by Maggie Wells
The door opened and a man walked in. He was tall and thin with wireframe glasses and thinning reddish hair.
“Hello, Jasmine,” he said. “I’m Dr. Bergen. Thank you for coming in today. Would you like to sit down?”
“I think I’d rather stand,” I said. “Orchid gets restless if I stop moving.”
“Jasmine and Orchid,” he said. “Exotic flowers, both of you.”
That word, exotic, again. I was starting to feel jumpy. Maybe coming here was a bad idea.
“I’ll sit, if you don’t mind,” he said. He opened a notebook and cocked his pen.
“What brings you in today?” Dr. Bergen asked.
“I need help with Orchid,” I said. “I’m a dancer, or at least I was until I got pregnant. And I can’t afford childcare right now. But I need to find someone to watch her while I’m going on auditions.”
“What do you know about the birth father?” Dr. Bergen asked.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking?” I said.
“Are you in touch with the birth father?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m not certain who the birth father is.” That was not actually a lie.
“Do you have family in the area?” he asked. “Any kind of a support system?”
“No,” I said. “My mom is in New Jersey and I wouldn’t exactly call her supportive.” I paused. “That’s not totally fair—she sends me money when she can.”
“Have you considered adoption, Jasmine?” Dr. Bergen took off his glasses and set them on the notepad. “There are dozens of loving couples in the Las Vegas area who can’t have children of their own.”
“Your website mentioned financial assistance,” Jasmine said. “I want to keep my baby.”
“Yes,” Dr. Bergen said. “Our office can help you sign up for AFDC, Medicaid, and food stamps if that is what you would like. We also can refer you to a homeless shelter for women with children.”
Homeless shelter, welfare, food stamps? The words stung like knives in my throat. I pulled out a chair and sat down.
“What are my other options?” I asked.
“Would you like to browse our database of adopting families?” Dr. Bergen pushed a couple of buttons on the console and the lights dimmed and the TV went on. Up came an image of an interracial couple holding hands. Dr. Bergen swung the console around to face me. “You can click here to play an audio file for each couple. And then click the arrow here to advance to the next profile.”
“I don’t want to give up my baby,” I said.
“Have you ever felt overwhelmed with the responsibility of having a child?” he asked. “You’re young, you haven’t finished college, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Have you ever been tempted to leave your child home alone while you went to work, or leave her in a locked car?”
I panicked. How did he know about that?
“You read about it in the paper all the time, the harried, overwhelmed parent forgetting about the baby in the back seat or that poor woman in Arizona who left her baby in the car while she went inside for a job interview. So sad,” he said.
Silence hung between us for a long moment.
“How does this work?” I asked. “This adoption thing?”
Dr. Bergen leaned forward. He seemed a little too eager. “You have choices—open or closed adoption,” he said. “Closed adoption means that you prefer to remain anonymous to the adopting family and you agree to have no future contact with them or your child.”
“Will she ever know who I am?” I asked.
“Not without your explicit consent,” Dr. Bergen said.
“And what about the other kind—open adoption?” I asked.
“It’s kind of like a dating site. You choose whom you’d like to meet and you can meet as many couples as you like,” he said. “We will facilitate the meetings and guide you through the interview process. There is no time pressure. You take as long as you need to find the right fit. Once we’ve found a match, you and the adopting family can choose to have regular communications—updates on your child’s well-being, that sort of thing. The adopting family may also agree to occasional visits. Or you may choose to have no contact until the child is eighteen.”
I rested my cheek against Orchid’s head and inhaled her baby scent. I started to cry.
I looked up at Dr. Bergen. “The most important thing is that Orchid must know how much I loved her,” I said. “She can never think that I gave her up because I didn’t love her.”
FOURTEEN
DR. BERGEN NUDGED THE BOX OF KLEENEX TOWARD ME. I took a handful.
“We can draft that language into the contract,” Dr. Bergen said. “Some birth mothers write a letter with instructions that it be given to the child when she starts to ask questions about her origins.”
“How would you like to proceed?” Dr. Bergen asked. “Would you like to be left alone to browse our gallery? As you scroll through the profiles, you can tap the plus sign on the console to add them to your favorites and the minus button will remove them from your personal gallery. Once you’ve selected your top choice, we’ll contact the family to schedule a meeting. Sound good?”
Dr. Bergen stood up to leave. “Can I get you some water or coffee?”
“Water would be good,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Just press the call button on the console when you’re done and Caroline will buzz me,” he said. “Jasmine, you are doing a very loving thing.”
Loving thing, loving thing, I repeated to myself as I rocked Orchid in her carrier. It’s the right thing, baby. I thought I could take care of you but I can’t. I don’t have a job, I don’t have any money. You need a mommy who can give you everything you need. Even if I take you home to New Jersey, we’re still in the same situation. I just can’t see my way out of it.
I rang the call button.
I chose Allison Martin. Her husband, Griffin, seemed nice enough but Allison’s story spoke to me. She was forty-two and had miscarried twice before her first husband, Jackson, died in Afghanistan. Apparently Griffin had a low sperm count, so Allison’s only option was adoption. Allison was of mixed race and Jackson had been African-American. Griffin looked Irish to me.
Allison was tall and slender; Griffin was an inch or so shorter than her. He was very muscular but had a bit of a potbelly. He was a retired autoworker and had moved to Las Vegas to care for his elderly mother. Allison was a nurse at the assisted living facility, where Griffin’s mother had lived until her death the previous year.
I held Orchid tight as I counted the days to the first meeting. Too tight. She would squirm and fuss but I couldn’t put her down. I was terrified if I put her down, she would never let me pick her up again. At night, I dreamed that she had disappeared; I had lost her somewhere. Did I leave her at the Y? Had she fallen in the pool? Where are you Orchid? I screamed in my dream but no sound came out of my mouth.
The first time, we met in Dr. Bergen’s office. I left Orchid in the nursery next door. Dr. Bergen led us through a series of exercises, designed to uncover our inherent beliefs about parenthood and child rearing. Griffin had two adult children living in Ohio who he visited every few months. He seemed very close to them, and I liked that. Allison was originally from Oklahoma and was part Shawnee. She had a large extended family spread out across Nevada, Arizona and Oklahoma. Orchid would have a lot of cousins—that was something I had always wanted for her. I was an only child, and Mom wasn’t close to her brothers. I never really knew my cousins.
For our second meeting, I suggested that Allison and I have lunch together. Dr. Bergen warned us that it was against protocol to exclude Griffin but I needed to speak with Allison alone if I was going to tell her the whole truth about Orchid.
“Can I hold her?” Allison asked as soon as we got seated.
Orchid was awake and staring at the people around us. I stood and handed her to Allison.
“I didn’t always work with old folks, you know,” Allison said. “I used to wor
k in maternity. I have a lot of experience with babies.”
“Why did you make the switch?” I asked.
“More jobs in geriatrics these days,” Allison said.
When our food arrived, I placed Orchid in her carrier and gave her a pacifier. “I’m still breast-feeding,” I said. “I guess she’ll need to transition to formula.” Then I looked up at Allison and said, “I need to tell you about Orchid’s conception. You will let her keep her name, Orchid, I hope?”
“Griff and I already discussed it,” Allison said. “We love the name Orchid.”
I let out a huge sigh. “I really have no right to ask, but I am so happy to hear that.” I took a long drink of water and then set my glass down before continuing. “Look, you can decide how much of this you want to share with Orchid when the time is right.”
I told Allison the story of the Christmas party, waking up in Eddie’s bed and finding myself pregnant two months later.
“I wanted you to know that I’m not some slut who slept around and had no idea who father was,” I said. “But when I confronted Eddie, he threatened to file for custody, and I couldn’t risk losing her to him. So there is no proof of paternity. Which is better, all things considered. He probably would try to muck up the adoption process. The most important thing is that Orchid needs to know how much I wanted her and how much I loved her, do love her. I tried to keep her and make it on my own.”
Allison recoiled in horror. “Do you think he’ll come after us and sue for custody?”
“Not a chance in hell,” I said. “He only said that to scare the shit out of me, which it did. I don’t have any money. I can’t fight him in court. He knows that. He just wanted me to disappear. He wanted Orchid to disappear. This solves all of his problems.” I felt nauseous but I knew I was right.
Allison reached across the table and held my hand in both of hers. Her eyes were wet.
“And one more thing, as long as I’m asking,” I said.
“What is it?” Allison asked.
“Promise me you’ll pay for dance lessons if she asks?” I said.
Allison laughed through her tears. “My mother was a dancer with the Oklahoma City Ballet.”
“You’re kidding!”
That clinched it. My final meeting with the Martins was in Dr. Bergen’s office with attorneys present.
“Would you like to hold her?” Dr. Bergen said to me.
I was torn. I was giving up my baby. Would holding her make us feel better or far worse?
I nodded, silently. My heart was breaking. I got to hold my baby one last time and then I kissed her goodbye. Orchid Walker Martin was her new name.
FIFTEEN
MY APARTMENT SEEMED DESOLATE NOW THAT ORCHID was gone and I couldn’t wait to get out of there and as far away from Las Vegas as possible. I started packing the next day.
I didn’t own much. I donated all of Orchid’s baby things to the Methodist church next door to the adoption agency. I emptied the kitchen cupboards and packed the non-perishables into boxes that I delivered to the food bank. I taped a sign to my front door, “Free Stuff,” and the neighbors came over to pick through piles of books, glasses and dishware. I had to leave my futon on the sidewalk, but other than that, everything fit into my car. I found Orchid’s stuffed bunny under the front seat of the car. I held it up to my face and inhaled. Oh, Orchid!
I knocked on the super’s door.
“Goodbye, Mr. Fong,” I said as I handed him my key.
“Will you be back in September?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Not this year. Maybe next year.”
“Okay, next year,” he said nodding. “See you.”
Who am I kidding? I thought as I walked down the sundrenched walkway to the parking lot. I’ll never be back. I had my chance as a dancer. I screwed up, and now my life is changed forever.
The drive to New Jersey took me five days. It was only technically thirty-eight hours of driving time but I had to stop every couple of hours to cry and I couldn’t stay awake past dusk. The days got shorter and the roads icier as I made my way east. My breasts were engorged with breast milk that Orchid would never taste again, but WebMD said the agony should only last a few days.
I picked up a brochure at a Motel 6 outside of Omaha and plotted my trajectory according to the location of the Motel 6 closest to the five-hundred-mile mark. I hopscotched across the country, racing the eighteen-wheelers through Omaha, Denver, Davenport and Chicago to Cleveland and Allentown, where the signs started directing me toward New York City. Each night I would pull into the parking lot of the Motel 6, clutching my order from KFC or Pizza Hut. I would curl up in bed and fall asleep with the TV on. At night, I dreamed of driving—the rhythm of the tires on the freeway—k-thump, k-thump, mile after endless mile. In the middle of the night I would wake up with a start, wondering where I was, and where was Orchid. Then I would remember and collapse on the pillow with a heavy heart. The giddiness I had felt as I drove west three years before had been replaced by a sense of dread, of loss, of impending death. Once I had been racing toward something. Now, I was in retreat.
After what seemed like an eternity, I reached Pennsylvania, but highway I-80 was under yet another phase of construction. Traffic slowed to a crawl for two hours. I hadn’t been able to stretch at the ballet barre in days and my ass was killing me. With the skyline of Manhattan in the distance, at last I saw the sign for Route 46 to North Bergen.
I had texted Mom from the New Jersey border and she was waiting for me. It was always Christmas in my neighborhood of single-family homes clad in aluminum siding and wrought iron railings; the holiday decorations hung all year long. Mom jumped up from the couch as I pulled into the driveway and met me at the door.
“Where is that baby?” Mom cried out. “Where is my grandbaby? How can you drive for five days with a baby in the car? That poor baby, she needs to get some rest, now.”
I stood on the porch with just a suitcase in my hand.
“What did you do with my grandbaby?” Mom demanded.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Sit your ass down and tell me what is going on.”
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “Nice to see you, too.”
“Don’t give me any of that lip,” she said.
“Can I use the bathroom?” I asked.
I ran the washcloth under the faucet until it was steaming hot. Then I pressed it against my face, my chest and the back of my neck. I looked like hell. This is the face of loss, I thought as I gazed in the mirror. Will this face ever recover? Will I ever be happy again? I dried my face and steeled myself to face Mom.
She was sitting on the sofa, nursing a beer. I went into the kitchen to get myself one too.
“What have you gone and done?” she yelled out.
I walked slowly into the room, trying to lengthen and soften my spine after five days on the road.
I set my beer down on the table and did a couple of side-bends.
“Mom,” I said at last. “I gave her up.”
“What do you mean, you gave her up?” she demanded.
“I gave her up for adoption,” I said. “I found a wonderful mother for Orchid—her name is Allison Martin. She is part black, part Indian, part something else, I guess. Her mom used to dance with the Oklahoma City Ballet. How great is that?”
Mom was quiet for a long time
“Is she married?” Mom asked at last.
“Yes,” I said. “Her first husband died in Iraq or someplace. She’s remarried. He has adult children from his first marriage, but they couldn’t have kids of their own—Allison, I mean.”
“Well, you’ve finally done the responsible thing,” Mom said. “I never wanted you to move out there and Lord knows you have no business raising a baby. You found a good family to raise her. Amen. So what’s your plan now? Are you dropping out of school? Because you’re not going to just park your ass on my couch.”
“I can transfer to Kean or Montclair,”
I said. “I think I have a couple of weeks before the deadline for fall admission.”
“You’re not going back to Vegas?” she asked.
“You were right about that place, Mom,” I said, flopping into a chair. “You were right about a lot of things.” I took a long draw from my beer. “I miss her so much! Allison said she would post photos on Facebook every day so I can watch Orchid grow up.”
“Do you think that is wise?” Mom asked. “In my day, you kissed your illegitimate baby good-bye and went on with your life. You’re twenty years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. And Orchid is in a better place, now. She’s better off without you.”
Okay, that stings, I thought. “Oh my God, you make it sound like she’s dead!” I said. “I wonder if she’s missing me.”
“You said you found Orchid a good mother,” Mom said. “If you pine over her every day, you’ll never move on with your life”.
Mom dimmed the table lamp and we sat in the half-darkness for a long time.
“Did you ever consider giving me up for adoption?” I asked.
“Not for one minute,” she said. “Twenty years ago, things were different. You would have most likely ended up in a foster home. Of course things were hard in the beginning. After your daddy ran off with that fool, Irene, my momma wouldn’t have nothing to do with me. I had to move us back in with my grandma.”
“Do you think I’ve made a mistake?” I asked.
“You’ve made your bed—now lie in it,” she said.
“Speaking of making beds,” I said. “I need to stay here for a while. Just until I get a job.”
“You show up here, unannounced,” she said. “Texting me like I’m some teenager? And now you say you’re staying for a while? Is this the way I raised you? You moved to Las Vegas against my wishes. Then you refused to come back when I told you to. You gave up my grandchild without consulting me. What am I, your doormat?”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “I need a do-over. I need a fresh start. I always thought I could come home if I didn’t know where else to go.”
