The Lobotomist's Wife(33)

“Margaret Abigail!” Her mother threw open the door of her bedroom, William crying in her arms. “What in heaven’s name are you doing in here? It is two o’clock in the afternoon! Your son is starving.” Sara Davidson stomped toward her daughter, whipping the coverlet off and giving her a firm tap on the cheek. “You’re still in your housecoat? Have you even left your bed since I was here this morning?”

It took all Margaret’s strength to move into an upright position, and the moment she got there, her mother thrust her hungry son into her arms. Her breasts were full and burning and starting to leak as William writhed and pawed at her. She was still groggy and struggled to prepare herself to feed him. “Hold on!” she snapped angrily, momentarily tempted to fling her son across the room at the dresser. In the same instant, he desperately latched on and began to pull at her with a ferocity that made her feel used.

Her mother angrily hmmed as she aggressively opened all the curtains. The sunlight made Margaret’s head throb. She shifted to shield her eyes without disturbing William’s powerful sucking, even though what she really wanted was to thrust him off of her.

“Maggie, this is becoming unacceptable,” her mother said sharply. “I know you’re tired, but that’s motherhood. Now, I’ve put a pot roast in the oven—it’ll be ready by the time Frank gets home—and brought you some groceries, but you need to get to the market and fill up your refrigerator yourself. It just isn’t right for a husband to come home to a kitchen that looks so bare.”

Margaret nodded, remembering last week when she tried to do her own shopping. Her mother had stayed home with William and she had felt so ecstatic, so free, as she drove away. Even if it was just the mile to get to the market. But then she was there. Walking up and down the aisles aimlessly. Did Frank prefer the creamed corn or the kernels? How could she not remember? It was peak season for raspberries, and she had the idea to bake a cobbler, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what other ingredients she needed. Did she have butter? And which day did the milkman come so she could ask him to include heavy cream?

She stood paralyzed in the middle of the aisle, unable to think; her red fingernails chipped on her keys as she dug desperately through her purse to find her shopping list. How could she have forgotten it? Head hung low, hoping no one would recognize her, she began frantically loading her cart. When she finally returned home, her mother berated her for wasting Frank’s hard-earned money on such nonsense. Three bags of sugar? Five pounds of cornmeal? In the end, she took the two full bags of items that Sara insisted she return and hid them in the corner of her garage. They still sat there, tucked behind the bicycle that she hadn’t had the opportunity to ride in years.

“Maggie!” Her mother shook her. “Were you dozing off again?” Margaret worked hard to keep her eyes open. Why was she still so tired? “Maggie, you’ve got to pull yourself together. For the kids. For Frank.”

“I know.” She felt like she had to dredge her voice up from a great depth. She dropped her head in shame, waiting for the tears to come again, but they didn’t. She just felt cold and dead inside. “I am trying. And Frank loves me—”

“Of course he loves you. But you know how hard he works. To live here in your own house, with your own yard and bedrooms for your children. You could be in a two-room apartment in the Bronx like I was when you were born. With a bathroom down the hall. Frank is a wonderful provider. A loving husband and father. You can’t ask him to hold you up more than that.”

Margaret nodded.

“Honey, I know how hard it is to have babies.” Sara sat on the bed next to her daughter, softening a bit. “Especially once the third comes. Your brother, John, was a handful, believe me. But it is our greatest role in life.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Margaret asked plaintively, the words instantly draining all her strength. She wanted to let William slip from her arms onto the bed and join him in sleep. Instead, her mother took hold of him in one hand and pulled Margaret up to standing with the other.

“Maggie, Maisy and John will be home from school soon, for goodness’ sake. Now, go wash up, put on a summer dress, and make up your face. I’ll get the baby in the pram and we can go outside for a bit. The fresh air will do you both good.”

Margaret felt nearly catatonic as she followed her mother’s instructions. She splashed icy water on her face, but it did nothing to chase away the heavy blanket of fatigue. She hadn’t felt this way with John or Maisy, and she didn’t understand what was different now. But, for the first time, it dawned on her that there might be something really wrong.





PART 2

RUTH: 1941–47





Chapter Fifteen


“You’ll never guess who I just got a call from!” Robert bounded into Ruth’s office, grinning.

“My father?” Ruth asked, a bitter note of sarcasm in her voice. In the five years since Bernard learned about the first lobotomies performed at Emeraldine, he had all but stopped speaking to Robert. The family had long ago ceased to have their monthly dinners, and Helen made sure to seat the men as far apart from each other as possible when they were obligated to be together at holiday gatherings. It was difficult for Ruth to feel the sting of Bernard’s disapproval yet again, particularly when it wasn’t directed only at her but also at her husband. Though that feeling was more than offset by the positive reception lobotomy had received by the hospital board and the medical community. It had become an increasingly sought-after treatment for severely ill patients, and Robert and Edward, having now lobotomized more than three hundred people, were the go-to experts to perform it.