by Nicole Deese
“Thank you, yes . . . okay. I’ll see you then.” Feeling the bite of the wind on my face for the first time since he walked me to my Jeep, I shivered as I slid into the driver’s seat and secured my seatbelt. He didn’t move away after he closed my door, and for some unknown reason, the simple act of inserting my key into the ignition took four tries.
Joshua waited until my engine had fully warmed and my tires were inching away from the spot I’d parked in for the last ten years before he took a step back and tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
This time, I didn’t resist the urge to look back. And when I did, his gaze was waiting for me, one that offered a wink I wished I wouldn’t have to forget.
chapter
four
While the majority of American women obsessed over home makeover shows, desiring crisp white shiplap walls and minimalistic living spaces to eradicate clutter, I craved something else entirely. My fingers skimmed the seam of my pocket where I’d stuffed Benny’s note, giving myself an extra moment to take in the ranch home before me. The one with bicycles tossed in the yard and thirsty potted plants stationed below a porch littered with teen shoes and backpacks. But what I admired most about this house was the permanent gap in the front door, as if saying to every passerby, Come on in! We’re home! Because the Cartwrights were those kinds of people. The kind who met elderly singles at the grocery store and invited them over for potato soup and card games. The kind who found pleasure in raking leaves and baking pies and taking hikes—as long as they did it together. The kind of people who believed face-to-face connection wasn’t synonymous with FaceTime.
But perhaps what I admired most about them was their ability to make friends feel as close as family. Even closer, in my case.
I pushed the splintering oak door open wide with a single knock and stepped inside, carrying my gift bag. “Hello? Anybody home?” An unintentional joke, considering eight people lived inside this single-story house.
“Miss B?” a familiar voice answered back, followed by racing feet that skidded to a halt an instant before they leapt over the love seat in the living room. Benny gave me a fist bump. “Did you find my note? I made Mom pull into Brighton’s parking lot so I could put it on your car.”
“I sure did,” I said, roughing up his silky near-black hair while pushing away the image of Joshua’s hand removing the note from under my wiper blade. I held up the blue gift bag. “And I also stopped by the store. Couldn’t come without it.”
It was the same thing I bought him every year on this special day. Our tradition.
His braces glinted in the light as he smiled up at me. Crazy how I could still remember the first tooth he’d lost in my classroom all those years ago. How traumatic that day had been for him. Of course, back then, most things had felt traumatic to a little boy who’d lost the only world he’d ever known.
“Awesome! Thanks.” He tossed the gift tissue aside and dug into the bag with the excitement of a child much younger than his twelve years. But that was exactly what made him Benny. He could be just as excited about a small, sentimental gift from an old teacher as he was about the video game he’d been saving for since Christmas. He pulled out the green container of Play-Doh and let out a whooping, “Yes!”
The glee on his face transported me back in time, back to when the young man standing before me weighed less than the average American toddler on his first day of first grade. He’d only known a handful of English phrases when he started school, but he could write most of the letters in the English alphabet and all of his numbers. That was, as long as his mama remained less than an arm’s length away. Which she did for weeks . . . months, even. Gail sat with her son at his desk—writing with him, coloring with him, reading with him, and encouraging him to interact with his classmates despite the tough language barrier. And while it didn’t take long for the kids in my class to win him over, Benny was less than eager to interact with me. Until the day I gave him his own container of green Play-Doh.
His need for sensory output was the olive branch that first connected us, but it was the way his little hand accepted my offering that molded my heart to his forever. As he squished that doughy substance between his fingers, something changed inside me. Something I wouldn’t be brave enough to put into words until years later.
Now Ben shook the green substance, still in the shape of its container, into his palm and immediately flattened it between his hands like a pancake. Some things never changed. “I’m gonna go see if I can get Chowder to walk on it. Her paw prints would look awesome in this!”
“Eeew, Ben.” The logical voice of Benny’s slightly older sister, Allie, sounded as she entered the living room carrying a hardback fantasy book bearing a library code on the spine. I’d yet to see her without a novel permanently affixed to her person. “You can’t let the cat walk all over that and then play with it again. That’s disgusting.”
“It’s my Play-Doh. I can do whatever I want with it.” He looked to me for approval, and I nodded affirmingly, although Allie definitely had a point.
“I bet Caleb and I can get all four of her paw prints on here! See you when Mom cuts the cake, Miss B!” And with that, he was off, bounding over furniture as if his legs were made of mattress springs.
Allie scoffed in disgust, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at her look of disdain. “Hey, Allie, do you know where I might find your mama?” Gail could be any number of places. With a mix of six tween and teenage children, it was better that I ask for directions rather than wander about the house, poking my head inside bedrooms.
She pointed to the wall that separated the dining nook from the kitchen. “I think she’s still baking. She’ll be happy to see you.”
I left my shoes and purse on the rack by the front door and strolled to the kitchen, noting and appreciating the cozy, lived-in feel of their home for the hundredth time. Two mismatched athletic socks lay on the floor near the couch next to the coffee table, where several science textbooks were stacked. Not too far away, a plate of crumbs balanced on a spiral notebook. Study food, probably. Gail often joked that her oldest boys ate a minimum of one mph—meal per hour.
Gail’s back was to me as I entered the bright galley kitchen. A soft symphonic hymn played from an iPhone resting on the windowsill. She hummed along to “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” the sound barely registering above the cello’s solo as she bent over Ben’s cake, working her culinary magic.
Not wanting to startle her, I waited to speak until she lifted the piping bag away from the cake. “I’d offer to help, but you’ve seen my icing skills in action. I’m way better suited for the clean-up crew.”
She turned and offered an immediate smile I couldn’t help but return. “Ah, Lauren. I was just thinking about you.”
“Good things, I hope.” I leaned against the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen.
“Always.” She laid the piping bag on the counter and wrapped me in a tight hug. “You’ve been missed around this house—especially by Ben.” She promptly moved to pick up a barstool that weighed nearly as much as she did and placed it next to the counter, patting it twice for me to take a seat. “Here, I’m almost done with his cake, and then I’ll make us both a warm cup of chai. Why don’t you catch me up on your life these last couple weeks?”
I actually laughed. What did I possibly have to tell her? Nothing had changed since our last tea time chat. My life had been in a holding pattern for months now. Unbidden, Joshua’s face surfaced like a distant mirage and I quickly blinked him away. There wasn’t room for him here. Not in this house, and certainly not in my head, either. “I’m afraid that might be a very short conversation. Everything’s pretty much the same.”
She switched to her yellow piping bag and raised her petite eyebrows in a way that suggested nothing I had to say would ever be too boring for her to hear. And she meant it, too. Gail Cartwright had the kind of face Hollywood would typecast as “compassionate mother figure.” Honey brown eyes, a del
icate mouth framed by decades of joy, and a silver-streaked bob that curled softly under her chin.
“Let’s see . . . I did find a cute note from a sixth-grade boy on my car this afternoon,” I said, running the tip of my finger along the pastry knife before bringing it to my lips. Buttercream, yum. Gail made the best cake frosting on the planet. Sweet and dense and unbelievably creamy.
“Yes, Benny—excuse me, Ben—was excited to leave it for you to discover.” She emphasized Ben’s new name preference, and I shook my head. He might make his family call him Ben now, but I would never stray from calling him Benny. To me, he’d always be my little gap-toothed first grader. “I meant to send you a reminder text last night, but—”
“But you manage a household of eight, taxi at least four of your kids to and from their chosen extracurricular each afternoon, and co-lead a weekly support group. Really, you never have to apologize to me for missing a reminder text.”
She shook her head. “You make me sound like some kind of superwoman.”
“A super-saint is more like it.”
“Nonsense.” Gail concentrated again on the piping tip as she scripted each letter with awe-inspiring precision. Pressing, curling, breaking. Pressing, curling, breaking. Pressing, curling—“Finished.”
She placed the bag in the sink, then tilted the cake stand to reveal what she’d so carefully written: Happy Adoption Day, Ben!
Hot tears rushed to my eyes, threatening to spill over at the slightest hint of a blink. “It’s beautiful, Gail. Truly.”
She laid the cake flat once again and then reached to touch my elbow. “I haven’t stopped praying for the day we get to celebrate your child’s homecoming. You’re so close now, I can feel it.”
And with those tender words, I came undone.
All the months of grueling paperwork and interviews, research and planning, and near-unbearable waiting released in a cry I hadn’t allowed myself in much too long. “I’m so sorry.” I buried my face in my hands, a sob-laugh bubbling up my throat. “I’m being ridiculous.”
“Ah, sweetheart, don’t be sorry. You’re not being ridiculous. You’re being a mother.” She wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight as she swayed ever so gently.
I pulled back just enough to wipe my eyes on my cardigan sleeve. “Am I though? Because I don’t feel like a mother. Most days I just feel like I’m walking through a dark tunnel with no end in sight. Like I’ll be in this waiting place forever.” A raw truth I’d never spoken aloud. Not even to Jenna. Because with everyone else who knew of my plans to adopt, I needed to stay strong, stay diligent in my defense of why international adoption as a single woman was the right choice for me.
Gingerly, Gail framed my face in her hands and tilted my eyes to meet hers. “Listen to me. Right now your child is sitting across the world in an orphanage, waiting for you, too. You may not know your child’s name yet or what their face looks like when they laugh or cry, but God has already gone before you in this. He’s already connected your heart to theirs in a way only He can. I know the wait can feel excruciating while on this side of things, but it’s not in vain. There is purpose in the waiting, Lauren. Don’t allow yourself to lose sight of that.”
I nodded, trying to halt my tears by pinching the bridge of my nose. “I know you’re right, I do… it’s just so hard not to get discouraged when I’ve heard nothing new from my agency in so long—not since China gave their stamp of approval on my adoption dossier. I sent my caseworker an inquiry over the weekend, asking for an updated timeline on being matched.” I shrugged, knowing I likely wouldn’t hear much until the day they sent me the name and picture of a waiting child. There were no absolutes when it came to timelines, just best estimations. “I know the caseworkers have more important things to tackle than responding to another update request from an impatient woman, but . . . it’s been over a year since I—” My throat constricted, my thought cutting short.
Since I took a step five sizes bigger than my savings account and ten sizes bigger than my faith and applied to be a mother of a family-less child.
“It’s tough keeping our hope alive when there seems to be no end in sight. But, Lauren, there will be an end to this season. I wish I could tell you the exact date and time, but only God knows that. With Samuel, we waited nearly four years to bring him home from Haiti. Jacob was just over two. Caleb’s adoption was completed after ten months of fostering him. Allie and Becca were just under a year when the judge finalized their paperwork. And our sweet Benny . . . we waited seventeen months from application to homecoming to bring him home from China. Every adoption story looks different, but every one of our children joined our family on the perfect day. God is always on time.”
My heart could have sprouted wings under Gail’s motherly gaze. Every time she looked at me this way, I imagined what it must feel like to be one of her children. Did they know how special they were to be on the receiving end of such focused love and attention? I could only pray my child would feel the same way about me one day. “Thank you, Gail.”
After planting a firm kiss to my temple, she opened the cupboard above the sink and warmed two mugs of her homemade vanilla chai. The spicy aroma filled the room, releasing the tension in my body and bringing my emotions back to my normal baseline.
I ducked my head into her fridge and spotted the creamer, asking her what else I could do to help prep for the family party. She shook off my request and encouraged me to relax, explaining that Robert was bringing home a stack of pizzas to feed the masses any minute. Work smarter, not harder and all that. The cake was all that mattered to Benny, not Pinterest-style party appetizers.
We moved into the dining room and scooted a mountain of Allie’s library books aside to set our mugs and biscotti down on the table. Everything in this adorable nook was marked by children. The pencil lines on the doorjamb declaring heights and dates, the basketball in the corner that must have rolled in from the mud room, and the gallery display of candid snapshots.
Here, in this space filled with love, the doubts that blindsided me at night were nowhere to be found. There were no whispers of “Your faith isn’t strong enough to handle this” or “You aren’t equipped to be a mother” or the worst one of all: “You won’t be able to do this on your own.”
Gail noticed me staring at their most recent family picture taken just as the trees were cloaked in every shade of autumn. “How’s your family doing, Lauren?”
But I knew what she was really asking: “Have you told your family yet?” It was the same question Jenna asked me on a regular basis—not understanding how I could keep such a huge secret from them. But where Jenna imagined cocktail celebrations full of tearful toasts, warm hugs, and promises of future adoption showers, I pictured something else entirely.
I dunked the almond biscotti into my tea, watching the crusty texture morph into a soggy sponge. “They still don’t know. I’d planned to tell my sister over the weekend at Iris’s dance recital, but Lisa had a different agenda she was trying to push.”
“Meaning?” Gail sipped her tea as if she had all the time in the world for this story.
“Meaning the only thing she ever wants to discuss is why I’m still single at thirty-one. She’s weirdly obsessed with my dating life—or lack thereof.”
Gail remained quiet for a moment. “And you’re still good with your decision?”
I nearly sputtered out my first sip of tea. “To adopt?”
“No, silly.” She laughed. “Your decision not to date while you’re waiting to be matched with a child.”
I opened my mouth, ready to spout the only answer I’d ever given to this question when Jenna asked it. But the usual yes faltered a bit, stalling on my tongue as if it couldn’t form correctly. I repeated it a second time, willing it to sound stronger, more sure of itself. Willing it to replace the yes I’d almost spoken to Joshua only a few hours ago when he’d asked me to dinner.
Gail lowered her mug, saying nothing as she studied me through her pra
cticed mom vision.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, though her eyes remained approachable and soft. “I’m good with it, Gail, I really am.” Finally, a sense of calm confidence strengthened my voice and encouraged my resolve. “It’s not like I can go back on it now, anyway. I signed document after document stating that I’m adopting as a single woman.” And we both knew the rules for international adoption from China. There were only two categories that existed in the world of Chinese adoptions. The first was to adopt as a single, unmarried woman. The second was to adopt as a married woman of two years or longer. There was no in-between. No gray area to be found. “I’m way too far into this process now to jeopardize it for a man who likely wouldn’t stick around for the long haul anyway. Adopting an orphaned child is my calling. My passion. The odds of meeting a man with a similar mindset at my age are minuscule.”
Her eyebrows arched ever so slightly, as if to say, “I did.”
“Sure, I know you and Robert are proof that it can happen, but statistically speaking”—not to mention what I’d witnessed firsthand as a child—“a marriage partnership like yours is rare. And not only because of your united stance on adoption but all your other shared values, too, like faith and parenting styles.” I didn’t realize how fervent my voice had become, but all of this was fact. Strong marriages and families didn’t just happen. They took time, effort, work, and the kind of energy I could only imagine expending on a child destined to be mine.
I took a breath and lowered my volume. “My little family will look different than some, I know that, but I’ll do everything I can to love and support my child, even if that means choosing to stay single indefinitely.”
