Father Knows Best

by Lynda Sandoval

  She unfurled her legs in an ungainly way and hoisted herself to her feet. “From your dad?” She smoothed her babydoll top.

  “No, from his…” Girlfriend? Bad. From your ex-boyfriend’s mother? Also bad. I settled for, “From my boss.”

  She lumbered closer and lowered her voice to a rasp. “Chloe Sebring? Dylan’s mom? Have you lost your mind?”

  Maybe. “No, but listen. She thinks it’s responsible that you’re looking into this and she’s willing to help.”

  Jennifer looked dubious at best.

  I flapped my arms once. “Look, she can give me the scoop and I can relay it, but wouldn’t you rather hear it from her directly? What if I screw up an important point and you end up selling your baby into slavery or something?”

  That wouldn’t really happen, folks. I’m not a complete imbecile. But I so wasn’t into playing the middleman. Please, God.

  “How embarrassing.” She exhaled, then picked up her (designer, of course) purse. “Okay, let’s go. You’re positive she won’t talk to my parents?”

  “She said she wouldn’t, and I trust her.”

  “Fine.” Her eyes shone with fear and vulnerability. “I can do this,” she said, mostly to herself. “Ugh.”

  A pang of…something gooey and un-Lila-esque struck me, and I actually reached over and squeezed her hand. I know! Crack in the town’s water system, folks, it’s the only explanation I have. “It’ll be fine. Chloe’s cool about the whole thing.”

  Jennifer took a deep breath, held it, then blew it out. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  We got past the awkward hellos at the coffee shop quickly, thanks to Chloe leading the pack on that front. Once we had our foamy-yummilicious double espresso drinks (and Jennifer had her boring-ass cocoa), we settled at an umbrella table on the outdoor patio.

  “So, tell me what’s going on, Miss Jennifer,” Chloe said, then watched her over the rim of her paper cup as she sipped.

  Jennifer cleared her throat and adjusted her position in the metal chair. Back straight. Shoulders tight. Chin high. “Well,” she started clumsily as though she were giving a presentation in school for which she hadn’t prepared, “as you know, I’m pregnant.”

  “Really?” Chloe asked, all wide-eyed. “I thought you’d smuggled a stolen crystal ball out of the metaphysical shop under your shirt.”

  Jennifer froze, her face pale, then glanced toward me.

  I laughed, no help whatsoever.

  “I’m sorry,” Chloe said, with a regretful smile, as though just then realizing her gaffe. “That was sarcasm, not to mention a poorly timed joke.”

  Poorly timed? She’d been dead-on if you ask me.

  “Working with Lila is rubbing off on me.” Chloe winked my way, then turned back to Jennifer. “I know you’re pregnant, honey.”

  Like the whole world didn’t? I thought. Hello, protuding gut!

  “Oh.” Exhale. “Okay. You scared me,” Jennifer said.

  She and I shared one of those forced, nervous “heh heh heh!” laughs until that ever-intrusive (at least to me) question, “how do you end your laugh?” entered my brain (remember?) and made me cut mine off abruptly to dive into my latte.

  Jennifer took my cue, sorta, and let her laugh taper off with all the grace of an untied balloon farting its way empty through the air until it landed limp and embarrassed on the ground. I couldn’t blame her, because, apparently, she’d never been introduced to the whole “how do you end your laugh?” conundrum. I’d school her about it later.

  “So, I know a prospective couple who have been trying to get pregnant through, um, artificial insemination, but it’s not working. And they’re banging their heads against the brick wall of bureaucracy when it comes to adoption.”

  Wow, she actually sounded sort of smart. Who’da thunk?

  She cleared her throat. “I’ve talked to them a little about adopting my daughter. Just with a ‘what if’ kind of tone.”

  “It’s a girl?” Chloe asked gently, with a smile.

  “Yes,” Jennifer said, shyly. “The thing is, I don’t want to give her up to some big, impersonal adoption agency where I’ll never know anything about her again, and she’ll never know about me. Plus, I want her to have these moms.”

  Chloe blinked twice. “Moms?”

  “Reese and Kelly,” I said.

  Jennifer’s mouth opened as if to defend any forthcoming argument, but Chloe didn’t even startle. “Oh, that’s sweet. Reese and Kelly are good people. They’ll make amazing parents.”

  “If they ever get to be parents. They’ve gone through hell trying.” Jennifer blew out a breath, sipped her cocoa, regained her questionable cool, then said, “Anyway, that’s what I think, too. That they’re the perfect parents for the little goober. In fact, I’m completely obsessed with making it happen at this point.”

  They smiled at each other, and I concentrated on my java again. Dude, they so didn’t need me here. In fact, maybe I could melt my way under the table, then low crawl outta there. They wouldn’t even notice.

  But—odd as this sounds—I really wanted to find out about the whole adoption process, too. Sure, it felt squirm-worthy to bandy about terms such as “insemination” and “trimester,” with my boyfriend’s mother, but still. Curiosity got the better of me. It seems weird to just sort of give the baby to people you know. I mean, what if you woke up one night and decided you wanted her back? What then?

  “It sounds as if you’re interested in open adoption,” Chloe said. “Is that right?”

  Jennifer darted a furtive glance toward me. “Um—”

  “That means you’d be able to see her even though Reese and Kelly would be her moms. You’d have contact,” I said, all informed and whatnot. I glanced at Chloe. “Right?”

  She nodded. “There are basically three types of adoption. Open, mediated, or confidential.” She reached up and brushed her hair back from her face. “Confidential means you’d have zero contact, zero information. You wouldn’t even know where the baby went.”

  “No way,” Jennifer said.

  Chloe inclined her head. “I don’t think mediated adoption would work in this case, because you live in the same small town as Reese and Kelly. You couldn’t very well keep all your contact with them through a mediator, like a caseworker or attorney, because—”

  “I hang out at their store.”

  Chloe laughed softly. “Right. So, the question is, are you—the three of you—prepared to deal with open adoption?”

  Jennifer tucked her long hair behind her ears. “Well, I don’t really know what’s involved.”

  Chloe nodded once. “A close friend of mine has an open-adopted baby. They’ve had regular contact with the birth mother, Mimi, since day one.” She held up a hand. “Let me make it absolutely clear, my friend and her husband are the sole parents. The legal relationship of parent / child between Mimi and her baby was permanently severed when the papers were signed. Period. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “But MiMa, as the child knows her, visits regularly, babysits on occasion. She’s part of their family life without any parental duties or rights whatsoever. She never assumes a parental role with the child, and that’s imperative.”

  “That’s exactly what I want. I’m not ready to be a mother. I don’t even want to be one.” Jennifer gulped. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to watch the baby grow up with good parents who can give her the life she deserves.”

  “How do Reese and Kelly feel?”

  Jennifer bit her lip. “I’d have to talk to them more.”

  “If you’re serious, you should do that. We’re talking tons and tons and tons of paperwork, sweetie. All of the interaction details and rules have to be hashed out with separate attorneys for each of you up front and put into an agreement. Of course, things can be modified as the child gets older and her needs change.”

  “Oh.” Jennifer’s chin quivered, and
tears glistened in her eyes. “I don’t have money for an attorney, and there’s no way my parents would foot that bill. They’d rather the baby just disappear so they can pretend she never happened.”

  Chloe reached across and squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. Usually the adoptive parents pay for both attorneys.”

  A beat passed. “Really? Oh—whew. Okay.” Jennifer visibly relaxed.

  “The whole point of open adoption is to minimize the loss of relationships for the baby,” Chloe said. “There won’t be all the questions like, who is my birth mother? Or, why didn’t she want me? You can also make sure she has access to genetic information. That’s so valuable.”

  “Yeah,” Jennifer said, wistfully.

  “Also, and most vital, an open adoption will allow your birth daughter to maintain connections with all the important people in her life, and that includes you, the young lady who actually gave her the gift of life.”

  Jennifer’s tears came in earnest then, and I started to fidget in my chair. Soooo uncomfortable. Chloe, though, she had a handle on it.

  Thank God for Chloe! Wait—did I just think that?

  “Talk to us, Jen,” Chloe said, in a gentle voice. “What’s going through your head?”

  “Everything is just so messed up. My parents—” She punctuated the half-statement with the classic eye roll / head shake combo, which said it all, really. Then she waved her hand. “Don’t mind the tears. It’s a hormonal thing, according to my doctor. I absolutely sob watching reality television these days, even when it’s not sad.”

  We all laughed at that one.

  As she regained her composure, Jennifer said, “I just so want it to work out. Like, you have no idea. I want Reese and Kelly to be my baby’s moms. More than anything. And I’m afraid it won’t happen because they’re gay and the system will block them. Somehow it feels like having them raise her would make everything all better.”

  Chloe dipped her chin. “You have to be clear, hon. A successful open adoption takes work and flexibility and commitment to the long-term, fluctuating relationship between all of you. There will be ups and downs, and through it all, you have to be steadfast in knowing that Reese and Kelly are the moms. No matter what, and I guarantee there will come a day when you disagree with one of their parenting decisions, no matter how perfect you think they are right now. Once you sign that paper, you are not the baby’s mom anymore. Ever.”

  Jennifer nodded, her expression solemn.

  “How your relationship with the baby will be defined is up to them,” Chloe added firmly. “Not you. Okay?”

  “That’s what I want.”

  “You’re going through a lot. You have to be sure.”

  The set of Jennifer’s chin said she was resolute. “I’m sure. I can’t even keep my St. Patty’s shamrock alive through April each year.”

  “Okay, then.” Chloe stooped and retrieved her purse from the ground. She dug through it and extracted a business card. “This is my friend who went through the open adoption. She’ll help as long as she knows you’re serious.”

  “I am. Way.”

  “When are you due?”

  “Christmas.” Jennifer huffed and shook her head sadly. “I know, joke’s on me, right?”

  I counted back quickly in my head…nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two—score. The baby had to have been conceived at the end of March, after she and Dylan had broken up for the last time. Mind you, I’m not worried, nor do I doubt what Dylan told me. I was simply double-checking now that I knew her actual due date.

  Chloe passed over the card. “Contact her soon, Jennifer, and tell her I sent you. I’ll speak with her, too, but you need to take the initiative before I do that, okay? This is your problem to solve.”

  Jennifer nodded.

  “What about the baby’s father?”

  Jennifer pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  Chloe, to her credit, didn’t react one way or the other. “Then this is one hundred percent your responsibility.”

  “I know. I swear I’ll contact her ASAP.”

  “ASAP means today or tomorrow, not next week or next month.” Chloe raised her eyebrows. “You’re four months along already. These things take time and effort and come with miles of red tape. No dragging your feet.”

  Wow, so mom-like, I thought. It gave me uncharacteristic warm fuzzies.

  Jennifer studied the card, then beamed up at Chloe through watery eyes. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your willingness to help me with this. I know I royally screwed up and all, but—”

  “None of that. What’s done is done. And it’s my pleasure to help. No sense compounding one error in judgment with another.” Chloe scraped her chair back, then paused. “Tell Reese and Kelly I’d be more than happy to speak with them, too, if they have questions. We belong to the White Peaks Downtown Commerce Group together, so they know me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I hate to run, but Miss Lila here and I need to pick up coffee for my employees and head back to work. Here”—Chloe motioned for the card back—“let me write my phone number on the back. Anytime you need to talk or have a question, you can call me.”

  Jennifer hesitated. “Um…Chloe? I still know your phone number.”

  My gut dropped. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

  Just the reminder that Jennifer and Dylan had dated wigged me.

  Weak, jealous, stupid.

  Dylan was allowed to have a past, for God’s sake. Just because I didn’t have one doesn’t mean he had to be a dateless loser before we hooked up. In fact, I’m well aware he wasn’t a dateless loser pre-Lila. Plus, he and Jennifer hadn’t even really liked each other, which I needed to remember. And they’d never had sex.

  “Of course. Sorry. My offer stands.” Chloe stood.

  I followed suit, relieved.

  “By the way, I like your hair that color,” Chloe said.

  “Thanks.” Jennifer reached up and touched her head. “Back to the color God gave me, you know? It sure is easier to maintain. And cheaper.”

  I glanced down at the list of coffee orders for the travel agents.

  “Lila,” Jennifer said.

  I looked up.

  “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without all your help and just…well, you’re being so nice to me and I don’t deserve it.”

  “Everyone deserves it,” I snapped, way sharper than intended. “That’s the part you and those snotty so-called friends of yours don’t get.”

  The three of us—and people at surrounding tables—froze.

  Oops. Emotion-belch. Eh, it happens, but bummer that it happened in front of Chloe. Then again, she was a high school girl way back in the day, so surely she’d understand. In any case, I stuffed Honest-but-Tactless Lila back into her inner jail cell where she belonged, then tried to smile at Jennifer. “But at least you’re starting to get it,” I added, to soften my rather harsh (okay, way harsh, albeit true) previous words. “Don’t sweat it.”

  The whole coffee shop seemed to breathe a sigh of relief that a smackdown had not ensued. As if I’d open the whup-ass can on a pregnant teenager—please. Last time I checked, I didn’t have “dirtbag” tattooed on my forehead.

  We said our good-byes without incident.

  After buying the coffees for the other employees, Chloe and I walked silently back to the office, each lost in our own thoughts.

  Mine raced. Questioned. Doubted.

  So, okay. You could claim that I’d helped Jennifer “formerly Hellspawn” Hamilton gather info about private / open adoption, when all she’d been was pure, spitting evil to me over the years. I get how weird that is, but things change, you know? And grudges are overrated. Meryl was helping her feel included. Chloe was helping her get things in order. Reese and Kelly—well, they tended to help everyone, what with their metaphysical bent, so it kinda didn’t count. Well, it did, but you know what I mean.

 
And, yes, even I had stepped in—big whoop. If I were in Jennifer’s awful position, I’d sure as hell want support, no matter who gave it. Come the first day of school, there’d be talk, no doubt about it. But frankly, the other kids at WPHS could think and gossip and be as cruel as they wanted about Jennifer and her unfortunate situation. Believe me, they would.

  But that didn’t mean I had to play along. That had never been my M.O.

  Not even with my boyfriend’s evil ex.

  I mean, Phuket, people. Seriously. Just Phuket.

  Chapter Eleven

  Caressa

  Gotta say, the moment I realized Joaquin wasn’t as worldly and out of my league as I’d originally feared? Total relief. He might be an accomplished Broadway dancer, but dude is a regular guy. I mean that in a good way. In fact, he was raised up more “regular” than I was, if you want the truth. He lives with his completely regular family in a regular, smallish apartment (no recording studio, for instance) located in the completely regular Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn, a.k.a. not Manhattan. Plus, he has regular chores that he bitches about and a gloriously regular messy bedroom.

  Wait, back up.

  The bedroom knowledge is only because he and I have been inseparable buds since that first “cuppa” date, week one of my internship, which we’ve made an almost daily ritual. Thomas would kill me if anything else was going on in that bedroom, trust me. And Dad would ship me home in an instant.

  But, when ’Quin and I aren’t at work or at the studio where he practices (and I watch), we hang out, listen to music, watch TV, take long walks. He introduces me to the neighborhoods (I like Greenwich Village, Soho, and, of course, Tribeca), plus he even goes to Sephora with me! And he never cares if I hang with my other friends, like a few other young cast members, or Brandon, this dry-witted, snarky screenwriter a couple of years older than I am who lives in the Rosenthal’s building. We met in the elevator. Brandon has great insights about people and always keeps me laughing. We’re not into each other at all, but I dig chillin’ with him.

  The way ’Quin isn’t so regular is that he’s a great talker, unlike a lot of guys I’ve known, Brandon notwithstanding. Seriously, Joaquin and I can walk through the streets of New York City for hours at a time and never run out of stuff to talk about. Love that. During one afternoon outing in Central Park, I’d even come clean about my inappropriate crush on the way-too-old Bobby Slade and how embarrassing it had been. That’s how comfortable I feel with him, and he’s totally cool about anything and everything I confide. He’s like a best friend who happens to be male, something I never thought existed.