Screwed

by Laurie Plissner

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t it depend on what the adoptive parents want?” Grace asked. Letting someone else make the big decisions would be such a relief. All she wanted to do right now was go to sleep and wake up sometime in late April, her stomach flat and her breasts small again.

  “That depends. If an open adoption is very important to you, then you should only look at potential parents who would agree to that. Some couples won’t even consider it. If you want to choose a couple based on other factors, then you can leave it up to them. You have to figure out what your priorities are, Grace.”

  “What do most people do?”

  “It varies. In an open adoption, while you give up all legal rights to your baby, you’ll maintain a long-term relationship with your biological child and his or her family. A written agreement between you and the adoptive parents will lay out the extent and frequency of your contact. Typically, the contract might say that the adoptive parents send you pictures every six months, and you get to visit once a year.”

  “That’s weird. Don’t you think that’s weird, Mrs. T.?” Turning to Helen, Grace needed some input.

  “It does sound a little strange. It would be hard to do, at least for me — revisiting a very difficult moment in one’s life over and over. But don’t a lot of girls choose that?” asked Helen, sitting up and trying to pay attention to the matter at hand.

  Instead of listening to the adoption counselor, she had been thinking how stupid she and Abe had been, going through life childless, believing it was God’s will that they not be parents. Becoming a parent was not about sharing blood. It was about sharing their boundless love with a sweet-smelling infant with velvet skin, whatever the provenance of that skin. Instead, all of their love that couldn’t be lavished on their own precious babies had been piled onto other people’s children through myriad charities. Worthwhile for sure, and Helen didn’t regret all of the good things they had accomplished, but it had felt so impersonal, and she had no idea what any of those children were doing now. It was a shame that eighty was too old to adopt a baby.

  “Many girls find it comforting to maintain a connection with the baby. It’s a way for them to show the child that she was given up out of love, not indifference,” said Janet.

  “I suppose so,” said Grace.

  It would be awful to worry that her baby wouldn’t know how much love had gone into the decision, that it was truly the only thing that mattered. Grace feared the baby would resent her for giving her up, no matter how good the reason. Thinking about what the bean would be thinking about when it was ten years old made her head ache.

  “You hear about adoptees who grow up wondering why they were given up and feeling like something’s missing. An open adoption is a way to make sure your biological child knows that you’ve always loved her and you always will.”

  “I get it, but I don’t want to disrupt the baby’s life with its adoptive parents. No matter what people say, I think having lunch once a year with your birth mother could be really confusing. Is there a way that I can let it know how much I cared, that I gave it up because I loved it so much?” Grace asked.

  She was worried that by showing up once a year with a bag full of toys and a desperate ‘please like me’ smile, she would screw up the normal childhood she was trying to give her baby by putting it up for adoption. No matter how articulately she explained her decision, it would be almost impossible for a child not to believe that she was given away because her mommy didn’t want her. There were no words to explain to a five-year-old the desperation she’d felt when she found out she was pregnant and the boy she thought she was falling in love with barely acknowledged that he, the only guy she’d ever been with, was the father. Grace didn’t know how she was ever going to be able to tell this baby that she loved her so much that she didn’t want to raise her, after conceiving her in the back of an SUV with a guy she hardly knew, who wanted her to have an abortion. It wasn’t going to replace Goodnight Moon as a bedtime story anytime soon. Besides, attempting to balance that fine line between loving this child like the mother she was and maintaining the emotional distance that was required because she had signed away her legal rights as a parent seemed an impossible feat. Grace was fairly certain that she lacked the strength of character to step in and out of her child’s life according to a schedule drawn up by a bunch of lawyers, a sort-of-but-not-really fake aunt who just happened to bear a startling resemblance to this child.

  “Absolutely, I understand what you’re saying. It’s devastating even when you know it’s right. There’s a middle ground called a semi-open adoption that might appeal to you. You can meet the adoptive parents, but after the baby is born, you won’t have any contact with the child,” Janet offered.

  “That sounds better. I would like to meet the people who are going to raise my baby, know who’s going to take care of her, but I don’t think I can manage the rest of it,” Grace said.

  “Some girls don’t even want to see the baby after giving birth. But others need to say hello and goodbye, make peace, you know. That’s something else to consider,” said Janet.

  “It’s too much to think about. Do I have to decide today?” Grace asked. Maybe Jennifer in her cut-and-dried, crystal-clear world would have some suggestions about how to handle all these transitions.

  “What about keeping track of the baby as she grows up? Do you want to see pictures of her?” Helen asked, still fantasizing about signing up with Children First to find a baby of her own.

  “I don’t know. That would be okay, I guess. It’s so hard to imagine what I’m going to feel like afterwards.” Grace sighed.

  There were so many decisions she had to make, all stemming from one stupid choice made when she was high on fake love and a flood of hormones. It was truly laughable. Maybe it had been better in the old days when girls like her were hidden away in church-run homes as their stomachs expanded. When the infants were born, they were whisked away to anonymous new families, and the girls returned home, where no one ever spoke of the matter again, except to perpetuate the fiction by talking about the eight-month visit with the relatives on the other side of the country. Most of those children grew up believing they had only one set of parents, and the young girls who gave up their babies without ever laying eyes on them managed to stuff all that pain into the deepest crevices of their souls, growing into women who married and had more children with husbands who believed in their midcentury innocence that their wedding night was the first time their wives had been in bed with a man.

  “When the baby’s older, old enough to understand, if he wants to find me, then I would love to meet him. But I don’t want to confuse him when he’s little. That wouldn’t be fair.” Not knowing what the bean was, Grace kept switching genders when she talked about it.

  At the moment, Grace felt most comfortable with a semi-open adoption. Meeting potential parents, getting a feel for them, was important. However, once she made that decision, Grace didn’t want to spend the next eighteen years hovering on the fringes of her baby’s life. That would make it impossible for her to move on and make a life for herself, which she so desperately wanted to start doing.

  Janet slid a large black loose-leaf notebook across the desk. A snapshot and a two-paragraph summary seemed more suited to finding a date than selecting a mother and father for her baby, but what was the alternative? These girls had to start somewhere.

  “Look through this book and see if any of the couples jump out at you. Check in with me at the end of the week and we can set up another meeting.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Olson.” Grace picked up the book and held it close to her. Inside this notebook might be the people who would become her baby’s family. While she hadn’t ever seriously thought about keeping the bean, it was still strange to be taking this giant step closer to giving it up.

  “There is one more thing. Although you’ve said the father has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with this child, we’re going to need that in writing. If h
e doesn’t sign away his parental rights, as you will be doing, there is always the danger that he could change his mind and sue to gain custody.”

  That disastrous scenario had occurred not long after Janet had started Children First, when a seventeen-year-old girl showed up, desperate to find someone to adopt her twins. She claimed not to know who the father was — a drunken one-night stand at a Pink Floyd concert — and Janet had let it go at that. Well acquainted with the hazards of a night of partying, she had no desire to torture the girl by interrogating her about the whereabouts of the dirtbag who had impregnated her. Three days before the twins’ first birthday a young man, reeking of pot and an apparent aversion to basic hygiene, stormed into her office, demanding to know where his children were. It had been an ugly court battle, some sleazy ACLU-type ranting about fathers’ rights while his client sat like a statue, eyes bloodshot, clearly stoned out of his mind. And while the adoptive parents had ultimately prevailed, it was only after much heartache and the delivery of a big, fat envelope of cash to the on-again, off-again father. From that day forward, Janet tracked down every sperm donor, and if her private detective couldn’t find the bum or he refused to sign the paper, Janet refused to take on the client. It killed her to turn away a desperate girl, all the more tragic because the asshole who had gotten her into this mess wasn’t stepping up, but she had a business to run, and she couldn’t risk some lunatic coming out of the woodwork in search of his baby or, more likely, a quick payoff.

  “I think I can get that, as long as no one finds out about it. Nick, the father, he never told his parents, and not that I care about him, but I don’t see the point in ruining his life too.” Why she felt the need to lighten Nick’s burden, Grace didn’t know, after the way he’d used her, but wrecking his life wouldn’t do anything to repair hers, even if it made her feel better.

  “It’s just an insurance policy. That piece of paper will never see the light of day,” Janet promised.

  “Okay.” That meant Grace would actually have to talk to Nick. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since that day on the lake when she first told him about the bean. At the thought of seeing him again, her heart pounded. Maybe she would take Jennifer with her for backup.

  “And if he gives you any trouble, just remind him that if he doesn’t sign it, no one will adopt the child, and he’ll be on the hook for the next eighteen years. That little secret won’t be so easy to hide from his parents.” Janet had plenty of experience dealing with reluctant fathers who were wavering when it came time to step up to the plate. Teenage boys were all strut and testosterone, right up until the moment they actually had to behave like grown men, and then most of them turned into stuttering little boys.

  “That should do it,” Grace said, not sure she had the strength to face him again, but knowing she had no choice, and well aware that she needed to stand up to him if she was ever going to come out of this nightmare in one piece.

  “If you like, you can set up a meeting here, and I can explain everything to him myself. I know how hard this must be for you.” It was easy to see Grace’s anxiety as she chewed ferociously on her lower lip. She was a ball of nerves, and that couldn’t be good for the baby.

  “Let me think about it,” said Grace.

  “Just remember what’s important. Now is the time for you to think about what’s best for you and the baby. Try not to stress about the details. That’s why I’m here.” Janet stood. “I’ll get the paperwork together, and I look forward to hearing from you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Olson,” Grace said.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Grace, Mrs. Teitelbaum. You’re going through a difficult time, but in that book is the light at the end of your tunnel. I know it.” Shaking both their hands, she showed them out through a door at the back of her office that led directly into the hallway. “We like to give our clients as much privacy as possible,” she explained.

  “We’ll be in touch after Grace has had a chance to look through your notebook. You’ve been a great help. Those worry wrinkles in Grace’s forehead are starting to go away already.”

  Helen had been concerned that having had no mothering experience herself, she couldn’t do much for Grace other than providing nutritious meals and a warm bed. But helping Grace find a safe, loving home for this baby was no small thing, and Helen was sure Grace had made the right decision. The process promised to be a little thorny, but it would all be over in April.

  “Why don’t you take that upstairs and have a look on your own. When you’re ready, if you want to talk, come find me.” Unable to imagine being pregnant, let alone being pregnant and knowing that you weren’t going to make a life with the child growing inside you, Helen was treading lightly. Giving Grace plenty of space and no unsolicited advice seemed the best course. Clearly this girl had a good head on her shoulders, and if she wanted to discuss anything, she knew Helen was waiting.

  Flipping through a few pages, Grace felt like she was looking at an L. L. Bean catalog, except they weren’t selling flannel shirts and corduroy pants with ducks on them — they were selling the couples wearing them. She didn’t know how she was going to figure out who would love her baby more than anything in the world, who could give it the best life. Maybe an artsy couple living in Seattle who owned a coffee roasting company and painted murals on the sides of old buildings in their free time, or a nuclear physicist and his novelist wife who lived outside Boston. The only thing Grace knew for sure was that she didn’t want the doctor and the lawyer living in Chicago. Grace’s mother had worked throughout her childhood, even though they didn’t need the money. As Betsy had explained to Grace when she was three, an unfulfilled woman made for an unhappy mother, and Grace didn’t want an unhappy mother, did she? Fulfillment, for Betsy at least, could not be found in endless visits to the playground, afternoons baking cookies, and reading The Cat in the Hat for the hundredth time. Not that Grace had any clue what Betsy was talking about at the time, other than the fact that her mother apparently didn’t want to spend time with her. Grace decided only to consider couples with wives who stayed at home. If these women wanted her baby, they had better be willing to change diapers and push a stroller, all day long. Superwomen who wanted to have it all need not apply.

  In order to do this search properly, Grace knew she needed to be systematic, so she turned back to the very beginning. Couple Number One: Rebecca and Michael Miller lived in suburban Philadelphia. Photographed standing in front of what must be their house, a large brick colonial, the Millers could have been models posing for a magazine shoot. Tiny, with huge green eyes and long black hair, Rebecca looked like a doll next to her husband, who, according to the bio, was six foot four. What a waste of DNA that these two specimens couldn’t reproduce. They had met at Princeton as undergraduates and went on to get matching MBAs at Wharton. Working mothers were off limits, but no, Rebecca had worked for five years, then given up the fast lane to pursue baby-making full time, and even when that venture failed to yield any results, she had decided not to return to the workplace. Michael was a successful investment banker, and Rebecca volunteered as a reading and math tutor in the neighborhood public school. These two were so perfect, there had to be some fatal flaw lurking beneath the surface — a drinking problem, a family history of insanity. But Grace didn’t know how she would ever be able to find out. Running her fingers over the photograph, Grace stared into the picture, trying to imagine what it would be like to turn the bean over to these two overachievers.

  Couple Number Two:. Two plastic surgeons who were active volunteers with Doctors Without Borders. What were they going to do with a baby? Stick it in a carry-on and drag it along on their life-saving missions all over the world? Admirable, Grace thought, but unacceptable.

  Couple Number Three: John Pell was a history professor, and his wife taught French literature at a small college in a little town in Vermont. The picture of the Pell’s house covered with snow and Christmas lights was a picture postcard of an idyllic life. There was a nurs
ery school on campus for faculty children, and the Pells were active in an organic food cooperative. Without a doubt, the baby would be well cared for and well fed. But while the setting sounded like paradise, and Sara Pell only taught one class, she was working on a book and was a regular contributor to a literary magazine. It sounded time-consuming, despite the fact that she was able to work out of her house most of the time. While Grace didn’t begrudge a woman’s need to follow her own dreams, and she knew it was perhaps too much to expect a mother to be satisfied solely with her mothering duties, she wanted an adoptive mother who was at least a little less busy than Sara Pell seemed to be. On top of that, Thomas Pell’s mother lived with them, and while Grace had nothing against senior citizens or extended family, there was something about the elder Mrs. Pell, who appeared in the photo sitting between her son and daughter-in-law, hand protectively resting on her son’s knee, that made Grace uncomfortable.

  Couple Number Four lived in Miami. Carlos Perez had been born in Cuba but escaped to Florida with his family as a child. He had met Margaret, his wife of ten years, when she was a senior at the University of Florida and he was a dental student. They had married immediately after she graduated from college, and although Margaret worked as a copywriter at an advertising agency, she planned on quitting as soon as she had a child. Margaret had majored in child psychology and minored in English, so she would know how to deal with temper tantrums and separation anxiety, and someday she would be able to help the bean with his college essays. They lived in a sprawling Mediterranean house surrounded by orange trees, and there was already a playset with swings and a slide set up in the backyard. This pair had possibilities, and the bean would have perfect teeth.

  A dozen couples later, Grace’s head swirled with images of devoted spouses with perfect lives, except for their inability to make a baby. How sad that all these women in their thirties with doting husbands, large bank accounts, and too many extra bedrooms were unable to carry a child, but teenagers having random sex in back seats and on beaches seemed to be so ridiculously fertile. Life was definitely not fair, at either end of the spectrum.