Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  The ad began, “Prosperous, loving white couple seeks baby. All medical expenses paid.” Joshua put it down and said, “You’re writers; you know how to do these things. Now,” he continued, “get out a pen. I want you to take notes.”

  Michael and I simultaneously pulled out our reporter’s pads. “Not you,” said Joshua, turning to Michael. “They only want to talk to her.”

  “But I’m adopting this baby too,” he protested.

  “They want to talk to the mother,” said Joshua briskly. He looked at me. “Ready? Okay. First, get a separate phone just for these calls. Second, keep a pad and pencil next to it. Take notes, so you remember what they’ve said and what you’ve said. You think you won’t forget, but you will.”

  I nodded and wrote.

  “Rule Number One,” he intoned. “Ask no questions. Not at the outset. Your initial job is to charm them. Remember that you’re selling yourself. And this will be the most important sale you’ll ever make.”

  He looked at us appraisingly and added, “There’s no need to be too truthful. Michael will do, but with a name like Ruth no one will call. I’d suggest Tammy.”

  “Tammy?” I said. “You want me to call myself Tammy?”

  He shrugged. “It’s up to you. But in our experience few young women are willing to give a baby to someone named Ruth. We’ve been very successful with Tammy. Dusty works well too.”

  “Shall I change my name to Joe-Bob?” asked Michael.

  Joshua did not crack a smile. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. He stood up and held out his hand. “Good luck,” he said. “You’re about to embark on a wonderful adventure!”

  * * *

  “So how do you feel about this wonderful adventure?” asked Michael as we left.

  “You hated him, didn’t you?” I replied.

  “Admit it, you did too,” he said. “Do you think we should find another lawyer?”

  “We don’t have to spend time with him,” I said, reluctant to admit that this man, this dealer in pain, had made my skin crawl. “Anyway, he’s supposed to be the best. I imagine they’re all the same.”

  “You may be right,” said Michael reluctantly. “I’ll do whatever we have to do. But can we agree on one thing? I don’t think you should be Tammy. Let’s not start off with a lie.”

  * * *

  The first call came at midnight. “About the baby?” said a very young voice. It burst into tears.

  “How old are you?” I asked, forgetting Rule Number One.

  Thirteen. Roxanne was thirteen. She was four months pregnant, and I was the very first person she had told. “My daddy’ll kill me if he finds out,” she said. And then she added dreamily, “I want my baby to grow up around movie stars. Which ones do you know?” She had never heard of Danny Kaye and soon hung up.

  Joshua should have told me about Rule Number Two, I thought, as I tried to remember the name of every movie star I’d ever met. Elke Sommer had been seated next to me at a Spago Seder; she headed the list. Gregory Peck had once called asking where to get good steak; he quickly turned into a pal. Kathleen Turner, whom I’d met at a charity function, became a close friend. I had actually been to a party at Henry Winkler’s house, and now I wrote down everything I could remember about the evening. I threw in Bob Dylan, who had once been seated next to me at Cirque du Soleil. It wasn’t a perfect list, but it would have to do.

  * * *

  But my next caller wasn’t interested in movie stars. Darlene lived in the panhandle of Texas, and she sounded bone-tired. “This is my fifth,” she said wearily. “It was an accident. We can’t afford another.”

  Her husband, Billy, was a mechanic; they’d been trying to save money for their own garage. Listening to her soft southern voice I tried to see the room she was standing in. It would be a small, crowded kitchen with children’s toys scattered across the floor and dishes stacked in the sink. “I’m making Hamburger Helper again,” she said. “Lots of helper, not much hamburger. What’re you having for dinner?”

  Chilean sea bass didn’t have the right ring. Did lamb chops sound too snooty? Steak? What would she want her baby to eat? “Barbecued chicken,” I decided.

  “Chicken,” she said wistfully. “We don’t get chicken much. The kids fight over the drumsticks.”

  Darlene and I talked for almost an hour. I liked her; she seemed smart and tough and deeply sad about giving her baby to a stranger. “But I know it’s for the best,” she was saying when she suddenly cried, “You said you were working late!” and slammed down the phone. Did she tell Billy? Did they keep the baby? Or did she decide that her child should be raised on steak?

  Over time I learned the right answers, learned to tailor my story to their dreams. The first time I said I was a restaurant critic there was dead silence on the line. By the next call I had turned into a food editor. It was a wise choice. “You must bake a lot of cookies,” said Ramona. “Oh yes,” I said fervently, “every day. Sometimes twice.” Michael’s job wasn’t very popular either, so I demoted him from news director to weatherman. Amy was the first one I tried that out on. When she said, “You mean like the guy on the TV?” I knew I had done the right thing.

  I couldn’t dream up a new house because the right woman would eventually see it. But that didn’t keep me from embellishing it a bit. I redesigned the kitchen. I redecorated the living room. And day by day the baby’s bedroom grew larger.

  Meanwhile we ate the same imaginary meal every night: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, salad, and strawberry shortcake. It was all-American and designed to offend no one (with the possible exception of vegetarians). It might be a little high in cholesterol, but not one of the women I spoke with mentioned that.

  The calls made me feel like a teenager talking to boys I wanted to like me, reinventing myself over and over. I was flooded with self-doubt, always certain I had said the wrong thing, convinced that my future was at stake and I had blown it. Though I hadn’t smoked in years, I yearned for a cigarette.

  Veronica, Joanne, and Louella all hung up when they found out that I was Jewish. Rachel wanted her baby to have a blond mom. Sally didn’t like my politics. And April broke my heart; she was like a lover who kept teasing me, leading me on until I was certain that she was the one. And then, suddenly, she just stopped calling. What had I said?

  Joshua checked in periodically on our progress. “Take your time,” he said. “You can’t be too careful. Keep looking. You’ll find the right baby. I know you will.” And then one day he called my office and his voice sounded different.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  I smoothed my black skirt and said, “Okay.”

  “Do you want a baby?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Do you really want a baby?” he demanded, and I instantly felt guilty, as if he were a preacher asking me to testify about my faith.

  “Yes,” I answered, trying hard to sound sincere, “I really want a baby. We’re writing a new ad—”

  “No, no,” he interrupted, as if I had not understood him. “I mean do you want a baby right now?”

  “Now?” Was this a test? Did he do this to all his clients, just to make sure that they were really motherhood material?

  “It’s a girl,” he said. “Born yesterday. Do you want her?”

  “You have a baby girl?” I asked stupidly. “Here in Los Angeles?”

  Papers rustled. “Born yesterday at Cedars-Sinai,” he read. “Three twenty-two in the afternoon. She got five on her Apgar tests. She’s perfect.”

  “And she doesn’t have a mother?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said impatiently, as if I were wasting his time with foolish questions. “I’ll gladly tell you the entire tale. But I need to know if you want her. Because if you don’t, I have to find another couple.”

  “You’ll have to give me a few details,” I insisted.

  Joshua sighed, as if I were being unreasonable. “One of my clients,” he said slowly, “a
nd I can’t tell you her name, contracted to adopt this baby four months ago.” His voice indicated his resentment at being forced to go through these banal details when he had a homeless baby on his hands. “Yesterday she coached the birth mother through the delivery. Everything went beautifully.”

  “There must have been some problem,” I said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me.”

  “I’m getting to that,” he said. “This morning my client took the baby home. When she got there her husband was gone. He had left a note saying that he didn’t want the baby, and he didn’t want to be in the marriage anymore.”

  “Oh,” I said, beginning to understand. “But what about the birth mother?”

  “I’ve just spoken with her,” he said. “She doesn’t want the baby either. This pregnancy was the result of a rape, and all she wants is to go back to Mexico and forget that any of this ever happened. She doesn’t care who gets the baby. She doesn’t even want to meet the new parents.”

  I found that I was unable to talk. It was too fast. After a moment Joshua said, “Ruth, are you there?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “This is the most perfect situation you could ever have,” he said. “Did I mention that the birth mother is beautiful?”

  “No,” I said. “All you said was that she’d been raped. How old is she?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “She’s twenty-six. She’s a grown-up. She wants to put this all behind her.”

  “I don’t know . . .” I began.

  “Call Michael,” he said. “Think about it. All you have to do is pay the hospital bills. I’ll give you half an hour to think about it. Believe me, if you don’t want this baby there are plenty of people who will.”

  * * *

  Michael was wary. “It’s too good to be true,” he said. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  I paced around my office, trailing the phone cord behind me. “No more ads,” I pleaded. “I don’t have to call myself Tammy. We don’t even have to meet this woman. It’s a gift from heaven, like opening your door one morning and finding the baby you’ve dreamed of on your doorstep. No waiting. No nothing. We just go get her at the home of the adoptive mother. Please say yes.”

  “We don’t have a cradle,” he hedged. “We don’t have bottles. We don’t have baby clothes.” He was down to details. He was going to give in.

  “You’ve made the right decision,” said Joshua when I called back. He gave me an address. “You won’t be sorry. And don’t forget to buy a car seat on the way. In California it’s illegal to drive a child without one.”

  * * *

  We never even went inside. When we rang the bell a maid came out carrying a bundle wrapped in a blue blanket. She handed it over and closed the door. I stood there, terrified. “What if I drop it?” I wailed. “I’ve never held a baby before.”

  “Give her to me,” said Michael, lifting the baby out of my arms. He peeled back a corner of the blanket and looked down. “How beautiful you are,” he crooned to the baby. “Look, she already has hair.”

  She lay with her eyes closed, her small heart-shaped face framed by straight black hair. Breathing serenely in and out, she was unaware that in twenty hours on earth her fate had already changed. Twice.

  * * *

  “Oh, Ruthie,” said my mother. “People don’t go picking babies up on doorsteps. It’s very peculiar.”

  “It’s very lucky,” I said. “I still can’t quite believe it. And she’s such a great baby!”

  “Don’t tell me she sleeps through the night,” my mother replied.

  “Not exactly,” I admitted. “But I don’t seem to mind. I like being with her in the middle of the night, just the two of us, all alone. I love the way she smells. I love the sounds she makes. I can’t believe she’s mine.”

  “Is she really yours?” Mom wanted to know. “Are the papers signed?”

  “No,” I said. “We have to be evaluated by social workers. And the State of California gives the birth mother six months to change her mind. But that’s not going to be a problem; she’s already gone back to Mexico. Joshua says it’s a done deal.”

  “Well, I think it’s very peculiar,” my mother repeated. “In the meantime I wish you’d reconsider that name. Gabriella is so odd.”

  “We call her Gavi for short,” I said. “Do you like that any better?”

  “No,” said my mother.

  * * *

  I wished my mother were more enthusiastic, but nothing could puncture my cocoon of happiness. Gavi was funny and portable and easy to love. Michael was entranced; sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night and find him in the baby’s room, just staring into the crib. Before long we gave up all pretense of putting her into her own room and let her sleep with us; we didn’t want her out of our sight.

  Overnight we became the obnoxious couple in the restaurant with the baby on the table, the people who walk out of the movies when the baby starts crying, the ones who show up at parties with the baby in a pouch. We were a ridiculous cliché; we didn’t care.

  I took maternity leave; Michael took her to work. Even the social worker, a large, sarcastic woman who had seen everything, said, “For a formerly childless older couple you are surprisingly comfortable with this baby.”

  “I don’t understand it,” I said to my mother. “I’ve never particularly liked babies. I like them later, after they can talk. But Gavi is different. She’s so interesting.”

  “Your own are always interesting,” said Mom. “I’ll be happier when you’ve signed the papers.”

  “Stop worrying,” I said. “It’s time you met your granddaughter.”

  “Not until you sign the papers,” she said. “Not until she’s really yours.”

  “Make your reservations,” I replied. “It’s almost time.”

  * * *

  When the call came I was mashing bananas. I handed the bowl to Michael and went to the phone. “It’s Joshua,” said a somber voice. “We have a problem.”

  “Look!” said Michael, waving a spoon, “Gavi’s eating her first solid food!” I gestured for him to be quiet.

  “The birth mother wants the baby back,” Joshua continued.

  “You said she was returning to Mexico!” I cried.

  “Well, she didn’t,” he replied. “She just left my office. She wants to retrieve the baby tomorrow.”

  “No!” I shouted. “It’s absolutely out of the question. She can’t have my daughter.”

  “I don’t think you quite understand, Ruth,” said Joshua firmly. “You have no rights in this. She hasn’t signed any papers.”

  “I’m this baby’s mother,” I said. “That woman didn’t even care enough to come and meet us! I won’t give her Gavi. As far as I’m concerned, that woman relinquished any rights she ever had to this child.”

  “The state sees it differently,” said Joshua coldly. “Of course, you’re free to contest it if you like, but I don’t do that sort of thing. I’ll give you the name of a lawyer who does.”

  “I thought he’d never had an adoption go wrong,” said Michael bitterly as we packed a diaper bag. The pain of this was already etched into his face, and he looked as if he had aged ten years over the last ten minutes. He was already steeling himself for the loss, as if the immense happiness of having this child was undeserved and he had known all along that it would end. My response was different; I expected that somehow, although I could not tell you how, everything would be all right.

  “That’s what he said,” I replied, adding a few cans of Similac. “He also said that this was a perfect situation. He lied about everything. But I don’t care what happens. We’re not giving Gavi back.”

  “Of course we’re not,” he said.

  * * *

  Lincoln’s office occupied a few cramped rooms in a nondescript mini-mall. It was a long drive. By the time we got there it was almost dark, and the fluorescent lights were bright and harsh, illuminating scuffed furniture that looked as if it had been bought
by the truckload at a fire sale. The smell of grease from the burger joint next door hung in the air.

  A short, powerfully built man came into the waiting room holding out his hand. His hair was gray, stringy, and so thin you could see the scalp shining beneath it. The right leg of his polyester suit was caught on the stenciled edge of his cowboy boot. I stared at it, mesmerized, as he led us into a windowless office.

  But though Lincoln lacked Joshua’s smooth charm, he offered hope. Time, he said, was on our side. The birth mother would have to take us to court to get Gavi back. “Show her that you mean business,” he said, “and she’ll slink back to Mexico and forget the whole thing. I bet she won’t even show up.” He favored us with a big smile; his teeth were stained with nicotine and his breath was awful. “One day,” he predicted. “All it will take is one day in court. The baby will be yours. You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Parents came straggling into the halls of Los Angeles Family Court with their ragged offspring in tow. Children raced through the halls as the bailiffs shouted, “Quiet, quiet, this is a courthouse,” and desperate parents cajoled, threatened, and slapped in an attempt to keep order. Men cursed, children wailed, and husbands and wives faced off on hard benches, fighting over money. Bells rang, and public defenders clutched papers as they stumbled from one courtroom to another.

  “It’s like the third ring of hell,” said Michael.

  Gabriella slept in her basket, unconcerned by the commotion as we huddled with Lincoln. Years passed. Finally our name was called, and we jumped up and went into a small, hot courtroom.

  “The mother doesn’t seem to be here,” said Lincoln happily. He swiveled around to survey the room. “See? I told you. She’s probably gone back to Mexico!”

  “Anna Delgardo,” said the clerk. “Anna Delgardo, please approach the bench.” No one moved. He said it again. “See?” whispered the lawyer. “I told you not to worry!”

  Michael beamed, jubilant. “It’s over!” he said. “She’s ours!” He ran his fingertips gently across Gavi’s face.