by Amy Hatvany
Brooke thought about this as she ran her hand over the swell of her stomach, wondering if Natalie had shown from the start of her pregnancy with Hailey; she made a mental note to ask her sister about it the next day. And then she thought how happy she was that she had a sister she could ask these kinds of things. Especially after today, seeing their mother, she couldn’t imagine a life without Natalie in it.
Throwing on her most comfortable pair of fleece pants and a tank top, Brooke plodded out of the bathroom and climbed into bed. Curling onto her side, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders and under her chin, wondering if Natalie was home yet, and if she had filled Kyle in on what happened at their birth mother’s house. However much she tried not to think about it, Brooke couldn’t help but go over and over everything Jennifer had said, dissecting it for something that would take away the sting of the fact that she didn’t want anything to do with her daughters. Brooke understood that Natalie was right—if their birth mother wasn’t capable of handling emotionally charged situations, then it was better if they stayed away from her altogether. Brooke had seen, as much as Natalie had, how skittish Jennifer was when she talked with them.
She said she gave Brooke and Natalie up because she loved them. Because she wanted the best for them. Shouldn’t that be enough? Wasn’t that what Brooke really needed to know? Still, her heart pounded as she remembered standing in front of her birth mother on that back deck, begging Jennifer for something she clearly didn’t have in her to give. But then something dawned on her. Maybe what she and Natalie needed from her was something their mother never had in the first place. Maybe, Brooke thought, in walking away, she gave us the most important gift that she could.
• • •
The next morning, Brooke woke up around nine, not remembering when she’d finally managed to fall asleep. It was Wednesday, and she didn’t have to work until the following night. When she rolled over and checked her phone on the nightstand, Brooke saw a text from Natalie. “You doing okay?” it read, and Brooke quickly typed her answer. “I think so. How about you?” A few seconds later, Natalie’s response came back: “I bawled my eyes out on my mom’s couch last night, which helped. I’m better now.” Her words were followed by a long line of Xs and Os, which Brooke copied and sent back. It felt so good to have someone check in on her, someone who knew what she was going through well enough to be concerned.
Once she’d showered and dressed, Brooke took her prenatal vitamins along with a quick breakfast, then decided to get in her car and head toward Northgate Mall. Her head still felt foggy and her chest ached a bit after the tears she’d cried the night before, but the more she replayed what had happened with Jennifer—the more she thought about her birth mother’s seemingly inherent inability to parent—the more motivated Brooke felt to do everything she could to prepare for the experience herself. The fact that Jennifer didn’t have it in her to be a good mother didn’t mean that Brooke was destined to the same fate. There were books she could read, classes she could take. She had her sister to help her along the way.
But today, the best thing she could think of to do—the quickest route she could take toward increasing her confidence that she could raise a child on her own—was to make a list of everything she would need to buy in order to take good care of a baby. She wanted to be prepared.
After finding a parking spot near Target, Brooke entered the store and grabbed a cart, thinking that even on her limited budget, she’d be able to buy a few things for the baby. She headed toward the baby section, a department she’d never spent time in before, determined, at the very least, to find an outfit for her daughter to wear home from the hospital. She imagined a frilly pink dress with white lace edging, white tights, and tiny black patent shoes. And a matching headband with a bow, she thought. She wondered if her daughter would have any hair when she was born, or if she’d be bald, like other babies she’d seen. She wondered if she’d recognize Ryan in their daughter’s face right away. She thought about the night she’d last seen him, standing next to her car, offering his support, his many texts and voicemails since then, and she suddenly thought how resentful she would have been if her father had wanted to help take care of her and Brooke’s mother refused him. If he had wanted to be a part of her life and was deliberately shut out. She was being unfair, she realized, and decided that she would call Ryan later that night and talk with him about the role he might play in their daughter’s life, not wanting to deny her child what Brooke had been denied herself. She would make it clear that she wasn’t interested in resuming the more intimate side of their relationship. For her own peace of mind, she needed to prove to herself that who she was—the life she built on her own—was enough.
On her way to the infant and toddler clothing department, she passed a wall covered with a variety of cribs, changing tables, and car seats, and decided to take a look. She ran her eyes over the many items from which she had to choose, realizing she should have searched the Internet for some kind of baby-readiness checklist before she decided to shop. She really had no idea where to start. She didn’t know the difference between a crib and a bassinet. And why would Target carry a bedside Co-Sleeper? Hadn’t Brooke read stories about women rolling over and accidentally suffocating their babies in the middle of the night? Maybe that was the reason for a Co-Sleeper, so the baby would be within easy reach but not on the bed with her. Did she need them all? She couldn’t believe how expensive some of the cribs were; she’d paid less for her junky, high-mileage first car. Her pulse began to race, and she worried she’d made a massive error in judgment thinking that she could do this on her own. If she couldn’t even pick out a crib, how was she going to do everything else? How was she going to change diapers, breast-feed, or figure out how to get her baby to stop crying? How would she choose a daycare or know when her daughter should start eating solid foods?
“When are you due?” a woman’s voice asked, jerking Brooke out of her thoughts. She turned to see a tall, elegant-looking black woman standing next to her. She was pregnant, too, likely further along than Brooke, since her stomach looked as though she’d swallowed a basketball. Her stance was wide, and her right arm was angled so her hand was pressed against her lower back.
“April,” Brooke said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “Toward the end of the month.” She glanced down the aisle behind her, shocked by the multitude of products sitting on the shelves. There were bottles and bibs, pacifiers and what appeared to be fifty different kinds of infant socks. How would she ever choose the right ones? She looked back at the woman. “How about you?”
“February sixth,” the woman said. “I’m not sure I can hold out until then.”
Brooke smiled, uncertain how to respond. Did all pregnant women just strike up conversations with each other? Was this something she’d need to learn to do, too? She was good at chatting with customers for her job, knowing how to charm them to work toward a better tip, but in most situations, Brooke was the one to stand back and wait for others to talk with her.
“Is this your first?” the woman asked, and Brooke nodded. “I thought so,” the woman said. “You have a bit of the wide-eyed, what-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-into look.” She grinned, and Brooke felt her cheeks flame red, wondering if her ineptitude was really that obvious.
“Excuse me,” she said, and she hurried away from the woman, heading into the baby clothing department, where she was confronted with even more choices than what she’d just seen in terms of car seats and cribs. There were overalls and shirts and pairs of tiny jeans. There were things called “onesies” and sleeping sacks and bodysuits. Dresses. She wanted to find her baby a dress. That’s all she needed to get today. Everything else, she would figure out later.
Brooke took a couple of steps over to a rack of baby dresses and lifted a hanger off a display. The dress was light pink, and while it didn’t have lace edging, it was made out of some kind of luminescent fabric that shimmered under the store’s fluorescent lights. Seeing tha
t it was labeled “6 months,” she put it back and looked for a newborn size, but when she pulled it out, she couldn’t believe how tiny the dress was. It looked like it might fit a plastic baby doll. That couldn’t be right. Panic twisted in her belly. She couldn’t be responsible for something so fragile and small.
She grabbed her phone, her index finger quickly finding Natalie’s contact information. Her sister picked up after only two rings. “Nat?” she said, using the shortened version of her sister’s name for the first time. It felt strangely intimate, but comfortable, too, as though she’d been calling her this for years. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Do what?” Natalie asked. “What happened? Where are you?”
“I’m at Target in Northgate,” Brooke managed to say. “I was shopping for the baby and there were so many cribs and pacifiers and all these things I’ve never even heard of and now I’m freaking out.” She took in and released a choppy breath, hoping this would help calm her down. “Will you help me figure out what kind of crib I need to get? And every other goddamn thing? I can’t believe how much crap there is to buy. I’m completely overwhelmed.”
“You don’t need the half of it,” Natalie said, laughing. “But of course I’ll help. I actually have a ton of baby stuff in storage that I haven’t had the heart to get rid of yet. I meant to tell you that you can use whatever you want.”
“Oh, wow,” Brooke said. “Thanks.” She paused. “All I really wanted to do today was buy a cute outfit for the baby, but the newborn size looked so tiny. Are they really that small?”
“Yep,” Natalie said with another laugh. “But don’t worry. They grow faster than you think. And I’ve seen you with my kids. You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”
Hearing this, something inside of Brooke that had been staring downward for years finally looked up. It struck her that while she might always bear the scars of growing up without a mother, she didn’t need to be defined by them. Everyone has wounds—we all carry around ghosts from the past. But who she was as a person, the choices she made, the kind of mother she’d be, was totally up to her. Her life and all her relationships were hers to create.
Still, she spoke to her sister again. “You really think so?” she asked.
“I do,” Natalie said.
And then Brooke’s eyes filled with tears for an entirely different reason than grief. “Hey, Nat,” she said, but before she could finish, her sister interrupted, apparently sensing what Brooke was going to ask without her needing to say a word.
“Let me grab my purse,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
• • •
Two hours later, Brooke and Natalie sat across from each other in an Italian restaurant next to the mall, having just ordered lunch. Once her sister had joined her at the store, Brooke was able to ignore the anxiety she felt and enjoy the experience of picking out her daughter’s first outfit.
“You probably don’t want to go with a fancy dress for her to wear home from the hospital,” Natalie advised. “The lace will itch and she’ll more than likely spit up on it. Or worse.”
“Oh,” Brooke said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Instead, she chose a light gray pair of buttery-soft pajamas covered in a pattern of pink ballet slippers. She also bought a few packages of onesies, which Natalie said the baby would live in most of the time for the first few months, along with a selection of tiny socks, and a few other pairs of pajamas she hadn’t been able to resist. Natalie again reassured her that she had most of what Brooke would need in storage.
“Feeling better?” Natalie asked now, after their server delivered their meals.
Brooke nodded. “Much. Thanks again for coming.”
“No problem.” Natalie smiled and took a bite of her salad. When she had finished chewing, she spoke again. “I have to eat quick, though, so I’m not late picking up the kids from school.”
“Are you going to tell them about meeting Jennifer?”
“No. I don’t see any reason to, really. They have their grandparents.”
Brooke felt a twinge of sadness, realizing that her daughter wouldn’t have the same thing. How she felt must have shown on her face because Natalie then said, “I need to introduce you to my parents. When you’re ready, of course. I’m sure my mom will love having another baby in the family to spoil.”
Brooke was about to respond, to express her gratitude for such a generous offer of inclusion, when she felt a flash of something in her belly—a rippling movement, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. She gasped, and pressed her hand over it.
Natalie put down her fork. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Brooke said. “I . . . felt something.”
“The baby’s moving?” Natalie asked with a smile. Brooke gave her sister a helpless look, and Natalie tilted her head, slightly. “You haven’t felt it before?”
“I don’t know,” Brooke said. “Maybe. It’s a little like bubbles moving around.” She paused and then lowered her tone so the tables around them wouldn’t hear her next words. “I thought it might just be gas.”
Natalie laughed. “I thought the exact same thing. Here,” she said, scooting out from her side of the booth to come sit next to Brooke. She held out her hand, hovering over Brooke’s belly. “Is it okay if . . . ?”
Brooke nodded, indicating that it was fine for Natalie to touch her, and then her sister set a gentle palm on top of her burgeoning stomach, moving it lightly from one spot to the next.
“There!” Brooke said, when she felt the movement again. She pictured the flash of a silver fish underwater, and imagined her daughter swimming around inside her. She took Natalie’s hand and pressed it on top of where the sensation had been. The two women held their breath—waiting, both of them smiling—and Brooke felt more gratitude than she knew her heart could hold. Even though seeing her mother hadn’t ended as she’d hoped it would, along the way she and Natalie had found each other. And the next time her baby moved, Brooke’s eyes welled up and she hugged her sister, excited for what the future might bring.
Jennifer
After Brooke and Natalie left, I dissolved into hysterical tears. Evan didn’t push me to talk, he only led me inside the house, took off my clothes, and put me to bed. He curled up behind me and murmured into my ear that everything was going to be okay. I pressed myself against his body, trying to feed off of my husband’s inherent strength. Eventually, he fell asleep, but even as exhausted as I was, I lay awake into the early hours of morning, staring into the dark, replaying the events of the evening inside my head.
“I think it’s the flu,” I told Chandi the following morning when I called to tell her I wouldn’t be coming in to work. I’d cried so much the night before, my sinuses were plugged and my voice sounded as though I’d gargled rocks; there was no need to fake being ill.
“Oh no,” Chandi said. “Poor you. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have Paula and the other techs handle what they can of your appointments and reschedule the rest.”
“I might be out a few days,” I said. My body ached, feeling as though it had been poisoned.
“I won’t put anything on your calendar until Friday,” she promised.
I thanked her and then hung up, rolling over to tuck the covers under my chin. Two of our dogs, Gypsy and Cleo, curled against me near my feet, while their brothers, Sammy and Chuck, sat next to the bed, whining a little and wagging their tails, unsure what to do. It was seven o’clock, and typically, both Evan and I were in the kitchen drinking our coffee by now; my staying in bed was far from our normal routine.
Evan stood across the room, already dressed in tan Carhartts, black, steel-toed work boots, and a brown flannel shirt. His brow furrowed, watching me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to keep you company?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I just need to sleep.”
“Okay,” he said, but the word was full of doubt. He took a couple of steps closer and then crouched down so our faces were level. His hair w
as still wet from the shower; his skin smelled of the woodsy, pine-scented soap he preferred. “Should I take the dogs?”
“No,” I said. “Leave them, please. They’ll take care of me.” As though on cue, both Sammy and Chuck leapt back onto the bed, circled twice, and lay down. Gypsy lifted her head from the mattress and set it on top of my leg. Cleo didn’t move. None of our dogs weighed more than twenty pounds, but there was a reason Evan and I had a California king-size bed—we needed the extra room. “See?”
“All right.” Evan smiled, then leaned over for a quick kiss. “I’ll come and check on you at lunch. You need to eat.”
I nodded, despite the fact that the thought of food was enough to turn my stomach.
“Love you,” he said, and he left a moment later, after I said I loved him, too. When the front door shut and I heard his car start in the driveway, I closed my eyes, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep. But all I saw was the pained look on Brooke’s face when she’d confronted me on the deck—the anger that had flashed in her eyes. All I heard was the way her voice strangled when she spoke. The damage I’d done to her clung to her like a second shadow.
Everything I’d thought about the new life I’d given my children was wrong. Hearing that Natalie hadn’t even known about Brooke until a few months ago, and that my elder child had spent her childhood in foster homes, had sucked all the air from my lungs. I pictured my younger daughter standing next to Brooke last night: Natalie’s blond hair, petite frame, and large, doe-brown eyes, eyes that must have come from her father, a man whose name I’d blanked from my mind, whose face I couldn’t recall. She seemed so capable and strong as she attempted to calm Brooke down. Seeing her like this, I had no doubt that Natalie was a wonderful mother—patient and loving—something she must have learned from the woman who raised her. She certainly didn’t inherit it from me.
I knew in my gut that I couldn’t live up to their expectations, and it only took a moment for me to ruin whatever meet-my-birth-mother fantasies they might have had. I wasn’t strong enough to be their mother when they were babies, when they needed it most, and after my response to seeing them last night, it was clear I couldn’t be strong for them now. What they sought, I couldn’t give them. The truth was, no matter how far I’d come, how much I’d accomplished, a huge part of me was still that young woman who fell apart when she gave up custody of her children. I was still the troubled, unstable girl who thought she heard her daughter’s voice that day in the park. Having them in my life now would only magnify that girl, bring her to the surface again, after I’d worked so hard to keep her contained.
