16. No Guarantees

"I simply cannot get past her name."

"We can still change it," Peter frowned. "She's plenty young enough."

Chummy and Peter sat up in bed, passing the Polaroid of little Joan back and forth. They almost talked to the picture more than to teach other. It had been two days since the Applebee-Thorntons' visit, and in that time they'd memorized the sight of those sparkling blue eyes. The sticky toddler smile. The wild black curls. The empty space beneath the shoulders of that little frayed sundress.

"It's not the name itself that bothers me. It's the fact that the Church picked it," Chummy explained. "At Astor Lodge, we encouraged all the girls to name their babies- even if they were intent on giving them up. It was something for the mothers to remember them by. And if the child ever went looking, that name would be in their file: a gift from their birth mother."

Her voice had grown husky with feeling. Peter rubbed her shoulder, and she let herself lean against him.

"One wonders why Joan's birth mother never named her. What the poor girl must have gone through…" She swallowed hard. "Sorry. I'm working myself into a frightful tizz."

"You are not. You've a caring heart, is all. And you've worked with girls like Joan's birth mother. Both those things'll do you credit as her mum."

"Do you think so?" she asked.

He pecked her on the cheek. "I know so."

Chummy was having trouble sleeping. She'd experienced an uptick in nightmares ever since Teddy Turner's birth, but these last few nights were something different. Her dreams now weren't frightening- just incredibly vivid. She felt the trembling sobs of a teenage patient held in her arms. She smelled the warm salt air in Devonshire. She saw a flash of rani pink cotton, heard her ayah's voice. She heard children laughing, smelled baby shampoo, felt soft curls against her cheek.

When she awoke, she'd reach for the Polaroid on her nightstand. She didn't bother turning a light on. The point wasn't to see the picture, but to hold it. She had to hold something. And for now, the picture was all she had.

It was as if she'd been shifted by a powerful, unseen source. Like a deep water current, or a change in the weather. A child she'd never met had taken a place in her heart in record time. Already she thought of herself as little Joan's mother.

Peter felt the shift as well. She wished she could say she knew it simply on wifely intuition: that she'd sussed it out from his pensive looks, the inflection in his quiet words. But on their third or fourth night sitting up together, he just came out with it:

"We have to adopt her. It feels meant to be, like she's already ours. And besides: if we don't take her in, who will?"

It wouldn't be easy. They kept telling each other that. Peter had dreamed of teaching their daughter to ride a tricycle, taking her camping with the boys, working with her in the garden. How could she do any of these things without arms? And people would talk. People would stare.

"No matter. I'm quite accustomed to people staring," Chummy grinned.

"Camilla. This is different."

"Yes. I know."

"People will think you took a bad drug."

"Not intentionally; no one knew it at the time. Quite a few good women took that 'bad drug'. Including, need I remind you, Rhoda Mullucks."

And thank goodness for Rhoda Mullucks. Not that Chummy had told her about Joan yet; she didn't want Rhoda's reaction swaying her and Peter's decision, for better or for worse. But their friendship had given Chummy the courage to consider adopting Joan in the first place.

Susan Mullucks was two years old now; she was as bright, beautiful, and healthy as ever. Her older siblings doted on her; Chummy's boys adored their playdates with her; her baby sister Heather had never known a world without her. She had physiotherapy at the London every Thursday, and had already been fitted with state-of-the-art prosthetic limbs. Though she eschewed the bulky plastic limbs at home. She'd rather find her own ways to feed herself, play with her dollies, and move about the house. According to the other mothers in Rhoda's support group, this was all par for the course. Feats of engineering were no match for stubborn toddlers.

Once they adopted Joan, Chummy fully intended to join that support group. Rhoda made it sound like a veritable gold mine of information. Parents swapped tips on everything, from toilet training, to modifying clothing, to convincing the nursery school headmistress to let their children enroll. They also shared stories of historical figures who were born missing limbs, but lived meaningful lives regardless. Rhoda's favorite was Sarah Biffen, a Victorian portrait artist who held her paintbrush in her mouth. She'd lived independently, and in quite good health, to the age of sixty-six.

"But Sarah Biffen wasn't actually exposed to thalidomide," Chummy explained to Peter. "There's still so much about the drug that we simply don't know. The oldest thalidomide children in the entire world are only four and a half years old. There could be other effects that only become apparent years down the line… We have no guarantee that the children will continue to thrive."

"Isn't that the case for all kids, though? If you stop and think about it," he pointed out. "There's never any guarantees."

She thought of Freddie's chest colds and ear infections, and how they always cost her a night's sleep. Even once Freddie finally went down, Chummy just couldn't do the same. She would sit by his bed, practically holding her breath. She'd get out her knitting, just to stop herself from reaching out and touching his forehead every three minutes.

"No," she sighed. "I suppose there aren't."

They telephoned their adoption caseworker, and then the orphanage. The Children's Society's response was swift and enthusiastic. In just two weeks' time, the Noakes would travel to Torquay to meet Joan Evans, take her home, and foster her with the intent to adopt.

Jenny sat lengthwise across the Noakes' settee, her blouse pulled up to expose her prominent bump. Chummy ran routine midwifery checks with Trixie's work tools. Trixie herself perched on the armrest of a nearby chair, giggling the hardest of the three.

"Heartbeat's strong and steady, Mrs. Worth," Chummy reported. "And you're measuring thirty-five centimeters precisely. Everything's tickety-boo."

"And marvelous?" Jenny teased.

"And marvelous," Chummy smiled.

"Shouldn't we check Baby's lie?" Trixie asked.

"Honestly, you two!" Jenny huffed playfully as she pulled her blouse back down. "I am booked with a midwife, you know."

"Sorry, old thing. It's a bit of a sororal ritual, I suppose. When one of our own is expecting, and not under our own care, we simply must run her through the paces."

"What Chummy means to say," Trixie grinned. "Is she can't let you off too easy, after we poked and prodded her both times she came back to Nonnatus 'top-heavy'."

Chummy helped Jenny to sit up straight. Jenny 'oofed' with effort, which only made Trixie grin even wider. Jenny shot her a dirty look.

"Don't go smirking at me, Nurse Franklin! It'll be you next. Although I'd quite like to meet this Mr. Dockerill in-person before you tie the knot."

Trixie's smile froze wide; the mirth vanished from her eyes. Chummy's stomach sank. She knew that look.

"Alright, Trixie?"

"Of course. Only, Mr. Dockerill and I broke things off. So Jenny, you won't have to bother with meeting him after all."

The others watched in silence as Trixie leaned towards the coffee table. She pinched a lemon puff from the tea tray with all the exaggerated poise of a finishing-school student balancing a plate on her head.

"These look delicious."

"They're from the bakery in Shandy Street… Wh-what do you mean, 'broke things off'?" Chummy asked.

"I mean," Trixie spoke slowly, as if to a small child. "That Christopher Dockerill and I are no longer in any sort of courtship. Lemon puff, Jenny?"

"Two please," Jenny chimed. Trixie loaded up a saucer and passed it to her. Chummy still stared in shock.

"But why?"

"It's what's best for his daughter, Alexandra. Now. I thought we were here to fuss over Jenny, not to interrogate me on my social life."

"We're only asking because we care about you," Jenny said primly.

"And I care about you! Which is why I've brought this lovely gift for Baby." Trixie pulled a neatly gifted-wrapped LP from her nurse's bag. "No prize for guessing what it is! Chummy, didn't you say you have a gift, as well?"

Chummy actually had two gifts at the ready. One was a lemon yellow baby blanket that she'd hand-knitted. The other was a package from Cynthia Miller. Cynthia couldn't join them today; after her second stint in a psychiatric hospital, she'd moved back in with her parents near Birmingham. But she'd mailed a gift to Chummy to present on her behalf.

Jenny opened Cynthia's gift first. It was a picture book called The Velveteen Rabbit. Apparently, Jenny and Trixie both had it read to them as children; they agreed it was a very touching choice. Chummy skimmed a few pages and found out exactly what they meant. She dabbed her eyes with her hankie while they moved on to Trixie's gift: Classical Lullabies: Brahms, Schumann, Faure & More. Jenny read the track list off the back of the LP sleeve, feigning offense that Mussorgsky wasn't included.

Next came Chummy's gift. The blanket practically spilled out of the massive, clumsily-wrapped package. Jenny found two corners and held them up, her arms spread wide- but the blanket still sagged in the middle. The center pooled generously in what was left in her lap, while the far end flopped to the floor.

"Good Lord, Chummy!" Trixie exclaimed. "Is that a blanket or a tapestry?"

"One may have gotten a bit carried away," Chummy blushed. "Although, it rather reminds me of a godh bharai. That means 'filling the lap' in Hindi. It's a celebration where an expectant mother's female relatives and friends 'fill her lap' with gifts for Baby."

"I think the Americans just call that a baby shower," Jenny quipped.

It felt like old times, all the teasing and giggling. Still, there were forlorn little pauses in the conversation when Chummy remembered Trixie's breakup. And she was frightfully baffled.

Chummy had met Christopher quite a few times. Never once did she get the impression that he might be laughing behind her back at her accent, her looks, or her size. Not many men passed that litmus test- especially not men as handsome as him. She could see how he wouldn't miss a beat when Trixie told him that she was in Alcoholics Anonymous. Or how the nuns all found him delightfully helpful and polite when he was snowed in at Nonnatus House last winter. There was great empathy and thoughtfulness beneath his style and charm. He was a lot like Trixie in that respect.

Chummy liked Christopher Dockerill. More than that, she felt that he actually deserved her best friend. This made him the first in a six-year string of admirers. And yes, that included Tom Hereward, Trixie's ex-fiance. The curate was a good man. But there were many layers to Trixie, and Tom only ever knew the topmost few. Christopher went deeper. From their shared affinity for moonlight picnics and Hitchcock films, to the strength and courage of Trixie's sobriety, all the way down to…

Well, after a holiday weekend this spring, suffice to say that Christopher knew Trixie in ways that no man ever had before.

Jenny was tidying her gifts into a little pile, while Trixie stared off into the distance with pain in her eyes.

"Sorry," Chummy blurted. "But are you really packing in Christopher for Alexandra's sake? I was under the distinct impression that she thought you hung the moon."

Trixie's nostrils flared. "Leave it be, Chummy. Please."

Let us not poke at wounds we cannot heal. The command came from inside Chummy's head, but outside of herself.

Jenny shifted uncomfortably on the settee. "Any news on the adoption front, Chummy?"

"Oh. Well. Yes, actually-"

She moved to clear the tea things, but was so flustered that she knocked the teapot to the floor. Good job the tea was lukewarm and the area rug was just a cheap, modern thing.

"Just let me sop this up, and then I'll give you a little tour of the nursery."

She knew Jenny would be excited to see the nursery. Their recent letters back and forth had contained parallel adventures in decorating. But Chummy now had an extra surprise up her sleeve. (Or rather, in her nightstand drawer.)

She thought she could slip into her bedroom unnoticed while the others headed on. Instead they stopped in the middle of the corridor. As soon as she turned around to face them, the picture hidden against her blouse, Jenny and Trixie started squealing with delight.

"Is that-?"

"We've spoken to the agency," said Chummy.

"And did they-?"

"It seems our nursery's going to be occupied quite soon," she announced.

"You tease! Is that a picture of her? Oh, show us already!"

She handed it over. The squeals subsided quickly, replaced by furrowed brows. Chummy's heart sank. She'd already grown so accustomed to the look of Joan; she didn't think to explain…

"Where are her arms?" Trixie demanded.

"Surely she's got them behind her back," Jenny frowned. "It's a trick of the light-"

"No. She doesn't." Chummy paused. "Her birthmother… she took thalidomide, unfortunately."

Jenny held the photograph in one hand; the other hovered over her mouth. "I've read about this," she murmured slowly. "Does she… have normal legs?"

"Yes, and she's in perfect health."

"Apart from the tiny detail of no arms," Trixie snapped.

"Trixie!" Jenny scolded. "It's Chummy and Peter's decision-"

"And if it only affected them, I'd support it wholeheartedly. But you have two other children, Chummy!"

Chummy remembered the woman in the toy shop last year who mistook Susan for Chummy's daughter. You've got two healthy boys. It's not fair to them, keepin' that poor thing at 'ome! It was one thing to be criticized by a stranger; Chummy had held her head high then. But hearing it from one's best friend was a different kettle of plaice entirely. She scarcely knew what to say.

"Peter and I have talked. We know there are risks, but we feel called to give this little girl a home."

Trixie scoffed at the word 'called.' But Chummy continued.

"Freddie and Davey will love and protect their sister-"

"You can't put that sort of burden on them! They'll grow up to resent it!"

"I don't recall Cynthia ever 'resenting' her parents keeping her little brother at home," Jenny retorted.

"Oh yes, there's a good example. Because Cynthia's so very well-adjusted," Trixie snarled.

Jenny's mouth fell open; she planted her hands on her hips. Trixie turned away from her and back to Chummy.

"Chummy, you can't do this," she half-whispered, ragged and urgent. "I've seen families torn apart by a child's disability. Just last week, one of our patients-"

"We've all had patients with disabled family members. Most love them and make do the best they can!" Jenny protested. "Wounded fathers, children with birth defects. Even the Turners went through polio. Even your family-"

"My family has nothing to do with this!" Trixie cried. "And besides, we had no choice. But Peter and Chummy do! They could have another girl- a healthy one- if they'd just wait a little longer. But instead Chummy's had another bloody calling, so we all have to stand back and applaud while they ruin their sons' lives!"

The Caplans' dog had heard the commotion through the wall and had started barking. Trixie's long blonde side-fringe had fallen into her face. Her eyes were glinting, her shoulders squared. Chummy took Jenny's hand; it was shaking. They could only stare as Trixie turned on her heel and stomped downstairs.

"Trixie," Chummy called softly. "Please, don't…"

They heard the front door slam.