“Mrs. Borden’s house is in the same area.”
“That’s nice of her,” Sandy said. “But I’m not sure I can keep up—”
Dr. Nichols leaned forward. “Sandy, based on your academic performance, I would let you graduate right now if I could, but we need a way to satisfy the bureaucratic requirements for school attendance. A home-study program is one way to do that. Do the work you can, when you can. That will be more than enough.”
Sandy had several years of perfect attendance in elementary school, and going to class was ingrained in her character. However, the chance to stay in her pajamas and read while sitting in the comfortable chair in Linda’s living room sounded like a much-needed break.
“That would be great,” she said.
“Good.” Dr. Nichols sat up straighter. “Everyone here wants you to excel. You’re a bright young woman with a great future ahead of you. If we handed out awards to outstanding students at the end of the year, you’d get the top one.”
Sandy’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She’d been unaware that people at the school were watching her.
“Should I go to class today?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“If you feel like it. Mention to your teachers that we talked.”
It was an emotional day. Sandy was overwhelmed by the response from her teachers. Mr. Vance, the algebra instructor, earnestly thanked her for her hard work. All of the women cried and hugged her. Mrs. Milton, the Spanish teacher from South Carolina, soaked through two tissues. Mrs. Welshofer, the chemistry teacher, held Sandy’s hand and talked about the first day Angelica came to class and how Sandy agreed to help the Hispanic girl. Mrs. Borden retrieved a paper Sandy had written about the role of women in colonial society. Placing it on her desk, she told Sandy it was one of the best pieces of student work she’d ever read.
When the final bell rang, Sandy was emotionally and physically spent. She sat in her little yellow car for a few moments and looked at the school. The overflow of love and encouragement from the faculty and the personal affirmation from Dr. Nichols touched her deeply. Ever since she’d fled in disgrace from Rutland High, she’d felt like a failure.
But Sandy wasn’t a failure. She was an overcomer.
She’d done the best she could in a tough situation. And in God’s mercy, she’d been surrounded by people who didn’t judge her for her mistakes but encouraged her for the way she’d responded to them. She closed her eyes and let the words she’d heard during the day wash over her again and again. Over the past months, Linda, Dr. Berman, and the people in the run-down school building had lifted her out of the pit of self-condemnation. They’d helped save her life.
In the past, Sandy had dreamed of studying interior design like her mother. Since coming to Atlanta and meeting Angelica, she’d considered majoring in Spanish. Then Mrs. Longwell suggested she would be a good lawyer. Now Sandy wondered if teaching might be the best path for her.
Whatever she ultimately did in life, it would be profoundly influenced by what she’d learned at a school of last resort named Metro High in Atlanta, Georgia.
THIRTEEN
Linda drove Sandy to her next appointment with Dr. Berman.
“No change,” the doctor announced after the examination.
“Should I be worried?” Sandy groaned. “I feel like I’m about to divide like an amoeba.”
“I’ve never heard anybody put it that way.” Dr. Berman smiled. “But every woman who has a child gives a part of herself to the baby. Trust your body and try not to worry. Anxiety has no positive side effects.”
“Are you on call this week?”
Sandy knew Dr. Berman shared delivery duty with another ob-gyn physician, Dr. Castle. Sandy had seen Dr. Castle, a middle-aged man, a couple of times during her pregnancy, but she hoped Dr. Berman would be the one with her in the delivery room.
“Yes, then I’m off a week and on for two weeks.”
“Those are good odds.”
“Dr. Castle delivered both my boys,” Dr. Berman reassured her. “He’s a real pro. There aren’t any bad odds in your future.”
While Linda drove home, Sandy shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat.
“I have an idea for a new invention,” Sandy said while they waited for a stoplight to turn green.
“What’s that?”
“A padded belt that will fit underneath a pregnant woman’s abdomen and help support her baby. The ends of the belt could be attached to a brace that distributes the weight across the upper back and shoulders.”
Linda chuckled.
“I can diagram it on a sheet of paper when we get home,” Sandy continued. “It might not be the next Hula-hoop, but I would buy one.”
“And you could offer them in different colors depending on the woman’s outfit. That way each woman would want more than one.”
“Yeah,” Sandy grunted. “Like purses and shoes.”
Sandy called her mother and told her about the doctor’s appointment.
“My suitcase is packed,” her mother said. “If I didn’t have to take care of Ben and Jack, I’d be there now. Anything I can do from here?”
“Uh, please call Jessica. I know she’s thinking about me a lot.”
“All right.”
Sandy hesitated. There was one bit of news her mother didn’t know.
“I talked to Mrs. Longwell yesterday. The lawyer for the adoption agency tried to get in touch with Brad about signing the surrender papers. Mrs. Donnelly told her to call Mr. Dexter.”
Harold Dexter was a lawyer in Rutland. Sandy knew her father didn’t like him but wasn’t sure why.
“Is there a chance Brad won’t sign the papers?” her mother asked sharply.
“Mrs. Longwell says that’s always a possibility. Because Brad and I aren’t married, Mr. Dexter would have to file some kind of legal papers if Brad wants to fight the adoption. Then it would go in front of a judge.”
“Brad doesn’t care about raising a baby.”
“It’s not him Mrs. Longwell is worried about. She said the paternal grandmother sometimes steps in and tries to get custody of a baby even though the birth father doesn’t care.”
“Kim Donnelly doesn’t want to raise a baby either.”
“I hope you’re right.” Sandy took a deep breath before dropping a bombshell. “But before I’d let that happen, I wouldn’t surrender my parental rights to anybody.”
“Let’s not talk about that,” her mother said with obvious tension in her voice. “We’ve made too many careful plans for everything to fall apart. I’d rather keep the baby than let Kim Donnelly get her hands on it, but I can’t let myself think about that. And it’s not healthy for you to either.”
Sandy was so physically miserable that the possibility of legal problems with Brad and his parents, while catastrophic, couldn’t make her feel much worse.
“I told Mrs. Longwell that I want Brad to sign first so the ten-day period he has to change his mind runs out before mine does. She thinks that’s a good—”
“Stop it!” her mother said in a loud voice.
Startled, Sandy held the receiver away from her ear for a few seconds.
“I thought you wanted to know—”
“I’m about to have a nervous breakdown! I can’t handle worrying about more things that could go wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” Sandy said.
“You’ve apologized enough, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Tell Linda to call me as soon as it’s time for me to come.”
Sandy hung up the phone. When she turned around, Linda was standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Mama says she’s about to have a nervous breakdown.”
“Put yourself in her position.”
“I try to, but it’s hard to think about anyone but myself.” Sandy paused. “Do you think I’m selfish?”
“Is that what your mother said?”
“Not exactly.”
“And you want my opinion after living with you for si
x months?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you’re selfish. And your pregnancy isn’t an excuse.”
Sandy hung her head.
“The problem is that every person walking on two legs on the planet is selfish,” Linda continued. “The bigger issue is, what unselfish choices are you making each day? You do a pretty good job with that, especially considering how lousy you must feel.”
Linda’s compliments, even when they came with reservations, lifted Sandy up.
“Inviting me to live with you was an unselfish choice,” Sandy said.
“Before I called your mother, I was used to living here alone, doing what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it, not having to think about another person. As long as I kept the birdfeeders full and made sure the cats had food, water, and fresh litter, I didn’t have to worry about anyone else. Yes, inviting you to come to Atlanta was an unselfish act. Sometimes such choices lead to difficult circumstances that cause regrets. But not with you. You’re my niece, not my daughter, but the time we’ve had together is something I will treasure the rest of my life.”
“Uh-oh,” Sandy said.
“What is it?” Linda asked in concern.
Sandy put her hand on her back. “While you were talking, my insides tightened up and I felt a lot of pressure in my back.”
“A contraction?”
“Maybe. It felt different from the Braxton-Hicks contractions I had the other day. Those were more across the front. I need to go to the bathroom.”
When Sandy came out of the bathroom, she made it only to the kitchen door before the tightening sensation returned. She leaned against the doorframe. Her back ached.
“I left my watch upstairs on my dresser,” Linda said. “I’ll get it.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Sandy started walking up and down the hall. Dr. Berman had told her that walking sometimes made prelabor pains subside. Linda returned with the watch.
“Should I call your mother?” she asked.
“Not yet. Let’s see what happens.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Sandy said. “I don’t want her to come for nothing. Once she’s in the car she’ll be out of touch.”
The pain returned and lasted forty-five seconds before subsiding. Sandy continued to walk through the downstairs area of the house. Linda, watch in hand, sat in the living room.
“It’s starting now!” Sandy called out from the doorway to her room. She leaned against the wall until the pain subsided. “It’s over!”
“Lasted forty-five seconds and twelve minutes apart!” Linda said.
Sandy went into the living room and sat down, but she couldn’t stay in the chair.
“I’ve got too much energy to sit,” she said, forcing herself up. “I’d rather be walking.”
Back and forth she went through the house. Linda stayed in the living room, trying to read a book and recording the timing of Sandy’s contractions on a piece of paper. After two hours, the contractions were coming in regular intervals ten minutes apart and lasting almost a minute.
“Call Mama,” Sandy said when Linda showed her the sheet.
“Should I tell her to come here or go to the hospital?”
Sandy touched her stomach. “Ask the baby. I have no idea.”
In a little over two hours there was a knock on the door. Sandy opened it. Her mother was standing on the step with her suitcase in her hand.
“The baby has dropped,” her mother said, eyeing Sandy’s abdomen.
“I know,” Sandy replied. “If it drops much more, it’s going to come out onto the floor.”
Linda came into the kitchen from the living room.
“I think it’s time to go to the hospital,” Sandy said. “The contractions are coming six minutes apart.”
“Do you want me to come?” Linda asked.
“Yes,” Sandy responded instantly. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“I’m not sure what I can do. I’ve never had a baby. Your mother is experienced.”
“You can let me know when I’m acting selfish,” Sandy replied.
“What?” her mother asked.
“Linda will explain it to you. I’m going to get my suitcase from the bedroom. Everything is packed.”
Sandy rolled her suitcase into the kitchen. Linda drove. Sandy sat in the backseat with her legs stretched out across the seat. The contractions were getting more and more intense. She hadn’t attended the prebirth classes sponsored by Dr. Berman’s office when she found out husbands usually came. As a substitute, Dr. Berman gave her a pamphlet that Sandy had memorized. She tried to do the breathing exercises she’d practiced, but it was a lot more difficult when the pain was real. Linda stopped at a red light.
“Don’t you think you could have gotten through that one?” Sandy asked.
“I didn’t want to drive too fast.”
“If you ever had a good reason to drive fast, this is it.”
The rest of the trip, Sandy listened to Linda and her mother arguing about which lane to get in. Finally, Linda turned into the hospital parking lot and found a spot near the emergency room entrance.
“Did you call Dr. Berman’s answering service before you left the house?” Sandy asked as they got out of the car.
Linda stopped in her tracks.
“It slipped my mind when your mother arrived.”
“The hospital can get in touch with her,” Sandy said with a wave of her hand.
Thirty minutes later Sandy was in a labor room hooked up to monitors with her mother at her side. Linda opted to stay in the waiting room. A labor and delivery nurse informed Sandy that she was five centimeters dilated.
“You’re going to have a baby tonight,” she announced cheerfully. “I’ll call Dr. Berman and let her know how you’re progressing.”
As soon as the nurse left the room, Sandy’s water broke.
“The exam may have triggered it,” her mother said. “I’ll get the nurse and then check on Linda while they take care of you.”
Now that the labor process was definitely under way, Sandy felt a sense of finality, like a runner who sees the finish line of a long race. Everything in her life since she’d found out she was pregnant had pointed to this event and this moment. For months she’d taken care of the baby in her womb and now wanted to usher him, her, or both of them into the world as healthy as possible.
The nurse returned with an assistant, who cleaned Sandy up and then changed the sheets on the bed. The nurse watched Sandy walk slowly around the room.
“I read your chart,” the nurse said. “You’re doing great.”
“Thanks.”
The nurse helped Sandy back into bed and reattached the monitors.
“I was adopted as an infant,” the nurse said as she adjusted the knobs on the machine that measured the strength and frequency of the contractions. “I’ve never met my birth mother, but when I work with patients like you, I pretend I’m helping her.”
Sandy peered up at the nurse.
“Do you ever feel mad at her for giving you up?”
The nurse stopped what she was doing and gave Sandy a look that reminded her of Linda.
“Every adopted child has questions. Some struggle with issues of abandonment and self-image. Others don’t look in life’s rearview mirror at all. I’m kind of in the middle. I’m sure my birth mother had good reasons for doing what she did, but I don’t know what those reasons were. Several years ago I contacted the agency that placed me, not to try to locate my birth mother, but to learn a little bit more about the circumstances of my adoption. I found out my mother had a say in where I ended up. That made me feel special, because I know she cared.”
“I care,” Sandy said softly.
“I know you do. I can see it in your eyes.”
Sandy’s mother returned, and Sandy told her about her conversation with the nurse. All talk ceased as Sandy dealt with a strong contraction.
“Li
nda called Mrs. Longwell,” her mother said after the needle on the chart descended from the mountain. “She’s going to get in touch with both sets of prospective parents.”
“But not tell them about the possibility of twins.”
“If that’s what you told her. I still think it’s a strange way to do this.”
Sandy suddenly cried out. “Mama! Something’s wrong!”
The needle on the graph shot up rapidly and kept climbing.
“What’s happening?” Sandy asked, gritting her teeth.
“You’re having a contraction.”
“No, it’s something else. Get the nurse.”
Her mother hurriedly left the room. Sandy tried to control her breathing, but panic set in. The labor and delivery nurse rushed into the room and checked the chart.
“That’s a strong one,” she said. “It’s at the peak and plateauing at a high level. You’re making a lot of progress.”
“Am I okay?” Sandy panted.
“Yes.” The nurse watched the needle. “There, it’s starting to go down.”
The pressure eased slightly, but it was still excruciating.
“This is tougher than I thought,” Sandy said, her cheeks hot.
The nurse patted her hand.
“That’s why women, not men, have babies. I called Dr. Berman. She’s on her way.”
FOURTEEN
Sandy reached the limit of the pain she could endure, then found there was another level beyond it. Dr. Berman arrived and offered her an epidural pain block. Sandy’s mother wiped some perspiration from Sandy’s forehead.
“How close am I to delivery?” Sandy asked.
“Close,” the doctor said.
“Will the epidural take effect before it’s time to deliver?”
“Probably, but not by much.”
Another contraction came, and Sandy had the strong urge to push.
“I want to push.”
“Let’s skip the epidural and get you to the delivery room.”
Sandy’s mother came with her. Sandy glanced up at the clock in the hallway as she passed by on a gurney. It was 1:30 a.m. She suddenly thought about Brad Donnelly. He was lying in bed, sleeping peacefully through the night. Instead of getting mad, the ironic difference in their situations made her laugh.
The Choice Page 13
