by Julia Kent
“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...
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 12
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.
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 s
takes 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.