by Amy Hatvany
“I’m not sure.” Brooke shifted in her seat, crossed her legs, and began to bob her right foot as it hung in the air. “I’m thirty-nine, so this could be my last chance to have a baby.”
“That’s true,” Jill said. She waited for Brooke to continue.
“The father is going through a divorce,” Brooke said, quickly. She maintained strong eye contact with the younger woman to show she was not ashamed of her situation.
“Okay,” Jill said, leaning back against her chair.
“And I definitely won’t give it up for adoption.”
“You’re not comfortable with that idea?” Jill asked, with a slight tilt of her head.
“No,” Brooke said. Her voice was hard. “I’m not.” She wasn’t against adoption, per se. Under normal circumstances, she knew it was an incredibly generous act, an amazing gift given to a couple or individual in need. But in her particular situation, with her particular past, it was something she just couldn’t do.
Jill remained silent, waiting for Brooke to say more.
“I can’t keep it,” Brooke said, and her voice broke on the words. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, and she attempted to blink them away. Goddamn it. She didn’t cry in front of other people, especially not strangers.
“Okay,” Jill said, again, pushing a box of tissues across her desk.
Brooke grabbed one and wiped her eyes. “Can I take care of it now, while I’m here?” she asked even as her bottom lip trembled. “Or is there some kind of waiting period?” Her stomach folded in on itself, and without thinking, she placed a hand over her abdomen. Oh, god. What was she doing?
“Not in Washington State,” Jill said. “Let me check the schedule.” She kept her voice soft, her tone neutral. Brooke held her breath as the younger woman typed and clicked her mouse a few times, all the while looking at her computer. “We actually could fit you in this afternoon,” she said, moving her eyes from the screen to Brooke’s face. “Does that work?”
Brooke nodded, pressing a closed fist against her mouth. It was the easiest option, the one least likely to make waves in her life. She wouldn’t have to tell Ryan. She could just get it over with. Nothing would have to change.
Jill eyed her, carefully. “There’s no rush,” she said. “You have some time to think about it, if you want to take a few days.”
“No,” Brooke said. “I want to do it now.”
“Okay,” Jill said, and then turned to type on her keyboard once again. “Do you have any questions for me about the procedure?”
“No,” Brooke said. The less she knew, the better. She just wanted it done.
“There’s someone to drive you home?” Brooke nodded, even though it was a lie. But Jill didn’t have to know that. “You’ll need to get some labs done, and an ultrasound, so I’ll take you to a room and a technician will handle all of that.” She flipped through a few pages from Brooke’s file and raised her eyebrows. “You’ve listed ‘unknown’ for your family medical history.”
“Yes.” Brooke’s pulse pounded inside her head; there was no subject she hated more than that of family. She had told Ryan that she was an only child, that her parents lived in Florida, and they were estranged. Lying to him—to everyone, really—was so much less painful than speaking the truth. She had wondered what it would be like to open up, to tell Ryan about her mother and the sister she’d lost along the way, about the foster homes she’d lived in, and the life she’d learned to tolerate at Hillcrest. She imagined saying the words “My mother decided she didn’t want me when I was four years old, so she gave me away,” and the physical reaction she had—her head spun and her throat closed as though she were choking on something hard and sharp—was so violent, she knew it was better to keep her mouth shut.
But now, sitting across from Jill, she decided to be honest, in the hope that it might put a quick end to the discussion. “My mother gave custody of me to the state when I was four. I have no clue about my father.” Brooke’s cheeks flamed, as though her past was something to be ashamed of. She hated that she had this reaction; if anyone should be plagued by that particular emotion, it should be the woman who’d discarded her as though she were nothing.
“I understand,” Jill said, even though Brooke knew there was no way the younger woman understood anything of what Brooke had been through. “I understand” was just something people said to fill in a blank, when nothing else made sense.
“I have some more forms for you to read over,” Jill said. She pulled open a file drawer in her desk and riffled through it, setting a small stack of paper in front of Brooke. “I’ll give you a bit to review everything, then come take you back to an exam room.” She stood up, pressing her fingertips into her desk. “It’s going to be fine, Brooke. We’ll take good care of you.”
“Thanks,” Brooke said. Jill might have been young, but at least she was kind.
Brooke spent the next twenty minutes filling out the forms that described the procedure and then signed them to give her consent. She also read the detailed aftercare instructions, relieved to note that if she opted not to have the sedative, she should be okay to drive home. She wouldn’t even have to call in sick to work that night, if all went well. She’d pop some Advil and pretend the whole thing never happened.
She tried to relax the tight knot that had settled beneath her sternum with controlled breaths, only to have it spring claws and dig in deeper. She’d be fine, she thought, mentally repeating what Jill had said. It wouldn’t be easy, but she’d made it this far on her own. She’d make it through this, too.
As promised, Jill returned to her office and then led Brooke down a long, well-lit hall to an exam room. She put her hand on Brooke’s arm and gave it a short squeeze. “Feel free to give us a call any time, after,” she said. “We’re here to help.”
Brooke nodded as she bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to taste a coppery drop of blood. After Jill left and she was alone, Brooke changed into a gown and sat on the edge of the exam table, her bare legs swinging. A woman came to take her blood, and after she had left, another woman entered and introduced herself as the ultrasound technician. She was significantly older than Brooke, a little top-heavy, wore no makeup, and her gray hair was cut in a sensible, short bob.
“I’m Linda,” the woman said in the crackling voice of a heavy-duty smoker. She confirmed Brooke’s name and date of birth. “This won’t take long. Can you lie back, with your head on the pillow, please?”
“Why do I need an ultrasound?” Brooke asked, as she complied with Linda’s request. “If I’m just . . . if I’m not . . .” She clamped her lips together, unable to finish the sentence.
Linda stood next to her and placed a reassuring hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “We need to confirm the gestational age,” she said. “Make sure everything’s where it’s supposed to be, and that it’s not an ectopic pregnancy.”
“Oh,” Brooke said. “Okay.” She settled back against the pillow and turned her head toward the wall, where a poster of a tropical, sandy beach hung directly across from her. To let women imagine being there instead of on the exam table, Brooke supposed. To imagine being anywhere but here.
Linda helped Brooke get her heels in the hard plastic stirrups, put a warm blanket over her legs, and then pushed up her gown to expose her stomach. “Sorry, this is going to be a little cold,” she said as she squeezed a clear gel from a white bottle. But even with the warning, Brooke startled when the substance hit her skin. Linda grabbed a wand from the white and gray machine that sat on a cart next to the table. The screen was turned away from Brooke’s view. Linda pressed the end of the wand against Brooke’s abdomen. She was silent as she typed with one hand, maneuvering the wand from one of Brooke’s hip bones to the other.
“What are you doing?” Brooke asked. Her voice trembled, even though she tried to keep it steady. Had her mother thought about doing this when she got pregnant with her daughters? Did she lie in a room like this, and then change her mind, only to ultimately decide t
o dispose of them anyway? If she had this baby, was she destined to do the same?
“Just taking some measurements.”
The knot in Brooke’s chest pulsed. “Can I hear the heartbeat?” she asked.
Linda didn’t answer, but Brooke saw her flip a switch on the machine next to the table, and a moment later, after Linda moved the wand and pushed it harder into Brooke’s belly, the echoing whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of her baby’s heart filled the air.
“Oh,” Brooke said. Her hands clutched the crinkly white paper between her body and the table. Her eyes flooded with tears. “It’s so fast.” She paused, then turned to look at Linda. “Is that normal?”
“Yes,” Linda said, holding the wand steady. She didn’t say anything else, waiting, it seemed, for Brooke to tell her what to do next.
A whirlwind of indecision spun in Brooke’s mind. This was the best thing to do. She wasn’t equipped to raise a baby on her own. Her health insurance was shit. She didn’t make enough money. Ryan would think she was trying to trap him into finally divorcing Michelle. He’d leave Brooke. And then what would she be? Alone like she’d always been, with no idea how to be a good mother because she’d never had one herself.
“You okay, sweetie?” Linda asked, breaking into Brooke’s thoughts.
“I’m not sure,” Brooke said, much more comforted by the older woman’s presence than she had been by Jill’s. If she had had a grandmother, Brooke would have wanted her to be someone like Linda.
“You’re not sure if you’re okay, or if you still want to go ahead with the procedure?” Linda pulled the wand off Brooke’s belly, and the sudden silence that filled the room poured over Brooke like liquid lead. She found herself wanting to hear the baby’s heartbeat again and again.
“Both.” A few errant tears slipped down Brooke’s cheeks, and Linda reached for a box of tissues. “Thanks,” Brooke said as she took one and wiped her face.
“Of course,” Linda replied, setting the box back on the counter. “Women cry in here all the time. They change their minds, too. It’s one hundred percent your decision.”
Brooke nodded, keeping her eyes locked on Linda’s. “I know,” she said, feeling a tornado buzzing around the knot in her chest. Her own heart pounded, and she suddenly realized the link between her baby’s heartbeat and hers. They were already connected. This thought shot through her in an electric bolt, and shivers raced across her skin. What she’d mentioned to Jill earlier—that at Brooke’s age this was likely the last chance she’d have to become a mother—seemed even more poignant now. This was her chance to break the cycle her own mother had started. This child wasn’t disposable. It needed a mother. It needed Brooke. Whatever it took, however much she might have to sacrifice, she could have this baby and be the kind of parent it deserved. She could give it everything her own mother never gave to her.
Fifteen minutes later, Brooke was dressed and had climbed into her car. It was raining again, a slow and steady drizzle, but the changing leaves on the trees surrounding the lot looked like they had been dipped in fire, their roots plugged in and their volume turned up. Her head still spinning, she grabbed her phone from her purse and called Ryan.
“Hey,” she said. It was the middle of day, and Brooke knew he was on a job site; she heard the banging of hammers and the buzz of electric saws in the background. She tried to think of what to say next, but the words logjammed in her throat. She couldn’t do it on the phone. She needed to see his face.
“Hey, babe,” Ryan said. “Everything okay? You sound stressed.”
To say the least, she thought, then forged ahead with the reason she’d called. “Can I see you tonight? Or do you have the boys?”
“Not until the weekend. I’d love to see you. Are you working? Should I bring the crew by for a beer?”
“Not tonight, okay?” Her voice wavered. “But I’m off around eleven, so I’ll come to your place after that.”
“Can’t wait, gorgeous.”
They hung up, and Brooke started her car, skipping between feelings of terror, exhilaration, and panic from one breath to the next. And then she drove toward home, trying to figure out the right words to tell Ryan she was going to have his baby, wondering if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.
Jennifer
In August 1981, I was ten months into my sentence at Skagit Valley Correctional. When I woke up each morning, if I tried hard enough, I could forget where I was. I could pretend my thin mattress and gray, scratchy blanket were actually luxurious, that the funky, earthy smell of too many bodies sleeping in one place didn’t exist. I could tell myself there wasn’t a woman who had sold painkillers on a downtown Seattle street corner in a bed less than six feet from me, or guards posted at every door. I could believe that the early-morning light hitting my face streamed in through a beveled glass window instead of one secured with padlocks and wire mesh.
I could, if only for a moment, forget that I’d given my children away.
And then, when my eyes fluttered open, the truth came, slamming into my chest like a wrecking ball, and I wept, missing my girls. I imagined Brooke, holding her sister’s hand, helping to teach her how to walk. I pictured Natalie, gripping her older sister’s fingers, her chubby, slightly bowed legs taking one shaky step after the other. I remembered their sweet, little-girl scents and the way their belly giggles always made me laugh, too. I remembered the way they felt tucked up next to me in the back of our car, the three of us cuddled beneath an unzipped sleeping bag and several more blankets, keeping each other warm. I remembered all of this, and then tried to force myself to forget it. To instead focus on the task in front of me. Get up. Stand in line for the bathroom. Shower. Brush my teeth. One thing at a time, trying not to let my thoughts stray too far beyond the next indicated step.
Still, faced with long hours with nothing to do, I found myself writing little notes to my daughters whenever they came to mind. I used a yellow-and-brown–striped spiral notebook I’d found in the common room, jotting down a sentence or two at a time on the blue-lined pages, my lips twitching the way they always did when I was trying not to cry. Mama loves you so much, I wrote to Brooke. You have such a big, tender heart. You cried the first time you stepped on an ant and accidentally squished it; you asked if we could take it to the doctor. I hope you’re with people who know this about you. I hope you are tucked into bed every night with a story; I hope you’re in school now, and have lots of friends. I hope you never go to bed hungry. For Natalie, I recorded everything I remembered about her first six months: You slept through the night when you were only three weeks old, sweet girl, and I swear you smiled at me the very first time I held you. I wasn’t sure what I planned to do with these notes, but each time I wrote one, I experienced an infinitesimal flash of relief.
This morning, I stood in the kitchen at five thirty, wondering if my daughters would ever read the notes I’d written them, bleary-eyed as I mixed together enough pancake batter to feed three hundred inmates.
“Get those cakes on the griddle, Walker,” the kitchen manager, O’Brien, barked from across the room. She was an imposing woman of Native American and Irish descent, almost six feet tall and lithe. Her thick, black hair was lopped off just beneath her jawline, and her green eyes were set like emeralds above sharply drawn cheekbones. In another life, she might have been a model. In this one, she was a convicted cocaine dealer serving twenty years. She was also my boss.
“I’m on it,” I said, turning off the industrial mixer. I unhooked the large bowl and hefted it to the counter next to the stove, where I began spooning half-cup portions onto the already greased and hot griddle. We had less than an hour to get breakfast done; the first wave of inmates would line up at six, expecting to be fed by six fifteen, ready to threaten us with bodily harm if they weren’t. I’d been useless in the kitchen at first, having never used more than a toaster, but O’Brien believed in baptism by fire. My first week on breakfast duty she made me solely responsible for the production of s
crambled eggs and banana muffins, and within a few hours, even with her screaming at me about everything I was doing wrong, I’d all but mastered the stove and the ill-tempered oven. I found I actually liked cooking; it was one of the few things that forced me to focus on something other than where Brooke and Natalie might be, and if they’d ever find a way to forgive me for letting them go. They’re better off without me, I told myself, so often that it became my mantra. They won’t even remember me. They deserve so much more than I could give them.
“Walker!” a man’s rough-edged voice called, yanking me out of my thoughts, surprising me enough to cause me to drop the ladle I held into the vat of batter.
“Shit,” I muttered, reaching into the sticky mixture to fish out the utensil. Once I’d grabbed it and set it on the counter, I turned toward where the voice came. One of the guards, a large black man with a belly that hung well over his belt, stood in the kitchen’s entryway with his thick arms crossed over his chest. I raised my hand and waved. “Here,” I said, keeping one eye on the pancakes already on the stove. If I couldn’t flip them, they’d burn, and we’d have to serve them anyway. There was not enough time or enough supplies to make more.
“Report to Myer’s office as soon as you’re done with your shift,” he instructed. “Eleven o’clock. Don’t make me come find you.”
“I won’t.” I grabbed a spatula and started flipping the pancakes, relieved they were only just on the cusp of turning black. Donald Myer was my assigned counselor, who was supposedly part of my rehabilitation process, but in reality, I’d only seen a couple of times. I doubted he could match my face with my name.
As I continued to cook, O’Brien sidled up next to me. “What the hell was that about?” she asked. Her breath was stale and laced with the instant coffee she purchased at the commissary and drank almost constantly. A few months before, she had broken a woman’s nose when she caught her trying to steal her stash of Folgers, a stunt that had landed her in solitary confinement for two weeks.
