by Kate Hewitt
Lauren. Isabella. I’m picturing warm-hued scenes of cozy domesticity, a king-sized bed, a baby kicking chubby legs and blowing bubbles.
I’m not maternal, never have been. I threw that biological clock right out the window when I started at Harrow and Heath, pulling sixty- and seventy-hour weeks. But in this moment, when loneliness is eating me from the inside out, I crave a connection with someone. I think of my dad, telling me how he was never lonely as long as he had me. I think of how we were a team, how even when I missed my mom, I never felt as if I were missing out. Dad and I were enough.
I want that closeness with someone; I want to bring someone into the world and show them how it works. I want to love and be loved, and I crave it so badly I feel breathless with longing. A gasp escapes me, a noise that sounds ragged and needy, so unlike me, and yet completely encapsulating me in this moment.
‘Sorry,’ Ben says again, and I realize he is saying goodbye.
‘No, please don’t worry.’ I’m trying to sound brisk, and clearly failing. Even drunk I know that. ‘Please, it’s fine. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have called.’
‘If you need to talk…’ Ben begins, and I soften at the thought that he still might want to talk to me. Help me. Perhaps I’m not quite as alone as I thought I was. ‘There are counselors,’ he finishes, and my heart hardens right back up.
Counselors. Right. Because if I need a sympathetic ear, a friendly face, I’d better pay someone for the pleasure. I disconnect the call without saying goodbye.
And then I stare at the ceiling, my eyes dry and gritty, the wine swirling in my stomach, and I ache. I ache.
Three
HEATHER
‘I never thought I’d be here.’ I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the words pop out anyway. It’s been two weeks since I talked to Kev about the baby, and we haven’t spoken about it since. If he’s waiting for me to do something, I don’t know what it is. I’d think he’d forgotten, but I see him look at me sideways sometimes, with a combination of guilt and accusation. I have to bite my tongue not to remind him that it takes two.
In the last two weeks I’ve called Planned Parenthood twice, and I got as far as making the appointment before I got scared. I called back to cancel, my hand shaking on the phone, afraid I might get some awful follow-up call that Kev would answer, and then what?
Nobody but Kev knows I’m pregnant. I pretend I don’t know; I don’t want to think about this baby. I can’t bear to, because then it’s real and what I’m doing, what I’m thinking of doing, feels awful. Unforgiveable. Worse, in some bizarre way, than an abortion.
‘Most women don’t expect to be in this position.’ The woman behind the desk – Tina, she said her name was – smiles at me. I don’t like her smile, kind as I know it’s meant to be. It’s too full of sympathy, of pity, and right now that’s the last thing I need. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t poor and desperate. We both know that.
I take a deep breath, my fingernails digging into the padded armrests as my stomach churns. I’m afraid I might actually be sick. ‘So how does this whole thing work, anyway?’ I ask. I sound belligerent, and so I take a deep breath and expel it, willing my stomach to settle. ‘Adoption, I mean.’ The words falls into the room like something heavy dropped on the floor. Thud.
The possibility came to me a week ago, when I was at my parents’. Mom’s MS had flared up and my dad needed a trip out to the bar or Meadowlands Racing Track, it didn’t matter which. He goes, and either my sister Stacy or I pick up the slack. That’s how it has always been.
I started cleaning up, taking half-drunk cups of cold coffee and overflowing ashtrays to the kitchen, while Mom positioned her wheelchair in front of the TV and changed the channel from Fox News, my dad’s favorite, to QVC – hers.
‘Come sit beside me, Lucy,’ she ordered, and Lucy obeyed, perching on the edge of the wheelchair, my mom’s arm around her little shoulders. ‘It’s time for Mary Beth’s Kitchen.’
While they listened to Mary Beth’s instructions on how to make a lemon meringue pie, I started on the kitchen, which was a mess – yesterday’s dishes piled in the sink; that morning’s on the table. Everything felt sticky, and the air smelled stale, of fried food and cigarette smoke, making my stomach heave.
I dumped a bunch of grease-splattered plates in the sink and that’s when I caught sight of the free newspaper my mom always kept around in stacks, mainly to clip the coupons she never remembered to use. It was turned to the classifieds, a list of pathetic personals and overpriced offers for used furniture, and then—
Are You Pregnant?
I pushed some more dirty dishes aside and picked up the paper. The ad had a photo of a heavily pregnant woman cradling her belly, smiling down at her baby bump, all in hazy soft focus.
Are You Pregnant? Confused?
She didn’t look confused, but I knew I was. My mind kept going in circles, wondering how we could make it work, where the money would come from to keep this baby. To keep our house, the kids fed, everything.
I looked down at the newspaper and read some more, squinting at the small type. Open Heart Adoptions. Make a family happy today.
I felt as if a fist had reached inside and squeezed my heart. It hurt. And yet with that pain was something I hadn’t felt in so long I barely remembered the sensation: a treacherous little flicker of hope, even as I cringed with guilt. I couldn’t really be thinking about this.
‘Sweetie?’ my mother called from the living room. ‘Could you get me a Crystal Light?’ My mother drank the stuff by the gallon, peach iced tea, double-strength.
‘Sure, Mom.’ I put the paper back on the table, so the classified ads were face down. I felt dirty, as if I’d been looking at porn.
I made up a pitcher of Crystal Light and poured my mother a glass, my heart beating hard. I told myself to forget about that stupid ad, even if it felt like someone had thrown open a window and I was suddenly breathing fresh air, taking it in by the glorious lungful.
Because the last sentence on the little ad was the one I remembered, the one I can still see now, dancing in my head, bold-faced, black type: All Maternity Costs Covered.
And so now I’m here, sitting in this overheated, pastel-decorated office, wearing a dress I last wore at my cousin’s wedding. It strains across my belly and under my armpits. Bad choice, but this feels like an interview and I don’t have anything else.
‘What has led you to consider this avenue, Heather?’ Tina looks maternal, a little overweight; comfortable in herself, dressed in loose clothing in various shades of beige. Her eyes and smile are soft but it feels like an act, her persona for the poor women who have been driven to come here. Women like me. I decide to talk straight.
‘I’m married and I have three kids already. Girls. My husband injured himself at work and the workman’s comp ends in a couple of months. We can’t afford another baby.’ I blurt out each sentence like a bullet, machine-gunning her with the facts. But then my tough act disintegrates and my stomach heaves.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter as I double over, cold sweat prickling my back. ‘Is there a bathroom…?’
‘Of course.’ For a large woman Tina springs up from her chair pretty fast. ‘Right down the hall.’
Somehow I make it down the hall and into the bathroom stall, where I throw up my breakfast. I kneel on the cold, tiled floor, my cheek resting on the rim of the toilet bowl, feeling awful in all sorts of ways.
I shouldn’t have come. I was desperate, and I tried to convince myself this could work, but it can’t. Of course it can’t. I can’t just give away my baby like something extra I don’t need or want, especially when I have three girls already to watch me do it. What on earth would they think? What on earth could I tell them that would make any sort of sense?
And yet what else can I do?
Yesterday morning we got our first eviction warning. We have to pay the rent in the next week or they’ll start proceedings. We could be out of the house by the end of the month. A
nd where would we go? My parents don’t have space for us, and neither does my sister. The social housing has a waiting list longer than my arm, and it would be months if not years before we could get a place big enough for us. I picture us huddled in a homeless shelter, barely surviving, and the worst thing is, I know it could happen. It could happen soon. Is that what I want to bring a baby into, someone innocent and trusting, with only me and Kev to depend on? I close my eyes as another wave of nausea rolls through me.
‘Heather?’ Tina opens the door to the bathroom, her voice full of concern. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ I ease up from the floor, my head still spinning, trying to recover from this moment even though I know I can’t. ‘Sorry, morning sickness.’
‘Of course.’ She is standing behind me, and I wish she’d leave. I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. But she doesn’t move, and so I get up and go to the sink, wash my face and hands and rinse out my mouth, all while Tina watches. Judging, maybe, although she must have seen this before.
‘You know,’ she says as I’m drying my hands, ‘there are other options.’
‘I know.’ Although I wonder if Tina really gets how few options there are for someone like me. How this feels like the best one, despite all my doubts, the endless guilt. If I’m able to give all four of my children better lives, then surely I can live with a little guilt? Or even a lot of it.
‘Do you want to continue talking, or would you like to come back another time?’
I don’t want to have to come back. It was hard enough to get here in the first place. I dry my hands with a paper towel. ‘I’ll keep talking.’
Back in the room Tina waits while I sit down and smooth my crumpled skirt. I catch a whiff of vomit and I wince.
‘How does your husband feel about this possibility, Heather?’
I think of Kev’s seeming indifference over the last few weeks. It’s like he doesn’t care, and yet I know instinctively how angry he would feel about this, how hurt. But like me I hope he’d realize there aren’t any better options. ‘He’s on board with it,’ I say as firmly as I can.
Tina nods slowly. ‘We’d need to see both of you before we moved ahead. If the father is involved, he needs to sign all the documentation as well, make sure we’re all in this together. It’s a big, difficult decision to make, and of course you need to take your time with it.’
‘Right.’ Does she think I don’t know that? That I haven’t held my girls as we all cuddle on the sofa, stroked their fine hair, felt Lucy’s petal-soft baby skin, and wondered what the hell I’m doing? How I can even think of doing it?
Last night I sat in the girls’ bedroom while they slept – Emma curled up in a tight little ball, Amy flung out, arms and legs sprawled in a star shape, and Lucy all twisted in the sheets. My girls. I thought of the baby inside me: girl or boy, tiny and waiting. I pictured myself holding it, bringing it to my breast. And then I stopped, because I was just torturing myself, and what was the point?
I looked at my girls again, all three of them, all depending on me for just about everything. They were the ones I needed to think about now. Emma, eleven years old, shy and quiet; eight-year-old Amy, always getting into trouble; Lucy, who seems clingier than most four-year-olds. They need me. This baby just needs a mother. That’s the way I have to think, no matter how much it hurts.
‘So why don’t I talk you through the process?’ Tina suggests, and when I give a quick nod she launches into a long description of everything that is going to happen; lots of meetings and appointments, how much choice I’ll have, how all my costs will be covered, including some living expenses if needed, which I latch onto like the life preserver it is. I hate that it comes down to money, but it just does. Then Tina assures me that I can back out at any time, even after the baby is born.
‘After?’ I feel suspicious. ‘That doesn’t seem fair, if some couple think they’re getting my baby and then I change my mind at the last minute?’
Tina smiles and nods. ‘It’s the birth mother’s right, up until seventy-two hours after you give birth.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t want to have that choice. How could I possibly give my baby away if I still have a choice to keep it, even then? It feels worse, twice the loss, a double betrayal. If I’m able to give my baby away after I’ve held him or her, after I’ve watched them come squalling into the world, what kind of person am I? What kind of mother could I possibly be? That’s a choice I feel like I could never be strong enough to make.
‘Have you considered what kind of adoption you want to have?’ Tina asks kindly. I feel as if she’s asking me what flavor ice cream I like. ‘Some people prefer an entirely closed adoption, where the child is placed with an adoptive family and has no contact with the birth parents at all. Others are more open, with a certain amount of ongoing contact, decided by both parties, of course. This can be beneficial—’
‘Closed.’ Ongoing contact? Ongoing torture. How could I keep looking at my baby, my child, knowing he or she would never be mine? It would be a constant reminder, a never-ending taunt. ‘I want it to be closed.’ I picture something snapping shut, a key turning in a lock. I need finality. ‘So what happens next?’ I ask. I shift, the dress sticking to my back. The room feels stifling and airless. It’s hard to breathe.
‘If you still feel you wish to move forward, then we can make an appointment for you and your husband to come here together, discuss the details, sign the paperwork.’ Tina smiles. ‘Then you can start looking at some prospective parent profiles.’
She makes it sound as if we’d be looking at wallpaper samples. Choosing parents for my child. How on earth can I be entrusted with such a decision? I feel dizzy, as well as sick again. I’m not ready for this, but I’m not sure I ever will be – who is?
‘The profiles are all on our website,’ she continues. ‘We have pictures, biographies, even videos and blog updates. It’s important that you feel entirely happy and comfortable with who you’re placing your baby with.’
‘I need to think some more,’ I blurt. My hands are clammy and I clench them into fists. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m still not sure.’
‘Of course. Take as much time as you need. It’s important you feel comfortable with every stage of this process.’
Which is a joke, because I can’t ever imagine feeling comfortable with any of this. This is about necessity, nothing else. I glance at the clock and realize I have to pick up Lucy from preschool. ‘I need to go,’ I say, lurching upright. Tina nods and rises from her seat, extending her hand for me to shake. I don’t want to, because my own is damp and clammy, but to refuse would be rude and she probably would think I didn’t know better. I’m not stupid, I feel like saying. I’m not some dumb high schooler who got knocked up. I once was, fine, but not now. Not now.
‘Call me if you have any questions,’ Tina says as she escorts me out of the office. ‘Anything at all. We’re here to help, Heather.’
‘Sure,’ I say, unable to look at her, and then I hurry outside, blinking in the bitter November wind that stings my cheeks, my stomach heaving once again.
I get in the car and sit there for a moment, fighting the urges either to throw up or cry. It feels so unfair, but I know that’s a stupid thought, a pointless one. No one ever said life was fair, certainly not me.
I take a deep breath, force it all back. There’s nothing I can do about any of this except keep moving forward, and right now I need to pick up Lucy, because Kevin isn’t going to do it.
That night, when the girls are in bed and Kev is parked in front of the TV, I fire up our five-year-old desktop computer, given to us by my sister Stacy when they bought a new one, that sits on a card table in the corner of the dining room, along with a pile of unfolded laundry and some junk mail I’ve never bothered to throw out just in case it might be important.
Open Hearts Adoption Agency. I gaze at the pink curlicue heart and the picture of the smiling family, the pregnant lady
cradling her bump, everything soft and hazy and perfect. As if life is really like that, a movie montage of cute moments, with a blissed-out soundtrack playing in the background.
I click on the family profiles page that I didn’t bother to look at the last time I was on this site, before I made the appointment. Now I blink at the pictures of loved-up couples: arms around each other, wide, cheesy grins in place. They’re all standing in front of some mountain or tree, looking so happy and perfect with their whitened-teeth smiles and fake tans.
I read about Lisa and Drew; he’s a financial analyst and she’s a physical therapist. They like hiking and camping and cooking ethnic food. There’s a picture of them cheek-to-cheek in front of Mount Rushmore, and another one flexing their muscles by a huge pool, and yet another in a gorgeous kitchen. Every image makes me seethe because this smug couple want to buy a baby off me. Why do they get it so easy, and we don’t?
I click on another profile and then another, and they’re all the same. Cute, adoring couples, living in huge houses with plenty of money and no problems except, ha ha, they can’t get pregnant. I wish I had that problem.
‘Mommy, I can’t sleep.’
I turn to see Amy standing in the doorway of the dining room, her eyes narrowed as she gives me a calculating look. My middle child, too smart and sassy for her own good, always looking to her own advantage. I love her drive, her stubbornness, but sometimes –most of the time – it can be exhausting.
‘Go back to bed, Amy.’
‘I can’t sleep.’ She stands there, arms folded, chin raised, challenging me, and I know she won’t move until I tuck her in. With a sigh, I heave myself up from the chair.
‘What are you looking at?’
She peers around me to look at the screen, and as quick as I can I click the mouse to minimize the browser window. ‘Nothing.’
Back in the girls’ bedroom I weave through the piles of dirty clothes and battered teddy bears heaped on the floor to Amy’s bed, pushed up against the window. The bedroom is small, and it’s made even smaller by the three beds crammed into it with barely enough space for one dresser for them to share. We live in a two-bedroom house, and a fourth bed will never fit in here. If we kept this baby, we’d have to turn the dining room into a bedroom, or have one of the kids share with us. If we even hold onto this house.
