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‘So why don’t I talk you through the process?’ Tina suggests, and when I give a quick nod she launches into a long description of everything that is going to happen; lots of meetings and appointments, how much choice I’ll have, how all my costs will be covered, including some living expenses if needed, which I latch onto like the life preserver it is. I hate that it comes down to money, but it just does. Then Tina assures me that I can back out at any time, even after the baby is born.
‘After?’ I feel suspicious. ‘That doesn’t seem fair, if some couple think they’re getting my baby and then I change my mind at the last minute?’
Tina smiles and nods. ‘It’s the birth mother’s right, up until seventy-two hours after you give birth.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t want to have that choice. How could I possibly give my baby away if I still have a choice to keep it, even then? It feels worse, twice the loss, a double betrayal. If I’m able to give my baby away after I’ve held him or her, after I’ve watched them come squalling into the world, what kind of person am I? What kind of mother could I possibly be? That’s a choice I feel like I could never be strong enough to make.
‘Have you considered what kind of adoption you want to have?’ Tina asks kindly. I feel as if she’s asking me what flavor ice cream I like. ‘Some people prefer an entirely closed adoption, where the child is placed with an adoptive family and has no contact with the birth parents at all. Others are more open, with a certain amount of ongoing contact, decided by both parties, of course. This can be beneficial—’
‘Closed.’ Ongoing contact? Ongoing torture. How could I keep looking at my baby, my child, knowing he or she would never be mine? It would be a constant reminder, a never-ending taunt. ‘I want it to be closed.’ I picture something snapping shut, a key turning in a lock. I need finality. ‘So what happens next?’ I ask. I shift, the dress sticking to my back. The room feels stifling and airless. It’s hard to breathe.
‘If you still feel you wish to move forward, then we can make an appointment for you and your husband to come here together, discuss the details, sign the paperwork.’ Tina smiles. ‘Then you can start looking at some prospective parent profiles.’
She makes it sound as if we’d be looking at wallpaper samples. Choosing parents for my child. How on earth can I be entrusted with such a decision? I feel dizzy, as well as sick again. I’m not ready for this, but I’m not sure I ever will be – who is?
‘The profiles are all on our website,’ she continues. ‘We have pictures, biographies, even videos and blog updates. It’s important that you feel entirely happy and comfortable with who you’re placing your baby with.’
‘I need to think some more,’ I blurt. My hands are clammy and I clench them into fists. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m still not sure.’
‘Of course. Take as much time as you need. It’s important you feel comfortable with every stage of this process.’
Which is a joke, because I can’t ever imagine feeling comfortable with any of this. This is about necessity, nothing else. I glance at the clock and realize I have to pick up Lucy from preschool. ‘I need to go,’ I say, lurching upright. Tina nods and rises from her seat, extending her hand for me to shake. I don’t want to, because my own is damp and clammy, but to refuse would be rude and she probably would think I didn’t know better. I’m not stupid, I feel like saying. I’m not some dumb high schooler who got knocked up. I once was, fine, but not now. Not now.
‘Call me if you have any questions,’ Tina says as she escorts me out of the office. ‘Anything at all. We’re here to help, Heather.’
‘Sure,’ I say, unable to look at her, and then I hurry outside, blinking in the bitter November wind that stings my cheeks, my stomach heaving once again.
I get in the car and sit there for a moment, fighting the urges either to throw up or cry. It feels so unfair, but I know that’s a stupid thought, a pointless one. No one ever said life was fair, certainly not me.
I take a deep breath, force it all back. There’s nothing I can do about any of this except keep moving forward, and right now I need to pick up Lucy, because Kevin isn’t going to do it.
That night, when the girls are in bed and Kev is parked in front of the TV, I fire up our five-year-old desktop computer, given to us by my sister Stacy when they bought a new one, that sits on a card table in the corner of the dining room, along with a pile of unfolded laundry and some junk mail I’ve never bothered to throw out just in case it might be important.
Open Hearts Adoption Agency. I gaze at the pink curlicue heart and the picture of the smiling family, the pregnant lady
cradling her bump, everything soft and hazy and perfect. As if life is really like that, a movie montage of cute moments, with a blissed-out soundtrack playing in the background.
I click on the family profiles page that I didn’t bother to look at the last time I was on this site, before I made the appointment. Now I blink at the pictures of loved-up couples: arms around each other, wide, cheesy grins in place. They’re all standing in front of some mountain or tree, looking so happy and perfect with their whitened-teeth smiles and fake tans.
I read about Lisa and Drew; he’s a financial analyst and she’s a physical therapist. They like hiking and camping and cooking ethnic food. There’s a picture of them cheek-to-cheek in front of Mount Rushmore, and another one flexing their muscles by a huge pool, and yet another in a gorgeous kitchen. Every image makes me seethe because this smug couple want to buy a baby off me. Why do they get it so easy, and we don’t?
I click on another profile and then another, and they’re all the same. Cute, adoring couples, living in huge houses with plenty of money and no problems except, ha ha, they can’t get pregnant. I wish I had that problem.
‘Mommy, I can’t sleep.’
I turn to see Amy standing in the doorway of the dining room, her eyes narrowed as she gives me a calculating look. My middle child, too smart and sassy for her own good, always looking to her own advantage. I love her drive, her stubbornness, but sometimes –most of the time – it can be exhausting.
‘Go back to bed, Amy.’
‘I can’t sleep.’ She stands there, arms folded, chin raised, challenging me, and I know she won’t move until I tuck her in. With a sigh, I heave myself up from the chair.
‘What are you looking at?’
She peers around me to look at the screen, and as quick as I can I click the mouse to minimize the browser window. ‘Nothing.’
Back in the girls’ bedroom I weave through the piles of dirty clothes and battered teddy bears heaped on the floor to Amy’s bed, pushed up against the window. The bedroom is small, and it’s made even smaller by the three beds crammed into it with barely enough space for one dresser for them to share. We live in a two-bedroom house, and a fourth bed will never fit in here. If we kept this baby, we’d have to turn the dining room into a bedroom, or have one of the kids share with us. If we even hold onto this house.
I’m thinking of the impossible practicalities even as my mind skims back to that web page: Lisa and Drew and their sushi.
