by Tessa Bailey
Henry puts his hands on my shoulders.
“There is nothing official that you can do,” he says slowly. “She’s not your child.”
“But her child is my child!”
“All we can do is wait. They’ll find her.”
I’ll think of something.
I always do.
My phone buzzes with a text. I grab and look eagerly. It’s my mother.
I need pictures! Now! What size would you say she is?
Tears fill my eyes. Pictures. My daughter. Her granddaughter.
And only Charlotte would lead with her dress size.
A baby squawks in the distance. Someone’s shopping here with their baby. With their child. Soon I’ll go out in public with my baby, the one back at the hospital, the one who’s been abandoned by Li and entrusted into my care forever.
And ever.
Through the blur of tears, I see another text, this one from Nick.
Hah. Until a few hours ago, all I could think about was receiving this text. I tap.
What’s new? is all it says.
Hysterical laughter pours out of me, right there in the aisle next to the baby gates and the window shades for cars.
“Chloe?” Jem asks softly.
I fold in half, hands on my knees, the phone sliding to the ground. Henry picks it up while Jemma says small, soothing words to me that don’t make sense.
Henry looks at my phone and starts to laugh, too, a friendly sound of understanding.
And then my giggles tighten in my throat and turn into a stinging pain that shoots up my nose, into my eyes, and I’m sobbing in their arms, half-collapsed on the floor, a bundle of joy and fear and excitement and most of all—something new.
I am a mother.
“How—” I wail, “—do I answer that?”
Henry closes the screen and tucks the phone in the back pocket of his pants. “You don’t. Not now. Nick can wait. Little Holliday Browne can’t.”
Chapter Twelve
Chloe
For all those years, in my dreams and daydreams of having a child, I always knew exactly what I was doing. And it was easy. Relaxed. Natural.
I imagined rides on the Swan Boats in the Public Gardens on sunny Saturday afternoons, reading bedtime stories and drinking cocoa in our pajamas, solving for x in algebra homework. (That’s algebra, right? Or is it calculus? Damn.)
Oh, sure, I knew it wouldn’t all be bliss and birthday cake. Tantrums happen in crowded stores, broken arms ruin ski trips. Teenagers make poor choices.
But through it all, I would be calm, capable, and maybe even wise. I would be A Mom.
So is there a certain time when all that maternal wisdom is going to kick in? Because it’s two a.m., and I have absolutely no idea what I am supposed to do next.
Henry and Jemma brought us home an hour ago, and got us safely into the apartment. I am now sitting on my bed, watching Holly breathe in her bassinet. Occasionally there is the faint sound of a car passing on the street. Once I hear a siren in the distance.
I can’t go to sleep, because who will watch her?
What if she wakes up? What if she doesn’t wake up? Am I supposed to wake her up?
I could call my mother for advice, but waking her up is never a good idea.
Only one other expert comes to mind. I pick up my cell phone and type www.whattoexpect, which informs me that “For a newborn, three hours is about as long as you can expect him to sleep.”
Okay. I’ll wait.
Carefully, I gather up my sleeping baby. I settle back against the bed pillows, holding her in my arms.
“I’m here with you,” I whisper. “I’ll always be here with you. No matter what.”
Except, when do I sleep?
When did my mother, Charlotte, sleep? My mother adopted me, all by herself, when I was just this small, and it wasn’t such a common thing back then. What did she think about on her first night all alone with me? Was she scared, thrilled, awed, exhausted but wide awake? All of the above? Like me?
And my birth mother, who had to let me go so that I could have the blessed and secure life that I’ve had – was she like Li, young and alone? Does she ever wonder about me?
I’ve registered (secretly – Charlotte would be devastated if she knew) for every adoption registry out there. I’d love to meet my birth mother. Somewhere out there, people who look like me walk the streets, working at jobs, raising children, living life. I’ve never looked into the face of a parent or sibling who looks like me.
I wonder what that would be like.
I look at Holly.
If we can’t find Li, my daughter will wonder, too.
Impulsively, I pick up my phone and dial Charlotte’s number. The worst she can do is hang up on me, right?
“Hello?” It’s a man’s voice. My mother’s boyfriend.
“Howard? It’s Chloe.” Without meaning to, I start to cry.
“Hi, darling, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, everything’s wonderful,” I sob. “I have the baby. Could I – is Charlotte there?”
“Of course sweetheart, hold on.”
“Chloe? What is it?” My mother’s voice is thick with sleep.
“Mom? I have the baby. She’s here.” Tears are streaming down my face. I haven’t called her Mom since I was eight years old.
“Oh, honey. Oh, Chloe. I know. Are you all right?” I can tell she’s waking up now.
“Mom, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”
“All you have to do is feed her and change her. You don’t need to worry about anything else right now. You don’t need to play Mozart or read Shakespeare aloud. Try to sleep when she sleeps. Keep a little bib on her in case she spits up, because formula stains.”
“But what if she cries and I don’t wake up?”
“You will. It’s instinctual. Don’t worry.”
“I was wondering…is this how you felt when you got me?”
There’s a short silence as she thinks.
“I remember you were like a kitten. I remember that I brought you home in a pink snowsuit, and I had a new white coat, and I wore pink gloves. We looked adorable.” She sighs with pleasure. “That was a really good day.”
“You mean because my adoption finally went through and I was yours?”
“I mean I was having a really good hair day, so the photos were wonderful. I’ll send you one. Howard, remind me to get out the pictures tomorrow.”
“But were you scared? Did you know how to be a mother?”
“Well, we didn’t worry so much about it then, you know. And my family was close by, in Newton. You remember going to Nana’s house, and playing with your cousins.”
“I do, but you weren’t married either. Did you ever think you couldn’t do it?”
“Chloe, I knew I could love you, and I knew that was all that really mattered. Just like you. You have all the love that baby needs.” My mother is not the sentimental type, and as her voice softens with love, my throat tightens, squeezing out more tears.
I hear myself say, “I was thinking maybe you could come up and visit? You could bring the pictures with you.”
She pauses. I hear her breathing.
Her voice is tight. “Of course, sweetie.”
The tightness is from tears. She sniffles.
My own come pouring out with hers. I need her now more than I ever have.
“Let me check my schedule and choose a time that doesn’t interfere with golf.”
Right.
“And Howard will be devastated if I leave him for too long.”
Of course.
“This is your only daughter and granddaughter, Charlotte!” Howard’s voice slips through the phone like aromatherapy, soothing and commanding at the same time. “Take all the time you need.”
I love Howard.
“It’s settled, then,” my mother announces. “I shall come and rescue you.”
I break out in a cold sweat and smile at the same time.
<
br /> * * *
Nick
The meeting to review the goSpa specs would normally make me as excited as talking about the difference between taupe and beige with interior designers, but this one is different. Chloe will be present.
She hasn’t answered my texts, and I’m wondering why. Charlie urged me to call, but I’m not going to call when she won’t even reply to a text. Dating rituals in the age of instant communication are more complicated than small-town politics, and about as painful, even if the stakes are higher.
The room fills slowly with the major stakeholders, including me, Anterdec’s budget director for special projects, Diane Geary from accounting, Amanda Warrick, and my long-time assistant, Marisol. Twice divorced, she’s my age, and a modern woman in every way, including keeping her mouth shut at work about her sex life.
In a corporate environment, where buzzwords engender off-site retreats and mission statements can take seven figures and seven months to develop before being kicked back by legal, the sex lives of cubicle dwellers is a treasured diversion for office talk.
Rare is the staff member who remains discreet.
When Mari finally arrives, she gives Diane and me a perplexed look, setting down a box of donuts and a cardboard four-pack of coffees, one marked with my name.
“I’m so sorry, everyone. But Chloe Browne had to cancel.”
My gut tightens. “Why?”
“Maternity leave.”
Diane’s eyebrows shoot up. “Where is she hiding a baby? She’s tiny. Does she have hollow legs?”
“Adoption,” I mutter. “She’s adopting.”
“Oh.” Diane folds her lips in, over her teeth, as if she’s embarrassed. She shouldn’t be. She couldn’t know.
“But the baby’s not due for two months or so,” I add.
Diane and Mari give me an appraising look.
“I—we talked about it during a business meeting.”
Amusement flashes in both sets of eyes. Mari knows I haven’t dated in ages. When I ran my own company, it was a running joke. Brother Nick, the Monk.
Having Anterdec colleagues call me Focus Man is an upgrade.
I force myself into cold mode. “Fine. We’ll just postpone the project until she’s back.”
“Good,” Diane says. “It’s a bizarre one, anyhow. A spa in an RV?”
“You saw the numbers. Great PR.”
She taps a folder in front of her and nods. “I know. Numbers don’t lie. I trust them over people.” She clearly expects me to smile.
I don’t.
Mari is used to it, laughing with Diane. Both have dark hair and dark eyes, with curvy figures, though Mari’s personality is vitality in human form, while Diane is the epitome of buttoned-up. Mari’s business attire runs toward flowing skirts and bright colors, chunky jewelry and layered hair.
Diane looks like a British nanny, hair pulled back in a tight bun, red lips severe.
I don’t generally evaluate the women I work with like this. I’m not an actual monk, so my head does turn on occasion, but not with these women. Not in this environment. Every woman I encounter these days catches my eye as I compare them to Chloe.
Chloe wins.
Every damn time.
“Great. Now we have a dozen donuts and four lattes left over,” Mari complains.
“I’m sure someone will scavenge if we put them in the employee lounge,” Diane says, taking a Boston Cream donut for herself. She flashes Mari a guilty grin. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Mari pats her hip. “If they stay on my desk, they’ll just end up here.”
I walk out of the room, the conversation a blur, as I wonder why Chloe never answered my last text.
Which was, ironically enough, the question, “What’s new?”
What’s new.
I make my way to my office, so numb, the hot coffee in my hand feels cold. Closing my door, I start pacing, mind spinning, blood racing suddenly.
Baby. She had the baby.
Or, rather, the birth mother did. Chloe told me a bit about her. Homeless teen on the streets. Met her during a volunteer stint with the gO Spa RV. The story sounded crazy when Chloe told it, and I had my doubts.
I was wrong, apparently.
The coffee burns my throat as I swallow, and I choke, forced to feel something tangible, some specific sensation that cuts through the blurring rush of too many conclusions I’m jumping to, too many emotions pouring through me.
Damn it.
Why didn’t she answer my text?
Is this a brush off? As my kids would say, am I being “ghosted”?
It’s not like I can go on Reddit and ask someone the modern dating protocol for what to do when the woman you’re with suddenly adopts a baby and doesn’t return texts.
I’m pretty sure this is a one-off.
Besides, if she ghosts on me, I’m stuck with over a thousand dollars worth of sex toys and crap from her ex-lover.
I’m also pretty sure I’m screwing up this whole dating thing.
“Think,” I mutter. “Think, Nick. What does Chloe want?” Memories of her body, under me, over me, the way she tastes during that second kiss, the one where lips part and tongues speak with more authenticity, flood my body, becoming a new pulse, telling me the truth between us.
And then I remember the baby.
Chloe is a mother.
Dating? I don’t understand the language of dating.
But I speak fluent Parenthood.
Those first few days with a baby are like being handed an octopus and a hand grenade without the pin at the same time you’re blindfolded on roller blades. And deprived of any sleep.
Poor Chloe.
My laugh echoes through my office as I remember the first few hours of managing twin newborns.
And yet.
And yet… she hasn’t reached out.
Bzzz.
I grab my phone like it’s a life preserver.
It’s Jean-Marc, with a text:
Maman says the divorce decree puts you in charge of paying 100% for my study-abroad fees, Dad. The coordinator said you still owe $500 for next year’s Geneva semester. Sorry, dude.
Right.
Fluent in parenting.
Lately, my fluency involves currency more than anything.
Opening my laptop, I navigate the NYU bursar’s office page and take care of Jean-Marc’s bill, deeply torn, wondering why Chloe hasn’t sent a text.
A simple text.
I know those first few days are hard, but… nothing?
Not one word.
Chapter Thirteen
Chloe
Day One with Charlotte. The countdown begins.
The doorbell rings. Jemma goes to answer it.
“Your grandmother is here,” I inform the baby. “Don’t spit up, poop, cry, or draw too much attention to yourself. I’m just sayin’.”
She studies me intently. She poops.
Sigh.
“You are not off to a good start,” I tell her, reaching for the baby wipes. One of her eyes is crossed and she doesn’t focus. She fusses as if I’ve inconvenienced her with this diaper change.
I can hear my mother’s voice. She is telling Jemma about the flight.
“Air travel is just not what it used to be,” Charlotte’s saying. “Have you seen what people wear on airplanes? Sweat pants! In first class!”
“Shocking,” Jem murmurs. “Awful.”
“Even the stewardesses are wearing flats!” Charlotte is outraged.
“Um, I don’t think they’re called stewardesses anymore,” Jemma says, but Charlotte doesn’t even hear her.
“I need a martini,” my mother announces. “Grey Goose. Two olives.”
Silence.
“Please,” she adds, like a toddler who has been coached, but who uses the word only as a last resort.
There is a slight pause, and I hear the freezer open. Even feisty Jemma knows that Charlotte must be served. It’s just easier that way.
“And where is my granddaughter?”
“Right here,” I answer.
Holly, once again clean and sweet smelling, is dressed for the occasion in a tiny white Jacadi bubble suit that Charlotte sent last month from Paris. It has pale blue piping and a ruffled collar, and it probably cost about as much as my last new dress. The difference is that Holly will wear hers maybe twice before she grows out of it.
But she looks undeniably adorable.
Charlotte holds out her arms, and I carefully transfer Holly into them. For a long, quiet moment, the two of them inspect each other.
“Miss Holliday Browne,” my mother says softly. “I am very pleased to meet you. I am your grandmother. You may call me Mimi.”
Jem gives me the side-eye. “How appropriate,” she says sweetly.
There are three martini glasses on the counter. I take one. I’m going to need it.
My mother appears to notice me for the first time.
“Chloe, you look tired.”
“Well,” I smile, perhaps too brightly, “new baby. Not much sleep for the past week. I’m so glad you’re here to help, Mom.”
“My bags are by the door,” she says. “You can put them in my room.”
Right. Will do.
“Okay, then,” Jemma begins, standing up. “I can see I’m leaving Chloe and Holly in good hands, so I’ll just be getting home to Henry. Thank you for the martini. The T is so much more endurable after a cocktail.”
“Oh Jem,” I say, with some urgency, “Oh Jem. Why don’t you stay a little while longer? Wouldn’t you like another drink? After all, it’s Friday… isn’t it? Don’t go yet.”
She continues gathering her things. I follow her to the door, alternately pleading, bribing, and threatening.
“Jemma, let’s call Henry and he can meet us here. We’ll get takeout from the tapas place you love. Just stay for dinner, Jem, and I’ll come over when Henry’s parents visit! I’ll take them to a museum for an entire afternoon!”
She looks at me sympathetically, but keeps buttoning her coat.
“Chloe, it will be fine,” she says firmly. “Charlotte is here to help. Get some rest. Take a nap.”
“Ha,” I reply bitterly. “They’ll be napping. I’ll be doing their laundry. You know how it always goes.”