The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [103]
“I don’t know, I just do. I don’t even think about it. Oh, Vinnie, can’t we keep her? Can’t we?” Despite her passion, Minnie’s voice never rose above a whisper as she continued to rock the infant.
“Minnie, I just don’t see how. I would love to, truly, but arrangements are arrangements, and it’s for the best. This is no life for a baby.”
“It could be. I’d help, you know! I’d do everything; I wouldn’t mind a bit. I don’t need to be before the public like you. I’d much prefer to stay behind stage and take care of Cosette—you wouldn’t even have to pay the nursemaid!”
“Oh, Minnie.” It was not in my nature to deny my sister anything, and I struggled against it, trying to sort out the thorny details. The child had no papers, not with our name on them. But would an actual child of ours? I didn’t even know. I supposed there would be a baptismal record at least; I knew that Mama kept all of ours in her family Bible. So that would have to be created, somehow. If we actually adopted it, would someone find that out? Or could Mr. Barnum cover it up? But what about later—when the child grew big? We couldn’t use her in the act then, could we? I couldn’t imagine how. But then, that wasn’t the point; Minnie was talking about real life: raising a child, caring for her, kissing her scraped knees, soothing her cries at night, worrying about her schooling, her future—all the things my own parents had done so well.
I couldn’t imagine it. Minnie couldn’t do it all by herself; I would have to be involved somehow, and I did not wish to be. That was it, pure and simple; my life was onstage, next to my husband, either reenacting a pretend wedding ceremony or holding a pretend infant.
I had no room for big love, big decisions, big messes, big happiness; not in this miniature life, spent under the magnifying glare of so many eyes, that I had made for myself.
“See how sweetly she’s sleeping, Vinnie?” Minnie whispered, bending closer to me; she leaned in to hand me the child, careful not to wake her up.
“No,” I said, recoiling, as if the child was a hex or a bad omen—something I did not want to touch for fear of how it might affect my future. Hastily I scrambled up from the floor, hiding my trembling hands behind my skirts. “No, no, I’m sorry but we’ll just have to take very good care of Cosette now.” I avoided Minnie’s surprised, hurt gaze. “And when the time comes, we must return her and trust that she will find a good family who will love her just as much.”
Minnie didn’t speak at first; she merely bent her head down to Cosette and kissed her on the tip of her snub nose. Then she looked up at me, so that I could not help but see the single tear rolling down her cheek; it continued to fall until it landed upon Cosette’s smooth, untroubled brow. “I don’t see how,” Minnie whispered, careful not to wake the child. “I don’t see how anyone can love her just as much as me. I don’t see how I can ever love any other baby just as much as Cosette.”
I turned away. I detested this whole charade. But I could see no way of ending it without exposing it—and Mr. Barnum, not to mention myself. I left the room with a bitter taste in my mouth and a bitterer stain on my soul, knowing that Minnie felt, in her sweet, susceptible heart, that what she had said was true; she could never love another baby as much as she loved Cosette.
I also knew that she would say the same thing again, in a few weeks, when we went to England. Only instead of Cosette, it would be Isabel. Or Alice, or Beatrice—or whatever she decided to name the next one. My sister’s heart was endlessly elastic, but I had to wonder, even then, how long she could go on mourning baby after baby after baby.
I also had to wonder why I, the mother in this particular play written by Mr. P. T. Barnum, never did. I never shed one tear over any of those infants