Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel

by Frank Freudberg

  Whether or not she would eventually be convicted of the criminal conspiracy and solicitation charges, the judge ordered her to be remanded to the custody of the state without bail while awaiting trial.

  Freel looked at Natalie and shrugged as she was being led away. “Don’t worry,” he said to her, shouting halfway across the courtroom.

  Natalie wouldn’t look at him. She blamed him for being arrested. His dealer had been busted for distribution and was ratting out everyone left and right and cooperating with the police. She should never have trusted Freel. He was as stupid as every man she had ever known.

  Back in his office after his unpleasant experience in court, broke and overwhelmed, and not interested in caring for Augie (Natalie had lied to Lock about having a full-time babysitter), Freel contacted a nanny who advertised her services on Craigslist and, after a ten-minute interview with the first candidate provided, hired her. He was too busy to check her references.

  How he’d find the money to pay her in two weeks was another matter.

  44

  Several days later, Freel drove three hours out to the State Correctional Institution in Muncy, Pennsylvania, where he would meet with Natalie. Acting as her attorney, he would be able to meet with her in person, not separated by Plexiglas, and talk confidentially.

  Once inside, he was shown to a small conference room, sparsely furnished with a few chairs and a beat-up wooden desk. An oversized American flag hung limp on a stand in the corner. After fifteen minutes, Natalie was brought to the room. She seated herself at the table. Freel had a small pile of file folders and a notepad on the desk.

  Without greeting her, Freel assumed the persona of humorless, all-business attorney. He got right to the point and spoke so softly Natalie had a difficult time hearing him.

  “There’s a lawyer in upstate New York who specializes in connecting birth mothers with high-net-worth couples looking to adopt,” Freel said. “The birth mothers like it because they get to feel warm and fuzzy about the affluent lives their brats will have.”

  “How do you know this guy?” Natalie asked. Her prison uniform draped baggily over her body.

  “I read about him when he was accused of being a middleman in the sale of babies. They couldn’t prove it. He’s still in business and was thrilled when I told him your situation. Mostly thrilled by the high fee he’s going to collect from the adoptive parents.”

  “And what’s the situation you told him about?” Natalie asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Freel.

  “What about Lock? How about if he goes to court or something to find out where the baby went?”

  “He can’t,” Freel said, smirking. “The state adoption agency—which will okay the adoption once you and the kid’s new parents sign the forms—would never reveal the identity of the adoptive parents. There’s a law against it. Plus, Lock can’t prove he has any legal standing to make the request.”

  “So there’s no way he’ll ever see the baby again,” she said.

  “The only way that could happen would be if the baby grows up and wants to find his biological parents. He’d probably have to sue to get that information, but he’d probably prevail. But don’t worry about it. None of that’s going to happen, and even if it does, it will be decades from now, and what will you care?”

  Natalie drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

  “Okay, how illegal is this?” Natalie asked. “I want to get out of here someday. And I know enough to know you can’t sell a baby to the highest bidder. Isn’t that human trafficking?”

  “Who’s selling a baby? You’re not. I’m not. Adoptive parents are not allowed to pay birth mothers anything other than legit medical expenses and rent and food and things like that, and only during the pregnancy. So, they won’t be paying you a dime.”

  “I know you have a way around that.”

  “The money that can be paid to birth mothers is highly scrutinized. We can’t make any money that way. On the other hand, the fees paid to attorneys—that’s kind of a gray area.”

  “Gray area?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I can show a lot of hours and expenses I put into finding the adoptive parents, and by agreement, they’re going to pay my fee.”

  Natalie exhaled as if she was blowing smoke from a cigarette. “So you’re going to collect a fee from the adoptive parents for your so-called work in placing the baby? How much are you getting?” Natalie lowered her voice and whispered, “And how much of that will I get?”

  Freel shook his head in impatience. “Listen, Nat. We’re in a tough spot. I’ve got like five cents left. The mortgage on my house is overdue. Rent on my office is due. I’ve got to pay the nanny. The Lambo needs to go in the shop, and I’ve got a million other expenses. We have to do something. And keep this in the forefront of your mind—this adoption is going to be best for your son. He’ll get a real chance in life from parents who will absolutely dote on him. Don’t worry, we’re not going to get into any trouble. Guaranteed.”

  “Who got disbarred after his third year as a practicing attorney, Mr. Guaranteed?”

  “I did, but that was different. I was an idiot then, but now I’m smarter. The attorney’s fees for adoptions—it’s definitely a gray area, meaning it’s okay. I’m getting eighty-one thou for my professional activities.”

  “You? You’re getting?” Her eyes opened wide.

  “We’re getting,” Freel said.

  “And what are those so-called professional activities you’re billing me for?” Natalie asked.

  “I set it up this way. You hired me to do a ton of work to find adoptive parents, help you identify a suitable couple. And by the time I did, I had racked up one hundred and eighty hours. At $450 an hour, that comes to eighty-one thou. The adoptive parents have already agreed. No one could prove how much time I spent actually working, but it doesn’t matter, and anyway, no one’s going to ask any questions. This is a clean deal. The New York lawyer assures me the Pennsylvania state adoption agency will rubber stamp an uncontested adoption between parties.”

  “If he’s wrong,” Natalie said, “we’re screwed. Selling a baby is probably a million years in jail.”

  “Forget about it, Natalie. All you need to know is we’re getting eighty-one thousand dollars. Split two ways. Relax.”

  “How fast can this happen?”

  “We can hand the child over in seventy-two hours,” he said. “The legal adoption process is a bit longer, maybe a couple of months. But I’ll get my fee right away.”

  “Who’s taking care of Augie in the meantime?”

  “Got a nanny. Checked her out. The baby’s fine. It’s better for you to stop referring to him by name. Just call him the baby. That’s what the New York lawyer told me. He said there can be separation issues for the birth mother. I doubt that will be the case here, but let’s take his advice on that one.”

  Freel stood up and gathered his files. No guard was in the room, and he and Natalie embraced, hugging each other quickly. He broke away from her, turned, and left. But he did try a sincere smile on the way out.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered. “Things are a little rough right now, but I’ve got your back, and we’ll be together sooner than you think.”

  The next afternoon, Lock made the same trip Freel did. He intended to visit Natalie and beg her to influence Freel to let him just see Augie. He meticulously rehearsed everything he was going to say. He wanted to believe Natalie might still have a shred of affection or respect for him and agree to his request.

  As he drove through the rolling hills of central Pennsylvania, a light snow started to fall. Lock loved that. The snow lifted his spirits. He worked on the words he’d use to convince Natalie to see it his way.

  Listen, Natalie. No matter whose son Augie really is, the truth is, at least as of now, your baby thinks of me as his f
ather. I know that has to come to an end, but before it does, he must be—he has to be—in some kind of emotional turmoil, not seeing either of us. It’s impossible for you to hold him while you’re locked up, but I can. I can give him real, genuine, heart-felt love. I just want to hold him, and I’m certain he wants to be held. I’m begging you to tell Freel to let me see him—even just once—and I promise I’ll leave you alone from now on. In the name of what we once had, please help me make this happen. Please, Natalie. Just this once.

  He walked quickly and joyfully through the parking lot and stated his business to the desk clerk. The clerk told him to take a seat.

  Lock rehearsed those words again and again. He had his speech down pat and promised himself he wouldn’t let his emotions get the best of him while speaking with Natalie. He knew he could do it without tearing up, and he knew Natalie’s maternal instinct, buried deep as it was, would recognize the truth of what he would say. After all, didn’t she love Augie too?

  He would soon be holding Augie in his arms again. A rush of delight shot through him.

  A few minutes later, a guard approached Lock, who stood up expectantly.

  The guard spoke loudly, “Yup, you’re on the visitor’s list, all right, but she refuses to see you today, buddy. You’ll have to leave. Immediately.”

  Lock didn’t sleep much that night. He got up early and went to the 6:30 a.m. Rise & Shine meeting at the clubhouse.

  Afterward, he drove into the parking lot of Freel’s office. He walked to the door slowly and deliberately.

  There was no receptionist, and Freel’s office door was wide open. He walked in and saw Freel on the phone. When Freel looked up, his mouth dropped open and he hung up. He set his pen on his desk and stood up. Freel scanned Lock, looking for a sign that he had a weapon. He saw nothing that alarmed him.

  “What do you need, Gilkenney?” asked Freel.

  Lock stepped forward.

  “Look, Freel, I’m only going to say this once. I know Augie is your son, but I’ve been a father to him since before he was born. I went to Natalie’s Lamaze classes with her, for the love of God. I got up in the middle of the night for months to feed him and change his diapers. I held him and sang to him. I learned how to make him laugh. I can accept that I’ve lost him, but please. All I want to do is hold him, to see him again. One more time. Let me hold him. Just for a minute. Let me say goodbye to him. You’re human, man. Make that happen and I swear you’ll never see me again.”

  Freel stared silently.

  “I’m begging you, Freel. Let me say goodbye to the one person in this world I love more than anything.”

  “Wish I could help you, Gilkenney, but I can’t.”

  Lock’s bluster left him and he stood there deflated and dizzy. “You can if you want to. What harm would it do to let me say goodbye?”

  “You have no say in Augie’s life,” Freel said. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.”

  “Please, Freel.” Lock’s voice cracked.

  “I gave you good advice before,” Freel said, “when you were flipping out in my driveway a few weeks ago. And remember, I never called the police on you, though I could have. And now I’m going to give you some more advice. You should go about your own business. Natalie and I decided the best thing for the child—for our son—would be for him to be with a more traditional type of family than we could offer him.”

  “What do you mean?” Lock swallowed hard and felt his eyes burning.

  “This will be hard for you to hear, Lock, but Augie’s been adopted.”

  “What?” He lowered himself into a chair.

  “I’m not heartless,” said Freel. “If the kid were around, sure, I’d let you hug him goodbye. But that’s not the case. We arranged a private adoption through an attorney who represents the adoptive parents. Augie’s already with them. Out of state. Natalie and I both signed the Termination of Parental Rights documents. It’s all over. We don’t even know where he is, and we’ll never know. That was one of the terms the adoptive parents insisted on. They don’t want us to change our minds and come looking for the baby. We couldn’t change our minds even if we wanted to. The release is final and unconditional. It’s a fait accompli. And what should make you happy is that what we did is what’s best for the boy.”

  Lock’s face turned red. He couldn’t look at Freel. “Where’s my son, you son-of-a-bitch? I’ll kill you.” Lock stood up and took a step toward Freel. Freel spun around and retrieved a putter from a black, leather golf bag behind his desk.

  “Get out, Lock,” he said. “I could take you out right now and it’d be self-defense. I’m not going to tell you to leave again.”

  Holding the club in one hand, Freel pressed a button on his speakerphone. A dial tone could be heard throughout the room. Freel dialed 911 with a quivering finger.

  Within a second, the dispatcher answered. “Brandywine County 911, what is your emergency?”

  “Okay, okay,” Lock said, raising his hands. He turned and walked out of the office.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “My mistake, operator,” Freel said. “I misdialed.”

  Lock reversed out of the parking spot. He was on autopilot, observing the rules of the road but not really conscious of where he was headed or what he wanted to do. A thousand scenarios played themselves out in his head. He couldn’t have felt any worse had he received news that Augie was dead. Actually, maybe this was worse.

  He fantasized about breaking into the adoption lawyer’s office to steal the records that would reveal the identity of the adoptive parents—although he had no way of learning who that lawyer was or where he or she was located.

  If Lock were ever to find a powerful enough excuse to drink again, this was it. He had enough experience with alcohol to know that he could, in fact, use it to successfully quash the burning emotional pain coursing through his body and mind. But AA kept jabbing itself into his thoughts. There’s no problem bad enough that a drink can’t make it worse. That was true, he knew from his own experience. And Lock knew that if ever there were a time to keep his wits about him, it was here and now. He’d stay strong for Augie, or he’d die trying.

  If he was smart enough, he knew, he could solve this near-impossible situation and get to see Augie again. And did it matter who the biological father was? Lock didn’t give a damn.

  On the other hand, people did become drunks, and often for good reasons. Maybe he would buy a bottle. After all, some of the world’s great artists and writers and musicians were alcoholics and half-insane, if not more, and they often claimed they did their best work while drunk. Maybe finding Augie would turn out to be the defining challenge of his life, and maybe he could solve it drunk. God knew, nothing else had worked so far. He knew this was a convenient justification, but it was one he desperately wanted to believe.

  As he drove, he gradually came back to his right mind and could think more decisively. Yes, he was going to take a drink, no question about that. It took a certain strength to resist the temptation, and he no longer had it. And maybe while drunk he’d get a workable idea to get the boy back. That alone made it reasonable to get drunk. At the very moment he decided to buy a bottle—he wouldn’t dare take Abby’s Glenmorangie—he had the simultaneous realization that he’d left his wallet back at Abby’s apartment where he had been staying since moving out of Natalie’s condo.

  Without being fully aware of the act of driving, Lock pulled up to Abby’s, only to be greeted by a cleaned-up, presentable, and healthy-looking Ivan, the former homeless panhandler and current assistant manager at a West Chester Wawa convenience store.

  “Lock, you look like you got run over,” said Ivan, rising from the stoop he had been sitting on. “What happened? You’re whiter than cream cheese.”

  “I’m getting a drink. Don’t want to be a bad influence on you, but I’m going in to get my
wallet and then I’m on my way.”

  Ivan, thinking Lock was joking, laughed. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go to the Beer Yard and get a keg.”

  Lock turned his back on Ivan, found the door key, and let himself in. Thirty seconds later, he was back outside, carrying his wallet. He bounded down the steps and got into his car. Ivan followed him and stood in front of the car so Lock couldn’t drive away. Ivan leaned his palms on the hood of Lock’s car.

  “Turn that engine off and talk to me,” said Ivan.

  Lock was hunched over the steering wheel, sobbing wretchedly. So much so that it was a simple task for Ivan to reach into the car past Lock, turn off the ignition, and remove the keys.

  Lock got out of the car. He was so distraught, he could hardly stand. But before he could speak, Ivan embraced him with a huge bear hug. Then Lock really broke down, sobbing harder than he had in the car.

  “Let me drive,” Ivan said, after the men had finally let go of one another. Lock barely nodded. They got into Lock’s car, with Lock as the passenger.

  “Okay, wherever you want,” Lock said.

  “I’m pretty sure we’re heading to a meeting,” said Ivan. “As a matter of fact, I’m willing to bet on it.”

  45

  Lock was asleep, and in his dream he was in Natalie’s condo. It was early on a Sunday, on a glorious November morning, after a lousy night’s sleep. He reached out to feel the other side of the bed for Natalie. The sheets were cool, and no one had pulled most of the covers to her side of the bed during the night.

  He walked into Augie’s room. No Augie, either. That was no surprise, of course, but it stabbed at him. And knowing that he’d have to move out of the condo soon made it all the worse.

  When am I going to wake up from this? he asked himself from deep within his dream.