Eclipse
By Tracy Lee Mayo
January 15, 2023
January 15, 2023
March 6-7, 1970
Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers
Norfolk, Virginia
Mrs. Gaines, our efficient administrator, in her black jacket with white piping, white blouse and matching black skirt and pumps, looks more like she’s going to a funeral than talking to a bunch of pregnant teens about the next day’s solar eclipse. “Girls, girls, please. Let’s come to order now.”
We’d been summoned to the common area, our dull living room with brown couches and chairs, pea green walls, small tables and a big TV set embedded in an Early American credenza. I had learned about eclipses last year in Freshman Earth Sciences, but I’d never seen one. It was my first year at that school, 7th through 9th grades, so for the umpteenth time in my life, I was the only new kid in my class. My parents always tell me, “Life goes on and you always make new friends easily.”
“In a solar eclipse the moon passes directly between us, the observers, and our source of illumination, the sun,” lectures Mrs. Gaines. “If one lives in the path of totality, as we do, the moon will completely cover the sun and darkness will fall in the middle of the day.”
Cool, I thought, raising my hand. I’m seven months pregnant but in my head I’m still barely fifteen and curious about the natural world.
“Yes, Susie?” Even after a month, I can’t get used to having a fake name.
“Mrs. Gaines, I learned that we need special glasses to watch the eclipse. Do you know where we can get them?”
“I’m afraid they are expensive, and Florence Crittenton can’t supply any. Perhaps Nurse Stoddard can help you fashion a cardboard box with a hole in one end, so you can see the shadow.” My roommate, Gregg, glances at me and rolls her eyes. We doubt Nurse Stoddard would help us do anything. With her constant patrolling of the halls she seems more like a jailor than someone who might take care of us.
“Will polarized sunglasses work?”
“I’m sorry, Susie, but sunglasses are of no use. If you don’t make the box you can only look at the landscape for changes. Don’t look up until the moment of totality when I will announce that it is safe. We don’t want any bright light to permanently damage your eyes.”
I’m not sure she cares much about our eyes. Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway, it’s a bummer that we aren’t going to be able to watch it unfold. I’m not making any stupid cardboard box. I’ll just sneak a peek here and there and see what I can see.
_______
I’d been there exactly one month, but it felt like one year.
When Dad packed the car with my books, toiletries, transistor radio and what few maternity clothes I had, Mom used the Navy Wives’ Club bridge luncheon as an excuse not to come with us. Instead, she hugged me goodbye and promised to visit on Sunday, all without looking at me. She hadn’t looked at me since my pregnancy was discovered. Given that she disappeared to Europe with a friend over Christmas, leaving Dad and me to fend for ourselves, I wasn’t surprised she bailed out on seeing me off to my exile.
I gave my Sheltie Brandy a tearful hug and a kiss on her wet nose. “I’ll miss you, little girl. Be good for Mom and Dad.”
As Dad and I pulled away from the curb I noticed the maple buds were swelling, the crocuses in bloom. This was a gray day, but there were hints that spring would come. My father, Captain James O. Mayo, commanding officer of the aircraft carrier Franklin Delano Roosevelt, steered our Ford Galaxie as if he were easing his ship out of port and into the dark waters of the Atlantic. We departed the naval base, Dad’s eighth posting since my birth, and climbed a bridge that led to the civilian side. Goodbye, Norfolk Naval Shipyard. Goodbye, new friends. A flock of blackbirds banked and twisted like a dark ribbon against the gray sky. Great blue herons stood one-legged on the bridge piers and Cormorants waved their wings to dry.
Dad drove without a map, seeming to know the way. To my surprise we arrived at The Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers in only twenty-five minutes. Didn’t they want me farther away than this? The reason I was there was to hide the fact from our military community that I had done the worst possible thing – disobeyed orders and shown no discipline. So now I had a new order: give up my baby at birth and never speak of it again. This was the policy at Florence Crittenton, and I’d learn that the supreme commander who would enforce this order would be my mother.
My stomach twisted. No longer morning sickness but something else. It’s Okay. Look at this as just another move. Same drill.
We walked in silence from the car to the sidewalk, up four front steps to a red brick building with white trim, and then through a double set of steel doors. A reception desk opened onto a large living room; I gasped to see two hugely pregnant girls in front of the TV. Another girl, also very pregnant, pushed a cart full of sheets and towels down a corridor.
A receptionist ushered us to an adjacent office. Small and spare, with a well-worn oak desk and three upholstered blue chairs. Dad and I sat in the chairs across from the desk. Fluorescent lighting hummed overhead. He distracted himself with a small notepad he pulled from his shirt breast pocket. I focused on a dusty Ficus that I recognized as plastic even though it lived in front of a window.
A click-clack of heels on institutional tile announced the arrival of someone new. “Hello, Captain Mayo, nice to see you again.”
They know each other?
“Young lady, I am Mrs. Gaines. Welcome to Florence Crittenton.” We all took turns shaking hands firmly.
She reminded me of my mother. Taller, a brunette, not a bottled blonde, and with hair that wouldn’t move in a hurricane. Similar age. Slender. Nicely but conservatively dressed. And her pretty hazel eyes didn’t meet mine. When she smiled in my direction, she seemed to be looking at a spot somewhere behind my head.
“I have a nice room for you and a roommate who’s about your age, so that should work out nicely.”
A roommate. Never thought of that. I’m an only child, but everything is changed now.
“Captain Mayo, if you want to bring your daughter’s things to this office, we’ll take it from there.”
Dad looked surprised, but he returned to the car. I returned to my seat and stared at the Ficus while Mrs. Gaines attended to some paperwork.
“Well, Trace,” Dad said upon depositing my regulation Navy issue duffle bags. “Give me a hug and we’ll see you on Sunday. I’ll miss watching Walter Cronkite with you tonight.”
Without warning, my face was wet. “Okay, Dad. Bye.” I hugged him, watched him walk toward the front doors. I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve.
Mrs. Gaines lightly touched my arm and made real eye contact for the first time. “We’ll take a tour before going to your room, but first I want to discuss something important. You – and most of the girls – will have a pseudonym while you are here. This way, no one will be able to discern your true identity. When your father enrolled you last week, he told us you will henceforth be called ‘Susie.’”
Susie! What the hell. Why did he do that? Pseudonyms? No one had told me about this. And I couldn’t even pick out my own name? I know why he thought of it, one of my best friends is Susie. I’d have chosen something like Holly, or Brooke, or maybe Melanie. I could have been Mel, for short. That’s cute. But I’m Susie instead. I’m so pissed.
The renaming was my introduction to an overarching theme that my parents had already started adhering to – the rendering invisible of all that was deemed to be shameful. First our former selves, those bad girls. Next, the adopting out of the babies that resulted from our sordid behavior. Last, the weight we all gained, which had to be dissolved before we could return home.
Brisk clickety-clack as we set off. Mrs. Gaines strode purposefully while I followed soundlessly in my tennis shoes, three steps behind.
“We have a full-time nurse on duty and an exam room where visiting doctors from Norfolk General check each girl every week.”
We stopped briefly at the kitchen, laundry room, and rooms used for school classes and meetings when the social workers visited. The clatter of dishes told me of a dining hall and lunch preparations. Round girls here and there glanced silently at me, then went back to folding laundry or stacking dishes. Every girl I saw was noticeably pregnant, more so than I. As I watched them my hands went to my own belly, and it felt bigger already. Mercifully released from my mother’s girdles, it was probably doing what it was supposed to do.
“Susie? Hello, Susie?”
Holy shit. I turned around and realized Mrs. Gaines was speaking to me.
“I’m sorry, Susie, but it’s important to practice your new name. As I was saying: As an expecting girl you are only allowed to gain half a pound per week. All girls are weighed on Monday mornings. If you’ve gained more than your half pound, you’ll have to report to the Diet Table”– she pointed to a singular table on the opposite side of a low wall – “until you are back on target. The Diet Table offers low calorie, low fat and frankly, low taste foods, so I would recommend avoiding it.”
“But I’ve already gained eighteen pounds. Aren’t we supposed to gain even more in our last trimester?”
“I didn’t say it would be easy. You must be disciplined. But this policy will make it much easier to regain your figure after the baby is born. The sooner that happens, the sooner you’ll go home.”
Disciplined? I thought, rather, we were a self-selecting group of the opposite persuasion. But having broken all the rules to get there, I would try to abide by them going forward.
“Mrs. Gaines, when will we receive instruction on labor and delivery?”
“You can ask the doctor any question when he checks you. But we don’t provide instruction – best not to think too much about this, it’ll be easier to forget.”
We passed the elevator. “The delivered girls live upstairs,” she said. “They have their own living area and dining hall, since their diets are no longer restricted. The expecting girls are not allowed upstairs.”
Why? So we won’t eat their food, or so we won’t find out what it’s like when it’s over?
Back in the living room she pointed to a wicker basket containing plain silver bands at the receptionist’s desk. “There is a convenience store four blocks down the street on 5th. Some of the girls like to walk there and buy newspapers, cigarettes and sundries. If you leave the grounds you must wear a wedding ring for your own protection. Frankly, I strongly advise against this type of outing. Your father made clear that they have the highest possible interest in secrecy regarding your stay here, so being out in public, even four blocks away, is quite a risk. Another reason to stay on site is to resist the temptation to indulge in snacking.”
I recognized this woman as a combination of what I considered to be my parents’ worst traits: My mother’s obsession with appearance and my father’s obsession with protocol. There was no need to walk to the stupid store – my boyfriend would bring the illicit snacks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
We returned to Mrs. Gaines’ office to retrieve my bags. Each of us carrying one bag, she led the way across brown vinyl tiled floors, past hospital green walls, and under more fluorescent lighting. East corridor, third room on the right. Inside, a pair of twin beds with white cotton bedspreads, two worn maple dressers, and a braided rug in the middle. Large window with gingham curtains overlooking the parking lot.
I expected to meet my new roommate, but she wasn’t there. “Your roommate is Gregg. She’s in class right now, but I think you two will get along well.”
Gregg?? What kind of name is that? Whatever, it’s better than Susie; in fact it’s kind of like Mel. We could have been Mel and Gregg, two pregnant boys in the Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers.
________
On the day of the eclipse, we gather again in the common area. Mrs. Gaines had prepared us, and now we’re ready for the real event. Forming a kind of compressed parade behind her, Gregg and I and the other girls march out the front entrance and down toward the lake, where we have a good view of the azaleas waiting to bloom, the weeping willows and leafing oaks, the crackly brown grass intermixed with baby green shoots. Air calm; water still. It is a mostly clear day, with only a few marshmallow clouds. Many of the girls are wearing sweaters only, no jackets. I’m wearing one of Dad’s old wool coats with the sleeves rolled up; Mom thought it was clever to avoid the purchase of an actual maternity coat.
Most of the expecting girls are here but as I look around, I don’t see any of the delivered girls. Were they not invited? Are they watching from their second story windows? Who are they? We almost never see them, and we are curious. Does Mrs. Gaines deliberately keep us apart because they are sad for giving their babies away?
God forbid they confirm their regrets and one of us tries to change her mind.
We chat while we wait for some celestial announcement that the event has begun. I move farther away from the group and closer to the lake. By 12:30 I begin to notice changes. The turquoise sky, now more like indigo, slowly becomes violet gray. Soon a charcoal gray twilight arrives. Our shadows, once sharp, are cut down to almost nothing, like under moonlight. But this is no moonlight. Moonlight is silvery and hopeful, like the platinum promise of the dawn to come. This, instead, is the loss of light, of sun, the threat of no tomorrow. I am chilled, now, in spite of Dad’s coat, and I wrap my arms around what used to be my waist.
It's getting quieter. Mrs. Gaines, who I note is wearing a pair of special glasses, shushes the few girls who are still talking. Risking a glance upward, I see a dark form building from the west, like a massive storm, but in utter silence, with no rumble of distant thunder. A somber yellow light now bathes the vegetation, and the lake is ink. Another glance up. The black shadow has now eaten its way substantially through what used to be our bright orb.
Orbs. . . round bellies. . .sun and moon, moon and tides. What is that connection? Oh, I guess it’s our menstrual cycles, that’s right. Seems like I had just gotten used to mine when it was turned off like a faucet.
The flap of rapid wingbeats startles me, and I look up to see a flock of red-winged blackbirds flying about in confusion. Usually sure and acrobatic, they scatter and collect again at random. Flying too low, just barely over our heads, they must realize they need to roost, and quickly. It’s a flailing sound, like a child whacking at partially inflated balloons with a stick. They are clearly afraid, and I am afraid for them. Have they woven their delicate spring nests in the reeds by the lake? Have they laid their speckled blue-gray eggs? What if they abandon those eggs in fright? I can hardly catch my breath. My heart is racing for them, breaking for them – hurry, hurry, to safety! They have no way to make sense of this. Tears slide down my face.
“Girls, the eclipse is now total, and you may look up.”
The sun is obliterated. And yet it’s not totally dark. The remaining light is unlike any light I’ve ever seen. Dull and feeble, sickly green-yellow. The birds have vanished. But to where? The sun has been eclipsed, and it is total. A profound quiet as I stand in the shadow of the moon.
I have a belly full of dread, my chest full of thistles. Freezing cold, I plunge my hands into the depths of Dad’s pockets. I wipe my tears with his sleeve. A few stars are visible. The sun’s corona, gradually appearing, creates a luminous ring, and I suddenly picture those old paintings in which artists place halos around the heads of saints. I laugh out loud.
“Susie, hush,” says Mrs. Gaines.
We are unwed mothers-to-be in the company of saints!
Now I am laughing and crying at the same time.
And then it is over. “Look away!” commands Mrs. Gaines.
But before I do, I see a brilliant bead of sunlight as the dark shadow of the moon slips silently past me. Now the west is brightening, and the east is darkening. A reverse twilight begins, and the pale green light is replaced by gray violet, then indigo, and finally turquoise again.
Girls are chatting and comparing notes with one another. I have a sudden urge to find Gregg, and I do. She has been crying too. We reach for each other’s hand and silently fall in line, softly marching behind our Mrs. Gaines, back to our red brick maternity home and our eclipsed futures.
Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers
Norfolk, Virginia
Mrs. Gaines, our efficient administrator, in her black jacket with white piping, white blouse and matching black skirt and pumps, looks more like she’s going to a funeral than talking to a bunch of pregnant teens about the next day’s solar eclipse. “Girls, girls, please. Let’s come to order now.”
We’d been summoned to the common area, our dull living room with brown couches and chairs, pea green walls, small tables and a big TV set embedded in an Early American credenza. I had learned about eclipses last year in Freshman Earth Sciences, but I’d never seen one. It was my first year at that school, 7th through 9th grades, so for the umpteenth time in my life, I was the only new kid in my class. My parents always tell me, “Life goes on and you always make new friends easily.”
“In a solar eclipse the moon passes directly between us, the observers, and our source of illumination, the sun,” lectures Mrs. Gaines. “If one lives in the path of totality, as we do, the moon will completely cover the sun and darkness will fall in the middle of the day.”
Cool, I thought, raising my hand. I’m seven months pregnant but in my head I’m still barely fifteen and curious about the natural world.
“Yes, Susie?” Even after a month, I can’t get used to having a fake name.
“Mrs. Gaines, I learned that we need special glasses to watch the eclipse. Do you know where we can get them?”
“I’m afraid they are expensive, and Florence Crittenton can’t supply any. Perhaps Nurse Stoddard can help you fashion a cardboard box with a hole in one end, so you can see the shadow.” My roommate, Gregg, glances at me and rolls her eyes. We doubt Nurse Stoddard would help us do anything. With her constant patrolling of the halls she seems more like a jailor than someone who might take care of us.
“Will polarized sunglasses work?”
“I’m sorry, Susie, but sunglasses are of no use. If you don’t make the box you can only look at the landscape for changes. Don’t look up until the moment of totality when I will announce that it is safe. We don’t want any bright light to permanently damage your eyes.”
I’m not sure she cares much about our eyes. Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway, it’s a bummer that we aren’t going to be able to watch it unfold. I’m not making any stupid cardboard box. I’ll just sneak a peek here and there and see what I can see.
_______
I’d been there exactly one month, but it felt like one year.
When Dad packed the car with my books, toiletries, transistor radio and what few maternity clothes I had, Mom used the Navy Wives’ Club bridge luncheon as an excuse not to come with us. Instead, she hugged me goodbye and promised to visit on Sunday, all without looking at me. She hadn’t looked at me since my pregnancy was discovered. Given that she disappeared to Europe with a friend over Christmas, leaving Dad and me to fend for ourselves, I wasn’t surprised she bailed out on seeing me off to my exile.
I gave my Sheltie Brandy a tearful hug and a kiss on her wet nose. “I’ll miss you, little girl. Be good for Mom and Dad.”
As Dad and I pulled away from the curb I noticed the maple buds were swelling, the crocuses in bloom. This was a gray day, but there were hints that spring would come. My father, Captain James O. Mayo, commanding officer of the aircraft carrier Franklin Delano Roosevelt, steered our Ford Galaxie as if he were easing his ship out of port and into the dark waters of the Atlantic. We departed the naval base, Dad’s eighth posting since my birth, and climbed a bridge that led to the civilian side. Goodbye, Norfolk Naval Shipyard. Goodbye, new friends. A flock of blackbirds banked and twisted like a dark ribbon against the gray sky. Great blue herons stood one-legged on the bridge piers and Cormorants waved their wings to dry.
Dad drove without a map, seeming to know the way. To my surprise we arrived at The Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers in only twenty-five minutes. Didn’t they want me farther away than this? The reason I was there was to hide the fact from our military community that I had done the worst possible thing – disobeyed orders and shown no discipline. So now I had a new order: give up my baby at birth and never speak of it again. This was the policy at Florence Crittenton, and I’d learn that the supreme commander who would enforce this order would be my mother.
My stomach twisted. No longer morning sickness but something else. It’s Okay. Look at this as just another move. Same drill.
We walked in silence from the car to the sidewalk, up four front steps to a red brick building with white trim, and then through a double set of steel doors. A reception desk opened onto a large living room; I gasped to see two hugely pregnant girls in front of the TV. Another girl, also very pregnant, pushed a cart full of sheets and towels down a corridor.
A receptionist ushered us to an adjacent office. Small and spare, with a well-worn oak desk and three upholstered blue chairs. Dad and I sat in the chairs across from the desk. Fluorescent lighting hummed overhead. He distracted himself with a small notepad he pulled from his shirt breast pocket. I focused on a dusty Ficus that I recognized as plastic even though it lived in front of a window.
A click-clack of heels on institutional tile announced the arrival of someone new. “Hello, Captain Mayo, nice to see you again.”
They know each other?
“Young lady, I am Mrs. Gaines. Welcome to Florence Crittenton.” We all took turns shaking hands firmly.
She reminded me of my mother. Taller, a brunette, not a bottled blonde, and with hair that wouldn’t move in a hurricane. Similar age. Slender. Nicely but conservatively dressed. And her pretty hazel eyes didn’t meet mine. When she smiled in my direction, she seemed to be looking at a spot somewhere behind my head.
“I have a nice room for you and a roommate who’s about your age, so that should work out nicely.”
A roommate. Never thought of that. I’m an only child, but everything is changed now.
“Captain Mayo, if you want to bring your daughter’s things to this office, we’ll take it from there.”
Dad looked surprised, but he returned to the car. I returned to my seat and stared at the Ficus while Mrs. Gaines attended to some paperwork.
“Well, Trace,” Dad said upon depositing my regulation Navy issue duffle bags. “Give me a hug and we’ll see you on Sunday. I’ll miss watching Walter Cronkite with you tonight.”
Without warning, my face was wet. “Okay, Dad. Bye.” I hugged him, watched him walk toward the front doors. I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve.
Mrs. Gaines lightly touched my arm and made real eye contact for the first time. “We’ll take a tour before going to your room, but first I want to discuss something important. You – and most of the girls – will have a pseudonym while you are here. This way, no one will be able to discern your true identity. When your father enrolled you last week, he told us you will henceforth be called ‘Susie.’”
Susie! What the hell. Why did he do that? Pseudonyms? No one had told me about this. And I couldn’t even pick out my own name? I know why he thought of it, one of my best friends is Susie. I’d have chosen something like Holly, or Brooke, or maybe Melanie. I could have been Mel, for short. That’s cute. But I’m Susie instead. I’m so pissed.
The renaming was my introduction to an overarching theme that my parents had already started adhering to – the rendering invisible of all that was deemed to be shameful. First our former selves, those bad girls. Next, the adopting out of the babies that resulted from our sordid behavior. Last, the weight we all gained, which had to be dissolved before we could return home.
Brisk clickety-clack as we set off. Mrs. Gaines strode purposefully while I followed soundlessly in my tennis shoes, three steps behind.
“We have a full-time nurse on duty and an exam room where visiting doctors from Norfolk General check each girl every week.”
We stopped briefly at the kitchen, laundry room, and rooms used for school classes and meetings when the social workers visited. The clatter of dishes told me of a dining hall and lunch preparations. Round girls here and there glanced silently at me, then went back to folding laundry or stacking dishes. Every girl I saw was noticeably pregnant, more so than I. As I watched them my hands went to my own belly, and it felt bigger already. Mercifully released from my mother’s girdles, it was probably doing what it was supposed to do.
“Susie? Hello, Susie?”
Holy shit. I turned around and realized Mrs. Gaines was speaking to me.
“I’m sorry, Susie, but it’s important to practice your new name. As I was saying: As an expecting girl you are only allowed to gain half a pound per week. All girls are weighed on Monday mornings. If you’ve gained more than your half pound, you’ll have to report to the Diet Table”– she pointed to a singular table on the opposite side of a low wall – “until you are back on target. The Diet Table offers low calorie, low fat and frankly, low taste foods, so I would recommend avoiding it.”
“But I’ve already gained eighteen pounds. Aren’t we supposed to gain even more in our last trimester?”
“I didn’t say it would be easy. You must be disciplined. But this policy will make it much easier to regain your figure after the baby is born. The sooner that happens, the sooner you’ll go home.”
Disciplined? I thought, rather, we were a self-selecting group of the opposite persuasion. But having broken all the rules to get there, I would try to abide by them going forward.
“Mrs. Gaines, when will we receive instruction on labor and delivery?”
“You can ask the doctor any question when he checks you. But we don’t provide instruction – best not to think too much about this, it’ll be easier to forget.”
We passed the elevator. “The delivered girls live upstairs,” she said. “They have their own living area and dining hall, since their diets are no longer restricted. The expecting girls are not allowed upstairs.”
Why? So we won’t eat their food, or so we won’t find out what it’s like when it’s over?
Back in the living room she pointed to a wicker basket containing plain silver bands at the receptionist’s desk. “There is a convenience store four blocks down the street on 5th. Some of the girls like to walk there and buy newspapers, cigarettes and sundries. If you leave the grounds you must wear a wedding ring for your own protection. Frankly, I strongly advise against this type of outing. Your father made clear that they have the highest possible interest in secrecy regarding your stay here, so being out in public, even four blocks away, is quite a risk. Another reason to stay on site is to resist the temptation to indulge in snacking.”
I recognized this woman as a combination of what I considered to be my parents’ worst traits: My mother’s obsession with appearance and my father’s obsession with protocol. There was no need to walk to the stupid store – my boyfriend would bring the illicit snacks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
We returned to Mrs. Gaines’ office to retrieve my bags. Each of us carrying one bag, she led the way across brown vinyl tiled floors, past hospital green walls, and under more fluorescent lighting. East corridor, third room on the right. Inside, a pair of twin beds with white cotton bedspreads, two worn maple dressers, and a braided rug in the middle. Large window with gingham curtains overlooking the parking lot.
I expected to meet my new roommate, but she wasn’t there. “Your roommate is Gregg. She’s in class right now, but I think you two will get along well.”
Gregg?? What kind of name is that? Whatever, it’s better than Susie; in fact it’s kind of like Mel. We could have been Mel and Gregg, two pregnant boys in the Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers.
________
On the day of the eclipse, we gather again in the common area. Mrs. Gaines had prepared us, and now we’re ready for the real event. Forming a kind of compressed parade behind her, Gregg and I and the other girls march out the front entrance and down toward the lake, where we have a good view of the azaleas waiting to bloom, the weeping willows and leafing oaks, the crackly brown grass intermixed with baby green shoots. Air calm; water still. It is a mostly clear day, with only a few marshmallow clouds. Many of the girls are wearing sweaters only, no jackets. I’m wearing one of Dad’s old wool coats with the sleeves rolled up; Mom thought it was clever to avoid the purchase of an actual maternity coat.
Most of the expecting girls are here but as I look around, I don’t see any of the delivered girls. Were they not invited? Are they watching from their second story windows? Who are they? We almost never see them, and we are curious. Does Mrs. Gaines deliberately keep us apart because they are sad for giving their babies away?
God forbid they confirm their regrets and one of us tries to change her mind.
We chat while we wait for some celestial announcement that the event has begun. I move farther away from the group and closer to the lake. By 12:30 I begin to notice changes. The turquoise sky, now more like indigo, slowly becomes violet gray. Soon a charcoal gray twilight arrives. Our shadows, once sharp, are cut down to almost nothing, like under moonlight. But this is no moonlight. Moonlight is silvery and hopeful, like the platinum promise of the dawn to come. This, instead, is the loss of light, of sun, the threat of no tomorrow. I am chilled, now, in spite of Dad’s coat, and I wrap my arms around what used to be my waist.
It's getting quieter. Mrs. Gaines, who I note is wearing a pair of special glasses, shushes the few girls who are still talking. Risking a glance upward, I see a dark form building from the west, like a massive storm, but in utter silence, with no rumble of distant thunder. A somber yellow light now bathes the vegetation, and the lake is ink. Another glance up. The black shadow has now eaten its way substantially through what used to be our bright orb.
Orbs. . . round bellies. . .sun and moon, moon and tides. What is that connection? Oh, I guess it’s our menstrual cycles, that’s right. Seems like I had just gotten used to mine when it was turned off like a faucet.
The flap of rapid wingbeats startles me, and I look up to see a flock of red-winged blackbirds flying about in confusion. Usually sure and acrobatic, they scatter and collect again at random. Flying too low, just barely over our heads, they must realize they need to roost, and quickly. It’s a flailing sound, like a child whacking at partially inflated balloons with a stick. They are clearly afraid, and I am afraid for them. Have they woven their delicate spring nests in the reeds by the lake? Have they laid their speckled blue-gray eggs? What if they abandon those eggs in fright? I can hardly catch my breath. My heart is racing for them, breaking for them – hurry, hurry, to safety! They have no way to make sense of this. Tears slide down my face.
“Girls, the eclipse is now total, and you may look up.”
The sun is obliterated. And yet it’s not totally dark. The remaining light is unlike any light I’ve ever seen. Dull and feeble, sickly green-yellow. The birds have vanished. But to where? The sun has been eclipsed, and it is total. A profound quiet as I stand in the shadow of the moon.
I have a belly full of dread, my chest full of thistles. Freezing cold, I plunge my hands into the depths of Dad’s pockets. I wipe my tears with his sleeve. A few stars are visible. The sun’s corona, gradually appearing, creates a luminous ring, and I suddenly picture those old paintings in which artists place halos around the heads of saints. I laugh out loud.
“Susie, hush,” says Mrs. Gaines.
We are unwed mothers-to-be in the company of saints!
Now I am laughing and crying at the same time.
And then it is over. “Look away!” commands Mrs. Gaines.
But before I do, I see a brilliant bead of sunlight as the dark shadow of the moon slips silently past me. Now the west is brightening, and the east is darkening. A reverse twilight begins, and the pale green light is replaced by gray violet, then indigo, and finally turquoise again.
Girls are chatting and comparing notes with one another. I have a sudden urge to find Gregg, and I do. She has been crying too. We reach for each other’s hand and silently fall in line, softly marching behind our Mrs. Gaines, back to our red brick maternity home and our eclipsed futures.
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Tracy Lee Mayo has two degrees from Duke University. After retiring from a thirty-year career in commercial construction management, as a trailblazing woman in a man’s world, she began work on her memoir. Her writing has appeared at Aspen Summer Words’ juried workshops, and her memoir will be published by Pegasus Elliot Mackenzie Publishers Ltd. in late 2023/early 2024. Tracy lives in Boulder, Colorado with her husband and Flat-Coated Retriever.
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