The Lamia's Tale
My true name is Joan van Renssaeler, nee Moresworth, of the Philadelphia Moresworths. I was a hot number back then, though you wouldn't know it to look at me now. Here, hand me the large book on the mantle, the leather-bound one. It's my scrap book.
These pictures certainly take me back. I haven't thought about Brand in years. A blessing, that. Our marriage wasn't a good one. But some of the old memories can still make me smile.
Now, there, that's a shot of me. This was taken in late May of 1968, at a party the firm threw for Brand when he was promoted to associate at Douglas, Mannerly, amp; Farsi.
No, no — I'm the willowy blonde with the sulky expression and the Twiggy haircut. Look all those sequins and feathers! What we used to wear! I shudder to think how much I loved that ghastly white lipstick. But it was positively The Thing back then.
Funny how the things we value change, isn't it, my dear? I look back and all those things I had, the money, the fame, the social connections, they brought me such pleasure then but they mean nothing to me now. Even my looks, my young woman's body, which I had so little chance to enjoy before the virus took it from me — I was only twenty-three when this happened, you know — even for that I feel little more than a lingering nostalgia. The only treasure that has lasted is my Clara.
My dear Clara. How I loved to dress her in lace and ribbons and tiny patent leather shoes. I took her everywhere.
I have news of her now and then. She's brilliant, just like her father. I suppose you could say she inherited my looks and his brains. At least, my pre-viral looks.
Here. Here is a photo of Clara when she was four, and these are of her at college. I hired a private investigator to take some pictures of her while she was an undergraduate at Rutgers back in the early eighties. Isn't she lovely, with those long legs? She resembles me a good deal; she has the same delicate facial features. And of course she looks rather like her grandmother Blythe, God rest her soul.
But I'm getting off track. Let me tell you about the doctor's appointment, where it all started.
***
Dr. Emil Isaacs was a leading obstetrician, a diplomat of some board of obstetricians, or some such. Dozens of certifications and awards hung on the wood panelling behind his desk. He was a rather short man, as I recall. Nervous nature.
Dr. Isaacs had always been so kind to me, so gentle and wise, that I couldn't imagine going to anyone else. Most people weren't patient with me back then, with my sharp tongue and ill tempers, so I valued the few who were. I didn't even mind — had long since forgotten — that he was a Jew.
You look shocked at that. I can understand that; attitudes are different now. Including mine. But, well, I'm determined not to distort this story to save face. Self-deceit is a terrible trap. I should know.
And there is no getting around the unfortunate truth. Jews, blacks, Catholics, Hispanics, Orientals, wild card victims, the poor — I feared and despised them all. Anyone who wasn't in my little social circle, frankly, and even they weren't always spared.
Weakness enraged me, you see. It awakened a need in me to strike out. Perhaps I thought I had to keep others down so they couldn't hurt me. I don't know. Only Clara was safe from the predator inside me. And to a lesser degree, such serene, gentle people as Dr. Isaacs.
But the most important thing was, he had slender hands. Between us ladies, my dear, you know how important slender hands are.
"You must have some important news for me," I said.
He sighed and looked reluctant. "I know how much you wanted another baby, Mrs. van Renssaeler. But I'm afraid your test came back negative."
I looked from him to Clara to a chart with my name on it which lay open on his big rosewood desk.
"I'm not pregnant?" I asked. He shook his head.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I'd been so sure.
Clara said, "Don't cry, Maman. It'll be all right."
I dried my eyes and gave her a big hug; she Wrapped her arms about my neck.
"Sweet girl. We'll keep trying. You'll have a little brother soon. Or maybe a little sister."
Clara gave me a wet kiss and told me she loved me. Children give their love so freely. It was so long ago; it's remarkable that I'm tearing up about it now, isn't it?
Where was I? Oh, Dr. Isaacs. When I looked back up at him the pitying expression on his face infuriated me. I thought he pitied me my failure to be pregnant. Gathering up my handbag and kerchief, I stood.
"Well. I certainly don't understand why you felt the need for an appointment to tell me that. You could have informed me over the phone."
The doctor grimaced and ran a hand over his face. He glanced at Clara. "Please sit down. That wasn't the only reason I asked you to come in. I need to discuss your pregnancy screening tests with you."
His tone alarmed me; I sat. "What? Tell me. Have I got cancer? A venereal disease? The wild card? What?"
Something in his expression told me I'd guessed the truth. The world went strange and flat. I pressed my kerchief to my lips. Clara's hand was on my arm; her worried little face looked up Wide-eyed at me, asking me what was wrong.
"Tell me which."
"Perhaps we should have Nurse Clifford take Clara outside," he said.
***
Once we were alone, he told me what you must have already guessed, that it was the wild card.
"It's a standard test for pregnant women. I'm sorry."
"Whatever are you apologizing for?" I had my composure back by then. "Obviously you've confused my blood sample with someone else's. I don t associate with those sorts of people. I go out of my way to avoid jokers. There's no way I could have been exposed."
Unless, it occurred to me, Brandon had been visiting houses of ill repute, or joker drug dens, or had a secret life as a "weekend hippie." Weekend hippies looked and acted normal during the week but then put on wigs and bellbottoms and love beads and peace signs at night or on the weekends, grew sideburns and read bad poetry to each other and smoked marijuana cigarettes till their brains leaked out their ears.
And I knew he'd tried that marijuana stuff at a recent American Bar Association convention. He'd brought a marijuana cigarette home and I'd flushed it down the commode, terrified the police would break in and arrest us both at any minute, or that mere skin contact might be enough to tie my unborn children's chromosomes into pretzels. He'd laughed at me.
Brandon. Brand could have picked it up someplace disreputable and given it to me.
But Dr. Isaacs was shaking his head. "You could live alone on a desert island and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. The spores are all over the world by now and they aren't transmitted from human to human. They're airborne. Or genetic. Those are the only two ways you can contract it. And since we know you didn't have it while pregnant with Clara, you must have contracted it in the interim."
"But I feel fine!"
He was shaking his head again. "The virus is dormant in you right now. It could remain dormant forever, or it could express itself tomorrow."
I remained silent, just looking at him.
He went on, "There are things about this situation that you can't control, and things you can. You can't control the fact that you have the virus. But it's possible that the virus will never express itself in you. You could live out a very normal, fulfilling life.
"But I must strongly advise you against a second pregnancy. The child would be at high risk of being a carrier. And the stress of the pregnancy and labor would almost certainly cause the virus to express itself in you.
"The wild card is a life-threatening illness and I won't lie to you: the prognosis is not good if it is triggered. The vast majority of wild card victims die a very painful death, and most of the rest end up with severe deformities. I've lost a sister to the disease and I can assure you, it's not to be taken lightly."