by Nicole Deese
I never wanted to stop looking at him. Ever.
“He’s beautiful, Lauren,” Jenna whispered reverently. “He’s so, so beautiful.”
“He is.” And he’s mine. The thought cinched around my heart and pulled tight. This child was my child. My baby boy.
We clicked through the next three photos—one of him lying in a wooden crib, one of him sitting in a makeshift highchair drinking a bottle, and one of him . . . smiling. Jenna and I both swooned hard over his gummy expression. Had I ever seen anything more breathtaking in all my life? No. Certainly not.
By the time we played the video, my chest felt like it couldn’t hold even one more ounce of happiness inside it without combusting. I felt every coo, every babbling word, every rattle of his toy as he shook it. Completely captivated, we watched those twenty-six seconds over and over before Jenna reminded me that there were other attachments still waiting to be viewed in the email.
I chose the translated document first, labeled Wang Yong.
It was the name he’d been given the day he’d been found abandoned on the front steps of a bicycle shop and turned over to the welfare department by the shop’s owner. He’d only been a few days old. Sick, hungry, and needing proper medical attention for his cleft lip.
I read through all the notes regarding his Finding Day twice. There weren’t many details outside the name and location of the shop, along with a tiny newspaper clipping of him with his newborn picture, which had been used to search for any living blood relatives. He was taken to the hospital to treat his dehydration and then again for a surgery that took place two months later on his upper lip.
There was a long document charting his routine at the orphanage, his sleep schedule, his eating schedule, things he enjoyed, nannies he was attached to, and toys he enjoyed playing with.
All of it surreal. Because all of it meant that he was so real.
We scanned the X-rays and medical jargon—most of which I didn’t understand, with the exception of one line: He has recovered fully from his surgery.
“Hello, hello? You two get sucked into another Netflix binge or—”
We jumped at the sound of Brian’s voice. We’d been so wrapped up in reading that we hadn’t heard him come in.
“Brian!” Jenna practically leapt off the sofa, running to him and smashing headfirst into his chest. “Lauren got it!”
“Got what?”
“The call! There’s a baby boy, and he’s everything—he’s like, the most precious thing I’ve ever seen and you need to go over his medical files right now because she can’t say yes until she has a professional look them over and—”
He silenced her run-on sentence with a kiss, and I couldn’t help but smile. When he finally pulled away, he said, “Of course I’ll look it over, babe. I’ll do whatever I can to help.” And then to me he said, “Congratulations, Lauren.”
“Thank you.”
He set his bag on the counter, then turned to open the fridge. “Let me just grab a quick snack and then I’m all yours.”
I’d never loved my best friend’s husband more than I did in this moment. “Thank you, Brian.”
Snack in hand, Brian made his way over to the sofa. I opened the translated medical document and scans, handed him my computer, and gave in to my body’s need to stand and stretch and breathe.
Just breathe.
I paced the length of their dining room as Brian read. And studied. And read some more. A smear of pale blue scrubs pulled at my peripheral vision as his leg bobbed up and down.
After an eternity of silence, he finally said, “Honestly, his case looks great. There are a few different techniques to repair a cleft lip and palate, and it’s possible he’ll need a follow-up procedure once the plates in his mouth mature, but based on all the notes, he looks to be in really good shape. I have a friend I can refer you to once you’re settled back home in the States.”
If I’d been aware of any hesitations before, there wasn’t a single one left now. “Really? Wow, okay. Thank you.”
Overcome with delirious happiness, Jenna threw her arms around me again, and we laughed until our sides ached. It was the kind of happiness that stuck to your bones and pumped through your heart and made you undoubtedly aware that you’d never actually known the true meaning of the word until right then.
Because I, Lauren Bailey, was going to be a mother.
chapter
fourteen
Undeterred by the sun’s groggy display of dawn outside my living room windows, I stepped into my rubber boots, threw on a heavy fleece jacket, and retrieved my extra change of clothes from the sofa. As trendy as the flannel and leggings look might be for women my age, muddy work boots paired with the paint-smattered button-up I’d owned since high school weren’t Brighton-approved classroom wear.
The clock on the microwave read a quarter after five when I opened my front door and trekked to my Jeep. But not even the super early morning, the ice-slicked streets, or the storm clouds brewing overhead could burst my happiness bubble today.
For the first time in over a year, I was actually eager to tell my family about my adoption. No longer was I filled with the cowardly ways of Old Lauren, a woman who often reserved a pocketful of doubt that maybe God wouldn’t come through for her or that maybe she’d heard Him incorrectly or that maybe there was another woman, a wiser, better-equipped woman suited for such a calling. But last night Old Lauren had been replaced by an emboldened, ready-to-face-her-giants-and-tackle-the-world New Lauren.
Because little Noah Yong Bailey—yes, I’d named him in the wee hours of the morning!—deserved to be known and loved by everyone who had the privilege of seeing his precious, toothless smile.
I’d spent hours printing out his baby photos from the email files last night and saving them to my desktop, phone screen, and even in a few frames around my house. I also forwarded all the attachments to Gail, crying with her on the phone as she exclaimed God’s faithfulness over and over. I prayed that same faithfulness would shelter me during the upcoming conversation with my mom and sister.
“You have arrived,” my phone announced as I made the final turn into my mother’s job site. I’d texted her last night, asking if we could get together this morning before the start of school. Her reply had been the Roths’ address.
No matter. Today wasn’t about my mom’s poor communication skills.
Today was about Noah.
My mother’s Closet Queens pickup was parked in the center of a U-shaped driveway in front of an estate four times the size of my townhouse. How long had she been working?
No sooner had I popped my driver’s side door open did I hear my mother shout, “Head’s up, Lauren.”
I barely registered her words before she flung a giant black-and-white panda bear off the front porch. At my head. Good thing my mother’s pitching arm was not what it used to be. The bear smacked into my chest, then slumped to the ground, face-planting onto my boots. I stared down at the oversized stuffed animal, wondering if any other thirty-one-year-old women were spending their morning being assaulted by carnival toys. “Your reflexes aren’t as good as they used to be, Lauren.”
“I haven’t had a whole lot of opportunities to catch flying panda bears lately. Will there be any other airborne mammals coming my way, or should I head up there?”
My mother almost smiled. “Can’t promise there won’t be, but you can throw that one in the back of your Jeep. Your job will be thrift store duty. There are a few piles started inside for you already.”
“Sure, I can take it all after school.” I bent to grab the panda’s paw and it slipped through my grasp. The sucker was heavier than I thought. What was it stuffed with? Pea gravel? “What time did you start this morning?”
“Five.” She put her hands on her hips, stretched her back. Her white Reeboks were looking dingier than usual for this time in her tennis shoe rotation. She only purchased a new pair once a year. During the after-Easter sale at Fred Meyer’s. “We have ano
ther big one lined up after this, so we need to get it finished.”
“Ah, okay,” I said, hugging the bear around the middle and hefting it toward the back of my Jeep with a grunt that reminded me of my unused gym membership. “How’s it been going in there?”
“Not too bad.” Code for a better-than-normal job. Good, then she’d be in a decent mood. Strangely enough, my mother was at her best when she was organizing piles of other people’s junk. She was an expert at establishing control in chaotic situations. “We finished two storage closets, a linen closet, and the walk-in pantry yesterday. Finishing up the master now so the movers can come in the morning.”
I hurled the panda into the back of my vehicle and shut the trunk door. “Wait—that thing came out of a master closet?”
My mother’s eyes lit with uncommon amusement. She turned back to the front door, calling over her shoulder, “Come inside. I’m sure your sister could use a hand before you have to leave.”
Pleading silently for a double helping of grace and patience, I took the porch stairs two at a time, racing to keep up with my mom’s rigid pace. I gasped as I entered the massive house lined with moving boxes and furniture coverings. “Wow, where are these people moving to—the family who lived here, I mean?” By the looks of all the cardboard marked FOR DONATION in big black letters, they were obviously downsizing. A lot.
“They’re overseas someplace,” my mother said, clipping about, her stride rivaling that of an Olympic speed walker.
The cathedral ceilings and expansive rooms disoriented me as I followed her through a maze of organized chaos.
“Overseas?” My interest heightened. “Why? For a job?”
She halted at the door at the end of a marbled hallway. “I’m their closet cleaner, Lauren, not their life coach. I didn’t ask, and they didn’t tell.”
My mother had a knack for killing curiosity before it could even muster a breath in her presence. She’d always been a firm believer in keeping her business to herself and letting the rest of the world do the same. Funny how my sister held the exact opposite life philosophy.
We entered a bedroom at the far end of the hall, although bedroom wasn’t exactly the term I would have used to describe it. My childhood Barbie DreamHouse didn’t begin to compare to the extravagance of this space. A chandelier hung from the ceiling on a long, ornate chain surrounded by faux copper tiles that looked like something straight out of Queen Elizabeth’s bedchamber. I glanced around for a snooty butler who would banish me and my rubber boots from such a classy residence. Why would anybody leave such a spectacular house?
“You gonna gawk at that ridiculous ceiling all morning? Or are you gonna help us out before you have to go?”
My attention snapped back to my mother’s irked expression, and I followed her the rest of the way into the master closet, patting the pocket of my coat for reassurance that I had my iPhone, where Noah’s sweet face lived. I smiled at the thought of him so close to me.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined three of the four walls. Cabinets, drawers, and shiny metal hooks were placed in just the right order to make organizing a dream. Yet stuff was stacked and crammed everywhere the eye could see, and probably a lot of places it couldn’t, too. An avalanche of wigs, hats, belts, costume jewelry, and shoes towered near a mirror that resembled the magical one from Snow White.
“Yeah, this is what we call the catch-all closet.” Lisa stretched tall, shaking out her quads and then pressing a hand to her lower back. “I just found a wrapped Christmas present in a padded envelope dated six years ago. Hope Great-Grandma Betty wasn’t expecting a thank-you card before she bit the dust.”
“Lisa.” Mom groaned. She also wasn’t a fan of death commentary.
My sister threw up her hands. “What? Snooping is a part of the job, Mom.”
“What can I do to help?” I interjected, noting how my mother looked ready to clobber Lisa with a soccer cleat. How the two of them had managed to work in close proximity for so many years and not end up in a state penitentiary . . . I truly had no idea. “Besides taking that load to the thrift store.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m yours for another hour and fifteen minutes.”
Lisa nodded toward Accessory Mountain. “You can toss that entire pile over there in a box. It’s all donation, too.”
“No problem.” The toe of my boot hooked around a gold belt, and I teetered, reaching out for the sturdiest surface nearest me. Thankful I hadn’t fallen face-first into a glass jar of pennies, I read the bold print on the sealed cardboard box tucked under a long dress coat. FOR UGANDA. “Uganda?”
Lisa’s long blond ponytail flicked over her opposite shoulder as she looked back at me. “What? Oh yeah. They must have forgotten that one when they left. Hopefully it wasn’t too vital.”
“Who?”
“The people who lived here. They all up and moved to Uganda a couple weeks ago. They were totally the religious, save-the-world types. Gave up this beautiful place to go live in a village with no running water or stores or even schools.” She shook her head. “I so don’t get people like that.”
People like that. Her words jabbed into my gut, refusing to settle as I thought of the kind of family who would say yes to the sacrifices involved in such a calling. A missionary calling. I immediately wished I could have heard their whole story . . . from them, not my sister.
Lisa tossed several warm sweaters into my working pile. “I mean, what difference could five white people who obviously haven’t lacked a day in their lives make to an impoverished African village?”
And just like that, I had my in. I recognized it immediately—the moment I’d asked God to give me as I bowed my head last night before drifting off to sleep.
“I don’t think it’s possible for us to measure the impact one person can have on another, but I do believe that offering hope to someone without it is invaluable.”
Lisa whipped her head around, obviously not expecting me to comment. “Uh, okay. Were you listening to a Tony Robbins podcast on the way over here or something?”
“No,” I said with a calm not my own. “But I have given a lot of thought to how I might help the poor and vulnerable in our world. There are so many problems—poverty, hunger, abuse, war. And if I turned a blind eye, claiming ‘It’s too overwhelming,’ then you’re right—no impact would ever be made at all. But making a difference starts with being willing to help where and how we can right now.” Something I’d heard Gail say many times over.
My mom continued to pack the books in the corner, but Lisa’s hands had stilled along with her gaze, as if daring me to continue so she could come up with a cutting counterattack.
But I wasn’t going to back down this time.
“Actually,” I said, flinging a pair of nude pantyhose into the box behind me. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted to come out here this morning. I have something I’d like to share with you both—and with Dad, too, of course.” It was then my mother halted her task, her expression skeptical yet focused. “I should have told you sooner, and I’m sorry I waited longer than I should have, but I’m excited to tell you—show you—now. And for you to be involved.” I fought to hear my voice over the ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump thudding in my ears.
No, I won’t be afraid. Noah deserves a strong mother. “In just a few months, I’m going to be adopting a baby boy from a Chinese orphanage.”
Unbelieving stares followed by heavy mouth breathing was the only response in the room.
I rushed on, hoping to fill the silence with information that might supersede whatever negativity might be brewing. “I received an email last night with his pictures and medical records and, he’s, well, I’ll show you—” I pulled my phone from my pocket, but as I tapped on the virtual photo album, a flood of comments and questions launched from them at once. Most of them were indecipherable, with the exception of two phrases that pegged me straight in the heart: “You can’t afford to adopt a child” and “You don’t know the first thing about being a parent.”<
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My arm dropped to my side. The picture of Noah’s smiling face remained pressed against the inside of my palm like a treasure I vowed to protect. I pleaded for God to help me, for His grace and compassion and every other available fruit of the Spirit to intervene and make them see, make them understand. “I realize this probably feels like a shock to you, but I’ve actually been in the process to adopt for over a year and—”
“Lauren, this is ridiculous. You can’t be serious right now.” A haughty sound escaped Lisa’s throat. “I mean, what are you thinking? You can’t just . . . just . . . adopt a kid from some orphanage across the world and suddenly expect to know how to be its parent. It doesn’t work like that.” She kicked a random pair of black high heels out of her warpath. “How will you even take care of it while you’re at work? You aren’t Angelina Jolie. Adoption isn’t the fairy tale all those rich celebrities make it out to be with their full-time nannies, cooks, and housekeepers. You’ll have to be all that and more.” Because you’re single were the words her eyes added as her ponytail swooshed from left to right. “Mom, say something here.”
But then I saw my mother’s eyes. They were the same eyes that told my father he was worth nothing to our family after his workman’s comp ran out and we lost my childhood home to the bank. The same eyes that announced she would be taking over the household finances and paying off my father’s debts by starting a business of her own. Even if it broke her. And her marriage. And her children. Yes, those were the same hardened, bitter eyes that took my measure now and left me to bleed before she even spoke a word.
“Are those churchy friends of yours behind this? Filling your brain with all that nonsense about saving people who are too broken to be saved? You’re a single first-grade teacher, Lauren. You cannot afford this.”
“What? No, my friends haven’t put me up to anything. And neither has my church—” was all I could get out before she came at me again.
“I don’t believe that for a minute. The daughter I raised would never make such a reckless decision about her future. This sounds a lot like religious brainwashing.” The word spit from her mouth like venom.