Free The House on Seventh Street by Karen Vorbeck Williams Page A

patient captive upstairs, Juliana put on a cotton housedress and apron and bustled through her chores, never complaining about extra work—diapers and baths for baby, clean bandages for mother.
    At the time of Winna’s birth, Juliana was too old to have any more children of her own. She knew she appeared matronly, her waist thickened, her once lustrous hair bobbed and streaked gray, her honey brown eyes glistening behind thick glasses.
    Overwhelmed by the fierce love she felt for her first grandchild, she made time to sit down and write a flowery poem about little Edwina’s rosebud mouth, petal soft skin, deep-as-the-midnight-sky eyes, and her own rose-colored glasses. She liked to write poetry, long, long letters to her friends, and short stories. She submitted her poems and stories to newspapers and magazines—sometimes with success.
    Within two days of Nora’s release from the hospital, Juliana held a dinner party, inviting her three best friends and their husbands. Juliana was a good cook and enjoyed planning and helping Maria prepare the meal.
    When Nora insisted that she felt well enough to come down for dinner, Juliana sent Henry upstairs to quash that idea. “She may very well be able to walk down the stairs, but walking back up would pose a threat to her. The doctor said no stairs! I insist you talk sense into your wife.”
    Juliana wanted to be the center of attention that evening. She asked Henry to bring baby Edwina downstairs for a showing and she was passed around and ogled. One by one, the ladies excused themselves and went upstairs to say hello to Nora. After courtesies were paid, Juliana asked Maria to take dinner up to her daughter-in-law. She had insisted that her son dine with her guests. Nora dined alone.
    It was obvious to Nora that having a baby in the house filled the new grandmother with a burst of fresh energy. She probably misses the days when she had babies of her own. No one ever talked about the Grummans’ daughter, Grace, who was born when Henry was three. The child had died of influenza at the age of five, leaving Juliana to grieve—unreasonably long, according to old Dr. Northrop. Henry had said that the doctor suggested to Edwin that as an aid to his wife’s recovery, the child’s name go unmentioned. Nora followed that advice and was careful not to pry.
    After their arrival at the house on Seventh Street, when baby Edwina was brought in to nurse, she did not seem hungry. Urging her baby to the breast, Nora felt comforted by the infant’s eyes focused intently on her face.
    â€œWho are you, little one?” she whispered, wishing for her own mother. It is true babies are little strangers. She looks at me like I’m a stranger with a face she must memorize.
    Nora’s mother had wanted to come for the birth. It had been planned, but Hope Neely was recovering from a recent bout of pneumonia. Nora missed her.
    Puzzled by her mother-in-law, she wondered when they would bond. Nora was willing. She admired Juliana, saw her as intelligent and accomplished, but her affection seemed to run hot and cold. Every time Nora began to fear that Juliana disliked her or wonder if she had somehow offended, her mother-in-law would tell her how lovely she was or say something about how much she hoped they would be good friends. Once, Juliana told her how deeply she had loved her own mother-in-law, how she hoped Nora would love her just as much.
    When Juliana weighed her granddaughter every day, she happily reported her progress to Nora. Even though the baby seemed to spend very little time at the breast, she was gaining weight nicely. Soon Nora’s breasts were engorged and Juliana called the doctor.
    Faced with his patient’s bleeding nipples and agonizingly inflamed breasts, Dr. Sloane forbade her to continue breastfeeding. He bound her tightly in strips of an old sheet and prescribed large doses of aspirin. The aspirin made her head spin and her ears