Before I Saw You

by Amy Sorrells

  He winces and whines at the cold and the shock of being stretched out and touched, but soon settles again when she swaddles him up.

  “I think so.” I glance at Gabe, curled in the recliner beside me. He nods at me encouragingly. “I checked out your friend’s website.”

  Amanda appears relieved that I’ve brought it up, but also hesitant. She waits for me to say more.

  “Your friends . . . they’re the ones. I know they’re supposed to be the ones.”

  Her eyes fill with tears, and it’s clear she’s trying her best to hold back her emotions. “Do you want me to let Donna know?”

  I nod. “But you need to know . . . the baby’s father . . . he sent me papers. Paternal custody papers.”

  “Oh . . . wow . . .” She stops herself, and it looks like she has some of the same feelings I have about that. “Okay, I’ll let Donna know that, too.”

  Maybe Donna could do something to help. At this point, I’m willing to try anything.

  Amanda takes out my catheter and helps me to the bathroom for the first time. Most of the feeling is back, and my belly smarts. She offers me pain medicine, but I refuse anything more than a Tylenol.

  “Might help you get around better if you take something stronger,” she says as she watches me wince and hold a pillow tight to my belly to brace against the pain.

  I shake my head. I’m tempted to tell her that’s how Mama got started. A little of the strong stuff to help with her back pain. Then a little more. Then a little more. Then the doctor wouldn’t give her any more prescriptions. Then she got desperate. Then she found heroin. Then Jayden. Then this. I’ll take whatever pain I have to over that.

  She runs and gets me an ice pack, and soon the cold eases the sting of the incision. She hands me my baby and I marvel all over again at his eyelashes, his long, thin fingers splayed out in contentment, his little mouth, open just enough that I can smell his sweet, new breath.

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “I think we’re good.”

  An aide walks in with my breakfast tray and sets it up for me. Sausage, a stack of pancakes bigger than my head, fresh fruit, and orange juice in a pretty glass. Fanciest meal I’ve ever had.

  “Amanda?” I say as she starts out of the room.

  “Yeah?”

  “Please pray?”

  She gives me a kind and knowing smile. “I’ve been praying since I met you yesterday.”

  I’m texting with Carla about what I should do when there’s a knock on my door.

  “There’s a visitor here for you,” an aide says. “An older gentleman. Says his name is Walter Crawford?”

  My gut clenches and instinctively I pull my baby closer.

  Gabe had to go to work at the station.

  Carla’s at the diner.

  No one’s here to help me.

  Trust me.

  I’m trying, Lord. I’m scared.

  “The Lord will fight for you and this baby. You only need to be still,” Sudie had said.

  Lord, please let that be true. Mr. Crawford was kind at the cemetery. Whatever news he has . . .

  Trust me.

  I take in a deep breath. “Okay,” I say to the aide. “You can send him in.”

  Walter Crawford holds his hat in one hand and a briefcase in the other. I look at his permanent pout, his stocky frame, and try to imagine him and Sudie having a thing together. I suppose he is kinda cute, in an Alfred Hitchcock-y way. At the very least, the thought helps calm my nerves enough to keep me from wanting to climb out of this bed and run out the doors.

  “Ms. Givens.”

  “You can call me Jaycee.”

  Now he’s the one taking a deep breath.

  I brace myself for what I’m sure he’s going to say. I imagine Elizabeth glaring at me, a smug look of victory on her face in a cold old courtroom. I imagine having to place my baby in Bryan’s arms, his angry eyes. My arms ache as if they’re still bruised.

  “When we last spoke, I told you how there was a way to overturn the original custody papers.”

  I nod. He’s going to tell me it’s too late. It’s over. Don’t cry. You can’t cry.

  My baby squirms, turns his head. He’ll be hungry soon.

  Mr. Crawford’s pout turns into a slight smile. He reaches into his briefcase and hands me a file. “Here.”

  I open it and scan the document, hardly believing my eyes.

  VOLUNTARY RELINQUISHMENT OF PARENTAL RIGHTS

  Comes now in person, Bryan Blair, born August 12, 1995, acknowledges that he/she is the legal or alleged father (or is charged as being the legal or alleged father) or mother of , born June 14, 2018, in River County, Riverton, Indiana. The said Bryan Blair, does hereby in writing expressly consent and agree to the termination of his/her parental rights concerning the above-said child.

  I hereby transfer the custody of the said child to the office of Walter Crawford, Attorney-at-Law in Riverton, Indiana, in order for that agency to make an appropriate placement for the child in accordance with the law. I swear and/or affirm that my signature to this document has been freely given without coercion, duress, or the exercise of undue influence.

  I read it again.

  And again.

  “Relinquishment?” I say to Walter.

  “It’s official. He’s giving up his parental rights.”

  I scour the document, checking every signature line. Bryan has already signed his name on all of them.

  I look at Walter, and he nods, face pink with unmistakable joy.

  “What did you do?”

  He holds his hand up. “I can assure you, I didn’t do anything at all. Unless of course you count prayer. Mr. Blair came to my office late yesterday afternoon. I was packing up to leave. Almost missed him. He asked if I would draw up this document and deliver it to you. He asked us to make sure the other ones are destroyed. My secretary was there as a witness. He was completely lucid. And, I might add, confident of his decision.”

  My phone blinks with another text from Carla.

  Carla. That twinkle she had in her eye.

  Bryan signed the papers, I type, and hit Send. Did you have something to do with this?

  Ellipses appear at the bottom of the screen.

  When her text appears, it’s three emojis: praying hands, a smiley face with a zipper for a mouth, and a smiley face that’s winking.

  I don’t care what she said or did to convince Bryan. All that matters is that it’s true. The Lord did fight for me. By sending me people like Carla and Amanda, Donna, and even Mr. Crawford at just the right times. He fought for me, and most of all, for my baby.

  “What do I need to do?” I say to Mr. Crawford.

  He leans toward me and points to the blank lines below where Bryan has signed. “Sign in all those same places.”

  When I’m finished, I start to hand him the paper.

  “There’s one more thing.”

  I scan the document, looking for any spaces I missed. I don’t see any.

  “Right there,” he points. “You have to give him a name.”

  38

  * * *

  River Samuel Givens.

  My heart has known his name for weeks.

  My hesitation about putting it on paper comes not from the fear of attachment—it’s far too late to avoid that. No, it comes from the piece of me that still, after everything, thinks I don’t deserve to give him a name.

  “It’s okay,” Walter encourages. “You are his mother, after all.”

  I’m his mother.

  I am his mother.

  God knit River together inside of me.

  He made something out of nothing, stringing cells together one at a time deep inside me to shape his sweet nose, to sculpt each finger and toe, to knit every fiber of his heart that beats and every part of his lungs that breathe. River is fearfully and wonderfully made, and there is no place he can go that will ever change this. I am the first page, the best page, of River’s story in a book the Lord
is only beginning to write for him. Reverend Payne said Moses’ mother didn’t give him up because she didn’t love him. She gave him up because she did love him. She gave him up to protect him and to save his life. And he went on to save the Israelites. An entire people. An entire nation.

  “Sometimes God shows his faithfulness not by what he brings to our life, but by what he takes out of it; not by what he gives us, but by the joy we receive from what we let go of and give to him,” Reverend Payne said.

  I pick up the pen and press it against the page, and I pray through every curve and turn of the letters . . .

  River. Thank you, Lord. Samuel. Save him, Lord. Givens. Bless him, Lord.

  Trust me.

  Okay.

  I don’t know how a heart can be empty and full at the same time, but that’s what mine feels like as I give the signed paper back to Walter. Empty because there’s nothing left to stop what I know I have to do. Full because I know it is good and right and God is in it.

  Walter leaves and I put on the call light.

  Amanda comes to answer it.

  “Tell Joe and Michelle. Tell them they have a son who is waiting here for them.”

  39

  * * *

  Donna Howard has been working with Walter to draw up the rest of the necessary adoption papers. The fact that I had a C-section means I can stay at the hospital during all of this, which allows me to stay with River. Although Joe and Michelle Moore are more than gracious in their willingness to communicate with me, we all decide together that we will only meet face-to-face one time, when I put River in their arms. Not before, and not after. For all our sakes. They’re due to arrive midafternoon.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  “Come in.”

  “Hey, you,” Carla says from behind a large galvanized vase full of meadow wildflowers. “Thought you might like having these around, this being the day and all.”

  “I still can’t believe Bryan signed those papers.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she says, humming as she fiddles with and arranges the flowers.

  “Will you ever tell me what happened?”

  She looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Nope. But don’t worry. I didn’t do anything that caused the boy any harm.”

  Before I can get any more out of her, Dr. Fitzgerald bounds into the room.

  “I came to see you one more time, brave little lady,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say as he stands beside my bed.

  “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Thank you . . . for not acting like something was wrong with me. For not judging me.”

  He appears to think on that for a moment before saying simply, “You’re welcome.” He passes Gabe, who’s carrying a cup of my favorite coffee, on the way out.

  “How are you holding up?” Gabe sets the coffee on the table beside me.

  “I didn’t sleep all night long. I couldn’t. I’ve just been staring at him, trying to memorize every part of him, everything he does, all the noises he makes. . . . Did you see he has a spot here on the crown of his head where his hair grows in a swirl?”

  “I didn’t.” He kisses the top of River’s head, then mine. “You do good work, Mama.”

  Someday, Gabe. Lord willing, someday maybe this could be you and me and a baby of our own. I don’t dare say it out loud, but I have a pretty good hunch he’s thinking the same thing.

  The Reds are growing on Gabe, and he settles in to watch them play the Padres on TV while I nurse River for what will probably be the last time. I take pictures of him until my phone says it’s full. I kiss his hands, each finger, each foot, his lips—shaped like a perfect rosebud—and the curve of his little round chin, even though I did the same thing a thousand times last night. I inhale the sweet scent of him, the fragrance of baby wash still lingering on him from his first bath. I giggle when he gets the hiccoughs and weep when I hold him against me and feel every rise and fall of his chest as I burp him.

  “I love you, River Samuel. I will always, always love you. I’m your mama. Do you know that? Your mama . . .”

  River and I both startle as the door clatters open.

  Donna Howard walks in. “They’re here.”

  Fresh tears fall and I lean my face against the feather-soft hair of River’s head.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Gabe asks, his own eyes watering up.

  I shake my head and take a deep breath. “No. I’ll be okay. I have to do this myself.”

  He comes to the bed and wraps his arms around both of us. He whispers in my ear. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  “Thank you. For everything, Gabe. Thank you.”

  “Oh, wait—I almost forgot.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. “There’s something you need to see.”

  When he hits Play on the screen, it’s a videogram from Mama. “Congratulations, Jaycee. River is the most perfect name. What we talked about . . . if you decide to go through with it . . . I want you to know . . . love means laying down your own life, your own wants and needs, for someone else’s. I didn’t do that for you too well. . . .”

  I can see her chin is quivering, despite the grainy video.

  “But I know if you decide on adoption, you’ll be doing it out of the deepest kind of love. The love of a mother for her child. The kind of love that trusts the Lord with her child. The kind of love I didn’t know existed before I saw you, and that I nearly lost forever.”

  Donna, who’s looking on, gives me a knowing smile. “Are you ready?”

  “I am now.”

  40

  * * *

  “Can’t I walk?” I say to the nurse who steers a wheelchair into the room.

  “Hospital policy. I’m sorry.”

  Donna shrugs apologetically, and I hand River to Gabe as I settle myself into the chair. He hands River back to me and kisses us both again before I’m wheeled into the long hallway that leads to the room where the Moores are waiting for us.

  “Everything’s taken care of,” Donna assures me. “There will be a couple of papers left to sign, but other than that, Walter’s done a fine job wrapping up the paperwork. And you and the Moores have been the easiest families to work with.”

  The closer we get, the more I feel like I’m approaching some kind of a death. I’m far beyond butterflies. If I weren’t already sitting, I’m not sure I’d even be able to stand.

  “You okay?” Donna asks.

  I’m sure I look pale. Or ill. Or both.

  “I don’t know.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “They seem like wonderful people.”

  I’m sure they are. It’s not that. It’s the emptiness I already feel. The ache of my arms because soon he won’t be in them anymore. The fullness of my breasts because I won’t be nursing him again.

  Help me, Lord. I don’t think I can do this.

  I’m right here. You can do all things with my help.

  Not this, Lord. I can’t do this.

  We stop when we reach the door. Donna puts her hand on the handle and pauses. “You ready?”

  How do I even answer that? No, I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. Whatever peace I had is dwindling. I know why Sudie was mad at God. I don’t want to be an Abraham, either. Test me some other way, Lord. Can’t you test me some other way?

  Donna must sense my apprehension. She lets go of the handle and kneels next to me. Takes my hand. “You will always be his mother. He will always be your child. Nothing will ever change those things.”

  I nod, and the tears fall hot from my eyes.

  “The kind of love that trusts the Lord with her child,” Mama said.

  With the hand that’s not clinging to River, I wipe my eyes, my face. I take a couple of deep breaths. “Okay.”

  41

  * * *

  Joe and Michelle Moore stand as Donna opens the door, and the only thing that helps is that they look every bit as terrified as I feel. I don’t know what I
expected . . . Confidence? Noisemakers? Streamers? We shake hands awkwardly as Donna introduces us. I can’t help but notice they look just like their pictures on the website.

  Of course they do.

  Still, somehow this is a relief.

  Without even knowing her, I can tell Michelle is trying to hold back her emotions, and I am relieved to see not pity, but mercy in her eyes. If I learned anything from Sudie, it’s that someone who knows hurt well is kind to hurt in another. And no doubt Michelle knows hurt from not being able to bear a child.

  Joe is about as sure of himself as Gabe was the day we rescued the hawk on the highway. Scratches his head in just about the same place as Gabe does when he’s nervous too.

  The giggle that erupts out of my throat comes from I don’t know where, and I am mortified, especially because I can’t stop it.

  Joe and Michelle look at each other, then back at me, and they start giggling too.

  We’re all sitting there giggling. Even Donna and the nurse get to giggling too. And River sleeps right through it in my arms.

  “I’m so sorry,” I croak. “I don’t mean to laugh . . . it’s just . . .” I look at Joe. “You remind me of a friend, is all, who does that same thing . . . with his hand and his hair . . .”

  “We’re sorry too,” the Moores say in broken unison, wiping the tears from their eyes like me.

  Donna sobers first. “Okay, you guys. I’ve never had that happen before.” She fiddles with the file and some papers, setting them on the table with a couple of pens.

  The giggling stops, but the tears don’t. Michelle and I start talking at the same time.

  “We meant what we said, in our letter—”

  “I knew when I read your letter—”

  We almost start giggling all over again. These nerves.

  “You go ahead,” she says, and Joe nods in agreement.

  “Amanda told me about your website. When I read the part in your letter about giving River a chance—that’s when I knew. God picked you a long time ago to be the ones to raise him.”