Florence Adler Swims Forever(91)

“I’m glad for the excuse to come. I should have done this months ago.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” said Dorothy, from her chair, “men are never any good at this.”

“Dorothy,” Fannie said, desperate to get the girl out of her room, at least for a few minutes. “Would you give us a little time? I promise he’ll come get you if anything changes.” Dorothy looked unsure of herself, torn between wanting very much to be back in the lounge, listening to her radio program, and not wanting to upset Dr. Rosenthal. Finally, she got up and left.

When Dorothy had rounded the corner, Joseph shook his head and chuckled, “That must be the one your mother’s always complaining about.”

“She’s a pip.”

“I don’t know how you’ve stood it,” said Joseph as he moved around the bed and took a seat in Dorothy’s vacant chair. “A whole summer in this bed.”

“I’d have much preferred to be anywhere else,” said Fannie. “I’m so jealous of Florence, I could scream.”

Her father looked away from her, and Fannie immediately regretted the remark. She sounded catty, when what she wanted was to come off as generous, patient, and kind. So, she tried again.

“Honestly, the hardest part’s been being away from Gussie.”

Joseph didn’t say anything, just nodded appreciatively. Then they both allowed several quiet moments to pass.

“Your mother says you’ve been following the Dionne quints quite closely,” he said, finally. “Have you heard the littlest one is getting a radium treatment for a tumor on her leg?”

Fannie felt a great tenderness for her father, who she knew did not approve of the reportage of sensational stories and who certainly did not believe it necessary for newspaper editors to devote multiple column inches to the daily activity of five infants—quintuplets or not. Of course, Fannie already knew about the radium treatment. Bette continued to bring her clippings, although they were hard to read in the dark of her room. “Dr. Rosenthal says radium can cure anything.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, not anything. But lots of things. Not me. And not Hy—” Fannie stopped herself. Why had she done that? Bringing up Hyram when she was so close to going right back into that same delivery room. She kept one hand on her stomach, feeling for the slightest indication that another contraction was imminent.

“Fannie, I’ve been thinking about it a lot this summer. I think we did the wrong thing with Hyram.”

“The incubator?”

“No, the burial. We should have buried him at Egg Harbor.”

Halakhah was clear. There were no burial rites or mourning traditions for babies who died before their thirty-first day of life. Despite Fannie’s pleadings, her child had been buried in an unmarked grave.

Fannie felt her face grow hot, her eyes well with tears. “I thought you said Rabbi Levy wouldn’t allow it.”

“I should have pushed harder,” said Joseph. “Insisted.”

“You quoted Maimonides to me.”

“Maimonides lived seven hundred years ago. What does he know? He didn’t see the way you loved that baby.”

On the day Hyram had slipped away, the nurses at the incubator exhibit had called Fannie at home and told her to hurry down to the Boardwalk. By the time she arrived, they had transferred her baby to an incubator in the back, out of view of the mobs of summer tourists that snaked around the perimeter of the exhibition hall. She had hoped to catch her son’s last breaths, to feel the grip of his tiny finger as he touched the edges of the next world, but he was already gone when she arrived.

“Mother said it was frivolous to name him.”

“What did either of us know about losing a child?” said Joseph. “We should have said Kaddish, observed Yahrzeit.”

Fannie had known, sitting in front of that incubator, that there would be no funeral, that they would not sit Shiva. In lieu of a funeral prayer, she issued an apology to her tiny son. “I’m sorry for not taking better care of you,” she whispered.

That memory, which was usually so vivid, grew blurry as the baby inside Fannie tugged hard at her insides. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and dug her fingers into the hospital mattress. As the pain subsided, Fannie reminded herself that this baby did not care that the one before it had not lived.

“Should I get the nurse?” her father asked, already halfway across the room.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly a quarter after two.”

A half hour had elapsed since her last contraction. She didn’t need Dorothy Geller to tell her that she had a long way to go.

“Let’s wait a little longer.”

Joseph returned to his chair and slowly lowered himself back into it.

“Thank you,” said Fannie. “For what you said about Hyram.”

“Sometimes I worry, Fan. That I got so caught up with turning Florence into a champion swimmer, I forgot to ask what you wanted out of life.”

“Oh, Pop. I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“Being a wife is obviously very important,” said Joseph slowly, “but I don’t think it’s the only thing.”

“What else is there?” She had meant to pose the question sarcastically but it hadn’t come off that way.