.
She wished Lucy hadn’t invited Carolyn along. Carolyn, with her perfect figure and coordinated outfits and, now, her job selling cosmetics. As if Margaret didn’t feel like a failure already.
“Just come out and show us. The last two that you said looked awful were knockouts, so I don’t trust your eye,” Lucy cajoled, and Margaret saw her trying to peek through the crack in the dressing room door. “Please. I promise we won’t make you try on anything else after this!”
“Yes, please come out, Maggie! I just know you will look gorgeous. That cerulean color is such a perfect complement to your eyes.” Carolyn always had to mention something about color, like her new job suddenly made her an expert.
“I really can’t. I look like a Studebaker,” she replied in a soft whisper.
“Oh, Maggie, stop. Please just let us see?”
She knew her friends meant well, but she was so humiliated at what she saw in the mirror. How could she show them? Her eyes filled with tears. No, not more crying. Not while I’m wearing this silk shantung.
“Margaret Davidson Baxter, I am a mother of four children who wears a size fourteen dress, and Carolyn over here, with her straight up-and-down figure, would look like a coatrack in a sheet in that. So don’t even try to tell us you look anything but terrific!”
“Sadly, she’s right, Maggie.” Carolyn giggled. “I would kill to have the hips and bust to fill that out.”
Margaret smiled in spite of herself. Were they being honest? “Okay. Please just be kind.” She opened the door tentatively.
“Ooh la la!” Lucy whistled. “That’s the one!”
“You’d better buy it, because if you don’t, I will be forced to. And Dick will kill me if I come home with one more dress. Even though I am helping to pay for them now.”