“You’re okay,” she said softly.
“Nice to see you have such faith in my babysitting abilities,” Flaca said from the doorway. “Do you want a soda or something?”
“Sure.”
They left Griffin to his nap and returned to the living room. Lainey sat heavily down on a chair while Flaca headed to the kitchen to retrieve two cans of cola. She handed one to Lainey and then sat on the couch, propping her bare feet on the edge of the coffee table.
“How’d the job search go?” Flaca asked, popping her soda can open.
Lainey shook her head. “Not good. I went to, like, twenty different salons. No one was hiring. They all said business was too slow right now.”
“It’s the summer,” Flaca said. “Things will pick up in the winter, when all of the tourists and snowbirds are back in town.”
“I can’t wait that long. I need a job now. I have to get my own place as soon as possible.”
“Candace?” Flaca asked sympathetically.
Lainey looked at her friend with hollow eyes, ringed with dark circles. “She dropped Griffin the other day.”
“What?”
“She’d been drinking, and she picked him up before I could stop her. And then she just sort of lost her grip on him.” Lainey rubbed a hand tiredly across her face. “Luckily, he fell on the sofa, so he wasn’t hurt. But what if she’d dropped him on the kitchen floor?”
“Jesus,” Flaca said, shaking her head. “That could have been bad.”
“No kidding. I have to get him out of there.”
“Have you signed up for the public housing wait list yet?”
Lainey shrugged this off. “No. I don’t want to.”
“You’d rather live with a drunk?”
“No. But I don’t want to live in crack alley, either. I just have to find a job.” Lainey said. But almost instantly, her resolve left her. “God, what am I going to do?”
“You’ll just keep going. What else can you do?”
A rumble of grunts and moans signaled that Griffin’s nap was over. Lainey stood up. “I’ll take him home. Thanks for watching him for me.”
“No problem. He was a doll. He didn’t even poop while he was here.”
“Oh, yeah? I think he just made up for that,” Lainey said. The odor hit her as soon as she walked into the bedroom, and grew stronger the closer she got to the Pack ’n Play. Lainey closed her eyes, trying to summon her strength. It had been in short supply lately. “Come on, big boy. Let’s get you changed.”
Trav left town two weeks later. He called the morning of the move and asked if he could stop by to see Griffin before he left. Lainey was going to tell him to go to hell, but then changed her mind. Maybe if Trav saw what he’d be missing out on, he’d realize he couldn’t just walk out of Griffin’s life. And wasn’t a half-ass father better than no father at all?
But Trav never turned up. Lainey waited around for the better part of the day before finally realizing he was a no-show. She gave up and, cursing Trav every step of the way, wheeled Griffin to the park in his stroller. It was late July and ridiculously hot, and Lainey was out of breath by the time they got to the park.
I’m so out of shape, she thought. A year ago, she could run on the treadmill for an hour. Now walking a half mile winded her. The sleep deprivation wasn’t helping, either.
Lainey collapsed on a bench and pulled the cover on the stroller down to shade Griffin from the sun. Despite the intense heat, there were a bunch of kids at the playground, red-faced and sweaty as they swung on the swings and slid down the slide. Their mothers sat in the few patches of shade, armed with water bottles and bags of pretzels. A father tossed a football to a little boy. Lainey watched them—the easy arc of the ball, the boy’s face lighting with pride as he caught it, his father’s encouraging cheers—and felt a fresh surge of fury at Trav for abandoning Griffin, mixed with bitter sadness that her son would never experience this sort of father-son bonding.
To distract herself, Lainey pulled the photo album out of her diaper bag, and paged through it for about the twentieth time since it had arrived by mail the day before. When Lainey first saw the familiar mailing label on the package—Halloway Photography—she’d hesitated, not sure she wanted to see what was inside. But finally, curiosity overcame her, and she sliced open the seal with a kitchen knife. Inside, she’d found a photo album, the old thirty-five-millimeter camera she’d used while working at the studio, and a note written in India’s scrawling hand:
Lainey,
I started this album for him—I thought you’d want
to finish filling it.
India
Lainey had stared at the note for a long time and then picked up the camera. It had felt familiar and right in her hands. She’d lifted it up and snapped a photo of Griffin, lying on his baby blanket.
Now she paged through the album again, her eyes lingering over the portraits India had taken of her while she was pregnant, and of Griffin in the hospital. There was a photograph of the baby’s hand, the extreme close-up showing off every dimpled knuckle, and another of him in utero, a fuzzy outline taken during her sonogram. The photographs in the album were ordered chronologically, showing the story of Griffin’s journey into the world.
It was the best present Lainey had ever gotten.
Lainey’s cell phone began to trill from the depths of the free diaper bag they’d given her at the hospital. She dug among the spare diapers, burp cloths, spare onesies, and plastic tubs of wipes, all essentials for any foray out into the world, no matter how short, and finally found the phone wedged in the corner of the bag. Lainey didn’t recognize the number of the caller, but hoped it might be someone calling her for a job interview. There was one last place she was waiting to hear from—a spa on Palm Beach that had, Lainey heard, recently lost a nail tech. It was her last shot.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Lainey Walker?”
“Yes, this is Lainey,” Lainey said, trying to sound professional.
“This is Lance Gardam, Streetwise Productions. You attended a casting call back in April for Looking for Mr. Right, our new reality show featuring young women looking for love in Miami.”
It took Lainey a long moment to digest this. She’d never heard anything back from the casting call and had assumed that was the end of it.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she said.
“We’ve had a last-minute cancellation from one of the girls we cast. If you’re still available, we’d like to bring you down for a callback.”
Lainey opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“Hello?” the voice on the phone bleated.
“I’m sorry, but did you just offer me a part on your show?” she asked.
“No, not officially. We’ll have to talk to you, make sure you clear the necessary background checks, et cetera, et cetera. But between you and me, if that all goes well, yeah, you’re pretty much our first pick. How soon can you get here? Filming starts in a week, so we have to get this moving.”
Griffin made a soft mewing sound, distracting Lainey. She glanced into the baby carriage, but he was fast asleep. His long lashes curled against his round pink cheeks, and his rosebud lips were pursed, as though waiting for a kiss.
“I can’t,” she said. The words came out before she’d really had a chance to process it all—what she was being offered, what she’d be giving up if she took it, what she’d be giving up if she didn’t.
“Today’s no good? How about tomorrow?”
“No, you don’t understand…. I can’t come at all. I can’t be on the show,” Lainey said.
There was a pause. “Are you sure?”
Lainey closed her eyes and swallowed hard. All of the fantasies she’d ever had about being on television flooded over her—the money, the clothes, the fame. A life that didn’t revolve around dirty diapers and bottles. Nights spent out partying at clubs, followed by blissfully uninterrupted sleep. Feeling young and free again, rather than like a
n old, wrung-out dishrag.
But then she opened her eyes and looked at her son. He had one tiny fist curled next to his mouth and the other splayed out to one side. He was wearing a onesie with teddy bears on it—a splurge from BabyGap Lainey hadn’t been able to resist. Tiny blue-and-white-striped socks covered his feet. He shifted in his sleep, exhaling a low cooing sound that made Lainey’s heart feel like it was folding over on itself.
“Yes. I’m sure,” Lainey said, and closed her phone.
“You’re in a crap mood tonight,” Candace complained. “You didn’t even thank me for picking up dinner.”
The dinner consisted of fast-food fried chicken, whipped mashed potatoes, and congealed macaroni and cheese.
“Thanks,” Lainey said without enthusiasm. She was still trying to lose the baby weight, so she passed on the potatoes and macaroni, and instead picked at a chicken breast after first peeling off the greasy fried coating.
“You wouldn’t believe the day I had. I had this old woman who came in today to renew her driver’s license who was a real piece of work. First she was pissed because she had to wait in line like everyone else, and wouldn’t shut up about how long the wait was. Then she failed her vision test and accused me of making the letters on the chart fuzzy just so she’d fail. Can you believe that? I was, like, ‘Look, lady, I don’t need this shit. Life is too short.’”
“Did you say that?” Lainey asked, knowing full well her mother had not.
“No. What’s the point? Leopards don’t change their stripes.” Candace stood up, went to the fridge, and pulled out a beer. “Want one?”
“Spots,” Lainey said.
“What?”
“Leopards have spots,” Lainey said. “Not stripes.”
“That’s what I said,” Candace said, rolling her eyes as she popped open the beer can. “Jesus, you’re in a mood.”
Lainey’s head was pounding. It had been ever since the producer had called that afternoon. Whenever she stopped to think about it, a sickening swooping sensation filled her. Was this what the rest of her life would be? Living in a shitty little house, working a crap job, eating greasy drive-thru for dinner? It felt like her future—and Griffin’s—was shrinking with each passing day. When she’d gotten home from the park, the day spa Lainey had been waiting to hear back from had called to tell her that they weren’t hiring. The nail tech hadn’t quit; she’d been laid off.
“Maybe I will have a beer,” Lainey said, thinking that if ever there was a day to suspend her no-drinking policy, this was it. She needed to stop the panicked whirring of her mind, even if it was only temporary. Maybe then she’d be able to come up with another plan.
“You’ll have to get it yourself now. I’m already sitting down,” Candace said, forking rubbery macaroni and cheese into her mouth.
Lainey stood, opened the refrigerator, and stared into it, marveling at how grimy it was. Something smelled vaguely rotten, and a thick, sticky film covered the top glass shelf. Candace had never been much of a housekeeper. Lainey could not remember a time when the floors of the house didn’t feel gritty underfoot, or when there weren’t blobs of toothpaste cemented in the bathroom sink. She thought of Griffin—who was tucked into his crib—growing up in the sort of dirt and chaos that had marked her own childhood. Despair cut through Lainey. She looked down at her hands and realized they were shaking.
Lainey shut the refrigerator door, without taking out a beer, and instead reached for the cupboard where Candace kept the whiskey.
“Are we breaking out the good stuff already?” Candace asked, perking up. “Well, don’t just stand there, girl. Get me a glass, too.”
“Waaaaaaah!”
Lainey jolted awake. The first thing her brain registered was that she had to pee. Badly. And then, that there was something uncomfortable and prickly under her cheek. Lainey opened her eyes—a struggle in itself, as her eyelashes felt like they’d been glued together—and she realized she’d fallen asleep on the brown plaid couch in the living room. Why was she out here? Then she remembered the whiskey from the night before, and her stomach gave a queasy lurch.
Lainey and Candace had moved from the kitchen out to the back deck. There, surrounded by the high-pitched whir of mosquitoes, they’d spent the rest of the evening passing the bottle back and forth. Candace grew gregarious when she drank, and was soon reminiscing about old loves and lost opportunities. The whiskey had the opposite effect on Lainey. She’d gone quietly, mercifully numb.
Lainey now pressed a hand to her forehead, desperately wishing her head would stop spinning and pounding. But, no, she had to get up. Griffin was crying. Lainey forced herself to stand up and walk back to the bedroom they shared before her brain registered that standing was not the best idea. Nausea and dizziness struck her like a one-two punch.
I’m going to be sick, she thought, slumped against the wall.
The pitch of Griffin’s cries rose steadily, his original complaint now compounded by the lack of immediate response. Candace’s room was closer than the baby’s, so Lainey propelled herself toward it.
“Mom?” she said, opening the door and staggering in without knocking. Candace had made it to her bed the night before, although she’d fallen asleep fully dressed and lying facedown on the mauve bedspread. She was snoring softly. Lainey tried again. “Mom! Wake up! I need help.”
Candace didn’t move. Griffin continued to scream. Lainey groaned, and lurched back out of the room and down the hallway. She opened the door to the room she shared with Griffin—it was small, and just barely fit the crib, a small dresser that doubled as a changing table, and the air mattress that Lainey slept on. Griffin was lying on his back in the crib, screaming, his face mottled and his arms thrown out to either side. Lainey started to reach for him, until a wave of nausea hit her anew. This time, she could feel the bile in her stomach rising up, hot and acidic in her stomach.
“Hold on, baby,” she groaned.
She turned and rushed for the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time. Lainey fell to her knees and threw up until her stomach cramped and her throat ached, while Griffin screamed shrilly in the background. When her stomach finally stopped heaving, Lainey slumped forward, more tired than she’d ever been in her life.
I will get through this, she told herself. But at the same time, another thought echoed back: What if I don’t? What if I can’t?
She wiped at her eyes with a wad of toilet paper and then stood on shaky legs. The sound of Griffin’s brittle cries broke her heart even while it shattered her throbbing head. She moved woozily toward the sink so she could rinse her mouth out before going back to him, but stopped dead when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was ashen. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Her hair was flat and greasy. Hot stinging tears suddenly flooded her eyes.
She looked like hell. And, for the first time, when Lainey looked at herself in the mirror, she saw her mother staring back at her.
Eighteen
JEREMY
“What are you doing?” India asked from the doorway of the guesthouse, which was once again serving as my office.
I quickly hit a button so that the Weather Channel’s website was displayed prominently on my computer screen, and spun around in my chair. “What? Oh, nothing, just checking the weather. You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m making BLTs for lunch,” India said. “They’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. Actually, they’re BLTs with avocado. So what would that be? A BALT?”
“A BLAT, I think. Sounds great. Let me just finish up what I’m doing here, and I’ll be in,” I said.
“You have to finish checking the weather?”
I glanced at the computer screen. “I was, um, thinking we could go to the beach later. I was checking to see if it was going to storm.”
“Come in when you’re done.” India headed back to the house. I watched her progress across the backyard and around the pool out my office window, and when I saw the door that separat
ed the kitchen from the pool patio safely close behind her, I turned back to the computer.
I closed the weather website and returned to the online article I had been reading: “International Adoption: A Beginner’s Guide.” It wasn’t that I was hiding my research from India. Not exactly. It was more that I knew she wasn’t in a place yet to hear about it. And while I knew that she might not ever get to that place without some gentle encouragement, I wanted to make sure I gathered all of the pertinent information before I broached the subject with her. And this time, I was going to handle the paperwork, and the grunt work, and the endless calls to the various government bureaucracies. This time, India wouldn’t have to worry about anything other than packing her suitcase when it was time to go pick up our baby. And this time, we would end up with a baby.
I browsed through the article, then clicked over to a few others I’d pulled up before India had come in. The first decision we had to make—and it was a fairly big one—was which country we would adopt from. Did we have strong feelings about the gender of the child? Did we want to adopt a baby who had spent a significant amount of its life in an orphanage, or was it better to find one who had been cared for by foster parents? How far did we want to travel? And for how many weeks?
I took notes and jotted down the titles of some books that other parents who’d been through the ordeal recommended, and then glanced at the clock. Lunchtime. The BLATs were calling. I headed for the kitchen, where I found India frying bacon. Otis sat at her feet, his ears pricked, all of his attention focused in the direction of the frying pan.
“Mmm, bacon,” I said, shutting the back door quickly, before the cold air could escape into the August heat.
“Funny, that’s exactly what Otis said,” India said.
“Ha-ha,” I said.
When You Least Expect It Page 29