by Nicole Deese
Good morning, Mom! What time is Thanksgiving dinner this year? Would you like me to bring a dessert and a side dish?
Spilling my secret while my mother slopped green bean casserole on our plates during a chaotic holiday meal may not be the most socially sensitive plan I’d ever devised, but it was definitely the most sensible. My mom’s ears worked best when her hands were occupied.
True to form, my mother didn’t text back until the afternoon school bell had rung and I was busy directing the volunteers for Wednesday’s all-school Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Feast. Today and tomorrow our school would be full of volunteers, all working together to organize food, string up Thanksgiving decorations, and assist kids with their line memorizations for the gratitude portion of the event. Between handing off a stack of autumn-colored construction paper to our PTO leader and dodging eye contact with a certain male teacher across the room, I slipped my phone from my pocket and spared a half-second glance at the text screen.
4. Dessert. SYATD.
Unlike Lisa, my mother’s replies were rarely longer than five words. And on the occasion her message was getting too lengthy, she’d just create her own unique abbreviation to sum it up. For instance, SYATD = See you at Thanksgiving dinner.
“Miss Bailey.” Millie Connelly, mother to Tabitha Connelly, waved me over to the volunteers’ crafting station near the bottom of the stage. She sat among eight other parent volunteers from various classes. Brighton had the best PTO on the planet. “How many of these turkey centerpieces do you think we should make?”
I worked quick math in my head, accounting for all the classrooms between kindergarten and fifth. “There’ll be eighteen groups.”
“Perfect, thanks.” Millie rocked her baby in his car seat carrier with the toe of her boot. Such a normal mom thing to do, and yet I couldn’t take my eyes off her little guy. His dark lashes and smooth ebony skin were mesmerizing.
“How old is he now?” I asked, forcing my eyes to stop misting at the sight of his chubby cheeks and doughy fingers. His toes played peekaboo under his blanket as he blew tiny bubbles between his lips. She did a silent calculation. “Wow, it’s hard to believe, but Cade will be ten months next week. He’s definitely my chunkiest baby by far.”
“He’s adorable.”
She turned back to me, gaze full of kindness. “Would you like to hold him? It’s rare he’ll fall asleep for me in this thing anymore. He’s a bit spoiled by all the extra sets of arms in our house. You’re welcome to take him—unless you have too much to do.”
No amount of work would ever prohibit me from holding a sleepy baby. “I’d love to hold him.”
With two quick release clicks of his car seat, Millie slipped him from the harness and handed him to me. She draped my shoulder with his fuzzy blanket. I breathed him in, unable to ignore his sweet baby smell or the way his warm squishy body snuggled into mine. His hair coiled in tight dark curls atop his head, and it took every ounce of my willpower not to plant kiss after kiss on his forehead.
How old would my child be when I finally got to snuggle him or her? Just one of a million questions I had pondered since I’d first applied. But exact age and gender would remain a mystery until that blessed match email arrived in my inbox. Having taught both genders for nearly a decade, I truly didn’t have a bias. I adored boys and girls equally and could envision either in my arms, at my table, in my heart. But the age boxes I’d checked on my application had ranged from infant up to four years old.
“If he fusses, his pacifier is attached to the corner of his blankie.”
“Okay, thanks.” I repositioned the sweet-smelling bundle so I could wave his pudgy hand at Millie. “Bye-bye, Mommy, I’ll see you in a little bit.”
He responded with a coo that made my ovaries swoon. “We’re off to find Mrs. Pendleton.” Luckily our school’s principal adored babies as much as I did. After all, she was a grandmother four times over now.
“I think she’s stuck in the middle of that huddle over there—I left when the conversation moved into political topics. I’m better at cutting leaves then debating ideals,” one of the parent volunteers offered as I passed her.
Debating? Mrs. Pendleton was known for her pragmatic nature, even when those around her were sure-bent on fanning the flame of controversy—and there was loads of controversy in the public school system. I wondered which topic had taken a turn south this time. But as I approached the small mob, I realized it wasn’t Mrs. Pendleton who’d captured the group’s attention with her peacemaking talents.
“You can’t argue with the facts. It’s science,” a gruff voice said as I moved to catch a view of who was speaking, only to see Joshua on the opposite side of the semicircle.
“But that’s the thing, Don,” Joshua offered in a respectful tone, addressing a man I recognized as the grandfather of one of Jenna’s third graders. “Our education system has often linked the study of paleontology to the teachings of evolution, but there are actually plenty of profound archeological findings to confirm the claims of intelligent design. It’s not nearly as one-sided an argument as you—or today’s educational system—might believe. New discoveries are happening all the time. I’d be happy to share my research on the matter with you and anyone else who’s interested.” He spoke with contagious charisma, and I found myself, once again, marveling at his confidence. This time for sharing his opinion on such a widely disputed subject with a group of strangers.
Perhaps I admired that quality most in Joshua because it was an attribute I greatly lacked. I often struggled to state my personal convictions with the people who shared my DNA, much less people I hardly knew.
“Once again, you’ve wowed us, Mr. Avery. I’d sit in a lecture of yours any day. You’re definitely an apple who didn’t fall far from the tree.” Mrs. Pendleton patted him on the back and spotted me several feet out from the circle. “Miss Bailey, please tell me you’ve come over to bring me that handsome baby.”
I snuggled him closer, brushing my cheek over his curls. “Will I be let go if I don’t give him up? Because if so, it’s been really nice working at Brighton.”
She laughed, and so did most of her companions. Everyone except Joshua, who watched me with unnerving quiet. I tore my eyes away from him and studied the baby in my arms instead, tucking the blanket more securely around his solid form. Mrs. Pendleton broke away from the group to join me.
Purposefully, I kept my feet moving, fighting the pull of a man I wished I could dislike. Or at the very least, feel indifferent toward. But neither could be further from the truth.
“Does everything look to be running smoothly for Wednesday’s program?” she asked. “Our volunteer turnout is incredible this year.”
“Yes, it really is. Most have committed to staying after school tomorrow, as well, to help with setup.” I switched the baby to my other side, his head burrowing under my left collarbone. “And apart from the select readings from each classroom, your role will be the same as last year—to emcee between groups. I’ll email the rundown tomorrow morning.”
“Excellent, I’ll look for it—although there’s one surprise that won’t be listed on your agenda, but it will be great.” She tilted her head and smiled. “Thanks for heading this up again. You’re a superstar teacher.” She paused, and I knew with eerie certainty where her line of thought had drifted. Other than Jenna, Mrs. Pendleton was the only soul in our school who knew about my future plans—mostly because she’d be the one needing to approve my leave of absence after the adoption.
“You’ll be a superstar mother, too.” She squeezed my shoulder and grinned at my sweet-smelling arm cargo. “You look good with a baby, Lauren.”
I gave a shallow nod, not wanting to encourage the conversation further for fear of being overheard. But Mrs. Pendleton needed little encouragement to continue speaking. “When my Minnie couldn’t get pregnant for the first five years of her marriage, I just kept encouraging her to protect her hope. Without hope, life feels so empty.”
&nbs
p; I didn’t exactly know where my boss stood on issues of faith and God, but she certainly believed in inspirational quotes. She drew from a deep well of them. None were exactly scriptural, but all were thought-provoking. And all were offered with the best of intention and heart.
With a light touch on my arm, she excused herself to extend her gratitude to the craft table workers, currently tracing a huge batch of pumpkins on orange construction paper.
“I see you’ve got the rock down.”
I squeezed my eyes closed for half a second at the sound of Joshua’s voice at my back, unwilling to acknowledge the spike in my pulse at his nearness. Having coffee with him had not helped put him in the box marked “professional colleague only.” It had done just the opposite—broken down walls that were meant to be firmly in place.
“The rock?” I asked with a brief glance.
“Yes, the baby rock.” Joshua demonstrated the side-to-side hip motion I wasn’t even aware I’d been doing. “My brother and his wife had their second baby last year. I’ve seen the rock a lot. Rebekah does it even when someone else is holding Calvin. Although she doesn’t seem to be a fan of me pointing that out to her.”
“I can’t imagine why not.”
Laughing off my sarcasm, he bent low, lifting the edge of the blanket from my arm to peek at the precious face underneath. The action sent goose bumps scattering along my bicep. “Yep, you’re definitely an expert at the rock.”
“Is he asleep?” The thrill that I could put a baby to sleep flooded my brain with the kind of serotonin I wished I could package in a bottle and sell.
“Either that or he’s mastered the art of drooling with his eyes closed.”
In that moment, it didn’t matter that my lower back had started to ache or that my forearms were stiff and cramped from maintaining this position. Because right here, cradled against my chest, was my hope. My purpose. It was more than a feeling, it was a conviction. One I couldn’t deny or excuse or replace. I was made for this, to be a mother to a motherless child. I knew it in the same way I knew God was still in the business of answering the prayers of His children.
Although the irony of this confirmation happening while sandwiched between Joshua and a borrowed baby . . . well, that I couldn’t explain. Apparently God had an epic sense of humor.
chapter
nine
Early release days were always chaotic, but early release days before an extended holiday break? Absolute insanity. Kids were pumped full of extra excitement and often extra sugar, too. But the multicultural Thanksgiving program was proving to be a big success.
All Brighton students had been seated in mixed-grade groupings on autumn-colored leaf cutouts, feasting on the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving foods: popcorn, buttered toast, jelly beans, and pretzel sticks. Adults filled the chairs in the back, grinning and videoing while elected students shared their gratitude essays in front of an audience of their family, friends, and peers. Some were sweet and sentimental, others funny and winsome, but all helped to create a warm and inviting spirit of love and community. An atmosphere, I couldn’t help but note, far from the one I’d be experiencing with my own family tomorrow.
From under the felt pilgrim hat I wore, I peered out at the full auditorium from my place near the front of the stage, my eyes continuously scanning for the one face I hadn’t seen since the program began. The last class was reciting their poems, and any minute now Joshua was supposed to give our closeout speech and dismiss the students to their parents. Where was he?
My concentrated stare caught the attention of a few older girls who waved and gestured at my Have A Happy Gobble Day sweatshirt and turkey earrings, giving me an approving thumbs-up, which I returned with a festive smile, one quickly replaced with concern as the final applause broke out.
I cleared my throat and smoothed the front of my sweater, preparing to take Joshua’s place on stage to conclude the program, when giggles erupted toward the back of the room. Like watching thousands of ecstatic fans participate in the wave at a crowded football stadium, every head and body turned in rapid succession from back to front.
My attention shot to the double doors, where a giant apricot-colored orb worked to heave itself through the too-tight opening. The crowd cheered on, counting to three as the sphere pushed and pushed and then . . . catapulted inside. Head over end, it rolled like a catawampus bowling ball, nearly taking out a group of students refilling popcorn bowls. After several seconds, it self-corrected, bouncing back on its feet once more and confirming its true identity for the first time.
It was not, as I’d first assumed, a mammoth piece of overripe fruit but a massive sumo-turkey. Specifically, the already-been-plucked-and-ready-to-be-carved kind of turkey. Bloated with air, the dinner entree lumbered down the center of the room, waddling like a pregnant woman due any moment with quintuplets.
And suddenly the question of Joshua’s whereabouts had become crystal clear.
Though he couldn’t bend without losing his balance, he parted the hysterical crowd like a rock star, waving and giving out fist bumps—or, rather, wing bumps. Parents scrambled to take out the phones they’d already tucked away as staff refereed the younger, more excitable children.
“He certainly knows how to make an entrance, doesn’t he?” I hadn’t noticed when Jenna had moved to stand beside me, but she was here now, nudging me with her shoulder.
“He certainly does.”
I glanced up at Mrs. Pendleton, who waved him toward the stage through gut-splitting laughter of her own. She beamed as if he were the lifeblood of Brighton Elementary and not a fill-in teacher wearing a blow-up poultry costume.
The instant she stepped away from the microphone, I realized that this was the surprise she’d been referring to on Monday. The two of them had planned it together. For the children. And by the looks of it, Joshua couldn’t have been happier to have obliged her wishes.
It took several dads to hoist him onto the stage, and when he got there, his wings lacked the proper extension to hold the microphone to his mouth, so Mrs. Pendleton held it for him. Without breaking character—if one could call an air-filled dinner entree a character—he delivered a Thanksgiving message to every kid in the room that had parents applauding and kids cackling. As a last reminder, he encouraged the students to limit their screen time during the break and engage in the real-life relationships around them instead. A noteworthy proclamation coming from a man who made a living as an app developer. When he’d finished speaking, Mrs. Pendleton invited the audience to take pictures with Mr. Gobble inside the PTO-made photo booth near the front office.
Seeing as Joshua’s fate was sealed as a photo prop for the remainder of the event, I headed to the student pickup area and assumed the release responsibilities for both of our classrooms. After sending each child off with their correct guardian—and a reminder to read over the holiday weekend—I was thankful my last activity of the day was introvert-approved: clean-up crew of one.
After tossing all the dirty plates and recycling all the used construction paper, I surveyed the auditorium floor, currently undergoing a much-needed mopping from our stellar facilities team. Taking a turn at the lobby, I noted the photo line that had once snaked down two hallways had finally cleared. However, the photo area itself, a five-by-seven carpet space that had been gussied up in all the festive flair of fall, was getting plenty of good use from Brighton’s staff. Several teachers bunched together, all vying for their place in a group selfie with today’s mascot.
“I’ll take it for you,” I offered.
Jenna, who was likely the instigator of said group selfie, shook her head. “No way. You need to be in it, too, Lauren. We can squish.”
Laughable, since there were at least eight adults and a turkey trying to squeeze in the frame of a cell phone screen. “That’s okay, really. I’m much better at taking the pictures than being in them.” I held out my hand to collect the various phones from teachers and administrators alike. “I don’t mind at all.”
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Thankfully, they obliged me. I stood back, taking photo after photo until all the phones in my hand had a post-worthy picture to share on social media. All the while, Joshua’s smile game had remained strong. How he wasn’t dying to get out of that ridiculous getup, I had no idea.
“And now it’s your turn, Lauren,” Jenna insisted. “Come on. Your Gobble Day shirt and pilgrim hat beg to be commemorated, too.”
Despite my protests, Jenna didn’t take no for an answer this time. She gripped my elbow with the strength of someone four times her size and pulled me over to the photo site, smashing me between one of Joshua’s drumstick thighs and a decorated apple crate. “Ah, there. This is going to be super cute!”
It was Jenna’s turn to stand back with an iPhone, only she didn’t just one-two-three snap like a normal person. Nope, that would have been much too simple for my best friend. Instead, she insisted Joshua scoot in closer and put his wing around me. You know, for the sake of the holiday spirit and all that jazz. I glanced down at the petite pumpkins surrounding our feet and wondered if my aim would be good enough to knock the phone from her hands on my first pitch.
“Perfect. You both look great. Now say Turkey Butt!”
“Turkey Butt,” we mocked.
“And . . . done. Okay, I’ll text it to you both later.”
Oh, I’m sure she would.
After I gave her a quick hug good-bye, I began turning over the stacked apple crates and filling them with the loose decorations around the carpet. Although this wasn’t my designated clean-up area, I didn’t mind taking it on. Most of my co-workers still had pumpkin pies and casseroles to bake, tables for twenty to set, families to get home to. My forty-five minute out-of-the-box Thanksgiving brownies could wait until tomorrow morning, and Skye was likely on her third nap of the day.
“Is there a secret storage closet for holiday paraphernalia?” Joshua asked as he located the release valve under his left wing to deflate himself. Within seconds, he was buried under mounds of flabby peach plastic. He reached behind his neck and fished for the pull tab.
