A Borrowed Life

by Kerry Anne King

  The muscle in his cheek twitches. His face works with emotion, and he turns away and rubs his sleeve across his eyes. “Liz. I’m not usually this much of an asshole, I swear it. I feel like I’m stuck in a character role I can’t shake loose of.”

  I want to walk up behind him and put my arms around his waist, lean my cheek on his shoulder, giving and receiving comfort. I harden my heart and clamp my teeth together. I’m the wounded party here. Not him. I will not say I’m sorry or soften any of the words I’ve spoken.

  He sucks in a long breath. “I know I should have come and talked to you right away. Every morning I’d wake up, pick up the phone, and say, ‘Call Liz,’ and then I’d find a hundred reasons to do it later. Truth is, I’ve been an emotional wreck. Didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Couldn’t trust myself not to behave like I just did again today. It’s like, when Rachel left me, I put every single emotion on lockdown. And then you being pregnant—it blew all of that containment to smithereens. I realized I’ve processed absolutely nothing. I guess all of those emotions didn’t disappear; they just hung around waiting for me, and now they’ve all blown up at once.”

  “What do you want from me, Lance?”

  He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob and turns to face me. “Tolerance? The chance to make it up to you. If you can possibly find it in your heart to let me, I’d like to be part of this.”

  “The morning sickness part? The part where I have to go through labor and then give the baby away and have nothing to show for it? That part?”

  A spasm of grief crumples his face. When it passes, he says, “All of the parts. I know women suffer more, and it’s not fair. I’m volunteering for bucket-holding duty. I’ll drive you to the hospital. Hold your hand. Do whatever I can to help. If you’ll let me.”

  Tears flood my own eyes. I want to trust his words, want to slide into his arms and open my heart to him, but I can’t. Actions speak louder than words; I learned the truth of that one the hard way. My focus now needs to be on building my life and nudging Abigail into building hers. On getting through this pregnancy and making the hard decisions.

  But I also won’t kick him in the teeth. I need some of what he’s offering. It will take the pressure off of Abigail. “If you’d help around the house, that would be great,” I tell him after a long pause. “Mowing and upkeep and all that. I’ll let you know if I need any rides. Let’s start there and see how it goes.”

  “Thank you,” he says. “For that. And for . . . you. You’re an amazing woman, Liz. I’m honored to be your baby daddy.” His eyes are still wet, but his old smile slips back into place. He puts his hat back on his head, touches his fingers to the bill in a mock salute, and walks off across the field in the direction of Rosie and Gil’s.

  I follow him with my eyes, letting my own tears flow now. He’s a tiny speck in the distance before I realize I’m resting one hand protectively over the place where a baby is growing. “I’m sorry, little one,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  September 28, 2019

  Dear Lacey,

  Such a mess you got me into.

  It frosted last night, and it’s too cold to sit on my beloved front porch swing.

  But I love my new comfy chair in the living room. One for me, one for Abigail. Together with the couch, we now have lots of places to sit.

  We also have amnio results, since the adoption agency insisted. All DNA came back normal, so no three-headed chicken after all, though the doctor did remind me that some defects can’t be detected until birth, despite all of the testing that they do. Twenty-two weeks today, and this pregnancy is no longer theoretical or mythical. Val dragged me out shopping again, this time for maternity clothes. I can no longer fit into the jeans we bought in the spring.

  My body has turned traitor, a sagging, aching, creaky mess. I dread the months I still have to go and can’t imagine lumbering around at nine months pregnant. I feel like my hip joints will collapse under that amount of weight and I’ll cave in like an abandoned barn.

  All of that glorious freedom I was just beginning to feel has vanished into a list of can’t do because of the baby. Can’t drink. Can’t plan trips. Can’t be in the theater production that’s in rehearsals right now. My journey into saying yes to things has hit a serious snag.

  And yet. Moment of truth. I’m glad this little creature is hanging on to life. Time to stop saying “it” or “the baby.” He. A boy. At least, that’s what my last ultrasound said. I can feel him moving, swimming inside me like a little fish, and I’m amazed, when I let myself be, that Lance and I, in that one act, created somebody new. But those are dangerous thoughts, because we’re steaming down the adoption trail. Our top-running candidates are coming over this afternoon. They want to “meet” the baby early. Talk to it and whatever. Which can’t be anything but awkward, and I wish it could happen without me.

  Lance is coming. He’s been around a fair bit lately. Mowing the yard. Weeding and watering the flowers I planted. Fixing things that I can’t see need fixing around the house. Replacing light bulbs. He added three extra smoke detectors yesterday. And every single time he’s here, he brings me wildflowers. He just puts them in a jar on the table without a word, not putting me on the spot of having to say something or feel an obligation.

  It’s no safer to think about Lance than it is to think about the baby. So because physical activity is already getting uncomfortable and thinking is dangerous, yesterday I started writing a play to keep my mind busy. It’s a stupid little thing, and I cringe at every other line. But maybe that’s normal for a beginner, I don’t know. Seems like everything I thought I wanted is complicated.

  Note: I would never go back. If Thomas were magically resurrected, this time I would not stay.

  There are three of us and three of them.

  Team Adoption is made up of Michelle and Gordon Walker, the want-to-be parents, and Joyce, the representative from the adoption agency. Michelle and Gordon are thirty-one and thirty-five, respectively. She is five foot five and weighs 150 pounds. Her eyes are blue, her hair is blonde, and she’s an elementary school teacher. He is an accountant. Five foot ten, 175 pounds. Hazel eyes and brunette. They live in a clean, well-maintained bungalow in Spokane Valley. Michelle will stop teaching and stay home with the baby. They would like to homeschool. I know all of this because of their profile on the adoption site.

  It’s a warm afternoon, and Abigail serves iced tea before we settle down for business.

  Joyce, somewhere around my age but very thin and athletic and stylishly dressed, is clearly not a woman who would fall into the predicament of a midlife out-of-wedlock pregnancy. She smiles brightly and inclusively at all of us, radiating professional warmth and cheer.

  “Well, let’s get acquainted better, shall we? This is your chance to ask questions about things that are not in the profiles. I am here only for moral support and to facilitate. Elizabeth? Is there anything you would like to know? Parenting style, political beliefs, that sort of thing?”

  “Call me Liz, please,” I answer. And then: “Political beliefs? Really?”

  “It’s very important to some,” Joyce says in a soothing tone. “Especially in an open adoption, where the birth parents have agreed-upon levels of contact with the adopting family and the baby. That is another thing we will want to discuss.”

  Gordon reaches for Michelle’s hand and squeezes it. A comforting gesture, probably, but I remember having my hand squeezed that way as a warning to keep my mouth shut. Or as a reminder that Thomas was the decision maker. They have chosen to wear matching T-shirts with a logo I don’t recognize: BT. In my head, I translate it as “the Baby Takers.”

  Lance and Abigail and I should have logos of our own. “The Baby Growers,” maybe. This could be a reality show taking place in my living room. I remind myself that I am voluntarily giving my baby away, not defending it from adversaries, but emotions are what they are and I can’t shake this one.
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br />   Abigail and I are ensconced in our new armchairs, the Baby Takers are all on the couch, and Lance has brought in one of the kitchen chairs. I’d thought meeting here would give me a home turf advantage, but it just makes me feel exposed. I can see them judging my still-half-furnished house behind polite expressions, determining that I’m clearly destitute and that’s why I’m prepared to give away my baby.

  Michelle glances up at Gordon, silently asking a question, and he nods, giving her permission, or maybe just reassurance. Either way, given the go-ahead, she leans forward a little, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Is there any history of alcoholism or drug abuse? Not to judge, of course, but it can be a genetic trait?”

  Lance’s eyes find mine. He shrugs, and answers first. “I’ve never had a problem. My mother uses substances off and on. Psychedelics, mostly. LSD, mushrooms, pot, peyote. Very little alcohol. I don’t know that she’s an addict. She says she’s questing for alternate realities.”

  “Are you sure about alcohol?” Gordon asks. “Pardon me for this question, but I noticed from your disclosed history that your mother is half Native American. And alcohol can be a problem for . . . your people.”

  “As I’ve said, alcohol has never been a problem for my mother or for me.” There’s a warning in Lance’s voice, and Joyce dives in before things have a chance to escalate.

  “I don’t believe there is a genetic component to the use of psychedelics. Liz? What about your side of the family?”

  My childhood raises its ugly head. I feel defensive and embarrassed, like I did all through high school whenever the subject of my parents came up. But it’s a fair question, really. I keep my answer short and to the facts. “My father was an alcoholic. My mother was not. I don’t know about my grandparents or other family members. I drink rarely and have never had a problem.” Abigail’s eyes flick toward me, and my brain darts off down a legal rabbit hole. Am I lying? There was that almost DUI. That counts as a problem. Is that on record somewhere? Could these people unearth it if they tried hard enough?

  Lance risks rolling his eyes at me, and I can’t resist smiling at him. We’ll get through this grilling, somehow.

  “But nurture can overcome genetics, surely?” Michelle asks. At least I think she’s asking. Everything she says has a questioning inflection. “We’d be homeschooling? And our love and prayers would surely be stronger than any genetic predisposition?”

  “Of course, my dear.” Gordon beams at her, and then at all of us. “We have so much love to offer a child. And prayer can overcome any less-than-optimal genetic background, a blessing, as we all have sinned and fallen short.”

  “What about the two of you?” Lance asks pleasantly. “Any substance use, by yourselves or your families?”

  Gordon sits up straighter. “I’ve tracked our genealogy all the way back to German ancestry, in my case, and English, in Michelle’s. Our ancestors were successful, industrious people. And our parents and grandparents were social drinkers only.”

  I notice that Michelle lets him answer for both of them—also that her eyes drop to the floor, the fingers of her right hand rolling the hem of her T-shirt. Maybe there’s a little something in her own background that Gordon doesn’t know about.

  “We were so relieved that the DNA testing was normal,” Gordon says. “And that the baby is a boy!”

  Lance’s jaw tightens. “Why, exactly? Does it matter?”

  “To carry on Gordon’s family name?” Michelle says. “Although it would be wonderful to have a little girl, too.” I hear the wistfulness in her tone and soften toward her a little.

  “How do you feel about having contact with the baby, and with us?” Gordon asks. “We feel it would be in his best interests. So many adopted children feel lost and abandoned and then go seeking their origins. It might be best to just be open about that from the beginning.”

  “What are you thinking?” I ask. I’d thought about open adoption, torn between conflicting fear of never knowing what happened to my baby and the ongoing heartbreak of seeing him without being close to him.

  “We would invite you to join us for Christmas and Thanksgiving,” Gordon says. “Possibly for birthday events. It’s one reason why we insisted on meeting in person, to see if we are . . . compatible.”

  “God.” Lance’s expression is pure horror. “So we’d be like, what? Distant relatives? Showing up for holidays with pockets full of gifts? What is the child supposed to call us—Aunt and Uncle?”

  “Grandma and Grandpa.” I swear Abigail says this, but when I swivel my head in her direction, she’s sitting quietly and nobody else seems to have registered the comment.

  “Well, of course it couldn’t be Mom and Dad,” Gordon says. “So Aunt and Uncle are possibilities.”

  I feel a knot forming in my throat. Tears fill my eyes. I can’t imagine being Aunt Liz to a baby I’ve carried in my body and given birth to.

  “These decisions are very difficult,” Joyce soothes. “There’s no rush. You’ll need time to think and process your emotions. These are just some possibilities to be negotiated.”

  My hand finds its way protectively to my abdomen, and again I apologize to the little one inside. I’m sorry. You are not a commodity to be negotiated over. This is not a trade agreement.

  “Would you mind telling us your reasons for giving him up? So we know what to tell him when he asks?” Michelle has tears in her own eyes.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers, reminding myself to breathe. What are my reasons? They no longer seem valid. Adoption is meant for women who can’t care for a baby. Too young, too broke, too addicted, whatever. You don’t just give a baby away because it’s inconvenient. So what if I’m old enough to be his grandma? Grandparents raise children all the time these days. What do we tell him? Your mom was busy finding herself and creating a new and interesting life where there wasn’t a space for you?

  Abigail answers for me. “We’ve all agreed that my mother is not in a position to raise a baby. She’s single and approaching retirement, with only a small fixed income. We feel a baby should have two younger, healthy parents who will be around to raise him.”

  Lance has had enough. He surges to his feet, the chair skittering away behind him on the hardwood. “My apologies, but I don’t agree. Liz and I would be in a position to raise this baby if we did it together.”

  “Don’t you dare back out of this!” Abigail snarls at him. “Sit down.”

  His gaze meets mine, then flicks away. “I’ll still sign if that’s what you choose to do. But I won’t sit here like we’re trying to reach some NATO agreement. And I won’t be part of any fucking open adoption. I’ll raise the boy and give him my best if we keep him. If he goes, I am not visiting him for Christmas.”

  He stomps out, leaving a shattering silence in his wake. Abigail is seething. Michelle weeps softly, burying her face in Gordon’s shoulder.

  “Well,” Joyce says, far too brightly. “As I said, these conversations are hard and emotions do run high. I recommend that everybody just take a few days to cool down and think about all we’ve discussed. And then if you want to meet again, we can make that happen. I know it doesn’t feel that way, but this is just a little bump in the road. Many adoption agreements are worked out after similar conversations.”

  Gordon hugs his wife tenderly, in a way that makes me think I may have misjudged him. He strokes her hair. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Don’t give up yet.”

  Michelle roots around in her purse for a tissue and blots her eyes and blows her nose. “I’m sorry, it’s just so . . . I do want a baby so badly.”

  I offer her a tentative smile. “When I was your age, I desperately wanted another baby.”

  “But at least you had one,” she says, and my emotions sway another direction. Here is a woman whose heart is breaking because she can’t have a baby. And here am I with a baby I am completely unprepared to raise. It makes perfect sense that we should make this transaction, but it fe
els utterly wrong.

  Joyce rises to her feet. “Let’s go, shall we? And then we’ll discuss another meeting in a day or two.”

  Gordon clears his throat. “We’d like to say a prayer before we go, if you would permit us.” It’s a request, not a demand, but still I hesitate.

  “Of course,” Abigail says. “That would be lovely.”

  “Our Father,” Gordon begins. “You know all things and we bow to Your will, but You have also told us to ask for whatever we need. I ask now that You bless these two people who have conceived this child, Elizabeth and Lance, and that they might find forgiveness and healing in You. I ask that you will bless this unborn, innocent child, that you will guard him, protect him, and see him delivered safely and raised in a home where he will be surrounded by Your love . . .”

  His voice is earnest, sincere, but I hear Thomas’s inflection on the words, implicating the deep sinfulness and shame of a child conceived out of wedlock, urging me to confess, to make a gift of my child to a family who might, with emphasis on “might,” be able to counteract his origins and still save his soul. I feel like I’m being prayed at, manipulated. It’s only my imagination, I tell myself, over and over, but I don’t believe it.

  Years of practice allow me to contain my emotions. I shake hands politely with Joyce and Gordon. Michelle hugs me, murmuring, “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you. But if you can find it in your heart . . . I will love your little boy so fiercely.” I return her hug, saying nothing.

  Abigail sees them out, and I collapse into my new chair, so wrung out and limp I seem to have no bones left in my body.

  “Well?” Abigail asks, returning and flopping down in the chair beside me. “Apart from Lance’s meltdown, I thought that went well. I think they’re still open to the adoption.”

  My head leaned back, eyes closed, I murmur, “The question is whether I am.”