Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  “It is noted,” said the judge, “that the complainant has not made an appearance. Under the circumstances—”

  As she spoke a rustling began in the back of the courtroom. A small woman wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt rushed down the aisle. Her head was down, so all we could see was shiny black hair, but as she came closer she looked up. I caught my breath; her face was shaped like a heart.

  “Are you Anna Delgardo?” asked the judge. The woman looked blank. “Eres Anna Delgardo?” asked the clerk in Spanish.

  “Sí,” said the woman.

  The judge switched to Spanish and I listened to the mother of my child explain herself in a detached, dispassionate voice. She worked in a bank in Mexico City. Her boss had raped her. She had told no one, but when she found herself with child she’d come across the border to get an abortion. But she had so little money, and soon it was too late. . . . She had decided to give the baby up.

  “But something has changed?” prompted the judge.

  “Sí,” said the woman. “God has shown me that this was wrong.”

  “How will you raise the child?” asked the judge. “Do you have family? A green card? An apartment? A job?”

  “No,” she replied to each question.

  “I am going to continue this,” said the judge. “I want you to come back to this court in one month with a plan to support your baby. I want to be certain that you do not have another change of heart.” She raised her gavel, and that was that.

  “She never even looked at Gavi!” Michael raged as we left the courthouse. “There’s no way I’m handing my daughter over to that woman.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “How could the judge seriously consider giving Gavi to a woman who let strangers take her infant. A woman who never cared enough to meet her daughter’s parents? She must be crazy.”

  Michael looked down at Gavi, then over at Lincoln. “Is there any possibility that we might lose?” he asked.

  Lincoln spread his hands out flat, palms down, like an umpire calling a player safe. “You are not going to lose this baby,” he said. “After this it is unlikely that the birth mother will even come back to court. But just in case, we’re going to lay the groundwork of the case.”

  “I’ll never give Gavi to that woman,” I cried. “Never. Never. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my daughter.” I meant it.

  * * *

  I had a nightmare. It was the middle of the night. Gavi was crying, calling me to pick her up. I could hear her, but my feet would not move. As I watched, Anna bent over the bed. And then, somehow, it was me in the crib, calling for my mommy. But my mommy had gone away. I cried on and on, bereft. It was the loneliest feeling in the world.

  The next day I got a mysterious call. “You must not let Anna take the baby,” said a woman in heavily accented English. “She is the bad woman.”

  “Who is this?” I cried.

  “I want to help you keep the baby,” said the voice. “I am your friend. She is the bad woman. I will tell the judge.”

  “Who are you?” I asked again. There was no answer. She had hung up.

  “You must get her name,” said Lincoln when I reported the call to him. “This could be very helpful when we go back to court.”

  “But you told me Anna wouldn’t come back!” I reminded him.

  “She won’t. Don’t worry. This is going to be unnecessary.” But I was now unwilling to believe anything a lawyer said. Joshua had abandoned us completely. Lincoln had been wrong.

  * * *

  The mystery voice eventually revealed herself to be Lourdes, who had taken Anna in while she was pregnant. Lourdes was prepared to tell the judge, the court, and the world that Anna had been dealing drugs.

  “Good, good,” said Lincoln. “This will be helpful.”

  “Not if we lose Gavi,” said Michael. “This only makes things worse. We knew Anna was an irresponsible idiot; now we hear she’s a drug dealer too. How can we possibly let her have our daughter?”

  “You won’t have to,” he promised, sending us off to see psychiatrists who would attest that Gavi was so deeply bonded that she would be harmed if she were to be taken away from us. The Department of Children’s Services weighed in on our perfection as parents. Lourdes signed a deposition. “Excellent,” Lincoln kept saying as he reassured us that all the signs were good and that we had seen the last of Anna.

  * * *

  He was wrong again. With her hair coiffed, wearing a simple black sheath and high heels, Gavi’s birth mother was barely recognizable as the bedraggled young woman who had stood humbly in front of the judge a month earlier. And this time she was not alone. Head held high, she listened to her lawyer petition for the return of the baby to her rightful parents.

  “Parents?” asked the judge.

  A man stepped forward. Tall and thin, he was dressed in a gray suit. “I am the baby’s father,” he announced with natural dignity.

  “Am I to understand that you admit to the rape of this woman?” asked the judge.

  The young man drew himself proudly up and began to speak. The lawyer put a hand on his arm. “Your Honor,” the lawyer said, “Miss Delgardo—” He stopped and corrected himself. “I mean, the former Miss Delgardo, now admits that she was never raped. She was merely confused. Last month, after leaving your court, she called Mr. Rodriguez in Mexico and told him about their daughter. He immediately flew to Los Angeles; they were married that night. I ask that you return the child to her rightful parents, Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez.”

  Stricken, I clutched Gavi and looked at Michael. He clenched his fists, and then he put his arms around me and held me while I cried. The rest was a blur; I sat in the courtroom, head down, holding my daughter as a stream of words decided her future.

  “What happened?” I asked later. We were back in the lawyer’s office; Gavi was still in my arms.

  “The judge ordered a paternity test,” said Michael. “The tests take six weeks, and in the meantime they have visitation rights. The judge said they can come see Gavi on Wednesdays and Saturdays. In the end, if that man turns out to be Gavi’s father, we have to give her to them.”

  “I’m not giving her back,” I said. “Never. That’s all I have to say.”

  Lincoln made a fist. “We can fight this,” he shouted, warriorlike. “Gabriella is an American citizen. She has rights. We could keep those people in court for years!”

  Michael ignored him and looked at me. His face was ravaged now, deeply lined. He put his hand on my arm. “Honey,” he said gently, “Lincoln may know what he’s talking about. He probably does. In this country, money talks. But that doesn’t make it right. We’re rich Americans. They’re poor Mexicans. I don’t want to give Gavi up any more than you do, but I don’t want to keep her just because we have more money.”

  “Whose side are you on?” I demanded, clutching Gavi. “Are you seriously telling me that you could, in good conscience, let Gavi go to them?”

  Michael looked down at Gavi. “No,” he said quietly. “This is killing me. But we may not have a choice. Things have changed. This is about more than you and me and Gavi. You have to be realistic.”

  “You want to give our daughter to some woman who allowed strangers, people she had never even met, to walk away with her?” I shouted. “Are you crazy?” I was wild with unaccustomed fury. “A woman who acted as if she were some thing instead of a person?”

  Lincoln stroked my arm and said soothingly, “You won’t have to. We will appeal this all the way to the Supreme Court. It could take years.”

  * * *

  When we got home we took Gavi for a walk through Griffith Park. “Don’t you see, honey,” said Michael as we walked, “the lawyers are manipulating you. They want us as a test case. But think what it will mean for Gavi.”

  “We can win,” I said stubbornly.

  “But what if he really is her father? What if we don’t?” he insisted. “Suppose we fight this for six or seven years and lose. Imagine what it will be like
for Gavi to have to leave the only parents she knows, to go to live with strangers in another country. Wouldn’t it be better for her if we gave her up now?”

  I didn’t have an answer. And so I picked Gavi up out of her stroller and held her tightly to me as I shouted at him, over and over, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” I didn’t know what else to do.

  * * *

  The couple arrived on Wednesday wearing the same clothes they had worn in court. I answered the door as politely as I could and took them to Gavi’s room. She reached up her arms, asking me to pick her up, but I turned and walked out, closing the door on her cries. I went into the living room and sat there, biting my nails, listening to her wail.

  The judge had allowed them two hours, but after forty-five minutes they emerged from the room. The man was holding Gavi, who was still crying. He handed the weary red baby to me, and she immediately subsided; in three seconds she was asleep in my arms.

  “Adiós,” he said, going to the door. The woman had said nothing. A cab was waiting and I stood at the window watching it drive off.

  “She looks like him,” said Michael.

  “She does not,” I insisted. “How can you say that? She looks nothing like him. He’s not her father!”

  “Maybe you should let me deal with them on Saturday,” he said.

  “Try to keep me away,” I replied.

  * * *

  “Good news,” said Lincoln the next day. “Lourdes has a friend who is also willing to sign a deposition. She wants the judge to know that the baby will be better off with you. She does not think Anna will be a fit mother!”

  “I don’t find that comforting,” said Michael. “If we lose Gavi, I want to think she’ll be okay.”

  “We’re not going to lose her,” I said.

  “Maybe the father will be a good parent,” he said.

  “If he is the father,” said Lincoln. “Which I doubt.”

  “He’s not the father,” I said fiercely.

  “He obviously has reason to believe he is,” said Michael.

  “Why would she even want to keep the baby?” I asked. “I thought that for months all she wanted was an abortion.”

  “Having a child changes you,” said Michael, giving me a significant look. “Nobody should know that better than you.”

  “We will fight!” said Lincoln. “Gabriella is an American citizen. They are both here illegally. She must be protected. We can fight this all the way to Washington!”

  * * *

  “Is this really what you want our life to be?” Michael asked as we drove home from yet another meeting in Lincoln’s office. “Do you want to spend the next ten years living and breathing a legal battle?”

  “If we have to,” I said.

  “And what if it takes ten years and we lose?” he asked. “Please think of what this will mean for Gavi. If that man is her father, we have to give her up. For her sake, we have to do it.”

  “I’m never going to give her up,” I screamed at him. “Never. I’ll leave the country with her. I’ll go without you if I have to.”

  “I thought I knew you,” said Michael. “But I was wrong. I don’t know you anymore.” How could he? I didn’t even know myself.

  * * *

  The man’s name was Juan. I couldn’t look at Anna without loathing, but he seemed decent enough. Whenever they emerged from the bedroom, he was the one holding Gavi. And each time I took her and we watched as her sobs subsided it was he who said, “Thank you for taking such good care of my daughter.”

  “He’ll be good to her,” said Michael, who was still steeling himself for the loss.

  “He won’t have the chance,” I replied, still unwilling to face the possibility of life without Gavi.

  “I mean, if we have to give her back,” he said.

  “We’re not giving her back,” I replied. He bit his lip and said nothing.

  * * *

  The blood test was horrible. Gavi screamed and kicked as the nurse struggled to get a needle into her vein. Then it was over, and there was nothing to do but wait.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” said Michael as we left the hospital. “If Juan does not turn out to be Gavi’s father, I’ll fight this with you for as long as it takes. But if the blood tests show that he is, you agree to give her back as soon as we get the results.”

  “Deal,” I said, shaking his hand. In my heart I knew that Juan was not Gavi’s father. And there were still three weeks until we had to go back to court.

  * * *

  Lincoln called a week later. “Now, I want you to remember,” he said, “that the blood tests are only ninety-nine percent accurate.”

  “The results are in?” I asked. “Already?” Michael dashed across the room.

  “They’re early,” he said, taking my hand.

  “They indicate,” said Lincoln, “a likelihood that Juan Rodriguez is the father.”

  “They’re so early,” I moaned.

  “And they could be wrong,” Lincoln reminded me.

  I hung up the phone and picked up Gavi. I took her downstairs to change her diaper, tickling her so that she laughed and wriggled with delight. As I taped the clean diaper closed I tried to imagine what her life would be, living in Mexico with Anna. I saw her, a sturdy toddler, playing outside in the dirt. I saw Anna step out of a pink stucco house, yank her by the arm, and slap her.

  Michael came in and bent over, nuzzling the soft skin of Gavi’s neck. She cooed. “I’ll call and make arrangements to give her back,” he said. He was crying.

  “No,” I replied. “I’m not giving her back. Not now, not ever.”

  “But you promised that if he was the father . . .”

  “I changed my mind,” said the ferocious, unfamiliar creature I had become. I knew exactly what I had to do. “I’m not giving her back. Lincoln says we can fight this for years. We owe it to Gavi.”

  Michael stared at me for a long time, as if wondering where I had come from. He ran his hand softly across Gavi’s cheek. Without a word he left the room. I heard the door slam. His car started. And then Gabriella and I were alone.

  * * *

  We lived in noisy silence, equally miserable but dealing with it in different ways. Michael worked late and went to bed as soon as he came home. I could feel the bed moving when he got up in the middle of the night to stand, silently, for hours by our daughter’s bed. I spent my time with Lincoln, plotting to keep Gabriella. I made bargains with God; I saw signs everywhere. I knew her destiny was with us.

  Juan and Anna appeared like clockwork. In spite of myself I could not dislike him. He had dignity and sweetness, and he seemed distraught that Gavi would not stop crying when he held her.

  “Duermes, duermes, mi amor,” he whispered to her.

  “She doesn’t want you,” I hissed.

  But I reserved my hatred for Anna, a princess who never seemed to hold the baby. Why did she even want her, I wondered, this woman who had hoped to abort my child? She would be a horrible mother. Would she get up and sing to Gavi in the middle of the night? Would she tickle her and nuzzle her? Of course not. It would be monstrous to turn Gabriella over to this woman who had walked away without a backward glance. It was out of the question.

  “Señora?” Juan was standing next to me, clearing his throat.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “My mother would like to see her granddaughter—”

  “Oh no,” I said, “no more visitors.”

  “I do not make myself clear,” he said. “She would like a photograph. I do not have a camera. Do you have a photograph I could send her?”

  Relieved, I gave him an entire stack. Michael and I were in most of them; I wanted the grandmother to know that Gavi had a family.

  * * *

  Gavi had graduated to peas and carrots. I was feeding her, laughing as she smeared the purées around her face. When the phone rang I answered with one hand, still holding the spoon. It was Michael. “Turn on the television,” he said. “The S
panish station, KMEX. Hurry.”

  I picked Gavi up and took her with me into the living room. When I turned on the television her face, and mine, and Michael’s jumped out at me. It was one of the photographs I had given Juan. The Spanish was very rapid, but it was not hard to get the gist of what the anchor was saying: Two American journalists had stolen a Mexican baby. Juan and Anna were in the studio; Anna looked very pretty. She was crying as she said, “Yo quiero mi niña.” Juan, looking strong and dignified, said something I could not understand. The picture of me and Michael holding Gavi flashed back on the screen, followed by the logos of the Los Angeles Times and CBS.

  “Do you get it?” said Michael’s voice on the phone. He was hoarse; he had been crying. “Do you finally get it? It’s over. We have to give her back. It’s not just about us anymore. It’s gotten bigger. Now it’s become about race, about class. Tomorrow there will be pickets at the paper and the station.”

  “We can fight it,” I said.

  * * *

  When the social worker came the next day we gave her Gavi’s clothes and toys and bottles. And then there was only Gavi. She looked at me trustingly as I handed her over to the woman. She did not cry when the car door closed. The car drove off, and I watched it until I couldn’t see it anymore, and then I watched the last place it had been until I couldn’t see anything at all. Blindly I turned and went inside.

  Michael and I were like survivors of a shipwreck on a desert island. We bumped around, surprised to be alive, surprised to discover other living beings in the world. We both had nightmares. Neither of us could eat or sleep. Our fragility made us unexpectedly gentle with each other.

  Friends shied away from us, and when I showed up at the office Bob roared, “What are you doing here?” He took me to the door and shoved me out. “After what you’ve been through,” he said, “I don’t want to see you for at least two weeks.”

  * * *

  Without diapers, bottles, strollers, or car seats there seemed almost nothing to load into the car. Within minutes we were driving, past Ventura, past Santa Barbara, and up the spine of California.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “I want to lie in the sun and drink wine and try not to think about where Gavi is and what she is doing. I want to empty my mind so I don’t hear her crying for us, night and day, wondering why we never come.”