by Cynthia Hand
22
Health problems:
Height/weight:
No idea, taller than me, average for a guy, I think.
Hair/eye color:
brown, blue
Build: ☐ Small ☑ Medium ☐ Large ☐ Extra large
Complexion: ☐ Fair ☑ Medium ☐ Olive ☐ Dark
Right-/left-handed:
right
Talents, hobbies, interests:
football, wrestling, baseball
Education:
High school, some college, although I think he might be majoring in beer and girls.
Occupation:
student
Religion:
Says he’s Presbyterian to please our father.
Marital status: ☑ Single ☐ Married ☐ Separated ☐ Divorced ☐ Widowed
& loving it
Aware of this pregnancy? ☐ Yes ☑ No
2) ☐ BROTHER ☑ SISTER
Age (if deceased, state age at time of death):
7
Health problems:
Height/weight:
No idea, shorter than me and little.
Hair/eye color:
blond, blue—we all have my mom’s eyes
Build: ☑ Small ☐ Medium ☐ Large ☐ Extra large
Complexion: ☑ Fair ☐ Medium ☐ Olive ☐ Dark
Right-/left-handed:
left, poor thing
Talents, hobbies, interests:
Candy Land, My Little Pony, Legos
Education:
Grade school, kindergarten, where she can already count to 100 and knows her colors!
Occupation:
kid
Religion:
Thinks of God the same way she thinks of Santa Claus.
Marital status: ☑ Single ☐ Married ☐ Separated ☐ Divorced ☐ Widowed
obviously
Aware of this pregnancy? ☐ Yes ☑ No
MEDICAL HISTORY
Please indicate “None” or “You” if you or any genetic relatives (i.e., your mother, father, sisters, brothers, grandparents, uncles, aunts, or any other children you have had) ever had or now has any of the medical conditions listed below. Please explain in the comments section.
Baldness:
Dad. Only on the top. He shaves his head though so people think it’s intentional.
Birth defects: None
Clubfoot: None
Cleft palate: None
Congenital heart disease: None
Cancer:
Grandpa. Bladder cancer, I think. He died when I was little and no one seemed to like him very much before that.
Other: None
ALLERGIES
Animals: None
Asthma: None
Eczema: None
Food:
Sister. Allergic to everything, I think. There’s something about kids today not getting enough exposure to germs.
Hay fever/plants:
Mom. Every spring she could be a commercial for Benadryl.
Hives: None
Medications: Blood pressure meds, I think, and high-powered vitamins, and I did find Viagra in the medicine cabinet once, but no one wants to think about that.
Other allergies: None
Other (specify): None
VISUAL IMPAIRMENT
Astigmatism:
Mom. Wears glasses/contacts.
Blindness: None
Color blindness:
Dad. Also my brother, they have trouble matching socks.
EMOTIONAL/MENTAL ILLNESS
Bipolar (manic depressive): None
Schizophrenia: None
Severe depression:
Dad. After the divorce he went through a “phase” as he called it and started seeing a therapist, but he’s better now.
Suicide: None
Obsessive-compulsive disorder: None
Personality disorder: None
Alcoholism/drug addiction:
Dad. He also drank too much after the divorce and crashed his car into our mailbox, but no one got hurt or arrested, so it’s all good.
Other (specify): None
HEREDITARY DISEASES
Cystic fibrosis: None
Galactosemia: None
Hemophilia: None
Huntington’s disease: None
Hypothyroidism or hyperthyroidism: None
CARDIOVASCULAR DISEASE
Heart attack:
Grandma. On my dad’s side, in her 50s.
Heart murmur: None
High blood pressure:
Dad
Diabetes: None
SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES
Gross. This is a highly inappropriate question. Why is it important if your relatives got STDs? Ew. I refuse to answer on the sheer principle of the thing.
Chlamydia: Gross!
Gonorrhea: Ew!
Herpes: Double gross!
Syphilis: What is this, the 1890s?
HIV/AIDS: Nope.
Other (specify): None
NEUROLOGICAL DISORDERS
Cerebral palsy: None
Muscular dystrophy: None
Multiple sclerosis:
None. I guess we’ve all been pretty lucky.
Epilepsy: None
Stroke: None
Rheumatic fever: None
Other (specify): None
DEVELOPMENTAL DISORDERS
Learning disability / ADHD:
None. Again, either we’re lucky or no one ever talks about it.
Mental retardation (specify type): None
Down syndrome: None
Speech or hearing problems: None
Low birth weight: None
Other (specify): None
HISTORY OF DRUG USE
PRESCRIPTION:
Specify type (e.g., Prozac, Accutane, etc.)
☐ Before conception ☐ After conception
OVER-THE-COUNTER:
Specify type (e.g., diet pills, antihistamine, etc.)
☐ Before conception ☐ After conception
OTHER TYPES OF DRUGS USED:
Alcohol
At parties, mostly. I did replace some of my dad’s liquor with water my sophomore year.
Specify type:
Beer, rum and Coke, vodka, whatever is available. But I swear I’m not a lush. It’s all social drinking.
Date of last use:
Whenever the last party was. I can’t even remember.
☑ Before conception ☐ After conception
I may like to have fun at parties but I haven’t had a single drink since I found out I was pregnant. There may have been one party before I knew I was pregnant.
Downers (i.e., sleeping pills, barbiturates, etc.)
Specify type:
Date of last use:
☐ Before conception ☐ After conception
Cocaine (“Crack”)
By injection? ☐ Yes ☐ No
Date of last use:
☐ Before conception ☐ After conception
Heroin/pain killers
By injection? ☐ Yes ☐ No
Date of last use:
☐ Before conception ☐ After conception
Hallucinogens (i.e., LSD, Ecstasy, PCP, etc.)
Specify type:
Date of last use:
☐ Before conception ☐ After conception
Cigarettes
I tried it once. Coughed until I threw up. Decided it wasn’t for me.
Specify type:
I think that time it was Lucky Strike. Clearly not lucky.
Date of last use:
☑ Before conception ☐ After conception
Marijuana
Okay, a couple times. But I swear I didn’t inhale.
Date of last use:
Last year at a party.
☑ Before conception ☐ After conception
Other
Specify type:
Date of last use:
☐ Before conception ☐ After conception
SOCIAL AND HEALTH HISTORY�
� Birth mother ☐ Birth father
If you wish, please add any additional information that will further describe you and your situation. (Consider your schooling, health, work, goals and hopes for the future, relationship history, religious or spiritual beliefs, challenges, strengths, etc.)
So I’ve been writing you a bunch of letters, which I hope you get, and if you read those, you’ll understand my situation pretty well. But if for some reason this is the only thing you get from me, just know that I care about you. The rest of it isn’t that important in the big picture. I’m healthy, and I’m trying to keep you healthy. I take my vitamins and eat vegetables and try not to consume my weight in ice cream, which is tempting right now. It’s been a hot summer. I’m trying to do the right thing here.
I know I’m supposed to say something inspiring, like God is in control and He’ll guide you to where you’re supposed to be. But I don’t think I even believe in God anymore. Sorry. And I wish I could tell you that I dream about seeing you again, someday, but I don’t know if that would be good for either of us. You’re better off without me. I’m sorry, but you are.
I’m not happy. That’s okay. We don’t always have to be happy, right? I am sixteen years old, and I got pregnant by a guy who’s not in the picture anymore, and I couldn’t keep you or take care of you for a bunch of reasons that would take pages to explain and probably still not really be the real reasons. I’ve never lived in what you could describe as a happy home, and so if I keep you, you wouldn’t either. Honestly, my life is a mess right now, and that’s not your fault, but I need to fix it before I can be a mother. I hope you can understand. So right now I am trying to find you some parents who will be better. I want you to have a good life. I wish everything in the world for you, really.
I hope you get my letters.
Your trusty neighborhood biological mother,
S
23
So the letter thing turned out to be a total waste of time, but try telling that to my mother.
“We have to be patient,” she says when I report back on my Boise adventure the next morning before school. Like always, she’s determined to be optimistic. “We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”
But she knows. She’s lying there hooked up to a machine that is functioning as her heart. Her lungs are slowly filling up with fluid again. Her other organs are strained and on the brink of shutting down. There’s not a lot of time left. Not months, like the lady in the office said it could be before they get to my request in the backlog. Maybe not even weeks.
“Right. Wait and see,” I agree, like I believe that’s going to work.
“In the meantime,” she says, “you could try another approach. It’s easy to find people these days, with the internet and social media. There are search sites solely for adoptions. There are registries.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“Just think about it. Who knows? Your birth mother could already be looking for you.”
“She’s not,” I say automatically.
Mom frowns. “She’s not? How do you know?”
I swallow, hard. “I did a search . . . once.”
“Oh.” She’s got hurt written all over her face. It’s exactly what I was afraid of. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to think . . .” I take a deep breath. “You’re my mom. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t happy, or I was looking for another family, or that you weren’t enough.”
“I would have understood,” she says. “I do understand. I always assumed that someday, when the time was right, you’d search for her.”
“You did?”
“It’s what I’d do, if I were you,” she says. “So what happened? What did you find?”
“Nothing,” I confess.
She looks confused. “Nothing?”
I shrug. “All you have to do is put in your date of birth and the state you were born in, and if anyone from your biological family is looking for you, they’ll get a match. It’s easy. But there was no match.”
“Which means?”
“She’s not looking for me.” I try to smile. “Which makes total sense. She picked a closed adoption, too, right?”
Mom squeezes my hand. “We don’t know her story, or why she chose what she chose. But it’s been eighteen years, Cass. She may think about things differently now.”
“She’s not looking.”
Mom’s lips flatten in that way she gets when she’s made up her mind about something. “She might not know how to look.”
“She’s thirty-four,” I point out. “She probably knows how to google.”
“How long has it been since you did the search?” She looks around. “Where’s your phone? We could look it up right now. It couldn’t hurt to check.”
“No.” The word kind of bursts out of me. I can’t imagine going on one of these sites with my mom watching over my shoulder. I remember how I cracked up in the parking lot yesterday, for a reason I still can’t fully understand. “This is something I have to do by myself, okay? I can’t explain why, it’s just . . . weird and emotional and . . . private. And I don’t think I want to anymore. If that’s okay.”
Her face goes serious. “All right,” she says. “I understand.”
The guy comes in with Mom’s breakfast on a tray. She scoots over to make room and pats the space on the hospital bed beside her. The new drugs they put her on have at least perked her up a little. It’s hard to believe, looking at her now, that a couple of days ago she was on death’s door, and she’s still dying. “Have you eaten breakfast?” she asks.
“You know I don’t normally eat breakfast.”
“You know I’m going to tell you it’s the most important meal of the day.” She pats the spot again.
“But . . . hospital food,” I counter.
“True, but it’s difficult even for a hospital to screw up breakfast. Let’s give it a try.”
Right on cue, my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, and that was road trip food. I’ve had other things on my mind besides hunger.
My mom lifts the cover off her plate. “French toast,” she whispers.
I sit down next to her. She pours out the little container of syrup and then proceeds to cut the French toast into small bites. Like I’m still three or something and she doesn’t want me to choke.
“Eat up,” she says. “You’re a growing girl.”
I stab a piece of scrambled eggs to be contrary. It’s a mistake. They are cold and somewhat rubbery. I guess it is possible to mess up breakfast.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to be eating this,” I point out.
“Oh, no. This is way too much food for me. I have to watch my girlish figure.”
It’s a joke. She’s more of a stick figure these days. Before the heart attack she was a little chubby—not morbidly obese or anything, but carrying around a few extra pounds. She used to claim that she was in the wrong profession to be thin. “Nobody trusts a skinny baker,” she always said.
I used to think that was funny.
She spears a piece of grayish sausage and holds it up. “This is probably terrible for my heart. And it’s probably also terrible.”
I lean over and take a bite out of it, which is directly against all of my vegetarian principles. It’s horrible. “It’s not too bad, actually. You should try it.”
“Wait, who’s force-feeding who here?” she says as I take the fork and attempt to airplane the bite of the sausage into her mouth.
“Drink your juice.”
She takes a long sip of the orange juice, and then sits back and glances at the clock on the side table. “You better go to school. I think your dad’s going to pick you up any second now. Will I see you later?”
“Of course. I’ll be here right after school.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “Don’t you have rehearsal? Show time’s getting close now. Only a few more weeks.”
Six more, to be exact. Which might as well
be forever.
“I . . .” I don’t look at her. “I quit the musical.”
Her mouth drops open. “What? No!”
“No, it’s fine. I called Mama Jo last night. She understood. And hey, my understudy is super happy right now. I should be here. With you.”
She shakes her head. “Cass. That’s so sweet, and I appreciate it, but no. I want you to live your life, remember?”
“You’re my life, right now.”
“Oh, sweetie.”
“Seriously, it’s fine.”
But her eyes have that steely look to them I know pretty well. “No. Call Miss Golden. She’ll let you back in.”
“Mom. The musical is not important.”
“Of course it’s important. I can’t remember the last time you weren’t in a play. It makes you happy. Plus this is my favorite musical. I want to see you up there on that stage, as the baker’s wife,” she says.
I stare at her.
“And I want to meet this boy you like, Bastian,” she adds with a little laugh. “Your dad said he came to the house. I’m so jealous. And I want to see Nyla play Cinderella in the blue ball gown you told me about. And I want to give you all a standing ovation.”
“But you can’t,” I say finally.
She meets my eyes. “I will.”
“Mom. The doctors said we have six weeks. Less than that now, even. And how can I do anything but spend every minute of that time right here? How can I—”
“The doctors don’t know everything.” She lifts her chin. God, she’s stubborn. “I’m going to get a new heart.”
Something inside me kind of snaps, but I can’t yell at her. But I can’t go along with it all this time, either, so I say, quietly, “You don’t know that.”
“I do. The universe—”
“Maybe the universe doesn’t work the way you think it does,” I tell her, still working to keep my voice calm. “I can’t keep pretending everything’s okay. I just . . . can’t.”
She closes her eyes for a second, and then they snap open, bright with anger. “All right,” she says in a clipped tone I associate with being in trouble. “All right. Fine. So let’s say I’m dying.”
I suck in a shocked breath.
“If I’m dying, if I’m going to waste away in this room, in this bed, I do not want you to be here.”
It’s like she punched me in the gut. “You don’t want me here?”
“No,” she rasps. She licks her lips. I give her the cup of water, and she takes a drink, hands it back, and carries on with the conversation. “I want you to be out there, living your life.”
“Mom.”