by Tessa Bailey
I grab my bag and shuffle through it, looking for my cell. The phone case is bright orange, chosen for this exact reason: so I can find it in a bag full of other things, which are all bigger than the phone.
Here it is. I press the button.
Twice.
Dead.
“Never mind,” Henry says, “You can use ours. Let’s go.”
They’ve parked behind me in my spot.
“No,” I finally find my voice. “We have to take mine, it has the baby seat in it.”
“We’ll take both,” Henry says. “You come with me. Jemma can drive yours.”
At this point, for the first time in my life, I will do exactly as I am told. I hand Jem my keys and get in their car.
To get my daughter.
* * *
Have you ever seen race-walkers? It’s that sport where the athletes look like they’re just walking, but they’re actually moving at five times normal speed? That’s what we look like headed down the hospital hallway toward the maternity ward.
Unsurprisingly, Henry gets there first.
“We just had a baby,” he says urgently to the woman seated behind the reception desk. “We need to find her right away.”
The woman gives her co-worker the side-eye, the kind that says, I may need you to call security very soon. She arranges her face into an expression of calm concern.
“Can you give me a little more information?” she asks. “Are you the father? Can you tell me your name?”
“Henry Holliday. This is my wife. And this—” he pulls me forward “—is the mother.”
She looks at me nervously. “And you just gave birth, dear?”
“Yes! No!” That should clear things up. “My baby is here. I’m Chloe Browne, you called me, my phone was dead, I don’t know how that happened, I’m so sorry, but here I am! Where is she?”
Before the receptionist can answer, an office door behind her swings open and a tiny, curly-haired woman with an ID badge around her neck comes rushing out.
“Ms. Browne? I’m Kate Moss. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Conversation stops as we all stare at her. She sighs.
“Not that Kate Moss. I’m the social worker on duty. Yvonne will come back tomorrow to go over specifics. I need you to fill out some forms, and then we can go to the nursery. This is a bit of an unusual situation.”
A bit.
“Go ahead. We’ll wait right here.” Jemma gives me a quick hug.
In Kate’s office, I sink into a chair. She picks up a folder from her desk and hands me a pen.
“What about Li?” I ask her. “The birth mother. Do you know where she is?”
“I’m sorry,” Kate answers. “I know you have a personal relationship with her, but I can’t tell you anything. You could try calling the Boston police.”
Police? Why would I need to call the police? What the hell happened to Li?
“Is she alive?” I ask, hearing the hysteria in my voice, knowing I need to tone it down. They won’t hand a precious newborn off to a woman who’s falling apart in front of them.
The social worker frowns, then sighs. “All I can say is that we’re pretty sure she is.”
“Pretty sure? She wasn’t the victim of—has Li been—oh, God, she’s almost a child herself!”
“Ms. Browne,” Kate the social worker says, her eyes going kind. “The police are working on the case with the birth mother. Let’s help you focus on the baby.”
There is too much happening right now to process. I just need my baby. I need to take her home. Then I can think about everything else.
I sign the papers, I fill in the information, I produce my identifying documents. Kate makes copies.
And then.
Then we go to the nursery.
It’s climate-controlled in here. There are rows of plastic bins, each with a tiny occupant sporting a knitted cap with a pink or blue ribbon, each swaddled in a pastel-striped cotton blanket. A few are protesting, as best they know how, but it doesn’t sound very serious. White-painted rocking chairs are positioned here and there, and seated in one of them is a new mom in a bathrobe and slippers, intently nursing her newborn.
Nurses move silently between the bins, going about their routines. Kate talks to one of them briefly, showing her paperwork and nodding toward me with a smile. She catches my eye and points to one of the rocking chairs.
I sit, and a moment later the nurse appears at my side. She is holding a small bundle with a pink hat, and she leans down and places it in my arms. It’s surprisingly light.
Here she is, at last.
Oh, hello.
I’m almost afraid to look at her. Can this be happening? Can she really be mine? This was supposed to happen in the future. Months from now.
Her baby skin. Her tightly closed eyes, her impossibly small pink lips. With a shaking hand, I slide her cap off, uncovering a head of silky black hair. I didn’t know they came with long hair? I stroke it with one fingertip. Someday I will braid this little girl’s hair, tie a bow in it, pin it up with flowers for her prom. Someday in our future.
Forever starts right now.
I want to see all of her, her hands and fingers and knees and toes, but she’s wrapped so tightly, a little baby package. Tentatively, I pull on the edge of the blanket, and it loosens enough for me to find one of her perfect, miniature hands. She’s only hours old. This brand-new hand has never been held before. I’ll never let it go.
She breathes in and out, all by herself. Miraculous.
Mine. She is mine.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
I’m her mother. She’s my daughter. Every yearning, every fear, every fight, everything that led to this moment, all worth it.
I don’t know how to change her diaper.
Panic bubbles up in my chest. What does she eat? When does she eat it? What if I have to take a shower—who will watch her? I can’t just leave her alone in her crib! What if she has to have a bath—how is that supposed to happen? Can I hire someone? Oh dear god, I am unqualified for this assignment!
I used to have a recurring nightmare in which I was standing in a board room, about to give an important presentation, and couldn’t think of a thing to say. Everyone was staring at me, waiting. I was exposed as knowing nothing about my job. This feels horribly similar.
Only worse. In the dream, no one’s life depended on me.
The nurse—her ID tag says Keisha—touches my shoulder. “Everything all right?” she asks quietly, wide brown eyes peering at me with an expression that says she’s figured out I have no idea what I’m doing..
“I don’t—I can’t—I don’t…” My eyes fill up with tears. “She’s so early! Li wasn’t due for eight weeks!”
Keisha looks at the baby’s chart, then gives me a sad smile. “I see the due date is far in the future, but the doctors assured us she’s full term. Sometimes due dates are wrong, especially when prenatal care is—” She pauses, clearly searching for a tactful way to say what she needs to say.
“Uncertain.”
Her face floods with relief. I’ve rescued her. “Yes.”
“But she’s healthy? The baby?”
“Great APGAR scores. 10/10,” Keisha says proudly, like my daughter nailed the SATs.
“Thank God.” I’m staring at this baby with eyes that don’t know the world. Everything is new. Everything is shiny and heavy with responsibility and gravitas. She’s seven pounds but as heavy as the universe.
“No sign of drug withdrawal either. We’ll have blood work results soon.”
I tense. Oh, Li. Oh, baby. “The, um, birth mother said she didn’t do drugs.”
Keisha nods slowly. “That’s good.” I can tell she wants to say more, but is measuring her words.
“I’ll show you how to change her and feed her, and we have booklets on other basic skills,” she says. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out. Just remind yourself that every parent has to figure it out the first time. Did you bring
an outfit for her to wear home?”
“Oh, yes.” I reach into my bag and pull out a doll-size suit with embroidered ducks. And a matching hat with yellow fluff on top. My mother sent them from Italy last week. The child doesn’t yet have a crib, doesn’t even own a teddy bear, but by god, she can make a chic appearance on the streets of Rome. That’s my mother for you.
“Bring her over here and you can change her,” Keisha says.
“Bring her…? Me?”
She laughs. “Yes, you, Mom. Stand up. You won’t drop her.”
Mom.
I scoot forward in the chair and successfully rise to my feet, both arms securely around my bundle. Not too hard. Then I look down at my bag on the floor. My eyes fill up again.
Keisha takes pity on me and picks up the bag. She leads the way back to our bin.
“Okay. I’m going to show you how to change her diaper, then you can dress her.” She pulls the blanket open and unsnaps the hospital undershirt. I watch her every move as if it were surgery. I see how she supports the baby’s head and guides her little arms. Then she opens the tabs on the ridiculously small diaper.
I look down and gasp.
“Oh my god, what is that? What’s wrong? It’s horrible! Will she live?”
For a moment, Keisha is nonplussed. Then she starts to laugh. “That’s the umbilical cord stump, honey. Everyone’s born with one. It will fall off in a week or so.”
“Fall off? Are you sure that’s normal?”
Keisha tries hard not to roll her eyes, and she almost succeeds. She finishes the diaper demonstration. “I’ll get you a full set of booklets,” she says. “And some handouts. And an emergency-number sheet. Now you get her dressed.” She walks away. I almost call her back.
My daughter’s eyes are still closed. I am becoming suspicious. Is she really sleeping, or is she afraid to look?
I regard the yellow and white suit in my hand. Two arms, two legs, and a long zipper. This simple garment suddenly seems extremely complicated.
Come on, Chloe. You can figure this out. Think of it as a very, very small slipcover.
I take a deep breath. Then another.
I unzip the suit, spread it open, and carefully edge the baby onto it. Her eyes are still closed. So far, so good.
Fifteen minutes later, I have coaxed all four tiny limbs into the correct openings. She is properly dressed and looks, if I may say so, adorable. Maybe I’ll be okay after all. A drop of sweat rolls down my nose. I look around proudly for Keisha.
At that moment, I hear a sound like the tiniest cough and look down. Without ever opening her eyes, my baby scrunches up her face and begins to squall. It must be my fault, but what did I do?
“Keisha! Keisha!”
She’s right there at my elbow. “Everyone okay here?”
“No, it’s not okay! She’s crying! Something is wrong! What’s wrong?”
“Babies cry,” she says imperturbably. “Get used to it. It’s time for her feeding. I’ll show you how we do that and you can feed her. Then we just have to wait for the discharge nurse to come through and you can take her home.”
Home? By myself? I mean, I knew this was the plan, but everything’s happening so quickly.
“Tonight?”
“Of course.” She looks at me questioningly, and I realize it’s time to pull it together.
“Right. Just checking.” I focus my attention on what she’s doing with the baby formula. I am intelligent and competent. A take-charge kind of person. Calm under pressure. Resourceful. I am a mother. I hold back my tears.
Back in the rocker, I touch the bottle’s nipple to my baby’s bottom lip, as instructed. She opens her mouth. I make a mental note to research—what’s it called?—‘gifted and talented.’ The child is clearly advanced for her age. I hold this miracle baby close, watch her drink the bottle that I am holding.
She needs me. I need her.
And that’s when it happens. I fall in love.
* * *
Nick
“No text?”
I wake up and shuffle into the kitchen to find Charlie in front of the fridge wearing only underwear, the quart of milk nearly vertical and upside down as he drinks straight from the container, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. He looks like a Got Milk? ad.
“No text.” I confirm.
Charlie finishes the milk, crumples the carton, and makes a three-point toss straight into the trash can, without touching the rim.
“I’m sure she’s fine. Just busy.”
“Guess I’ll drink my coffee black,” I mutter.
“We have another carton.”
“We do?”
“I bought some yesterday.”
I come to an abrupt halt, hand in midair with a spoon of coffee grounds in it. “You did? You mean you anticipated a future need and prepared for it?”
“Yes.”
“Charlie! I’m impressed! Your frontal lobe is finally developing.”
“You’re welcome.”
A few minutes later, as I pour milk into my coffee, I realize no one other than me has bought milk for the household in nearly twenty years. Even when Simone lived here, she hated American supermarkets, preferring to pay for delivery or going out to eat. Parisian women don’t cook, they order in, she always insisted.
“I wonder what Chloe’s going to be like as a mother.” Charlie’s statement takes all the breath out of me.
“Can we wait until after I’ve had my coffee before we put emotional bamboo under my fingernails?”
“She couldn’t even keep a plant alive when we were dating,” he adds. “I tried growing a pot plant from some seeds I found in your top dresser drawer when you were away at college, and—”
That wakes me up.
“You what?”
“I knew Mom would become suspicious if she saw me growing something, so I asked Chloe to take care of it for me. Went to her house every day to tend to it. Then her mom took her to the Bahamas for a week of vacation and when she came back it was brown and withered.” He sips my coffee. I slap him away.
“On the basis of that touching—and incredibly disturbing on so many levels—story, you’ve determined that Chloe’s unfit for motherhood?”
“No. I’m just still sore about the fact that she killed my one and only successful grow op.”
Not enough coffee in the world for this conversation.
“I’ll wait for her,” I say aloud as I finish my coffee. “When she’s ready, she’ll text.”
“What if she’s never ready?”
It’s been three days. We’ve barely dated. How can someone I’ve barely begun dating make me ache so deeply?
Yeah.
Because she does.
That’s all I need to know.
When Simone left, I filled the woman-sized hole inside me with every kid activity and work-related project I could find. As the kids have matured and left the nest, that hole’s revealed itself. It’s different. A more mature hole, more like a holding space than a blasted-open abyss.
It has purpose.
It has needs.
And right now, it’s the exact shape, size, and volume of Chloe.
“Can’t hurt to text her again, right?” I say.
He shrugs.
Shit. This is bad. I’m seeking validation from Charlie. His idea of a relationship involves paying for the Über.
I don’t need advice. I’m decisive. I’m a take-charge guy.
What’s new? I text her.
And wait.
* * *
Chloe
One hour later, we are standing in the bassinet aisle at Babies’R’Us, after an emergency stop for dinner. Apparently Jessica Coffin was right about the fine dining in my future. My first meal as a mother? A six-pack of chicken nuggets. And they were delicious, too.
It is 10:30 at night. I don’t know why a baby superstore is open at this hour, but I am not questioning their retail logic. And we’re not the only shoppers in here.
Jemma is pushing a cart loaded with a case of newborn-size diapers, a six-pack of bottles, packages of cotton receiving blankets, tiny T-shirts, and microscopic socks.
Also in the cart is a bottle of hypo-allergenic, organic baby massage oil. Henry insisted.
He is standing beside me, wiping his eyes with a tissue. He has been weeping since I filled out the birth certificate form, and he saw the baby’s name.
Holliday Browne.
“Henry, please don’t cry,” I say, patting his arm.
“I can’t help it,” he sniffles. “You named her after us.”
“Lucky for her your last name isn’t Hooker,” I smile. “Now can you reach that box on the top shelf?”
Of course he can. He’s seven feet tall. In his stocking feet.
“I think that’s all we need for now.”
“I’ll take it back to your place,” Henry suggests. “I can set up the bassinet. Jem can go back to the hospital with you, and I’ll come get you all when they say you can leave.”
“You’re exhausted,” I tell them. “You both go home. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”
We’re heading for the checkout lane when I am stopped cold by a display of breast pumps.
“No, sweetie, you don’t need one of those,” Jem says gently.
“Li. Where is she? We have to find her!” I finally got someone to unofficially explain what the hell happened. A kind nurse swore me to secrecy. Li arrived in full labor in the emergency room. Had the baby in less than two hours. Our adoption social worker happened to be on another case in the hospital and stopped by to check on Li, who insisted on signing away all rights on the spot. While Yvonne told her she had time, Li was adamant. Yvonne and Kate produced the papers, and within hours, Li disappeared.
Just walked out into the streets of Boston, less than a day after giving birth. No explanation. No note. No nothing.
No—everything.
She left me everything.
“DSS and the police are looking for her,” Henry says. “Don’t worry.”
“She could need a doctor! She’s all alone! My God, Henry, she just gave birth! Where would she go? She’s only sixteen!” I knew from talks with her that she was homeless, and while she swore she didn’t do drugs…