The How & the Why

by Cynthia Hand

  “I didn’t even know you were home. Sorry.”

  He gives this sad little laugh. “You want to hang out with the old man?”

  “Aren’t you going to the hospital?” I should go back to the hospital. But Mom said she didn’t want me there.

  “She’s with Uncle Pete tonight,” Dad says. “They need some alone time, I think.”

  I wrap a blanket around my shoulders. “I suppose I could hang out, old man.”

  We head for the living room. When I was a kid we used to sneak in here sometimes after Mom was asleep and watch reality TV together. Dad and I both have a thing for Million Dollar Listing and House Hunters International and Flip This House. Not that either one of us has ever shown any interest in renovating our own home.

  “So, not to bring up another sore subject . . . ,” he says after we’ve made popcorn and are sitting on the couch watching a married couple bicker as they bash through a possibly-load-bearing wall with a sledgehammer. He pauses the television. “How did your trip to the Bureau of Vital Records go?”

  “You talked to Mom, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “How did she say it went?”

  He smooths down his beard. “She said you didn’t get the letter.”

  “Yep.”

  It’s quiet for a minute. Then Dad sighs and says, “She also wants you to keep searching.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you want to keep searching?” he asks.

  I turn to look at him. “Yes . . . and no.” I shrug.

  He gives a pained smile. “Right. Well, I think your mom’s great. I married her, after all.”

  “She is great,” I agree. “The greatest.”

  “But I think she’s wrong. I think she needs to butt out of this adoption stuff. It’s not her life.”

  “But she said she wanted to meet—”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not her life. It’s yours. And you need to do what’s best for you.”

  I bite my lip.

  “You got it?” Dad asks.

  “I got it,” I whisper.

  He unpauses the television. We watch for a few minutes, but then I reach over and pause it again.

  “Dad? Do you want me to search for my birth mother?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want.” But I can tell that he’s doing the thing where he “respects my autonomy.”

  We go back to watching our shows until it’s almost midnight. Then right as I get up to go to bed for real this time, he says, “Wait. Cass.”

  I sit back down.

  He sighs. “The truth is, I don’t want you to search for your birth mother. I mean, when your mom first brought it up, I hated the idea. I still do, really. I think it might be her worst idea ever. And she’s had some doozies.”

  “You hate the idea,” I repeat slowly.

  He nods, not meeting my eyes. “It’s like you said before. Your mom’s your real mother. And maybe we need to focus on her right now.”

  I swallow, hard. “Okay.”

  He sighs and then changes his mind again. “But if you want to search, search. And if you don’t, don’t. It’s your life. Say it with me.”

  “It’s my life.”

  “That’s my girl,” he says.

  But what I’m thinking in this moment is: none of us really get to have our own, separate lives. Our lives are always all horribly tangled up with the people around us. The people we love.

  Dear X,

  I had a dream about Ted. You remember, Dawson’s roommate? (Also not his real name.) Geek poster boy? Skinny? Kind of grungy? Generally speaking, Ted’s not my type, even if I was sure I had a type. I mean, if I was going to say I found a certain kind of guy attractive, I’d probably describe Dawson. Which is why I’m here.

  But I digress. It’s not Dawson I had the dream about. Well, this particular dream did start out with Dawson. I dream about Dawson regularly. I’ll go to his dorm to see him. Or I’ll run into him somewhere—I’ve had dreams like that, where I happen upon Dawson by accident. Sometimes it feels like a good thing, and sometimes not.

  So earlier tonight I dreamed I was at the movies, and at some point I looked over, and there was Dawson, a few seats down and about a row up. He was sitting with another girl, a blonde, and from my vantage point, she was practically sitting in his lap. They were not watching the movie very closely, if you know what I mean. I could only tell that it was Dawson when they came up for air. So I was sitting there, in the dream, watching the guy I once thought I was in love with—the father of my child, I wanted to announce dramatically—pretty much doing it with someone else. And I felt jealous, sure. I could have ripped out the girl’s pretty golden hair. I was mad, at him, though, for the most part. For forgetting me. But I also felt kind of, I don’t know, accepting of the whole thing. Like it might not be a pleasant event to witness, Dawson and The Blonde, but it was all right. I don’t own him.

  And then someone touched the back of my hand, and I looked over, and, surprise!—I was sitting next to Ted.

  “Hi,” he whispered.

  “Hi,” I whispered back, and I instantly felt—good. Happy, even.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m hot.”

  “Oh, you’ve been hot for a while,” he said, and leaned in to kiss me.

  Ted! Kissing me! And I don’t know how to put this delicately, but I was into it.

  But that’s when I woke up.

  Let’s psychoanalyze this, shall we? What is my subconscious trying to tell me with dreams like this? Here’s what I think my brain is trying to share:

  Don’t fall for guys like Dawson.

  Fall for guys like Ted.

  Lesson learned, brain. Lesson learned. But maybe it’s too little, too late.

  It was the Fourth of July today. I mean, it’s still the Fourth of July, as it’s not midnight for another seventeen minutes. I always feel compelled to write you a letter on days that are out of the ordinary. I don’t know why. This isn’t a journal. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  I’ve never been big on the whole Independence Day thing. So we’re a country. Big whoop. I guess that makes me less than patriotic. I just never thought it made sense to be full of pride for your country, simply because you happened to be born there. Why should I think America is the greatest country in the entire world? Because I was born in Denver, Colorado? But if I was born in say, Finland, would I still think the US was the greatest country? Nope, I’d think the greatest country is Finland. And I might be right. Finland does sound pretty cool.

  It doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to form such a strong opinion, is what I’m saying.

  Anyway. We didn’t do too much to celebrate the holiday here at Booth. They served us barbecue ribs and corn on the cob and potato salad and watermelon, and we totally pigged out. We’re eating for eight, between the four of us.

  And when it got dark, Melly popped some popcorn and put it in a huge bowl and we went out on the front step of the school, facing the street, and she produced a container full of little fireworks that she bought at Target.

  And I thought, wait, Target doesn’t sell actual fireworks. That I would know. I worked for Target last summer. Which was like the most boring three months of my life.

  “Okay, pick one,” Melly directed Brit. “Pick a good one.”

  Brit chose one of the columns. It turned out to be a smoke bomb. Its only trick was to make a large cloud of green smoke.

  “Wow. That is truly awe-inspiring,” I said.

  “That is just so beautiful,” added Amber.

  We shared a smirk. Amber’s growing on me. She does have a sense of humor when the occasion calls for it. I am beginning to feel sorry that I gave her that black eye that one time.

  “Pick another one,” Melly said, and held the box out to Amber.

  She grabbed the biggest one.

  “Prepare to have your socks blown off,” she said.

  Th
at one was a smoke bomb, too. Pink smoke, this time, and a shrieking sound that made you squirm around inside me, X, but no colored sparks or patterns.

  Melly handed the box to Teresa. She inspected each “firework” carefully.

  “They are all smoke bombs,” she announced.

  “What? No!” Melly cried.

  But they were. Told you Target doesn’t sell fireworks.

  All Melly had for us then was a few boxes of snaps. You know, the kind you throw on the ground to make a popping sound? We spent a few minutes throwing them at each other’s feet and screaming and stepping on them to make them pop. It was funny, but it also left me feeling jumpy and irritable. But I guess everything lately makes me jumpy and irritable.

  “I’m sorry, girls,” Melly said when we were out of snaps. “I blew it this year.”

  “It’s fine,” I told her. “Pregnancy and real fireworks are probably not the smartest combination.”

  “Good point.”

  We went in and tried to go to bed. I don’t know about the others, but I can’t sleep much these days. It’s too hot. There’s a window box air conditioner in this room, but it doesn’t work that well. And tonight there’s so much noise outside. The whole city is blowing shit up. The sky outside my window is going all different colors. Dogs are howling in terror. Patriotic country music is blasting from a house down the street. Finally I dozed for what felt like a minute and had that dream about Ted in the movie theater, and then I woke up all hot and bothered in a different way.

  It’s quiet now, though. That’s nice.

  I just put my hand on my stomach and felt you move in there again. I’m starting to feel your body parts, like your elbow or foot poking into my bladder, which is the weirdest. I can never picture how you’re situated, though. I think I might be rubbing your head, but then Melly tells me I’m probably patting you on the butt.

  I still have to talk to Dawson and try to make him fill out the non-identifying information form, and I’m guessing he’s going to need to sign the other paperwork, too, for you to be adopted.

  But school’s out. I don’t even know where to find him. I called his dorm room a few nights ago, and no one answered. Which makes sense because, like I said, school is out. I guess I’m going to have to wait for it to start up again. Maybe by then I’ll have figured out what to say to him about you.

  Ugh. Hold on for a minute, X. I have to pee.

  Back. So I shuffled over to the bathroom and when I was out in the hall, I heard crying.

  Goddamnit, I thought. Why can I never get a good night’s sleep? What is it this time?

  But it took a while to figure out, because whoever it was crying wasn’t in the bathroom or the kitchen or the living room. She wasn’t in Melly’s room, where Melly was spread out like a starfish in the middle of her bed, snoring like a bear. She wasn’t in Teresa’s room, where Teresa sat up and said, “What’s the matter?” in a worried voice, because she’d heard the crying, too, or in Amber’s room, where Amber jerked awake when I opened the door.

  That left Brit. Sure enough, her room was empty. Teresa and Amber and I stood at the foot of her bed staring at the pile of twisted blankets and the dark spread of water on the sheets.

  Amber stated the obvious: “So Brit’s in labor.”

  No shit. But where was she?

  We went from room to room again, checking. No Brit. We wandered outside and started poking around behind bushes and looking in all the dark corners of the buildings. We must have been a strange sight, three heavily pregnant girls in the middle of the night searching the grounds like we were on some kind of Easter egg hunt. But we didn’t find her outside.

  “We should wake Melly,” Teresa said when we came back inside.

  “Wait.” I held up my hand for us all to be quiet. We stood in the living room, holding our breath, until there was a noise. Not a crying sound this time so much as a heavy groaning. I moved toward where the sound was coming from, which turned out to be a corner behind the couch. Brit wasn’t there, either. But there was a heating vent. I struggled to get down next to it, listening.

  The groaning came again.

  I straightened. “Is there a boiler room? Somewhere that feeds to the furnace?”

  None of us knew, but we went around checking doors, until we found one in the back of the kitchen that led down a set of stairs. When we opened that door we could hear the noise more clearly. She was definitely down there.

  We should have woken Melly. I don’t know why we didn’t wake her right away, once we understood the situation. But maybe we didn’t because we automatically knew that Brit must have gone down in the basement to hide, and she had a reason. Maybe we wanted to respect that.

  We found her sitting on the concrete floor next to the water heater, the whole bottom of her nightgown wet with amniotic fluid, her face red and streaked with tears. Instinctively the three of us dropped down to circle her.

  “I’m all right,” she said, wiping at her face. “I’m fine.”

  “Um, no, I don’t think you’re fine.” I brushed her hair back from her face. “What are you doing?”

  “I was curious about what was down here,” she said.

  “Okay,” said Amber. “Well, what’s down here is the water heater and the water softener and the furnace.” She clapped her hands together. “So now we know. Let’s all go upstairs.”

  “No,” Brit said. “I want to stay here.” Then a spasm passed through her and she made a rough, grinding sort of noise in her throat, and sat back, breathing hard.

  “I’m fine,” she said again, when she could talk.

  This, X, is what we call a predicament.

  “Your baby is coming,” Teresa said gently. “You need to go to the hospital.”

  “No!” Brit cried with a vehemence that startled all of us. “She’s not coming. She’s not supposed to come for another week.”

  Oh man.

  “I think babies make up their own minds about when they’re supposed to come,” I said. “Tricky little creatures.”

  “No,” Brit insisted. “I still have another week.”

  We all looked at each other helplessly. What could we do? Then another contraction hit her, hard. Sweat popped up on her forehead. I could see the whites of her eyes rolling back a little. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it so tight I lost feeling in the tips of my fingers.

  “Brit,” I said slowly. “I think it’s time, sweetie.”

  “No.” She started to cry. “No. I don’t want to go. I like it here.”

  “You can come back,” Amber said. “We’ll all be here, waiting for you.”

  “Yes, we’ll be waiting,” Teresa added.

  “But I don’t want to go.” Brit shook her head, sending her tangled red hair back into her face. “I’m not ready.”

  “Brit,” I said.

  No answer.

  “Brit, come on.”

  “No” was all she said. “No, no.” And then she groaned again.

  I didn’t have a watch, but these contractions seemed pretty close together. I glanced at Amber. The last thing any of us wanted was to deliver a baby down here. We needed to wake Melly. We needed to call an ambulance. Now.

  Amber nodded and then slipped up the stairs. Brit didn’t seem to notice.

  “Brit, look at me,” I ordered her. “Look at me.”

  She shuddered and then met my eyes.

  “Tell me about the baby,” I said carefully. “Tell us what she’s going be like.”

  I’d heard her talk about it a dozen times, maybe more. This fantasy she had. Which was so much easier for her than the reality.

  “She’s a girl,” Brit panted. “She’s going to have red hair, like me, and freckles.”

  “I have freckles, see?” I said, pointing at my cheek. This counts as the one time in my life my freckles might have ever been useful. “Maybe this baby will get them, too?” I glanced down at my belly—at you, X, and you shifted so hard I could see it through my shirt. Like you were
agreeing or something.

  A tear slipped down Brit’s cheek. “I get one more week with her. One more week. I don’t want to go now.” She sniffled and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her nightgown. “She’s going to be smart. And beautiful. And perfect. And when she’s old enough, we’ll find each other again. I’ll tell her everything.”

  “That will be so great,” I said.

  “Yes,” agreed Teresa faintly. “What a wonderful day that will be.”

  Another contraction hit Brit. She almost screamed with it this time.

  I could hear the faint sound of sirens. St. Luke’s was less than ten minutes away. If Amber had done her job, the ambulance would be here soon.

  “Brit,” I urged as gently as I could. “Brit, it’s time to go.”

  “No,” she said. “Please.”

  “I know you don’t want to,” I said. “But the baby is coming. You know she’s coming. She wants out, and it wouldn’t be good to try to stop her. You’ve got to think about what’s best for her, Brit.”

  “What’s best for her,” she repeated. “Okay.”

  I got an arm under her, and Teresa came in on the other side, and we hoisted her up between us and started for the stairs. We went upstairs slowly, one step at a time. We had to stop in the middle for another contraction. When we reached the top, there was Melly, once again wearing her rumpled hair and pj’s and perfectly calm expression.

  “Hello, Brit,” she said.

  “Hello,” Brit replied. Then she turned to me again and grabbed my arm. She looked like a little girl who’d swallowed a basketball. “Why can’t I be what’s best for her?”

  I knew exactly what she meant. But I didn’t know the answer.

  We moved slowly through the kitchen and out into the front hall. Amber was there, holding Brit’s flip-flops and a hairbrush. Teresa hurried to her room and got her robe, which she tucked around Brit’s shoulders even though it wasn’t cold. Red and blue lights started to blaze through the windows. The sirens were off now, but there was a squeak of brakes as the ambulance pulled up to the curb.

  Brit seemed calmer. She walked without help to the bottom of the stairs. The paramedics were cheerful as they helped her into a gurney and loaded her into the ambulance, Melly climbing in beside her. They didn’t turn the sirens back on as they drove away, only the lights.