by Julie Cohen
Emily guided the shoulders, and the rest of the baby followed quickly on the same push. A girl, small and pink and perfect.
She didn’t cry.
For a fraction of a second, Emily forgot her training and knowledge. She thought of Jaquinda’s blue baby, the baby Emily had not been able to save, and the tears that Jaquinda had shed in her office, her belly still distended from the dead child she had birthed. The grief in her husband’s face that had made it grey.
‘Why isn’t my baby crying?’ asked Jaquinda, and it was twenty months ago, the same thing, except this baby was fine, she was pink and she was fine, there was no reason for her not to—
The baby sucked in a breath and screamed.
‘It’s a beautiful girl,’ Emily said, and she quickly clamped and cut the cord, and put Jaquinda’s daughter safely into her arms.
She managed to wait until she had locked herself into the staff restroom before she burst into tears. She sat on the toilet, eyes closed, and saw that vision behind her eyelids: Jaquinda and her healthy baby, her daughter, the baby she wanted more than anything in the world. The happiness on her face had been so intense it looked almost like pain.
And then Miguel had come in and held his daughter who had been cleaned and wrapped in a blanket. He put his finger in her tiny fist and the tiny fingers curled around it and he looked over at his wife with the most perfect awe.
Emily had thought that she wouldn’t have tried again, if she had suffered the losses that Jaquinda had. But she would have. If she could, she would have. Just to live that moment.
If she could . . .
She cried a messy cry, mouth open, not wiping the tears, doubled up in pain, but she didn’t cry loudly. Hospitals were places for crying, but not by the doctors.
When she was done, she washed her face and held a wet paper towel over her eyes to reduce the swelling and redness. She left the restroom and went to change out of scrubs and to put on some make-up.
Robbie was waiting for her in the car outside: a 1956 Plymouth, which he kept going with some sort of wizardry, along with hope and, occasionally, string. He leaned over and opened the door for her.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked instantly.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Everything’s right. I delivered a wonderful healthy baby just now. To Jaquinda.’
The words caught in her throat. Robbie nodded, and touched her hand. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Not particularly. Not right now. Maybe later.’
He nodded and started up the car. It had an old-fashioned purr. She turned on the radio, which was tuned to Robbie’s favourite blues station, and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes and focusing herself. There was no air conditioning in the car, so they had to ride with all the windows open. The air wasn’t much cooler than when they stayed still.
This could be their solution. It could be the answer to the empty room in their house, to the yearning she felt every day at her job, every time she walked along their favourite beach on Biscayne Key, watching tiny chubby hands fashioning sand castles. She laid her hand on Robbie’s thigh as he drove, feeling the strength of him.
Their appointment was in a new, very ugly brick building. Somehow the interior managed to look both dingy and austere. They walked up the stairs and waited on plastic chairs outside the office door, holding hands. The round industrial-looking clock on the wall at the end of the corridor ticked loudly. Robbie’s hand was slightly damp. Emily wanted to say something, to offer some word of reassurance or hope, the kind of thing she’d been saying to Jaquinda not much more than an hour ago. But she couldn’t. This was . . . this was a risk.
But it was a risk they were going to have to take. For that empty room. For those tiny chubby hands. For the hole in Robbie’s life: not to fill it, but to help him cope with it. For the hole in her own life.
The door opened. ‘Mr and Mrs Brandon?’ said a woman with a perm and large glasses, a brown pinafore dress and beige flowered blouse. She was pregnant: mid-second trimester, Emily judged. Emily stood. Robbie was already smiling, that charming, friendly, confident smile. He shook the woman’s hand, and then she shook Emily’s. Her fingers were cold. ‘I’m Donna Hernandez.’
‘Great to meet you,’ he said as they entered her office. Emily took in spider plants, plastic chairs, wood-effect desk, two neatly placed manila folders and three blue Bic ballpoints. There was a poster of a Keane painting pinned to the corkboard on the wall: two huge-eyed children, a boy and a girl, one holding a stick with which he had just traced a heart in the sand. It was not exactly what Emily would have chosen.
‘So, Mr and Mrs Brandon,’ said the woman, taking a seat behind her desk and picking up one of the Bics, ‘this is your first meeting, to establish some details and for you to ask some questions.’
‘Dr Brandon,’ said Robbie, with his easy smile. He took Emily’s hand again.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, you’re a doctor?’
‘I’m the doctor,’ Emily told her. ‘I’m an OB-GYN. An obstetrician. I work at Jackson Memorial.’
‘Oh. I’m having my baby there. I’m with Dr Perez.’
‘Good choice. Dr Perez is excellent and we’ll look after you well there. Maybe I’ll see you. What are you – about twenty-six weeks?’
‘That’s right.’ Mrs Hernandez put her hand on her swollen stomach in the universal gesture of expectant mothers. ‘I’ve started to get terrible heartburn.’
‘That’s only going to continue, I’m afraid. The baby’s pushing all your organs out of the way as it grows. Try small meals, more often, and an over-the-counter antacid. Some people find that peppermint tea helps. But really it’s a case of mechanics, and trying not to eat too much at once.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘It will be worth the heartburn in the end.’
‘You’re right, it will. And you’re . . . from England?’
‘Yes. I live here now, though.’
‘I really love your accent. That’s just so beautiful. People must ask you to say things for them all the time.’
‘It’s nothing special where I come from, believe me. But that’s nice of you to say.’
Robbie squeezed her hand, and they exchanged a look. Part of this interview was about impressing the social worker favourably.
‘And Mr Brandon? You’re not English.’
‘No, ma’am. I come from Ohio originally, but I’ve lived all over. I did some travelling when I was younger, which is how I met Emily.’
Her fingers twitched on his, but he smiled at her. Mrs Hernandez had started to use her biro to write down information on a yellow legal pad.
‘And what do you do for a job?’
‘I’m a boat builder. I’ve worked at Dinner Key marina for the past seven years.’
‘And before that? I’m sorry – I need to ask these things, so we can have a full record.’
Robbie hesitated. ‘I was in the Navy, in Vietnam.’
Emily held her breath and hoped that the social worker hadn’t been a protester.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Hernandez, ‘thank you for your service. I certainly do appreciate it.’
‘Not many people thank me, to be honest. It’s kind of you.’
‘My brother is in the Navy. So why do you want to adopt a baby?’
‘I’m infertile,’ said Emily, and although it should be an easy thing to say, after all these years, it still scraped and scratched inside to speak it aloud. There was no shame to it, but there was a shame to it.
‘Premature ovarian failure,’ she continued, forcing her voice to be stronger and clinical. ‘I was diagnosed some years ago. Robbie and I can never have children naturally.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Hernandez. ‘That must be difficult for you, if you work with babies all day.’
‘I chose my field because it appealed to me. Most of the time I don’t even think about it.’
Except when she had to retreat to the restroom to cry. Which was happening more and more often, lately.
‘Well, you can take comfort in offering a home to a child who needs one. The adoptive parents’ bond with their child can be as strong as between natural parents and their own children.’
‘Just as strong,’ said Robbie firmly. ‘We want a child very badly. Both Emily and I.’
The social worker nodded and went through more questions: their home (rented, respectable, in a nice neighbourhood), their income (comfortable). ‘And your family?’ she asked. ‘Parents, siblings, other children?’
Robbie and Emily exchanged a glance.
‘My family are all in England,’ said Emily slowly. ‘My mother and father, and a sister. I have uncles and aunts and cousins there, too. I . . . don’t see them often. As I’m living here.’
‘That’s understandable. Mr Brandon?’
‘My parents are both dead; my dad died when I was in Vietnam, and my mother passed away soon after. I don’t have any siblings. I . . . have a son.’
Mrs Hernandez perked up. ‘Oh?’
‘He’ll be seven years old in September. But I haven’t seen him in years. His mother . . . it didn’t end well between us.’
‘Oh.’
‘You say that as if it’s a problem,’ said Emily.
‘Well . . . not necessarily. Have you been refused access by the court?’
He shook his head. ‘No. We never had a custody hearing. She . . . just took him. I’ve tried to get in touch, but they move quite a lot, and her parents refuse to speak with me or pass on any information.’ He frowned. ‘As I said . . . it didn’t end well. And I miss him.’
‘The father doesn’t have a lot of rights in this situation,’ said Mrs Hernandez, ‘but we will need documentation about him, if possible, along with your other documents.’
‘Which documents are those?’ asked Emily, again trying to keep her voice calm and clinical. To her ears, at least, she failed: there was a shakiness.
‘Oh, just the normal ones for proof of identity and status. Your birth certificates, marriage certificate. Your Green Card, Dr Brandon. Rental agreement on your house, proof of employment, and, of course, the letters of recommendation which we’ll talk about in a minute.’
Emily and Robert exchanged another look.
‘We . . . don’t have a marriage certificate,’ said Emily.
‘Well, you can obtain a copy easily. If you were married in Florida there will be a small charge and they can make a copy for you right there and then.’
‘No. I mean we don’t have a marriage certificate because we’re not married.’
Mrs Hernandez had been holding the Bic in her right hand. Now she passed to her left, and tapped it on the desk.
‘You’re not married? But I thought—’
Emily’s heart was pounding so hard that she was faint. It took all of her self-control and will to remain sitting in the chair, her legs crossed, her hand in Robbie’s. She did not know what expression was on her face, but it felt chiselled there in stone.
‘In addition to not letting me see my son,’ said Robbie, ‘my ex-wife also won’t give me a divorce. Her family belongs to an evangelical church that doesn’t believe in divorce, so maybe she’s gone back to that, but I don’t know for sure. She won’t talk to me at all. And I don’t know where she is. I’ve tried to serve her with papers – for her own sake as much as mine; you’d think maybe she’d want to get married again and try with someone better, if that’s not a sin. But the papers come back, or disappear. Like all my requests to see William.’
It sounded rehearsed to Emily’s ears. But she knew Robbie’s tones so well, his normal way of speaking. The social worker would not. She might not hear anything in his words but the truth. And it was the truth. Just . . . not all of it.
Mrs Hernandez was looking stern. ‘I don’t think I— It’s highly unusual to recommend an unmarried couple for adoption. I . . . I’ll have to talk with my manager once you’ve put in your application.’
‘But you’d still need all that documentation?’ Emily asked. ‘To research whether we’d be allowed to even apply?’
‘Yes, I’d want all the facts possible before I presented your case to anyone.’
‘I see,’ said Emily. ‘I . . . that makes sense.’
She couldn’t look at Robbie now. It would make her truly realise what was happening.
‘Yes,’ said Robbie. ‘Well . . . should we take these forms home? And then come back to you with all the paperwork you need?’
‘All right,’ said Mrs Hernandez, and handed Robbie a sheaf of paper. He thanked her and shook her hand again, but the social worker was looking at Emily. Clearly her feelings were plain on her face. Too plain. She looked down at her shoes as she stood and walked with Robbie to the door, when she forced herself to meet Mrs Hernandez’s gaze.
‘It was very nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘If this doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll see you anyway, when you’re ready to deliver. I’ll try to pop in and say hello if I’m in the hospital.’
‘I— That would be nice of you.’ Mrs Hernandez paused, passing the Bic from hand to hand. ‘I . . . listen,’ she finally said in a rush. ‘I don’t usually say this, but you’re a really nice couple, and I can really sympathise with you. I’ll try the best I can for you, but if this doesn’t work out, there are other avenues, you know. You could try a private agency. Even in another state. The rules vary quite widely.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Robbie. ‘We appreciate that.’
‘But come back with all your paperwork, and we’ll try hard for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Emily said, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper. Robbie put his hand in the small of her back, and they walked downstairs together, out of the building, to the car.
Their rented house in Coral Gables was long and low, a single storey, the same as all the houses around it. It was painted yellow with an orange tiled roof, and it was shaded by several mature palm trees in the garden. The empty room was right on the end.
Robbie sat in it sometimes, on the white tiled floor, listening to the sound of rain on the roof. He had built a window seat and put shelves on the wall. But they had kept the room empty of everything except for a small single bed, covered with a handmade quilt that Emily had bought in a craft fair.
It was supposed to be William’s room, if he ever visited. If Robbie ever found him. But the years passed and the letters came back and the room remained empty.
It was a belter of a storm: one of those Florida storms where lightning and thunder seemed to come from all directions, so relentlessly that the house felt as if it were under fire. The rain fell vertically in a sheet of warm water. It battered on the roof and streamed down the windows while he was here, safe and dry, inside. Emily had once said that said babies heard things like this while they were in the womb: the rumble of their mother’s body and the distant vibrations of voices and music.
When he listened to the rain, he thought about the last time he had seen William. The argument with Marie had been outside, in the yard. The neighbours overheard them, especially once Marie started yelling, but screw the neighbours: he didn’t want William to hear. He had agreed with all the names she called him – there were a lot, and most of them were accurate – but he had not agreed that he was making a big mistake. She had yelled and she’d taken off her shoe and thrown it at him, and then when he’d caught it, she’d thrown her other shoe.
Finally there was only one thing left for her to say. ‘Get out.’
‘I’ll pack my stuff,’ he’d said to her, but he hadn’t packed. He’d gone inside and to William’s room. The boy was asleep, sprawled in Batman pyjamas, blanket kicked aside. His thumb was in
his mouth.
Robbie had sat beside him and watched him. Watched him breathe, watched the small movements his eyes made under their lids, watched his long dark eyelashes on his cheeks. He smelled of Johnson’s No More Tears shampoo and a faint boy grubbiness. He thought about throwing him baseballs, and teaching him to sail, and fishing, and swimming in the surf, and reading stories and adopting a dog and making box cars to race. He thought about William’s first bike and his first car and his first job, the girls he’d date and lust over, the ones who would break his heart. His high school graduation. Scabbed knees and stitches and captured lizards and frogs, music his parents wouldn’t understand.
He’d wanted to do so much with this boy. Instead it seemed that he was always looking at William as he slept.
He touched William’s forehead, cool and a little sweaty despite the fan, and pulled the blanket up over him. He thought about leaving a note beside the bed. But William couldn’t read, and Marie would just tear it up.
He hadn’t known, then, that it would be the last time he’d see him. Not really; not deep inside, he hadn’t known. He hadn’t been able to understand the truth of it, anyway. How it would feel to live for years without his child. And if he had known, what could he have done differently? He could have woken William and talked to him while he was sleepy. He could have told him that no matter what happened, he’d always love him. But William wouldn’t have understood, or remembered. He’d have forgotten by the next morning.
But maybe it would have been important for Robbie to have said it. For the words to have existed, out loud, somewhere.
Robbie lay down on the cool tiled floor of this empty room at the very end of their house and listened to the rain. He wasn’t sure when this room had metamorphosed, without Emily or him saying anything, into a room that William would share with a baby. And then into the baby’s room. Not a baby but the baby.
How had it even become a concept between them? When they’d both known it was impossible? But it had taken form, this idea, this baby they could never have, without them even speaking of it. In their touches and exchanged glances, in the walks they took after dinner to catch the cooling air off the bay, the rhythm of their days together. He saw it in the way that Emily glanced at and then away from pregnant women or young mothers; a look that wasn’t professional curiosity. A certain weariness when she came home from work. The times when her eyes wandered from her book and she stared into the distance, not knowing he was watching her.
