Women Cope
by Patricia Shillingburg © 2007

     On June 1, Mom sent an email to all five of her children saying that she and Dad expected us all in their living room on Shelter Island at 6 pm on Saturday, June 30. No spouses, no children, and no excuses. We all speculated through regular emails for the entire month as to why we were being summoned, but in the end, none of us had a clue. The fact of the summons itself was strange. It had never happened before. We are all adults, most of us with families of our own, and although there is little rancor among us, there is no deep affection either. Bill and Ted, who live the farthest away, bring their families to the Island for a few weeks each summer, and some of the older grandchildren stay longer to sail in the Yacht Club program and ride horses, and those of us who live closer visit the Island several times a year. But, we hardly ever all gather together. Bill, the oldest, and I, the youngest, are 20 years apart, so the five of us represent a number of generations of children with different early life experiences and often not much in common. When Bill was a child, our parents were young and had few resources. I, on the other hand, was sent to boarding school – my parents traveled a lot. Bill was a teenager in the seventies when the nation was recovering from Nixon and the turmoil over the War in Vietnam and the Age of Aquarius was blooming in San Francisco, and I in the nineties, when the nation was in Clinton’s economic boom, computers were revolutionizing communications, and AIDS was making sex a problem. Our father, an aspiring young attorney when Bill was young, was hardly ever at home, and as he grew up, their relationship was strained. To Bill, I was spoiled by Dad’s affection. Ted, Gillian, and Charlotte fit into their own niches in between.
    What we all shared, however, were summers at Shelter Island. Our parents brought the older children to the grandparents’ house, where Mom and her children stayed the whole summer with her parents, and by the time I came along, she had inherited the house. It is in the Heights, on Dering Harbor, and, according to a local historian, is one of the few houses that predate the Gingerbread houses, mostly built in the 1870’s. The Heights deed to Samuel Booth in 1872 states that the property was “improved” which meant it already had a house on it. What makes Shelter Island unique as a summer community is that as an Island, it has a moat around it, and it can only be reached by ferries. Even to this day, children have more freedom because there is no fear of crime. We also shared the fact that our Mom was sad. She was always sad. Sometimes she took to her room for days at a time. In a crowd, she sometimes appeared as though she had seen a ghost. Sometimes, when even she seemed to least expect it, she would start to cry. She was saddest around our birthdays; we began to see a pattern. Even Dad seemed confounded by her sadness.
    Our parents were never cruel, just detached, and so when summoned, we all obeyed. For some of us, it wasn’t easy. Bill flew in from Hawaii where his wife was recovering from cancer surgery. Ted had left his business in San Francisco in crisis. For Gillian and Charlotte, the trips from Boston and Brooklyn were easy and uneventful. I was single and pregnant with an abortion scheduled for the next week, and I was feeling fragile and not wanting to talk about it. Or much else for that matter.
    So, on June 30, we all gathered, with drinks in hand, in my parent’s living room overlooking the harbor where pirates had cavorted in the 1600s and which was now full of very expensive yachts gathered for a frantic summer of sailing and racing. The wind was from the Southwest, and the boats’ bows were all facing us. Dad sat to the side. All our eyes were on Mom.
     She had been a strikingly beautiful young woman, and in old age she was striking still. Her hair was immaculately coiffed, her nails manicured and painted red. Her clothes, cruise wear from Saks Fifth Avenue, were elegant in red, white and blue. Her eyes remained distinguished by their sadness. She stared at her glass, and we watched her with apprehension.
    She began, “When I was sixteen years old – before I met your Dad – I had a baby.” She looked up and no one moved. “In those days, before abortion was legal and before the pill, society had a way to deal with this problem. It was called adoption. The family priest or doctor knew where you had to go, and made it clear that there was no alternative. You did as you were told. My parents drove me to a home for unwed mothers in another state, and left me there to do what I had to do. She was beautiful. I called her Emily. I have missed her everyday since I left her at that home. The Social Worker told me that I must never speak of this to anyone. That I was to go home, pick up my life where I had left it, and forget about the baby. But, I could not, of course. A day has not passed that I have not thought of her, prayed for her, regretting that I did as I was told and abandoned her. My own baby.”
    Mom was not crying. I was. Everyone else in the room was, even Dad, who by now knew the story.
    “A few months ago, I learned that there was a registry where mothers who want to be found, can place their names and everything they know about their baby. Date and place of birth was all I knew. And, that I called her Emily. Adopted children can also register, and Emily did. The registry made a match. I have met her. Your Dad has met her, and you are going to meet her tomorrow. She is your sister. You will know the moment you see her. Her name is actually Julia. ”
    The room was silent. No one moved. No one said a word. No one was breathing. Or so it seemed.
Finally, Charlotte broke the silence. “Oh, Mother, why didn’t you tell us?”
    “I couldn’t, you see. Nice girls did not get pregnant. I did. I was not a nice girl. It became a habit not to tell. Even your Dad didn’t know until Emily called, and if I was going to go on with my life, I had to tell him. I was so frightened. What would he think of me and my secret?”
    “Well, Dad, what do you think?” Bill roared.
    “I am so proud of your Mom, Bill. I love her very much.”
    “Well, that says it all,” Ted said, and we all laughed. Only then did Mom cry.
    “Let’s take a break,” Bill said. “I’ll freshen the glasses. Stretch your legs, then we can get down to business.”
    “Come on, Ann, let’s put the casserole in the oven,” Charlotte said to me. “Mom seems to have everything else done.” I dutifully followed her to the kitchen.
    “It explains so much, doesn’t it?” I said.
    Charlotte agreed. “I hope she isn’t sad anymore.”
    “It will probably take a while,” I counseled and thought about the baby I was about to abort. Would I always be sad too?
    Single, I still had a bedroom in the house. As I was going to bed, Mom handed me a big envelope. “Freddy Rogers was preparing your room for painting and found this under a loose floorboard. I think you should have it.”
     Tucked in, I opened the envelope and found a very, very old notebook: something that might have been sold for children’s lessons in the late 1800s. The pages were yellowed and seemed close to crumbling. They were bound with stitching. On the cover in a strong female hand, it said, “Emma Booth, Summer 1880, The Prospect.” It was a diary I knew well. I had found it years ago under a loose floorboard and had read it frequently over the years. I knew it almost by heart.
    “July 2 – I hardly believe it myself, but it seems true, I left my diary in Brooklyn, so I picked up this notebook at the Pharmacy to carry me through our stay at the Prospect. How grand that we are finally here. I pine for this place the whole year long. Here I do not need a chaperone to leave the house. As long as I stay in public places and socialize only with my girl friends, I am free to do what I like.
    “July 4 – Last night mother came downstairs to join my 18th birthday celebration. It was kind of her to do so. The vapors generally keep her confined to her room.”
    The vapors. The concept had mystified me as a child. But as a graduate student in history, I was well aware of women’s struggles over the centuries to deal with unwanted pregnancies.
    “Jennie French arrived on the morning steamer so we are all here: Edith, Meredith, Anna, Mary, Bertha, Enid, and, of course, Jennie. We had lunch at The Prospect, and conversation turned to the future. We are all – all of us -- going to college. Mr. French told Jennie -- with great authority she told us -- that the ‘Domestic Sphere of a well run family will be best served by a college educated woman.’ So, he gave his assent. Father said basically the same thing. I guess the fathers have all been talking at the Club in the evening about what to do with their daughters.
    “Mary Parsons said that the parade of ladies, otherwise confined with vapors, on the servants paths has already begun. This mysterious disease that did not exist before the Civil War and affects so many women of our class is no mystery to us. My own mother took to her bed after she finished nursing Charles eight years ago. Other than being pale and seemingly fragile, Mother seems perfectly healthy to me! Vapors in the summer is always at its most severe on weekends, when the fathers are here, I’ve noticed.”
    “July 10 – Bessie told me that Mother was resting in her room today, but she wasn’t. I looked. She has joined the parade of black-cloaked women who skitter along the servants’ paths to each others’ houses weekday afternoons.
    “The Saturday night dance at The Prospect was so grand. Such an amazing crop of young men with their newly acquired mustaches. In Brooklyn, except during the holiday parties when all the boys are home from college, I rarely see anyone of the masculine persuasion. Here it is in our midst every Saturday at The Prospect and other boys from Boston when we venture over to the Manhanset House across the harbor.
    “I was dressed magnificently in my new yellow silk bustled dress with all its finery lace. Bessie had done wonders with my hair. My dance card was filled.
    “Mother did not join the other lady chaperones, as she was confined to her bed. Interestingly, the ladies present were all young wives or over 50.”
    I put the notebook gingerly back in the envelope, fearing it might fall apart by morning and knowing that I could not return it to under the floorboards. I turned out my light wondering if my new-found sister would show me what I might look like at 50.
    Julia, as we had all agreed last night was the right name to call her, was definitely Mom’s child. She did not have the blond hair one might have expected, but it was brown with what appeared to be natural gold highlights. She had the same high forehead, aquiline nose, and bright blue almond shaped eyes. She did not have Mom’s mannerisms, which the rest of her daughters did, but she laughed heartily, which Mom did not, but the rest of us did. She was exceedingly cheerful, gentle with Mom, and even teased her ever so slightly. I was in awe. She called Mom Alice, her given name, which at first was jarring.
    We were all sitting on the porch overlooking Dering Harbor where the Yacht Club launch was bringing sailors to their doughdishes, wonderful keeled 12 ½ foot boats with gaff rigs, which are all the rage with the older set. Mom had arranged for a caterer to do lunch, so none of us would be stuck in the kitchen.
    To introduce ourselves, starting with Bill, we told Julia when we were born, where, where we went to school, college, what we do now, about spouses and children. None of us, of course, had had a chance to prepare and bring pictures, but Mom had. She had a folder for each of us with pictures of our families. Except for me. I have no family.
    “Adoption was not a bad thing for me,” Julia opened the conversation. “My mother is not the wicked witch from the North. The opposite. James, my older brother, and I were both adopted. We had a happy childhood. Mother stayed home, and Dad owned a pharmacy. They have now retired to Florida. They know I am here. They blessed my search. I have always wanted to find my real mother though. All my life I have searched for her in crowds. Walking down an avenue in New York, I would scrutinize every face. It was an obsession. Thirty years ago, I conducted an extensive search, but it wasn’t as easy then. The Internet makes searches possible today. My success brings a great sense of relief.”
    She continued, looking at me, “I also went to Wheaton, Ann.  Isn’t that a wonderful coincidence.” She showed us pictures of her husband Matt, a Philadelphia lawyer, and her children Mark, at Michigan Law, and Elizabeth, a senior at Harvard. Julia went to architecture school when her children were in high school and now designs houses.
    “Many of my adopted friends have terrible tales. How their adopted mothers required gratitude and were cold and dismissive as they turned into teenagers. But, that never happened to me. Adoption was the way society dealt with unwanted pregnancies for half a century. There are many people like your mother who towed the party line. They still keep their secret, and they suffer terribly. It’s a heavy burden to carry. Now, we have the pill and abortion. I hope abortion is less of an emotional burden than adoption was.”
    I could not contain myself. I told them about the diary. “Mom gave me a diary last night that was hidden under the floor in my room upstairs. Actually, I knew it was there and have read it often. Emma Booth wrote it in the Summer of 1880. Over 120 years ago. She talks about her mother and vapors. Middle class mothers who didn’t want more children, took to their beds for the rest of their child bearing years.”
    “Vapors,” snapped Bill dismissively. “That’s a joke?”
    All the women in the room chimed together, “No, it wasn’t.”
Mom told the tale. ”Beginning in about 1865, the States began making abortion illegal. It had been a common birth control practice. Now, what were women to do? Childbirth was still very dangerous. Look at women’s graves from the late 1800s if you doubt me. No one knew when in a month’s cycle a woman was most vulnerable to becoming pregnant. There were lots of theories, but no scientific knowledge. So what was a woman to do after risking her life once or twice giving birth, but to take to her bed and feign illness? Women cope.”
    “Women cope,” Julia repeated. 
     All the women nodded affirmatively, and the party moved into the dining room for lunch.
     I took an early evening ferry out of Orient. I had an appointment in New Haven Monday morning.