There’s a pause. “Okay,” she says, drawing the word out. I hear the sound of a door close, as if she’s giving this conversation privacy. “What can I help you with?”
“Um. Do you remember a student by the name of Six Jacobs? Or maybe she went by Seven Jacobs?”
The lack of reply on her end gives me my answer. She definitely knows who I’m talking about. It doesn’t mean I’ll get any answers, but it feels good to know I’m on the right track.
“Daniel, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Daniel, I hope you understand that I’m not allowed to discuss students in any capacity. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
She knows. She knows why I’m calling. I can hear the fear in her voice.
“Don’t hang up,” I beg. “Please. I just. Okay, so I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume you’re the teacher who helped Six find an adoption agency. She mentioned you knew a couple who was looking to adopt, which means you might still know the couple. Which means you’re the only living person who might can tell us where our baby is.”
More heart-pounding silence. “Why are you calling me? I’m not allowed to discuss this.”
“We just want to know that he’s okay.”
“It was a closed adoption, Daniel. I’m sorry. I can’t legally discuss this with anyone.”
“I know.” My voice is desperate. I’m scared she’s about to hang up, so I just start talking faster, hoping to get it all out before she does. “We know you can’t discuss it. We aren’t asking for contact. And I’m not calling because we want him back. I mean, if he’s not in a good situation, we do, but if he’s happy and his parents are happy, that’ll make us happy. We just…” I feel out of my element. Nervous. I feel like I don’t know how to ask this woman for a morsel of information. But then I think about what Hannah said. She’s right. I am annoying. I’m persistent. I blow out a breath and continue. “She cries, you know. Every night. It’s the not knowing that kills her. I don’t know if you have a way of contacting the people who adopted him, but if you do, maybe they wouldn’t mind just sending her an email. An update. Even if you just respond with one sentence saying he’s fine, I’m sure that would mean the world to Six. That’s all I’m asking for. Just…it’s hard, you know? Not knowing. It’s really hard on her.”
There’s a long silence. Such a long silence. I’m worried she hung up, so I look down at the phone, but it still says the call is connected. I put it on speaker and wait. Then I hear something that sounds like a sniffle come from the phone.
Is she crying?
Me and Hannah lock eyes and I know my expression must match the shock on her face.
“I can’t make any promises,” Ava says. “I can reach out to the adoption agency with your message. Email me your contact information, but…don’t get your hopes up, Daniel. Please. All I can do is try to get a message to them. I can’t promise they’ll receive it or that they’ll even feel comfortable answering it if they do.”
I frantically point at my desk, motioning for Chunk to get me a pen and paper. “Okay.” I sound so desperate, I know. “Thank you. Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me. To us.”
“You already sound excited,” the woman says. “I told you not to get your hopes up.”
I grip the back of my neck. “Sorry. I’m not excited. I mean, I am. But, a realistic excited.”
“Do you have a pen?” she asks. She already sounds full of regret for even agreeing to do this, but I don’t care how much regret she feels. I feel no shame.
I take down her email address and thank her two more times. When I hang up, me and Hannah and Chunk stare at each other.
I think I might be in shock. I can’t form any words, or even much of a thought.
This is the first time I’ve ever been grateful for being called annoying.
“Wow,” Chunk says. “What if it works?”
Hannah presses her hands to the side of her head. “Oh my God. I honestly didn’t think we’d get anywhere.”
I let it all out by punching the air with my fists. I want to scream, but Mom and Dad are here in the house somewhere. I pull Hannah and Chunk in for a hug and we start jumping up and down. Hannah starts squealing because that’s what she does when she’s excited, but it actually doesn’t annoy me this time.
“What the hell is going on?”
We all separate immediately. My father is standing in the doorway, looking at us suspiciously.
“Nothing,” we all say in unison.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Bullshit.”
I put one arm around Hannah’s shoulders and one arm around Chunk. “I just missed my sisters, Dad.”
He points at us. “Bullshit,” he says again.
My mother is behind him now. “What’s wrong?”
“They were happy,” my father says, accusatory.
My mother looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “What do you mean?”
He motions toward us. “They were hugging and squealing. Something is up.”
My mother is looking at us suspiciously now. “You were hugging? Like all three of you?” She folds her arms across her chest. “You three never hug. What the hell is going on?”
Hannah walks toward the door and smiles at my parents. “With all due respect,” she says, “this is none of your business.” Then she closes the door in their faces.
I can’t believe she just did that.
She locks the door, and when she looks back at Chunk and me, we all just start laughing, and then we hug again and resume our celebratory moment.
My parents don’t knock again. I think we’ve thoroughly confused them.
Hannah falls onto the bed. “Are you telling Six?”
“No,” I say immediately. “I don’t want to get her hopes up. We may never hear back from them.”
“I bet you do,” Chunk says.
“I hope so. But like you said, there’s a reason they chose a closed adoption.”
“Yeah,” she says. “The waiting is going to suck.”
It really is going to suck. I sit down on my bed and think about how much it’s going to suck. Especially if I never hear back from this woman.
I hope she knows I’ll be calling her again next week. And the week after that. And the week after that. I’ll call her until she changes her number or her name.
But if either of those things happens, I’ll be back to square one.
Now that the energy is leaving the room, the reality of it all begins to sink in. The three of us grow quiet in the midst of our declining hope.
“Well,” Hannah says. “If you never hear back from them, you could always do one of those online DNA tests and hope your child does one when they’re older. There’s always that.”
“Yeah, but then Daniel would never be able to commit a murder,” Chunk says. “His DNA would always be in the system.” Hannah and I both look at her. Chunk shrugs off our wary looks. “I just wouldn’t take that chance.”
Hannah and I continue to stare at her. “You scare me,” I say.
“Not as much as the idea of you being a dad scares me,” Chunk retorts. Loudly.
I cover her mouth with my hand, staring at the door to my bedroom. “Shh. They could still be at the door,” I whisper. I slowly release my hand from her mouth.
Hannah pipes up from her position on the bed. “Oh, man. I didn’t think about that. If this works out, you’re gonna have to tell Mom and Dad.”
I didn’t think about that, either. But finding out even the most insignificant information for Six would be worth my parents’ anger.
Chunk starts giggling. “Dude, you’re gonna be in so much trouble.”
Hannah laughs, too. I glare at her, because I thought we were on the same team, but that cruel excitement is back in her eyes.
“You know,” I say, “for a moment there, I felt like the three of us bonded. But now I see that the two of you still find pleasure in the idea of my failure.”
&
nbsp; I open the door and motion for them to leave my room. “You can go now. You two are no longer needed here.”
Hannah hops off the bed and grabs Chunk’s hand, pulling her out of the chair. “We want this to work out for you, Daniel,” Hannah says on her way out the door. “But we also look forward to shit hitting the fan when Mom and Dad find out.”
“Yes,” Chunk agrees. “Looking very forward to that.”
I close the door and lock them out of my bedroom.
Chapter Four
We decided on Sky’s house for our friendsgiving because Karen and Jack will be gone most of the day. Six recruited me to help cook the dressing and I’ve never cooked in my life, so I’ve been more of a nuisance than a help. Sky is doing the baking because she makes the best cookies in the world, according to Holder.
But when I drop the second egg in two minutes, Six finally regrets her choice. “Just go hang out with Holder and Breckin in the living room,” she says. “I feel like it’ll be easier without you in the kitchen.”
I don’t take any offense because it’s the truth.
I go to the living room and sit next to Breckin. He’s playing a game with Holder. “You winning, Powder Puff?”
He lazily turns his head and looks at me, annoyed. “We went an entire week without you calling me that. I thought you actually learned something in college.”
“What could I learn that would make me stop calling you Powder Puff?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Decency?”
Holder laughs from the recliner he’s sprawled out in. I glare in his direction. “What are you laughing at, Pimple Dick?”
“Breckin’s right,” Holder says. “Sometimes I think maybe you’re maturing, but then you go and say something ignorant again to set me straight. Still the same ‘ol Daniel.”
I shake my head. “I thought that was why you like me, because I don’t change. I’m myself all the time.”
“I think that’s the problem,” Breckin says. “You don’t evolve. But you’re getting better. I haven’t heard you use the R word in a derogatory way since you’ve been home.”
“What’s the R word?” I ask. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
He begins to spell it out for me. “R-E-T-A-R—”
I cut Breckin off. “Oh. That,” I say. “Yeah, I learned not to say that when a chick in my economics class smacked me in the back of the head with her notebook.”
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” Breckin says. “Come to think of it, I did seem to hate you a lot more in high school. But I wouldn’t hate you at all if you’d stop calling me Powder Puff.”
“Aren’t you on Twitter?” Holder asks. “Don’t you see what happens to people like you?”
“People like me?”
“Yeah. Guys who say insensitive shit because they think it makes them look cool and careless.”
“I don’t think I’m cool and careless. I just had no idea Powder Puff was insensitive.”
“Bullshit,” Holder says with a fake cough.
“Okay, so maybe I knew it was insensitive,” I admit, looking back at Breckin. “But it’s a joke.”
“Well,” Breckin says, “as someone who identifies as a gay male, I feel it’s my duty to teach you how to be more sensitive. Powder Puff is insulting. So is the R word. And most of the nicknames you give to people.”
“Yeah,” Holder says. “Stop calling my girlfriend Cheese Tits.”
“But…it’s a joke. I don’t even know what Cheese Tits or Powder Puff mean.”
Holder turns his head and looks at me. “I know you don’t. Neither do I. But Breckin is right. You’re an asshole sometimes and you should stop being an asshole sometimes.”
Shit. I seem to be learning a lot of what people think about me over Thanksgiving break, whether I want to or not. So far, I’ve learned I’m insensitive. I’m an asshole. I’m annoying. I’m a guy. What else is wrong with me?
“That means I have to come up with a new nickname for you,” I say to Breckin.
“You could just call me Breckin.”
I nod. “I will. For now.”
That seems to satisfy him. I lean back, just as my phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket and look at the incoming call. It’s an unknown number.
I stand up. My heart feels like it’s still on the couch. I can feel adrenaline rush through me as I swipe to answer the phone. It might be a telemarketer, but it might not be, so I rush across the living room and go outside to take the phone call in private.
“Hello?” No one says anything, so I repeat myself. “Hello? It’s Daniel. Hello?”
If it is a telemarketer, they’ve probably never heard a guy sound so desperate to talk to one of them before.
A man clears his throat, and then says, “Hi. Daniel Wesley?”
I’m pacing the front yard, gripping the back of my neck. “Yes. Who is this?”
“I’m...well. I’m your child’s father.”
I stop pacing. In fact, I bend over at the waist when I hear those words. I feel like my stomach just fell onto the ground. I feel like I’m about to fall to the ground.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Don’t say anything stupid, Daniel. Don’t screw this up.
“Do you have a second to chat?” the guy asks.
I nod frantically. “Yes. Yes, of course.” I walk to the front patio and take a seat. I can barely feel my legs. “Thank you for calling, sir. Thank you so much. Can I just ask how he’s doing? Is he good? Healthy? Is he happy?”
I should probably get Six for this conversation. I feel awful being feet away from her and she has no idea that I’m on the phone with a man who knows where our son is. But I’m worried there’s a chance he’s not calling with good news, so I stay seated until I can find out more information.
“He’s…” The man is hesitant. He pauses for a moment. “Listen, Daniel. I don’t know you. And I don’t know my son’s biological mother. But I know my wife, and she has been through hell. The last thing I want to do is bring stress or pain back into her life, because she’s in such a good place right now. I need to know what your intentions are before I tell her you’ve reached out. Before I decide to share anything with you. I hope you understand that.”
“She doesn’t know you’re talking to me right now?”
“No. She doesn’t. And I haven’t decided if I’m even going to tell her about this conversation yet.”
Yet.
I cling to that word. That word means this phone call is the one deciding factor in whether or not Six and I will know what happened to our child.
Yeah, no pressure or anything. Christ.
I think about what Hannah said. Be persistent.
“Okay. Well. My name is Daniel. I’m nineteen. My girlfriend, Six...she’s the biological mother. And…” I stand up again, feeling the pressure of this entire conversation and just how much is riding on my shoulders right now. “Sorry. I just need a minute.”
The man says, “It’s okay. Take all the time you need.”
I blow out a calming breath. I look at the house and into the window of the kitchen. Six is in there, oblivious to what’s going on out here. Oblivious to the fact that I’m speaking to a man who knows where her child is.
Our child.
But honestly...her child. The baby she grew and carried for nine months. The burden she still carries.
I know he’s my son, but I’d be lying to myself if I said I was talking to this man and feeling this nervous because of how I feel about a child I’ve never met. I’m not doing this for him. I’m confident Six made the right choice.
Everything I’m doing, I’m doing for Six. And I don’t want to let her down. She needs this more than anyone has ever needed anything. And sadly, the future of her happiness is in my hands. My tiny, tiny hands.
I blow out a calming breath, hoping I can be as candid as I need to be with this guy.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask him.
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you
adopt him? Can you and your wife not have children?”
The man is silent for a moment. “No. We can’t. We tried for several years, and then my wife had a hysterectomy.”
I can hear in his voice how hard it was just for him to say, much less live through it. It makes me think his wife has been through the same kind of pain Six has been through. “Would you have stayed married to her no matter what? If you adopted a baby or not?”
“Of course,” the man says. “She’s the love of my life. But this child means the world to us, so if you’re thinking about trying to—”
“Just hear me out,” I say. “Six is the love of my life. I know I’m only nineteen, but she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And seeing her sad is just... It’s unbearable, man. It’s fucking unbearable. She just needs to know he’s okay. She needs to know she made the right decision. And I’d be lying to you if I said I need this too, because I don’t. Not as much as her. I just want her to be whole again. This broke her. And until she knows her little boy is happy and healthy, I don’t know that she’ll ever heal. So yeah, I guess that’s all I’m asking for. I want to see her happy, and right now, you and your wife are literally the only people in the world who can give her that.”
I press my hand to my forehead. I shouldn’t have cussed. I said fucking and that probably annoyed him. I feel every bit of the immature teenager that I still am while talking to this man.
There’s a long silence, but I know he’s still on the phone because I hear him sigh heavily. Then he says, “I’ll talk to my wife. I’m going to let this be her decision and I’m going to support whatever that decision is. I have your contact information. If you don’t hear from us, I need to ask you to let this go. As much as I wish I could help you, I can’t promise anything.”
I pump my fist in the air. I try not to sound too excited when I say, “Okay. Thank you. That’s all I was hoping for. Thank you.”
“Daniel?” he says.
“Yes, sir?”
“However this turns out...thank you.”
He hasn’t said a single word about our son, but I hear it all in that thank you. That has to mean our little boy is doing well and making them happy.
Finding Perfect Page 3
