Her nurses ushered us into the examination room, which was nice as examination rooms go. In fact, it was the nicest one I'd ever been in. Of course, it had the cold, hard examination table with the stirrups tucked up along the sides, but it also had some artwork on the walls, a few comfortable chairs, and even a couch along one wall, suggesting that they had worked to put their patients at ease.
As I was studying the room, a petite nurse with a ponytail so tight it was pulling back her eyes set a small plastic cup on the table next to me and said, "We'll need a sample." She pointed over her shoulder at the small sliding door that led from this room into what must have been a lab or something, and said, "Just slide it through there when you're done." Then, as if she'd just asked me to record the time of day, she walked out and pulled the door shut behind her.
I eyed the cup. Why would a fertility doctor need a urine sample from me? What good would that do them? Confused and bewildered, I turned to Maggie, who, unable to hold it any longer, began laughing like a hyena. That was about the time I understood what the nurse meant when she said sample.
I looked around the room again and got a whole new understanding of the decor. I shook my head. "Is she serious?"
Maggie was laughing so hard she couldn't talk.
I pointed at the cup. "I'm not doing that."
Evidently Maggie had assumed I knew that when a couple visited a fertility doctor for help, the first test they performed was a sperm count. She slid the lock on the door, turned off the light, and sat down next to me. Swinging both her legs across mine, she hung her arms around my neck and pressed her forehead against mine.
"Hey, forget them. It's just me, and we can do this together. We're good at this."
I looked around, wiped the sweat off my face, and nodded. Sunlight broke through the cracks in the blinds and lit the dust particles that were floating through the air, settling on Maggie's skin as she changed out of her clothes. She slipped into a pink, flowery gown and then tiptoed across the room barefooted, took me by the hand, and led me back across the room to what I understood was the husband's couch. With my heart pounding inside my chest, the growing fear that someone was about to walk in that door, and my embarrassment evident, my wife did the one thing she alone could do. She made me forget about everyone but her, and she loved me.
A few minutes later, Maggie slid the sample into the lab and unlocked the door. I guess that sent a signal to the nurse, because she appeared pretty quickly after that. Maggie sat on the end of the table, knees together, her legs bouncing slightly on her toes. The nurse laid Maggie back on the table and prepped the equipment for the doctor, who walked in a few minutes later.
She was older, maybe midfifties, and looked serious. She extended her hand to me, then to Maggie. "Hi, I'm Dr. Madison."
She slid her hands into rubber gloves and, with little introduction, began a less-than-tender probing of Maggie's insides. When finished, she quickly inserted cameras into and over Maggie's tummy, taking pictures and studying the screen above her. Despite her limited bedside manner, I did not for a minute doubt her ability. She knew what she was doing and didn't have to prove anything to anyone. For that I was grateful.
Twenty minutes later, feeling a bit like two cattle in a stockyard, we followed the doctor into her office, where she sat across from us searching for an entry point into her results. After fifteen minutes of explanations and diagrams that I didn't really understand, I raised my hand and said, "Pardon me, ma'am, but what does all this mean?"
I could tell she was trying, but even Dr. Frank will tell you that medical school does not teach you how to deliver bad news. She closed her clipboard, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I don't believe you'll ever-absent a miraclehave more children of your own."
She looked out the window, then back at us. "Sometimes I love my job. I really do. And sometimes, like today, I hate it, because despite all that I know and everything I've studied, modern medicine has its limitations."
Maggie swallowed, then asked, "What are my chances?"
Dr. Madison tossed her head slightly side to side. "One in several hundred thousand."
Shaking, Maggie stood, collected her purse, and waited for me to open the door.
Dr. Madison met us at the door and shook my hand. She looked at Maggie, who didn't look up. "I hope you beat the odds."
AS THAT MAY MELTED INTO JUNE, MAGGIE BOUGHT EVERY pregnancy book that Barnes & Noble offered or could order. Hoping to find something the doctors might have missed, one shred of hope, one single ray of light, she read everything she could get her hands on. Few of our activities or conversations weren't preoccupied with getting pregnant. Which was fine with me, but as the months ticked by, it took its toll on Maggie.
Each month, the start of her cycle was the hardest to take. And because cycles are just that, cyclical, I often knew it was coming. She'd return from the bathroom, retreat into the kitchen, pretend she was fretting over dinner, and try to hide the depression that crippled her face.
I'd order pizza, then take her by the waist and lead her into the den and onto the worn magnolia planks, where we'd imitate Nanny and Papa. Most nights, we'd dance into the morning. Our life felt like a school dance where the DJ kept starting and stopping the music without warning.
Some dances need to finish.
Then came August 15. His first birthday. We walked down to the graveside, Maggie carrying flowers. She knelt on the slab, wiped away the leaves and dirt, and kissed it. She placed the flowers on the grove, brushed her palm across his name, and painted our son's stone with her tears. Then, her lips just inches from his name, she whispered words that only a mother can.
She stood and slid her arm beneath mine, and we took a walk by the river. That's when she surprised me. She tugged on my arm and whispered, "Maybe ... maybe we could ... adopt."
I studied her face, her lips, the tilt of her head, and it didn't take a genius to see: just saying the word was painful. I'd thought of it months before, actually, but hadn't wanted to bring it up for fear of hurting her feelings.
But as I saw it, the hard part for us was actually making a baby, not wanting one or knowing what to do with it once we got it. So looking at the situation objectively, I thought adoption might be a good way to go. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. Besides, how hard could it be? It certainly couldn't be any worse than what we were currently up against.
Or so I thought.
CLASSES AT DIGGER JUNIOR COLLEGE STARTED THE first week in September, bringing me seventy-five new opportunities. After a week of learning their names and adjusting my seating charts, I drove with Maggie to the only adoption agency listed in the Charleston phone book. The receptionist filled us in on the general stuff, then handed us a threeinch stack of papers and said, "Fill these out and get them back to us."
Doing so took us a little more than a month. They wanted to know about our family, like, starting at Ellis Island, about any family diseases and addictions, about our relationship, our medical histories, how much money we made and how we spent it. Since we didn't feel we had anything to hide, we answered honestly. Maybe that was our mistake.
The written interview felt more invasive than Dr. Madisonbut we didn't know what rigorous was until they called us in two weeks later for a follow-up interview.
The receptionist sat us down in front of two psychologists, Mr. Sawyer and Ms. Tungston, a man and a woman who looked like they had done this sort of thing before. They were looking at duplicate copies of our notebook of answers and, without much introduction, began firing questions. To say they were impersonal, sterile, and detached would be too kind.
Mr. Sawyer went first. Without looking up from his notebook, he pointed his pen at me and said, "How much money do you make?"
That struck me as an odd way to start, but okay, I could roll with the punches. "Well, sir," I said, waving my hand at the notebook in front of him, "I make $27,000 a year teaching and almost another twenty between my farming and the
crop and pine-straw leases we have with-"
"So ..." He studied his notes. "What do you think you'll make this year?"
"Well, sir, I'll make pretty close to, if not more than, what we've written there." I looked at Maggie and then back at him. "I think what you see there is a worst-case scenario based on-"
He shook his head. "Please understand, your income methods are rather unconventional and not too predictable by today's standards." He pointed to Ms. Tungston, then back to himself. "We, as a committee, want to avoid placing a child into a poverty situation."
We seemed to have a disconnect. I shook my head and almost spoke up when Maggie placed a restraining hand on my thigh.
"Sir, Dylan's a hard worker. You can look at him and tell that." She put her hand on my neck. "See, his neck's even red."
Neither smiled. Mr. Sawyer took off his glasses. `Just curious, how does a farmer end up with a Ph.D.?"
"My grandfather taught me to farm long before I took an interest in school." I shrugged. `Just something I wanted to do, sir."
Seeing an entry, Ms. Tungston turned her attention to Maggs. She tapped her notebook with her index finger. "Last year you spent four months in a coma after delivering a stillborn child?"
Maggie nodded and gulped. "He would have been a year old in August." She put her arm around me. "We named him after ..."
Ms. Tungston returned to her notes. "Did the doctors ever determine a cause?"
Maggie shook her head. "No."
"Was your coma related to the pregnancy?"
I spoke up. "Ma'am, the delivery was pretty rough, and, well, Maggie ... hemorrhaged pretty badly, and ..."
The woman paused, and her voice softened. "We often encounter mothers who have lost a child." She waved around the room. "That's how they end up here. Dealing with that takes time." She looked at me and back to Maggs. "Have you two dealt with this issue in your life?"
Maggie sat up straight. "Ma'am, if you're talking about the loss of my son, and four months of my, our, life, I'm working on it." She held my hand, her knuckles turning white. "We're working on it. Every day. But some hurts need more than just Band-Aids."
Lord, I love my wife.
Maggie's eyes had begun to water. Deep down I was starting to get pretty angry, but I knew that anything even vaguely resembling a temper would kill our chances altogether. I bit my tongue and tried to smile. Maybe this was all part of the game, and they were just trying to see what we were made of.
Mr. Sawyer continued. "As for transportation, we place a premium on safety. I see that you drive a truck?" His heavy eyebrows bobbed above his glasses and said more than his mouth.
Thinking we could use a little levity in the conversation, I said, "Yep. And if that breaks, we own a pretty good tractor."
No one seemed to get the joke.
"You realize that federal law mandates that you cannot put a child-restraint seat in the front seat of a truck?"
I hadn't thought about it, but I was quick on my feet. "Sir, that's no problem. I know this guy in Digger, and he can get us pretty much whatever you think we should have." I threw it back at him. "What would you prefer?"
He didn't like my asking the question, but he tossed out an answer. "We approve of the safety ratings on most major minivans."
I nodded and said nothing as I felt the water rising around my neck.
Then they threw in the bomb.
He scanned his notebook with incredulity "You understand that this process can be rather expensive?"
I nodded assuringly, hoping that he wasn't about to say what I hoped he wouldn't.
"Given your financials, are you sure that you can come up with the $38,000 down payment en route to the almost $45,000 you will need to complete the adoption process?"
I knew these numbers and had given them considerable thought, but, like many things lately, I'd kept them from Maggie. She had enough to worry about. She looked at me in disbelief as I spoke quickly and with confidence.
"I've already obtained approval for a loan that exceeds that amount. Won't be a problem."
He looked as though he half-believed me. "From a reputable lending institution?"
I knew this lingo. "A+."
He made a note and said, "And you can fax me that approval form .. .
I nodded and waited for the next question, though in my mind I had yet to answer his last. This was not going as I'd planned.
He lowered his eyes. "What's your collateral?"
"The farm."
"And if you default, what happens to that child's home?"
"Sir, I've never defaulted on anything, and I don't intend to now." I paused and stuck out my hand. "I give you my word."
Evidently he didn't place the same value on my word that Maggs or Amos or my grandfather or I did.
I continued, "We only have one credit card; other than some plants, its balance is nearly zero. And our monthly payment on the truck is less than $300." I pointed proudly at the truck in the parking lot outside the window.
Mr. Sawyer's eyes followed my finger. "You're making payments on that vehicle?"
"Yes, sir, it says so . . ." I tried to point to the financial tab of his notebook, but he waved me off.
"Never mind."
I admit, prior to walking in there, I had visions of Little Orphan Annies bottled up in run-down shanties with cranky Miss Hannigans browbeating them while they waited to be rescued by another Daddy Warbucks. But halfway through this interview, I thought, If this is what it takes to adopt a child, then you can just keep Annie and her little dog too.
It's a good thing he couldn't hear me.
Abruptly, they both stood. He pointed at me, and she pointed at Maggs. Both said, "Follow me."
Maggie gripped my hand, and I could see the doubt growing. I whispered, "Hey, no big deal. Forget her. Just answer like you're talking to me, and we'll be fine."
She smiled, or tried to, and we went behind separate doors. Thirty minutes later we emerged from our respective rooms, and I could tell by the look on her face that her interrogation hadn't gone much better than mine.
We drove home in relative silence. Maggie chewed on a fingernail and pulled her knees up to her chest. I stared out the window and wrestled with how and where to get the money.
THE NEXT MORNING I LEFT MAGGS A NOTE THAT READ "Back before lunch." I drove to Jake's and pulled into the gate, and he walked out of the trailer, smiling. I could tell by the look on his face that he was already thinking about his steak dinner.
I hopped out of the truck, shook his hand, and skipped the small talk. Walking quickly, I led him down the row of six minivans. `Jake, I need one of these."
His roadside marquee, lit with dozens of tiny lightbulbs, towered above us. JAKE's JALOPY flashed intermittently with FREE FINANCING and No MONEY DOWN.
Jake smiled and tried to slow down the conversation. He laughed and leaned back, sticking out his growing belly, and said, "Needing to upgrade to the old family car, eh?" He had changed the picture of his family just below the flashing sign. They had added another child, and everyone's face was a little plumper. Business was good.
`Jake," I said, eyeing the options, "think of this more as a lateral move. I need to trade my truck for one of these."
"Well, let's see." He pulled a three-by-five-inch card from his shirt pocket and began scanning the years, models, and prices.
I knew that he knew all those by heart, so I stepped closer, placed the card back in his pocket, and said, "My wife needs a car to take our child to and from school, the grocery store, and wherever else he or she needs to go. What can I get for my truck?"
Jake bit his lip, eyed the truck, then eyed his vans. Then he looked back to the truck. "Looks like you've taken pretty good care of it, but the depreciation on something like that is-"
`Jake," I said, lifting a hand, "at last count I've sent seventeen people down here to buy a car from you."
"You have?"
I began rattling off the names. His eyes grew bigger.<
br />
"Guess you have." He walked up to a white Honda minivan that was about five years old. He kicked the tire. "This one was owned by a woman who didn't never go nowhere. It's only got 40,000 miles on it, got meticulous service records, ain't never been wrecked, comes with a factory extended warranty and the highest safety rating in the industry." He looked at me. "For you-your truck plus $5,000."
I shook my head. `Jake, you don't understand. Think"-I cut the air with my hand moving side to side-"horizontal." I stuffed my hands in my pockets and let out a deep breath. "Adoption ain't cheap."
He stepped back. "You guys adopting? I thought Maggie was pregnant."
`Jake, that didn't work out like we'd planned. Work with me here."
"Your truck plus $3,000." He was getting closer.
"My truck plus $1,500."
"Two thousand."
I stuck out my hand. "Deal, but I don't want it on paper. I want you to take my word for it, and on paper I want it to look like I traded my truck for this thing."
His face grew contorted. "I don't understand. You want me to take your word?"
I nodded and led him to the trailer. "I want you to trust me to drive out of here in your van with nothing but a promise that I'll bring you $2,000 cash within the week."
Jake looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
I sat back, crossed my arms, and nodded. "Deal?"
Jake let out an exasperated, disbelieving breath. "I appreciate what you've done for me, man, but I can't-"
`Jake," I said, "I need a favor. And yes, I will bring you cash on the barrelhead before the end of the week."
He looked at me, raised both eyebrows, and held out his hand, palm up. I was talking his language, and I knew now that we had gotten through all the baloney.
"You'll put it in my hand."
I tapped his palm with my index finger and then curled his fingers into a fist. "Right there."
Down Where My Love Lives Page 26
