“We met late,” Chris finally says. “But being more mature, we knew exactly what we wanted.”
Lisa touches his hand for effect, but there is no way these two are getting it on. She has fag hag written all over her. “We’re ready to be parents now more than ever before in our lives.”
If they start off cool, though, they eventually warm up, as if it takes them awhile to remember I have their fate in my hands.
They laugh at their spotless house, tell me they’re more than ready for the drooling mess of a kid. They say they’ve researched daycares and found the best. They assure me they’re prepared for any kind of presence I’d like in the child’s life.
Back in the van, I ask Faye, “What’s your bet? Do you think they have no idea they’re both gay or are they just BFFs playing house for convenience?”
She stares back at me with those oh-so-wise, oh-so-black eyes. “You seem to be enjoying this.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I’m just trying to lighten things up. Everyone’s so tense.”
Denise is already pulling away from the curb, but she slams on the brakes. She glares back at me like I’ve just blown a fart and added to the stink of her beater. “This is a serious thing, Bev.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I say. “It’s my kid we’re talking about.”
“Forget it,” Faye says. She sounds like her mother. “Let’s just go.”
We drive without a word until Faye breaks the silence. “When’s the next interrogation?”
The next day, Faye comes along again and we meet Charlie and Sid, who I also thought were gay when I first saw their file. But “Charlie” is actually short for Charlene, who turns out to be one very hot grade-five teacher. She looks like she is probably half black, with the kind of smooth latte skin and firm ass that little boys have their first wet dreams about. Sid isn’t half bad either. He teaches phys ed and probably whitens his teeth. They have a brand-new house just outside the city that doesn’t even have a lawn yet. Sid apologizes for the mucky slush on our way in, and I can tell he will do it again on our way out.
There are store-bought cookies and little wrapped candies on the coffee table. We go through the usual routine of questions.
“I guess my only concern,” I say, “is that there’s no reason you two might not have a baby of your own. Is that right?”
Charlie looks at Sid like she’s begging him to field this one.
“Well, that’s true,” Sid says. “So far, no one has told us there’s a significant medical reason why we’re not getting pregnant. But we have a lot of love to give.”
After she’s had some time to think, Charlie jumps in. “We work with kids who aren’t our own every day. We know how easy it is to find yourself loving a child if your heart is open. I’m sure we would love our adopted child just as easily and just as much as any possible natural offspring.”
She says this in a way that makes you want to believe it.
Back in the van, Denise mutters that her new suede boots are caked with muck. Faye does up her seat belt and closes her eyes.
“I liked them,” I say, “but they don’t feel exactly right.”
“Listen, honey,” Denise says, trying so hard to be motherly I can tell she’s ready to lose it. “Maybe we need to go through your options again. You need to feel sure.”
“I’m sure,” I say, “just not about them.”
Faye’s eyes remain closed. “Why?”
I remember a game she and I played as kids. We would answer a question with another question until we couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Do you ever wish you weren’t an only child?” I ask her.
Faye opens her eyes and appears to think, as if she’s never considered this before. “Why?”
“Can you just answer the question, please?”
“No,” she says, “not really,” and I have my answer.
That night, I dream that I wake up and Mannie and Faye are standing over me.
“Give us the baby,” Faye says.
“Forget it,” I say. The Little Alien kicks so hard that you can see his foot bulge through my skin.
“See?” Mannie says. “He wants to leave.” He’s hiding something behind his back, which could very well be a knife.
“Get out of here,” I say. “It’s mine.”
Mannie leans in close, looking at me the same way he looks when he’s at the wheel of one of his SUVs—like he might lose control any second. “Give it,” he says.
I lick my lips slowly, to show I’m not afraid. “You two wouldn’t even know each other without me.”
They both slink away, and I see Mannie is clutching a little hippo stuffie.
All weekend, I can’t seem to get that stupid little hippo, soft and adorable and the color of storm clouds, out of my mind.
In the van on Monday, I read out the highlights of Will and Helen’s file for Faye. Denise isn’t entirely sure where she’s going and keeps mumbling to herself.
“He’s the assistant deputy minister for Culture, Heritage and Citizenship,” I read. “She runs her own graphic design studio called Red Eye Inc. So she works from home, blah, blah, blah, more about their work. They met at a wedding and got married in their mid-thirties. He says she fills his day with energy and curiosity and fiercely loyal love. She says he makes her laugh and wears his heart on his sleeve. Reason for adoption? She had early menopause and so they have no chance of getting pregnant. They are ready to have an ongoing relationship with the child’s biological family but would like to be able to determine when and how communication or contact occurs, based on the evolving best interests of the child.”
“Jubilee,” Faye pipes up. “I think you want to take Jubilee.”
Denise brakes too hard but manages to get into the turning lane. We get lost for a while, driving around another neighborhood full of old houses and even older trees, except it’s called Wildwood instead of River Heights. There are fewer shops and cafés around, as if you’re in the country in the city. By the time we pull up to Will and Helen’s, we’re a good twenty minutes late.
Their house is just across the street from the river, pale yellow stucco with a red door that’s rounded on the top. Along the sidewalk, little green tips are peeking up from the yellow grass. I try to remember which flowers bloom so early.
“Look,” Faye says. “Tulips.”
Both Will and Helen greet us at the door. She’s tall, with long frizzy hair and just a bit of lipstick. He’s taller, but his posture is terrible. The profile said he runs daily, but I bet he was always picked last in gym class.
Inside, there are paintings everywhere: on the walls, on the fireplace mantel, in the bookshelves. The coffee table is covered with books that look read and not just for show. There are bakery cinnamon buns and jam-filled cookies. Denise has coffee, Faye has bottled water, and I have cranberry juice. When it’s time to get down to business, I try to think of a question and come up blank.
I point at the guitar propped up by the couch. “Do you play?”
Helen opens her eyes wide in pretend horror. “Oh, he tries. He threatened to put on a performance for you to show we’re musical.”
He smiles and takes off his glasses, the kind with no frames. He squeezes Helen’s knee but looks at me. “She gently talked me out of it. You might say I’m a beginner.”
“Faye plays the cello,” I say.
They both turn to Faye at the same moment. “Yeah?” Helen says. “It’s such a beautiful instrument.”
Faye manages her heart-not-really-in-it smile. She is trying to sit with her feet tucked under her butt in a wooden rocking chair, and it’s not working very well. “I used to,” she says. “I mean, I’m taking a break.”
Will leans back and crosses his arms, like he approves of this news. “Well, that’s the great thing. Instruments are just like languages. You can always pick them up again later on.”
I sip my juice. Nothing in the room matches, but it all seems to go together
. Shabby chic, Lara would call it. Above the love seat where they’re sitting, there is a huge oil painting that is nothing but blue-green swirls. If you look at it long enough, it starts to become the sea. The Little Alien delivers one good kick, then flutters a little near my belly button, like it’s playing a drum roll with its tiny hands.
“Bev?” Denise asks. She doesn’t seem impatient, just confused.
I push a book aside to make room for my juice glass.
“I’m done,” I say. “This feels right.”
Will and Helen look at each other, uncomfortable for the first time. They think I’m joking.
“Really,” I say. “You two. I pick you guys.”
Denise clears her throat and pulls at her sleeves. “Okay then. Okay. You’re ready to move forward, Bev?”
I tap the file on my lap. “I’ve read up. This is it. Let’s get things rolling.”
None of them are quite sure what to do. Suddenly it’s like I’m the only adult in the room. I have to ask Denise to schedule a time to sign papers, have to ask Will and Helen where they put our coats. Helen manages to recover just before we leave and wraps up cinnamon buns to go.
Back in the van, Denise starts folding up the map. Faye and I leave the front passenger seat empty and sit behind Denise like she’s driving us to kindergarten. Faye can’t seem to get her seat belt done up. “What do you think?” I ask her.
She keeps jamming away, but still no telltale click. “You’ve obviously made up your mind.”
“Okay,” I say, “but I want to know what you think.”
She throws her head back and talks to the roof of the car. “We barely talked to them. They seemed good. They seemed happy and successful. You don’t need me here to tell you that.”
Denise pulls away with the map still unfolded beside her and Faye still unclicked.
“Do you ever wish you could meet your birth mother?” I ask.
Faye is still staring at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter. My parents flew halfway across the world to avoid the issue. There’s no point thinking about it.”
Denise turns at the first stop sign and slows down, like she might get lost again. “I’m sure that’s not the only reason they chose China,” she says.
“But would you want to meet her if you could?” I ask.
“No,” Faye says, almost a whisper. “I don’t know. There’s no point thinking about it.”
Good ol’ rational Faye. Deep down, she knows she has no reason to be pissed off—she came with me of her own free will. Because when it comes down to it, even when we were kids I never had to do much more than twist her rubber arm.
Mannie is waiting when I get home. “So?”
“It’s done,” I say. “They live in Wildwood.”
“What do you mean, it’s done?”
I close my eyes and realize I’m dizzy with hunger. “Come on, Mannie, don’t play dumb. I’m getting the papers. I like the vibe I get from them.”
Mannie rests his hand on the bump, and for once the Little Alien cooperates. It doesn’t move—in fact, it hasn’t moved in a few hours.
“What about me?” he asks. “Don’t I get a say?”
This is it. There’s no more skirting around things, no more letting little Mannie think for one more minute that he is going to make me an honest woman with a homestead in the bush. It’s time to break through that thick skull and let the bony bits fall where they may.
“This isn’t about you, Mannie,” I say. “It’s about what’s best for our kid.”
He shakes his head like a three-year-old who’s refusing to go to bed. “I should have a say.”
I take his hand and put it against my cheek the way he likes. “Don’t you trust me? You say you love me, but don’t you trust me?”
He keeps shaking his head. “I don’t care who they are. My kid belongs with me.”
“Mannie, that’s not going to happen,” I say. “I’m not going through all this so my kid can grow up in this dump.”
It’s hard to tell if I’m getting through, but I keep on.
“I have final say because I haven’t slept for more than three hours straight in months. I think I’m getting hemorrhoids. You want to be there in the delivery room? Fifty bucks you’ll faint.”
He pulls his hand away. “Why didn’t you just get rid of him then?”
“You don’t know it’s a he.”
“Whatever,” he says. “You know what I mean. He. She. It. That’s what you said. You said you were going to get an abortion.”
My stomach growls and Mannie’s hand returns to the bump. I have nothing left to say. I’m out of answers. I’m suddenly so tired I can hardly sit up.
“Bev,” he says. “I’ve never known anyone like you before. You’re not afraid of anything, and you don’t take any shit. Betty didn’t take any shit either. And she wasn’t afraid, even when she was dying.”
Please, Mannie, I think. Please stop talking.
“She would’ve liked you,” he says.
Please, Mannie, oh please.
“If you love me,” I say, “you’ll help me.”
“You are such a bitch,” he says and walks out the door as if he has somewhere to go.
After Mannie leaves, my stomach rumbles like a semitrailer full of marbles. I lie down and drift in and out of sleep, and I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or remembering.
I’m back in the house we lived in before Montrose, the little rental by the overpass. I’m not in school yet, and in the morning Lara takes me to the public pool up the street and teaches me to float. At lunchtime we take a cab to the restaurant, and Ray introduces us as “his girls.” I eat garlic toast and the bartender makes me a drink with a cherry. I feel so tired, I lie down in a booth and fall asleep. The next thing I know, Ray is carrying me in from his car, cradling my cheek in his hand.
“What the hell is the matter with her?” he asks.
Lara is there whenever I wake up. She looks terrible—unwashed hair, lips that disappear into her face. She makes me drink water. Sometimes Ray comes in, and they sit together in the half-light, one person with two heads.
Then I’m sitting propped up by pillows, and Ray is carrying a TV into my room. Lara watches movies with me, anything I want, the one about the mermaid who gives up her voice to get the prince, over and over. She teaches me how to play Go Fish and lets me win. Ray doesn’t let me win. He brings me popcorn that Lara won’t let me eat.
He brings a unicorn the size of a big dog. I name him Horny, and they laugh and laugh and I don’t know why.
My phone rings, and now I know it isn’t a dream, but a memory. It really happened, before Mannie ever loved me, before Faye ever came over, when Ray still thought he was going to franchise the restaurant, go national, maybe even the States, and Lara still believed in till death do you part.
“Christ,” Ray said afterward. “Hepatitis. It was that pool. It’s a goddamn germ factory. ”
SEVEN
Later in the week, Denise phones to say Helen would like to help with anything she can. “You’re not obliged to involve her at this point. It’s up to you.” Mannie glares, as if my phone call is messing with his concentration. I’m starting to think he’s two different people. When he’s on a roll, there’s no stopping him—you can see it in his hands, the way they clench and relax, clench and relax. He’s full of crazy plans, ready to try anything, ready to take our lives in those stronger-than-they-look fists. But when he crashes, he crashes. Since he stopped talking to me, he’s spent all his time getting high and pretending to race little pretend cars. He keeps the volume up and crashes so much, I can’t believe I ever got into a car with him.
“What kind of help?” I ask.
“Well, there’s a range of things,” Denise says. “Like your next OBGYN appointment is tomorrow, right? She could take you if you want.”
So the next morning, Helen picks me up in her silver hybrid. “Do you live on your own?” she asks.
I left Mannie snoring on the f
uton and waited downstairs at the curb. If Helen’s freaked out by the seedy downtown apartment, she doesn’t show it.
“No,” I say. “It’s my boyfriend’s place.”
She takes a breath, like she wishes she smoked so she could pause for a puff.
I roll down the window a bit. It really smells like a Winnipeg spring now, that mix of wet grit and snow mold and dog shit. Mannie’s cologne, scrambled eggs, nail polish—they all make me want to stop breathing these days, but the smell of April is okay, that messy, sweet stench of everything waking up.
At the doctor’s office, we wait more than half an hour in a jam-packed row of crappy chairs. When we’re finally called in, she grips her magazine like it’s a bible that will somehow tell her what to do.
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask.
I change into the hideous blue paper gown while she waits outside. As the nurse weighs me, Helen pretends to read a poster about hypnobirthing.
The nurse is obviously off the boat from somewhere like Poland. She has a gold tooth and is always yelling at people over the phone.
“One houndred fifty-fife,” she shouts at me. “Fife pounds seence last time.”
I wave Helen over and whisper, “They make the gowns this color so we look like whales.”
She laughs and seems to relax a little. “You look great.”
Dr. Kohut introduces himself to Helen in a way that makes me think Denise must’ve got to him first. He seems to know exactly why Helen’s here before we fill him in and eagerly pats the examining table, like he’s calling a dog. “Well, let’s get you up here, Bev, and see how that baby’s doing.”
He spreads the ice-cold jelly over my stomach and roams around with the wand until we hear the heartbeat. It’s loud and fast, a steady hip-hop rhythm that fills the room. At the first appointment, back when I still fit into regular jeans, he said, “Just think: that same heart will beat for the rest of your baby’s life.” I wonder how many times he’s said that in that same calm, confident way.
He leaves the wand there forever this time, and we’re surrounded by the thumpa-thumpa-thumpa-thump, a tiny rave for three, until finally he wipes the goo off and starts to poke around.
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