“Do you need a minute alone, son?”
I shook my head.
I turned to look at Mom. Just like she promised, she was waiting for me right outside the glass window. She gave me a small smile when our eyes met. Turning back to the gurney, I whispered the only words that came to mind.
“Goodbye, Crystal.”
cole
four
With its brightly colored furniture andhand-painted murals, the office of the Children's Division was infinitely more cheerful than the coroner's office. I still felt shell-shocked.
The social worker, Ms. Lane, was lovely, and I could tell that Mom was happy to see another Black person on this trip, though she didn't say anything.
Mom did all of the talking while I sat mutely and nodded. We provided all of the paperwork that proved Crystal was my birth mother—my birth certificate, my adoption papers, photos. Crystal had used her real name on the baby’s birth certificate, so that made things easier.
I signed the last of a seemingly endless stack of paperwork because seven years of school and a childhood with Reginald Simmons wouldn’t let me sign any document without reading it carefully first.
“Okay,” Ms. Lane said, scooping the paperwork up and tapping it into a pile. “Are you ready to meet baby Lincoln?”
My brain snapped into focus. Mom and I made eye contact before turning our attention to Ms. Lane.
“Did you say Lincoln?” I asked.
“Yes.” She handed me the birth certificate. “I guess she really liked that name.” She huffed out a small laugh.
I examined the birth certificate. There was my mother’s name, no father listed and on the line for the child’s name: Lincoln—no middle name—West.
This could have been my birth certificate. Crystal had two boys over twenty years apart and named them both Lincoln. Creative baby naming wasn't a trait in that family. She told me that her mother said that there was a Crystal Gayle song playing on the radio the night she was conceived, so her mother named her Crystal Gail West. I hoped my name held a different significance.
"Home birth?" I had to read those words twice before I looked at Ms. Lane.
“Yes.” She nodded. “They used to be illegal, but in the last ten years or so, they’ve become more common.” She placed her palms on the table and pushed herself up to standing. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”
Ms. Lane left the room, and I turned to my mom.
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t take care of a kid. I can barely take care of myself.”
"I had Kimberly when I was about your age, and I did okay." She put a hand over mine.
"But you had Dad and time, and you wanted to be a parent. You were ready."
She let out a laugh. "Baby, there is no such thing as being ready to be a parent. No matter what the circumstances are." Her face grew serious. "Cole, you do have options. Becoming your mother was one of the best things that ever happened to me or your father, and we already had a baby to love. You could give that joy to another couple, one that may not be able to create their own miracle."
“I don’t suppose you and Dad would be interested in—”
She laughed again, harder, this time. "Absolutely not. I've already raised three perfect children. I'm done. Now, if you want to talk grandbabies, I'm open to having that discussion. You can send those home."
I sighed, weighing both options. Twenty-four hours ago, my life was thoroughly planned out. None of those plans involved cremating the woman who gave me away or raising the child she left behind. Mom and Dad gave me a life better than I could've hoped for, and I couldn't give that to a child, not anytime soon.
Ms. Lane returned a few minutes later, holding…me. It was like staring at one of my baby pictures come to life. He had pale skin with pink cheeks, a head full of straight, shiny dark brown hair, and bright blue eyes.
Mom pressed her hand to her chest and whispered, “Oh my God.”
Ms. Lane set him down on the floor, and he toddled right up to me and climbed into my lap. He leaned his head against my chest and wrapped one of his chubby fists around my thumb. My heart thumped against my rib cage, and I felt this immediate connection to this tiny stranger. I wrapped my other arm around his belly, securing him to my lap while I pressed a kiss on to his scalp. He smelled like soap, baby powder, and bananas. He began babbling and blowing raspberries, and I felt a warm line of sticky drool running across the fingers of the hand holding him to me.
"My Lord. A spitting image," Ms. Lane said. "I'll give you a few minutes, and then we can discuss your options. I know this is a great shock for you, so just in case, we prepared a list of some local families who would be very—"
