Other People's Children

by R. J. Hoffmann

  Marla

  Marla checked the items on the order, closed the box, and sealed it with a shriek of packaging tape. She looked at the route and tossed the box onto the correct skid. She eyed the next order on the packing table, just binder clips and some pens, and started to build a smaller box. She fell into her rhythm, the rhythm that made the day pass quickly, a rhythm she’d found so long ago that she didn’t think about it anymore. Build the box, pack, check, seal, toss. To stay in the rhythm, she avoided eye contact with Helen across the table. They had gotten along fine in the beginning, until an argument about overtime. After that, Marla didn’t trust Helen, and working across a table from somebody that she didn’t trust—all day, every day, for seven years—it was hard not to let the stupid little annoyances accumulate like hairs in a drain. After a while, they clumped into arguments and then congealed into grudges, until the whole damn thing spilled over into hatred. Marla and Helen had learned that a couple of wrong words, a wrong look even, could send the whole day sideways, so they both did their best to ignore each other from six feet away. Marla was leaving early, but even so, she wanted to maintain that rhythm. It allowed her mind to drift to the baby.

  She could barely remember Carli and Wendy when they were babies, but the smell stuck with her. That same pudding smell that caught her off guard when she carried the baby down to the recovery room to make Carli look at it. She should have gotten up into Carli’s grill right when Carli told her she was pregnant, when she started talking to Paige, before she chose the Durbins. But Marla was too pissed off. She should have gone into that diner with Carli. She could have wrecked the whole damn thing before it got started, but all she managed to do was yell at Carli.

  As Carli got fat, Marla stopped looking at her. She kept her eyes glued to the TV when Carli walked by. The truth was, she had trouble enough sorting out how she felt about it herself. She was restless. Twitchy. She went for drives down by the river. She bought Wendy that sweater. That kind of shit. She even watched two episodes of The Golden Girls that one night before she snapped out of it. And she probably would have just yelled at Carli one more time when she got home from the hospital, and that would have been the end of it, if it wasn’t for Durbin.

  If that asshole didn’t come over like he did, if he didn’t say what he said, she probably wouldn’t have made Carli look at the baby. And she wouldn’t have smelled that pudding when she carried the baby back to the nurses’ station. She wouldn’t have remembered the wide-open space she’d felt inside of herself that first time she held Wendy, before she left Sean, before everything got all fucked up. She wouldn’t have recognized her restlessness as hope.

  The hope kept her awake that night after the baby was born, like a thunderstorm or a neighbor’s dog that wouldn’t stop barking. That nurse from the recovery room poisoned her with it, after Marla brought the baby back to the nurses’ station. When Marla finally stopped yelling, the nurse quietly took Marla aside and told her that Carli couldn’t sign that last piece of paper until three days passed. When she found that folder on Carli’s shelf the next day, she knew exactly what it held, and the hope felt like splinters wedged under her fingernails. The twisted confusion on Carli’s face as she watched that paper burn made those splinters real.

  Larry, one of the order pickers, delivered an armful of staplers to the packing table. He had that bounce in his step. Larry parted his hair down the middle and wore a mustache, which combined to make him look like a porn star from the seventies. He towered over Marla, and he carried fifty extra pounds of flab on his frame, mostly in his belly. But when he hadn’t been drunk or stoned for a few days, when he was ready for action, he bounced on the balls of his feet like a little kid headed to the ice cream truck. Larry disappeared into the stacks.

  A few minutes later, Kurt, another of the pickers, emerged from behind a set of shelves and dropped a case of copy paper on the table. Kurt and Larry were best friends and opposites. Kurt was short and coiled around an angry knot of muscle. Larry usually talked too much, but Kurt said little and hit hard.

  Larry appeared with a case of pens. “Borrowed my cousin’s car,” he said to Kurt. “Gary.”

  Kurt cocked his head. Larry grinned, picked up his next order, and bounced off.

  Marla watched Helen out of the corner of her eye to see how this would play out. Helen was skinny with a hatchet face and stringy hair. She glared at Kurt as he studied his next order, because Kurt and Helen were married, and Gary was Gary, Indiana, where most of the strip clubs had free lunch buffets. Helen and Marla both knew that after Kurt finished his free meal, he’d spend half his paycheck on lap dances, goaded by Larry and whoever else piled into Larry’s cousin’s car. He’d blow the whole wad if they found a trucker with coke to spare. Helen wouldn’t be able to stop him, and if she tried, she’d return to work missing another tooth from running into a door.

  Kurt looked up from the order, saw the look on Helen’s face. “Fuck you lookin’ at?” he demanded.

  Helen held his gaze for just a second and then looked back down at the box she was building. The tape shrieked. Kurt skulked off. The silence between Marla and Helen thickened. The fluorescent light buzzed. Marla scowled at an order to keep from smiling. Helen built a box, squeezing the tape dispenser so tightly that it screamed.

  The worst part about the whole damn thing was that Carli never once asked Marla to drive her to the doctor or help her get clothes that fit or tell her about what to expect next. Instead, that Durbin woman would show up at their house in her Subaru, and they’d go to the doctor appointments and then out to lunch and then to Nordstrom to buy her more clothes for fat ladies. And Carli, the dumb little bitch, seemed to be grateful for the ride and the clothes and for whatever they talked about at lunch, as if six lunches at Panera and a couple thousand dollars’ worth of clothes was the going rate for a baby.

  “I hear that Carli finally had that baby.”

  Marla looked up at Helen, said nothing, went back to packing. She wouldn’t be goaded out of her rhythm.

  “Shame she had to give it away,” Helen said.

  Marla dumped some file folders into the box. She wanted to tell Helen that it was handled, but it wasn’t yet. And besides, it might give Helen the impression that Marla gave a shit what she thought.

  “First grandchild and all.”

  Marla placed her hands flat on the table and leaned toward Helen. Helen glared defiantly back with bloodshot eyes. Just then, Kurt and Larry walked up to the packing table from opposite ends carrying their loads.

  “Hey, Kurt,” Marla said, still staring at Helen. It took some people longer than others to learn not to fuck with her. “Your old lady says you ain’t allowed to go to Gary.”

  Larry snickered.

  “Fuck you talkin’ about?” Kurt said, glaring at Helen now, too.

  Helen would definitely run into a door that weekend. Maybe even fall down the stairs.

  “I do whatever the fuck I want.”

  Paige

  Paige sat in her car in front of the Durbins’ house for a long time, staring at the porch steps, trying to ignore the empty car seat behind her. She tried to visualize what was about to happen. When it got like this, she had to visualize. She tried to imagine the words she would say, how long she might linger. She hoped that Jon would answer the door. Jon would not want to hear words, and she’d get the baby quickly. She might not have to say anything at all. If they both answered the door, or if Gail answered, holding the baby by herself, there was no telling what would happen. She’d cry and probably scream. Paige would have to find the right time to hold her arms out for the baby, and she could imagine holding her arms out for a long time before Gail gave Maya up.

  Paige was still pissed that she didn’t come yesterday. She should have held firm when Jon asked for more time. Most of her eight failures came before the baby was introduced to the adoptive parents, but her fourth was a reclamation, too. She learned from that situation to pluck the baby as quickly as possib
le. She never should have agreed to ask Carli for more time. She should have made the decision herself, instead of foisting it upon a confused, hormonal, eighteen-year-old girl.

  Paige looked back at the porch steps. The last time she visited Elmhurst, she came for the home study, the report required by the state to certify couples as ready to be parents. Although nobody is ever really ready, almost nobody flunks, and Gail certainly didn’t allow the Durbins to show poorly. All the electrical outlets had protective plastic plugs, and child gates stood guard at the top and the bottom of the stairs. She had mounted fire extinguishers every twenty feet, and all the upstairs bedrooms had a rope ladder stowed in the closet. Paige had never seen anything quite like it. Gail had even dressed Jon up in khakis and a turtleneck. Paige first inspected the house. Then they sat down at the kitchen table, and she inspected their life. She asked them how they met, how they argued, how they resolved those arguments. She drilled them about their finances, how much they had saved, who paid the bills, how much they had budgeted for a child. She interrogated them about who would care for the baby after Gail went back to work. She validated that they were on the same page about where they would send their child to school and how they would handle discipline. They weathered the storm of question better than most. Gail only had to say I think what Jon really means… three or four times. The home study pried into almost every nook and cranny of their relationship, but none of the questions touched upon how they would deal with a tragedy.

  Paige finally gave up trying to imagine the unimaginable and forced herself out of the car and up the walk. She used the railing to pull herself up the stairs. She sucked a deep breath at the door before pushing the doorbell, announcing that time was up. Paige composed her features into the shape of compassion and kindness. She waited for a long time, tried to be respectful of what must be going on inside. They were saying goodbye. They were prying themselves away from everything that they had expected. They were dismantling a family.

  Three or four minutes passed, though, and she started to shiver from the cold and the waiting. Her phone rang, but when she pulled it out of her pocket, it was Maggie, her daughter, so she sent the call to voice mail. She pressed the bell again, strained to listen for movement, but still she heard nothing. She waited. She pressed again and checked her watch—12:10. Shit. She walked across the porch to the front window, peered in. No lights. Nothing moved. She called Gail’s cell phone. It went to voice mail on the first ring. She tried Jon’s. Same. She thought about Gail’s parents. They must be at Gail’s parents, saying goodbye. But then a car pulled up, and Gail’s parents got out. A knot began to form in Paige’s stomach. She forced herself to wait for them on the porch.

  Gail’s parents seemed an even stranger match than Jon and Gail. Eleanor, her mom, brought to mind a lounge singer gone to seed, while Paul, her father, looked like a priest on casual Friday. Paul’s stride hitched when he caught sight of Paige on the porch, but he didn’t say anything to his wife, who was glaring at the ground. When he reached the top of the stairs, Paul nodded to Paige.

  “Hi,” Paige said.

  At this, Eleanor looked up, and her face hardened.

  “Hello, Paige,” Paul mumbled.

  Eleanor said nothing, marched to the door, and rang the bell.

  “They don’t seem to be home,” Paige said quietly.

  “They’re expecting us,” Eleanor spat without turning from the door. “Where else would they be?”

  “I was hoping that you might know,” Paige said. There was that word again.

  “You’re like a goddamn vulture,” Eleanor said to the door. “You just couldn’t wait, could you?”

  “I’m sorry?” Paige said.

  “They told us you were coming at five o’clock,” Paul said quietly. He looked at the empty driveway, out at the street. When he looked back at Paige, his eyes glistened. “We were planning to spend some time with Maya. Before we say goodbye.”

  The knot in Paige’s stomach cinched tighter, and her mind churned questions. Why would they say five? Where were they? What the hell was going on? “We agreed that I would pick her up at noon.”

  Her words landed hard. Paul’s face went slack.

  Eleanor turned on Paige. “Bullshit. They said five.”

  Paige remembered the conversation with Jon only too clearly. It wasn’t the kind of argument she’d forget.

  She looked at Paul when she spoke. “Do you know anywhere that they might have gone?”

  Eleanor pounded on the door.

  Paul shook his head and sank into a wicker chair. He pulled his phone out, pressed a button, and held it to his ear. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Hey, Gail. This is Dad. Call me as soon as you get this. We’re worried about you.”

  Paige lowered herself into the chair across from Paul. “Do you have a key to their house?” she asked.

  “No,” Paul mumbled.

  Eleanor rang the doorbell again. She knocked and waited. Finally, she turned and marched over to where Paul and Paige sat. When she spoke, it wasn’t clear who she was talking to. “Where in the hell are they?”

  Carli

  Carli wedged the crib between the bed and the window. She’d have to kneel on the bed to get at the baby, but she’d be so close when they slept. Right next to her, almost like they were sharing a bed. It was starting to feel real, and Carli allowed herself to picture the baby in the crib. She worked to remember that face, the face she’d turned from so quickly in the recovery room. She wondered how heavy the baby would feel in her arms. Every breath brought just a hint of vanilla cream soda.

  She was stretching the sheets across the mattress when the smoke hit her. She tucked the sheet under the last corner and then sat on the edge of her bed, facing Marla. Marla took a drag on her cigarette, and they regarded each other. Plastic Goodwill bags hung from Marla’s fingers. She didn’t look angry for once, and Carli felt warm in a way that she seldom did.

  “Food. Clothes. Diapers. Crib. Anything we forgot, we can send your sister.” Marla tossed the bags on the bed. “You ready?”

  While she was pregnant, the bulge in Carli’s stomach that kicked and made her hungry and tired and numb belonged to Gail. But now, that grainy, wriggling image on the ultrasound that she strained not to see, that blotchy, wrinkled face that Marla shoved at her in the recovery room, was going to be her baby. It was becoming real, and it was rushing at her fast, but Carli thought that maybe carrying a baby for nine months, catching all those stares and giggles at school, pushing eight pounds of person out into the world, went a long way toward making you ready. Carli nodded. “I’m ready.”

  Marla dumped the contents of the bags onto the bed, set her cigarette on the windowsill, and for ten minutes, they sorted the clothes into piles without a word. They separated the onesies from the dresses from the socks from the pajamas. Marla had even bought a tiny pair of white leather shoes.

  Marla took a drag from her cigarette. “What time’s Paige bringin’ her?”

  “Two o’clock.” Two hours. She had suffered nine uncomfortable months waiting to give her baby away. Now, in two hours, her baby would come home. Yes, Carli was ready.

  * * *

  Carli put a towel on the bed so that she’d have a place to change the baby. She straightened the stack of diapers and peeled the seal from a package of wipes. She reached to the top shelf of her closet and pulled out the blue stuffed frog that she’d hidden years ago to keep Marla from throwing it out. She propped it carefully in the crib. The vacuum growled in the front room.

  In the kitchen, she pulled the can of formula from the shelf and studied it. Her nipples still leaked. That morning, she’d learned from the Internet that she’d still be able to nurse Maya, but Marla had bought formula just in case. She took a bottle from the shelf and dumped in two scoops of the chalky powder. A half-eaten pizza lay on the table where Wendy and Randy had left it when Marla kicked them out. Carli’s stomach was twitchy, so she folded the box closed and slid it on top of t
he fridge. The vacuum quit, and she wandered into the front room. She pulled the drapes back and peered out at the driveway, at the street.

  “Twenty minutes,” Marla said.

  Carli settled into the couch while Marla wound the cord around the vacuum and shoved it into the closet. Marla sat down next to her and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted toward the ceiling. Carli decided that now was the time to ask.

  “Can you not do that when the baby gets here?”

  “Do what?” Marla asked.

  “Smoke.”

  Marla looked at her sideways. “You don’t want me to smoke?”

  “Around the baby.”

  Marla grunted a laugh. “In the same room? While I’m holding it? What’re we talking here?”

  “In the house.”

  She leaned back and cackled. “You think I’m gonna sit on the back porch all summer, sweating my ass off?”

  “I don’t want the baby to breathe the smoke.”

  “Do I gotta stay fifteen feet away from the door, or can I stand under the eaves when it’s raining?”

  Carli got up and pulled the curtain back. Nothing.

  “You still got fifteen minutes,” Marla said.

  Carli sat back down, and for a while they were quiet. Marla’s knee bounced, and she smoked, but when she stubbed the butt out in the ashtray, she didn’t light another. Carli forced herself not to check the street again.

  “What’re you gonna name it?” Marla asked, breaking the silence.

  “Her.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a her.”

  The corner of Marla’s mouth twitched upward. “Right. What’re you gonna name her?”

  “Paige said they named her Maya.”

  “That don’t mean shit. You can name her whatever you want.”

  “I kinda like Maya,” Carli said.