At the Discovery Store I find a very cool lava lamp for Hannah. At Banana Republic, for Danni, I choose a cream-colored silk blouse that’s fitted at the waist. Leaving the store, I realize I chose that style because it’s what I wish I could be wearing. I take it out of the bag and look at it again. I’m pretty sure she’ll like it. But I’ll save the receipt, just in case.
I get a slow-cooker for Penny. She’s been complaining that the one she uses now isn’t big enough. Nikki? I don’t know. Maybe a subscription to Women’s Sports.
On my way to the kitchen shop I pass the Pet Boutique where every Christmas I used to buy a bag of gourmet dog biscuits for Casper, and breath sweetening chew bones. As a working dog, he didn’t do toys, but he did love those special dog biscuits. I walk quickly past the little shop, trying not to think, or feel, or cry.
I’m remembering what the psychologist in Ordinary People told Conrad, that depression is a reduction of feeling. He’s always pushing Conrad not to keep a lid on it, to cry, or vent, or whatever. I don’t know about that. I feel safer keeping my awful sadness to myself.
Wednesday Danni and I meet at Starbucks, even though we don’t like coffee.
“Maybe after the baby’s born and my hair grows out, no one will recognize us back at Jamba Juice.”
“Easy for you. I’ll still look like the same old me.”
“Well . . . Maybe you could get pregnant? That would definitely change your looks.”
“Not funny,” Danni says.
We each get bottled water and sit at a table that’s kind of tucked behind a display rack.
“You tell me your complicated story first,” I say.
Danni looks at me blankly.
“You know. You said you were working on your mother, and it was too complicated to tell right then.”
“Oh, yeah. Well . . . when I found out what Mom’d really done . . . I mean, she didn’t exactly lie about anything but she sure didn’t tell the truth. Like, I could have been visiting you all that time you were in the home, or calling, or writing, whatever . . . Anyway, I was sooooo mad. And she started in on that stuff about what a terrible example it would be for Hannah to see you pregnant, and what it would do to my reputation for you to be pregnant, and then she started quoting all of this Bible stuff about unclean women, and plucking out your eye if it offends you . . . I swear it’s like she’s memorized the whole Bible and she’s got this database in her head that lets her pull out whatever she needs to prove a point. She went into this whole long rant and then she said that was the end of it. She didn’t want to hear another thing about it. Like she’d heard anything! I didn’t get a chance to say one more word after I brought the subject up.”
Finally, Danni pauses for breath.
“So how are you working on her?”
“Well, I was so mad, I told Evan what my mom had done . . .”
“You told Evan about me??”
“Not your name or anything. Just the situation.”
“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone . . .”
“No. Come on! He doesn’t even know you!”
I wonder who else she’s told, but then I think how tired I am of secrets and decide it doesn’t matter.
“So he helped me find some better Bible verses, mostly from the New Testament. So I’ve been writing them out and leaving them places where I know she’ll find them. Like this morning she found a note in the coffee cup that she got from the cupboard. It said, “Let whoever is without sin cast the first stone.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing, but I’ll wear her down eventually, you’ll see. A few days ago she found “First remove the beam from your own eye. Then you will see clearly to cast the mote from the eye of another.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know. Evan said it would be a good one to use . . .”
“Be right back!” I say, rushing off to the restroom.
When I get back I apologize for leaving so fast, but sometimes it’s just necessary.
“It’s okay,” Danni says. “So, now your turn. What new secrets do I get to hear about today?”
“Maybe we should go back to your car,” I say, anticipating some of the possible responses Danni will make when she hears first that I’m releasing the baby for adoption and then who the adoptive parents are going to be.
When we get in the car, Danni sits staring at the picture hanging from the mirror. Then she says,
“I’m totally Christian. I really am. And I agree with my mom about a lot of stuff. But I don’t think Jesus would have kicked you out of our house. Jesus doesn’t kick people out, no matter what.”
I hope she’ll still remember that by the time I finish telling her about my adoption plan. I talk as fast as I can, faster than Danni did just a few minutes ago when she talked about her mom. I spit out the details, racing to get it over with. Danni listens intently, her mouth half open.
“You’re adopting your baby out?” she asks, as if she hasn’t quite heard my whole speech.
“I’m giving her a good home. A good chance in life. No way can I take care of a baby.”
“I could help,” Danni says. “I’d be a good godmother.”
“Where will you be next year?”
“College.”
“Right. That’s where I want to be, too. Not working at Pizza Hut to buy diapers.”
“So . . . can she still be Genny with a G?”
“No. She won’t be my baby. I won’t name her.”
“But did you tell them about Genny with a G? They might like that idea.”
It’s funny. I worried that Danni would give me a lot, I mean a lot, of shite about adoption, and I thought she might get really crazy when I told her who the adoptive parents would be. But all she’s worried about is the name? So okay, that’s easy to deal with.
“She’s going to be Nancy, after Nancy Drew.”
“Could she be Nancy Genny?”
“I guess you could suggest it.”
When it’s time to leave, Danni takes me back to Nikki and Penny’s.
“Wow! Great tree!” she says, noticing the already lit tree in the corner windows.
“Do you want to come in and see it?”
She glances at the clock.
“Well, I guess it won’t matter if I’m just a few minutes late.”
Penny is at the table writing Christmas cards.
“Danni wants to see our tree up close,” I say.
Penny looks up.
“Oh, hi. Danni, is it? I think I saw you at a game a while back.”
“Probably,” Danni says.
She oohs and aahs over the tree, noticing each ornament and asking where it comes from. Penny happily explains the details.
“Come see if you think Hannah will like this,” I say, walking down the hall to the pink room. Danni follows. I take the lava lamp from its box to show her, but she doesn’t even look.
“Oh, this is sooooo sweet,” she says, doing that high voiced sugary thing. “Oh, look at this!” She picks up a teddy bear and hugs it close. “And the pictures!”
“Uh, Danni? Can I show you this?”
She looks over at me like I’m the president of the anti-fun club or something.
“What?”
I show her the lamp.
“Do you think Hannah will like this?”
“Yeah. It’s nice,” she says, giving a quick glance before she takes the stuffed dog from the top of the dresser.
“Oh, I love this. Isn’t it cute?”
I think about the silk blouse from Banana Republic. Maybe I should return it and get a stuffed dog instead.
On Christmas Day a lot of the same people from Thanksgiving come to Nikki and Penny’s house for dinner. Danni brings Hannah over later in the afternoon. While she’s following Elvis around trying to get him to let her pet him, I ask Danni, in a whisper, if her mom knows they’ve come to see me.
“No, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt he
r.”
“Is that from the Bible, too?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“Does Hannah know I’m having a baby?”
“No. I told her you got fat, and just to pretend not to notice so you wouldn’t be embarrassed. That’s not exactly a lie, is it?”
“Not exactly,” I say.
I don’t like to think of myself as fat, but one glance at my belly
tells me to get off da Nile.
After she opens her gift, Hannah wants to set the lamp up right away, so she can watch what it does once it’s warmed up.
The blouse looks great on Danni, and I suddenly feel even fatter, and awkward and dowdy and ugly and any other unflattering word you could find in the dictionary.
Hannah gives me a green and purple braided friendship bracelet that she made herself.
“It’s for when you don’t see me for a long time, you won’t forget me,” she says.
I give her a big hug, and even though she’s been warned not to notice that I’m fat, she’s noticing.
Danni gives me a gift certificate to Jamba Juice, which gets us both laughing hysterically. Hannah goes off to watch TV, mad because she doesn’t know what we’re laughing about.
“I have something else for you,” Danni says, once we’ve calmed down. “Mom asked me to give this to you.”
“I thought she didn’t know you were here.”
“She doesn’t, exactly. But she knows we’ve been in touch. And she knows I wouldn’t let the holidays pass without seeing you somewhere along the way.”
Danni takes a package wrapped in silver paper from her purse and hands it to me.
“Open it.”
I remove the paper and open the box. Inside is a white leather Bible with my name engraved in gold.
“Look inside,” Danni says.
On the flyleaf, in Carole’s flowery handwriting, it says, “To one who is always in my heart and in my prayers. Let this be your foundation. Yours in Christ, Carole Genevieve Hopkins.”
“Isn’t that sweet?”
I nod, not knowing what to say. Does it mean Carole cares? Or does it mean she’ll only care if I read the Bible?
I run my hand over the soft leather.
“It’s a pretty book,” I say.
“I knew you’d like it.”
I only said it was pretty. I didn’t say I liked it. But I don’t clarify that.
After Danni and Hannah leave I go back into the dining room, where people are having dessert.
“What did Danni give you?” Nikki asks.
I show her the gift certificate, and Hannah’s bracelet, and the Bible from Carole.
“Are you religious?”
“Not really.”
“Well, parts of the Bible are a good read, anyway,” Glenn says.
“I thought you were an atheist?” Kim says.
“I am, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the Bible,” he
says.
That gets them all talking about religion.
“I’d be dead by now if I didn’t have faith in a higher power,” Sandy says.
“Or at least dead drunk,” Ella says.
Gavin says he’s a Buddhist. Barry’s an ex-Baptist turned Episcopalian.
“I looked around for a long time and finally found a church where I felt welcome.”
“What about Dalton?” Nikki asks. “Will you raise him to be Buddhist or Episcopalian?”
“Probably Episcopalian, with Buddhist leanings.”
“Interesting combination,” Sandy says.
“How about Baby Nancy?” Barry asks.
“Well . . . we’re pretty welcome with the Unitarians,” Penny says, “but we’re not much for rushing out to church on Sunday mornings.”
“We don’t have to decide that just yet,” Nikki says, laughing.
“She’ll need something to rebel against when she’s older,” Ella says. “Why not start her out as a Catholic? That’s what my parents did.”
“Then she can morph into your kind of a Mother Mary Beatles Catholic?”
“Hey, it works for me,” Ella says, then starts singing in a surprisingly beautiful voice:
“When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be...”
The rest of the people at the table join in on the chorus, “Let it be, whisper words of wisdom, let it be.”
I am suddenly filled with a sense of overwhelming loneliness. I mutter an excuse and go back to the pink room where I lie on the bed, longing for my own family singing that other Beatles song, and for the scrawny tree. Longing for all that is lost.
Nikki comes to check on me.
“I just feel tired,” I say. “The doctor said it’s good to take an afternoon nap.”
“Sure. We’ll see you after you’re rested.”
Nikki closes the door gently behind her and I will myself to sleep.
In the morning I put the Bible in the bottom drawer, next to the photo album Carole made for me. Maybe someday I’ll start reading it. Maybe not. If there’s a God watching over us, like Carole says, why did He let my family die? Why does He let such horrible things happen in the world? But then I think of what Jason said about God that night under the stars, and what Sandy was saying about a “higher power,” and I think maybe there’s more to God than what I’ve heard from Carole.
Once Christmas is over and everyone’s back in school, things move along pretty quickly. Penny goes with me to every doctor’s visit. She listens to the baby’s heartbeat and asks questions I’d never think to ask. She wants to know if the baby can hear music, or voices. She’s read somewhere that it’s good to play Mozart while babies are still in the womb, so we play Mozart at dinner every evening.
After dinner every night we do “kick counts.” I lie down on my side, on the couch, and Penny holds her hands over my belly. We’re supposed to see how long it takes the baby to move ten times. If it takes longer than two hours we’re supposed to call the doctor. But usually she kicks ten times in less than an hour. It’s a sign of good health.
Penny signs us up for a prepared childbirth class that starts on January 14th and lasts for four weeks. Suddenly I’m scared. Not about the things I was scared about before, people finding out I was pregnant, or keeping other secrets, or losing Danni’s friendship, or being stuck in the county home. Now I’m scared about the physical stuff. There’s a baby inside me, and it’s got to get out through a little, teeny, tiny opening.
They say—Karen, and the prepared childbirth leaders—that before the baby is born that little tiny hole gets bigger. I’ve looked at the diagrams in the childbirth book. Most of the girls at school who’ve already had their babies put their labor and delivery experiences somewhere along a scale from “not too bad” to “wonderful!” There is one girl who loves to talk about how horrible it was—excruciating pain that went on for days, but that’s the same girl who just yesterday spent most of the morning crying and writhing in agony over a paper cut.
In our first childbirth class we go around the room and introduce ourselves. We tell our due dates, and what we hope to accomplish in the class. There’s one other teenager in the group, a girl who’s fourteen and whose mother is with her. Another woman brought her mother, and one is with her sister. The rest are with the babies’ fathers. We’re all pretty much here for the same reason, to know what to expect during labor and delivery, and to learn how to deal with it.
Every afternoon when Penny gets home from school, she coaches me in relaxation techniques and breathing rhythms. We practice a mad-cat exercise where I get on my hands and knees and arch my back and then push my stomach toward the floor. Yesterday when I was down on the floor arching my back, Elvis hissed at me. I guess I make a pretty convincing mad cat.
Monday morning there’s a notice on the whiteboard:
Victor Munoz, 7 lbs. 6 oz., January 29, 3:13 a.m.
Proud Parents: Tiffany Sanchez and Hector
Munoz
“Tiffany called me early this morning,” Karen says. “Everything went well. She’ll be home this afternoon.”
Wednesday, at nutrition break, Tiffany stops by to show off the baby. Everyone hovers around and says how cute he is. I walk out to the parking lot with her, where Hector is waiting.
“I won’t say it didn’t hurt,” she tells me, “but it was pretty easy. And look what I got for it!” she says, beaming down on baby Victor.
Hector gets out of the car and opens the door.
“It was harder on him,” Tiffany says, nodding her head in his direction.
“Shit! I ain’t never goin’ through that again!” he says.
He takes the baby from Tiffany and carefully secures him in the infant seat. I watch them drive away, thinking if I’d done things differently, that could have been me with Jason. I remind myself that I’m a kid. I remind myself that I didn’t love Jason.
Chapter
24
With what I think of as nagging, and Penny refers to as encouragement, we finally complete my “Year After Birth Plan” to our adoption consultant’s satisfaction.
For the month or so after delivery, while I’m “recovering,” I’ll be staying with Sandy and Ella. Both Penny and Audrey think that’s best—so Penny and Nikki can bond with the baby, and I won’t be trying to get in on the mommy act. That’s fine with me. The more I’m around Sandy and Ella, the more I like them, plus I’ll like being close to the beach.
I’ve talked with Wayne, Casper’s trainer, and he’s helped me get set up with a job at the training center. He said the main supervisor remembered me from my internship and is eager to have me back. I’ll be there until school starts in August. Nikki’s been talking with the recruiter at Cal Poly, and I may still be able to get the scholarship. That’s the only part of my plan that Audrey’s not satisfied with, because it’s still not certain.
“We need a back-up plan,” she keeps saying.
Nikki tells her she’s sure things will work out. I’m not worried, because when Nikki thinks things will work out, they usually do.
Between the childbirth classes, and all I’ve learned in the TAPP program, and hearing all about Tiffany’s experience when she had Victor, by the time I feel my first contraction, I’m pretty relaxed about the whole thing and ready to get it over with.
No More Sad Goodbyes Page 21