Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone

The Abandoned Baby

(1967)

Never forget this feeling. She would never allow herself to forget the abandoned baby; she never wanted to forget him. She still saw that baby, all these years later, mostly when she was asleep. Kind of like a movie, a work in progress, a motion picture in the mind. Memories can refract reality, where we see what we've done, or what we wished we'd done, or what we might have done, what we should not have done, what someone else may or may not have done, and what we may or may not have done if we were someone else. Mostly, we see things we don't want to see, the things we try not to allow ourselves to see.

...

At that time there had been a substantial Native American population in Flagstaff, although it was congregated on (or relegated to, to be accurate) the outskirts of the city-on the border of the arid expanse of the desert. The conditions in which these people were obliged to exist were unacceptable, unconscionable. She had certainly seen some of the more unsavory areas of Boston (back when they didn't call them slums) and she had been to New York City. She also watched the news, which-to anyone with eyes half-open-adequately conveyed the realities too many people were accustomed to. But no urban experience could have prepared her for the squalor the Indians (as they were called back then) had to endure. She found it almost impossible to believe that in this country, in this day and age, a community (any community) was without running water or indoor plumbing. If these circumstances represented more than a passing concern among the middle-class citizens of Flagstaff, she wasn't aware of it. It seemed to be a situation, disgraceful as it was, that folks were able-and willing-to ignore, as if the mere mention of those people would initiate a conversation, or stir some semblance of recognition.

They'd spent their daughter's first birthday in the hospital after she developed a fever that didn't break for two days. She had her own room, a consideration that seemed automatic, nonnegotiable. During the times they weren't allowed in their daughter's room they went to the cafeteria, or while her husband busied himself with the magazines in the waiting room, she paced around, nervous and unsettled. Seeking an uncomplicated distraction she had walked up to the glass window and looked down at the newly delivered babies. Half the cribs contained infants who were carefully identified by name, weight, and time of birth. The remaining cribs were empty except for the one on the end, which held a boy who looked as old, if not slightly older than her daughter. She walked along the glass to get a better look, and when she stood directly in front of the crib she saw it was an Indian baby. His face confirmed that he was older than her daughter, but his body was frail and filthy. The little boy was obviously emaciated from ill-health or lack of nourishment; likely both. His hair was long and matted to his forehead and looked as if it had been dirty for an extended time. When he turned on his side she could see the dirt encrusted in his fingernails and a rash of red spots scattered across his back.

She was almost overwhelmed with a compulsion to demand that the boy be properly attended to. She even entertained the idea of snatching him and taking him home. She had seen plenty of movies. She also knew, at once, that this scenario, however well-intended, was impossible.

...

As they drove home the next evening with their daughter, she mentioned the Indian baby to her husband; she had to talk about it. Probably abandoned, he said, shaking his head. That happens a lot more than we realize. But couldn't the parents, or someone at least visit him? How could anyone just leave a child there, alone, staring at the wall like that with dirt on his face? I don't know, he replied. This kind of thing happens all over the world, all the time. It's unacceptable, she persisted. Well, the fact of the matter is, there's probably one poor kid like that in every hospital in the country, maybe more. And those are the ones fortunate enough to make it to a hospital. I don't want to talk about it anymore, she said, turning to make sure their daughter was secure in her car seat.

Her husband had been able to explain it, or at least rationalize it, intellectually. She knew it appalled him as well, but he was able to acknowledge it and move on, like everyone had to do unless they had no choice. Unless they were driven to distraction, without a way to tune it out, eventually overcome by the immensity of it. Or else they found the courage of their convictions and did something, anything. Gave it all away and did what Christ instructed his followers to do. Go and sell what thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.

She understood this and she believed in this, but she knew she couldn't do it. Yes, she would never forget that unfortunate baby, and the millions like him. She would sponsor foster children for the rest of her life. She would dream about this baby, who seemed to incorporate all the sorrow and suffering of this world. She would see him in the streets when she drove past a huddled mass barely breathing beneath its blankets. She would wake up in tears, wondering if this cognizance was a direct call from God, the ultimate test of faith that so many of us necessarily fail. And she would think of her own family, and all she'd been spared, and find solace in the work she could do for her own children. It was a start; it was something. And most of the time it was enough; mostly she understood that if God created sadness He also orchestrated joy, and how could she be culpable for the grim laws put in place centuries before she became aware of them? Mostly she understood that no resolution, no answers, no contrition could quell the misgivings or provide catharsis. And so she grappled with these feelings as best she could, feelings that left her in an irreconcilable place where she remained alone and unconsoled.