Lost in the Reflecting Pool

by Diane Pomerantz

  In the hospital’s attempt to check everything, they ordered an angiogram. In the end, it was not so bad, but beforehand I was terrified. They gave me something to sleep that night, but I awoke during the night. I knew that before I had fallen asleep there had been a cup and a water jug on the bedside table—I was certain of it. The bedside table was now empty. I felt as if I was going crazy. My heart started racing. I started to sweat. The walls were closing in. I called Charles. “You’ve got to come. There are strange things happening here.”

  He then called the nurses’ station to tell them I was having a panic attack.

  I begged him to be with me for the procedure. He did not come, and only said later that he had known my parents would be there.

  Damn it, I needed him, but he had no clue about being there for anyone. He had no clue about love or compassion; it was as if there was nothing inside him. He was an empty shell. I had only a glimpse of it then, but not in the way I would come to see him later. Back then, it emerged from the depths of my consciousness only in times of anger. At those times, I shouted at him, shaking with rage, “You weren’t there for me!” But, for the most part, I pushed my feelings away.

  Despite Charles’s lapses, I thought he was committed and loyal. I believed we were right for each other. I refused to see the subtle and not-so-subtle ways in which he assigned to me the responsibility for everything that went wrong. He felt terribly injured by my criticism of him for his lack of support. I didn’t realize the degree to which he needed total adoration. His sense of inadequacy was disguised under layers of a brittle veneer. I didn’t fathom how fragile he really was.

  Beware, for if you drink from the River Lethe and you forget, you will not know what it is you need to remember.

  Chapter Five

  THERE WERE BABIES EVERYWHERE, AND I FELT AS IF I were the only woman who didn’t have one. I was obsessed. All around me were big, round, breathing bellies and nursing newborns—everything that I longed for. Everyone else on the street, in the malls, at work seemed to have succeeded where I had failed. I couldn’t turn around without feeling the longing and the loss.

  One evening in early May, Charles and I were sitting outside at Germano’s, listening to a jazz quartet, having dinner with our old friend Jordan. As we sipped cappuccino and shared tiramisu and cannoli, we spoke about our fertility struggles.

  “Have you thought about adoption?” Jordan asked.

  “We’ve been talking about it, but we’ve not done anything yet,” I said, glancing at Charles as I spoke.

  Jordan went on, “Do you know Ani and Eliot Horn? He’s an obstetrician?”

  “Sure, I’ve known them for years. Ani introduced us,” Charles said.

  “Why are you asking?” I said. “We haven’t seen them in a long time.”

  “Did you know they adopted a baby about two years ago?” Jordan said.

  “Really?” My heart beat faster.

  “It’s such a great story.” Jordan’s voice became more hushed as he started to tell us what had happened.

  “A young woman from a prominent Boston family was pregnant, and she was traveling by Amtrak to stay with her grandmother in Florida until the baby was born. She had already decided that she was going to give the baby up for adoption. Somewhere around Wilmington, Delaware, she went into labor, and by the time the train reached Havre de Grace, Maryland, they had to stop the train and get her to a hospital. There was a choice of hospitals the ambulance could have taken her to, but they took her to Franklin Square. The doc who was on call knew Eliot and Ani wanted to adopt a baby, and so, first thing after the delivery, he called them.

  “‘Do you want a baby?’ he asked when Ani answered the phone. The rest is history . . . Amtrak Amy is what they called her in the hospital. I think her name is really Bella.”

  “Wow,” Charles said. “What a great story.”

  I sat silently, smiling, colorful balloons floating through my mind, my eyes filling.

  As we drove home that night, Charles and I began a discussion that lasted into the early-morning hours.

  “I’ve had enough of all this fertility stuff, Charles. I just want to be a mother. Whether or not I have a successful pregnancy, let’s start the process for adoption.”

  “You know that’s okay with me.” Charles pulled me close on the couch, and we nestled into an embrace.

  A long-needed peacefulness came with that decision to stop the fertility treatments, to not go ahead with in-vitro fertilization, and to focus on adoption as a way to have a family.

  The next morning, the pungent aroma of coffee wafted gently through the house. That invigorating odor lifted the foggy veil of sleep from my eyes and drew me to the kitchen, where Charles was making omelets, bacon, and biscuits for breakfast.

  “Wow, you’ve been busy. Smells delicious in here. What can I do to help?” I saw that he had set the table.

  “Why don’t you sit and keep me company? I’m almost finished.”

  The sunshine streamed in through the open windows, the fresh scent of spring filled the house, and the world was a full array of color. Charles filled our plates, and suddenly I was overcome with a sensation of deep, primal gladness. I walked over to him, startling him, took the plates from his hands to the table, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pressed my lips hard and passionately on his.

  “I think I’ll call Eliot, start the ball rolling. . . .” Charles said, smiling, as we finished cleaning up the breakfast dishes. I sat on the couch, looking out over the green pastures, as Charles made the call. I listened to the beginning chitchat of old friends who hadn’t spoken in a while, and I heard Charles invite them over the following weekend.

  “We saw Jordan last night, and he told us that you’ve added to your family. That’s quite a story. Congratulations!” Their conversation continued, and Charles told Eliot about our decision to pursue adoption. I could tell, too, that he would be happy to put out the word to his OB colleagues to be on the lookout for any Amtrak babies that might come through.

  Then I heard Charles say, “Really? That’s fantastic! When is she due? We’ll have lots to talk about when you guys come over next week. Tell Ani congratulations, and we’ll see you Saturday.”

  When Charles hung up, he had a big grin on his face. “Guess what? Ani is pregnant. She did IVF, and it worked.”

  I couldn’t help it—I dissolved into tears. It was 1986, and I didn’t know anyone who had been successful with IVF. My resolve not to do it seemed so easy, yet this news simply washed it away. I still wanted a pregnancy. I wanted all the things that would take away any feelings I had of being different, of not fitting in.

  “I’m happy for them; that’s not why I’m crying, Charles.” I rushed into the comfort of his arms. By the end of the afternoon, we had decided that we would go ahead with our plans to pursue adoption and we would also attempt IVF.

  In May 1986, we began the adoption process. As with everything I have ever been determined to do, I threw myself into this quest. I read all there was to read about adoption, particularly private adoption. As a child psychologist, I already knew quite a bit. I found an attorney who handled private adoptions. I found a support group in Washington, and every other Sunday Charles and I drove to DC and met with six other couples to talk about our progress and problems with the process. We put in a separate phone line, and we advertised from Maine to the Mississippi in small-town newspapers.

  The calls began soon after that, and our support group was a haven. The members provided some reality testing for the weird and crazy phone calls that we received.

  In June, there were two responses from young women in Louisiana, and we decided to meet them. We flew to Shreveport, rented a car, and made the drive to a trailer park on the outskirts of town. There we met Maddie, a lovely twenty-four-year-old woman, petite, with dark, curly hair, who looked very much like me. She was divorced and had two young sons. Maddie had just ended a relationship with the father of the child she was carrying. She knew she
couldn’t manage a third child. Her ex-boyfriend had agreed to meet with us, too.

  “There’s just one thing I have to tell you,” she said, as we drove to the coffee shop where we would meet Adam. “Adam has had serious epilepsy since childhood, and it’s been hard to control. Because of the epilepsy, he has had severe learning problems. I want you to know that up front because I think it’s important.”

  She’s such a sweet girl, I thought, but my stomach sank and I could taste the catfish we had for lunch rise into my throat.

  “I’m not sure how significant that is, but it is important that we know, and we appreciate your honesty with us.” Charles smiled softly as he spoke to her.

  We met Adam, who was a nice young man. He shared that he was not ready to settle down, although he loved Maddie. We talked for an hour, and then we drove Maddie home. We let her know that we liked her but that we had already planned to meet with another person and would get back to her within twenty-four hours. We hugged and parted ways, and as the light reflected off her silver trailer, I could feel the metal’s heat radiating through me. This way of becoming a family was so much more complicated than it looked in picture books. So many life stories were intertwined. I felt a need to tread very carefully.

  We made our way to Baton Rouge, where we met Gina. Although she was also twenty-four, she was nothing like Maddie. She was a tall, slim redhead, chatty, with frenetic movements. Her shifting and indirect gaze left me feeling uneasy. Her speech was quick and pressured, and she didn’t stay on any one topic for more than thirty seconds. It was not easy to feel connected to her. Her eyes were glazed, and although she denied any substance abuse problems, neither Charles nor I was so sure. But we wanted a baby and didn’t want to lose an opportunity, so we asked her to call our attorney so that he could speak with her if she was interested. Charles and I both preferred Maddie, but we were ambivalent. We wanted to consult with experts before we decided.

  “If we gave birth to a baby who had a medical problem, we would deal with it, right?” I said rhetorically, and then continued, “And if we wound up adopting a baby and there was a problem, the baby would be ours and we would deal with it, right? So is it bad that I don’t want to go into something knowing that there is a real probability that our child would have significant medical problems? Is that so bad?”

  Charles cocked his head, half-smiled, and gave me one of those looks that said, Do you really need an answer for that?

  I knew I didn’t. I just felt guilty about it.

  When we returned home, I spoke with several pediatric neurologists, who each gave me the same answer: that there was a good chance that Maddie’s baby would have some difficulties, so we had to decide going in that we could do it—that we wanted to do it.

  With that, I realized I couldn’t do it. I wanted the fantasy of having a normal baby, at least until the baby was born.

  I called Maddie, and we cried together. I then gave her the contact information for our attorney. I knew he would have lots of couples with whom she could work. Happily, that eventually happened.

  We had a few weeks of telephone contact with Gina, as did our attorney.

  “Jim, do you think we should go with her? Di and I are not sure she’s stable.” Charles asked one day when we were in our lawyer’s office.

  “Just keep it going as an option; it will become clear pretty soon whether or not it will work.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Charles said. I didn’t disagree.

  There were a few more conversations with Gina, and then, suddenly, they stopped. No one could get in touch with her. One week passed, then another and then another. Then she called, upbeat and giddy, as if we had spoken only the day before

  “Hi, Di. How have you guys been?”

  “Hi, it’s good to hear from you. We were starting to get worried about you,” I said, trying to sound friendly, caring, and nonchalant, not pissed.

  “Well, I got in a little trouble, but the good news is that now you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Oh? Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s a long story, but my friend and I got busted for dealing.”

  I didn’t want to know what she had been dealing.

  “And I’m gonna be in the slammer for the rest of my pregnancy. So you know I’ll be clean.” She let out an ear-piercing screech.

  In the long silence that followed, I felt myself restrain every muscle in my body. You stupid ingrate, I thought. I wanted to jump through the telephone, scream, and shake her for being so cavalier about this baby she was carrying, this baby I so longed to have. I took a breath and did what I was good at doing. I became a therapist.

  “Well, Gina, for the baby’s sake and your sake, I’m glad that you’re going to be clean during the rest of your pregnancy, but I don’t think this is going to work out for us.”

  “Why not?” She was stunned.

  “Gina, we didn’t know you were using drugs. You said you weren’t, but obviously you were. That wasn’t the truth. There’s no way I can trust you, and I know Charles will feel the same way. So we’re not going to continue with plans to adopt the baby. It would have been great if things could have been different, but I’m sorry. I hope things work out for you. I really do.”

  “You fuckin’ bitch.” I flinched as the sound of the phone slammed down in my ear.

  I left a message for Charles, and then I called our attorney, Jim.

  It was good that we had our group, and a place to cry and laugh about these difficult experiences that all of us were having. And we carried on.

  There were times when Charles and I were talking to four pregnant women at a time, only to discover that three of the four were scamming us or playing some kind of sick joke. There was Katie from Michigan. There were a few things that sounded odd when she spoke about her husband, but it wasn’t until we got a call from him that it became clear. I answered the adoption line late one night and heard a male voice.

  “Hello, is this Diane?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “My name is Israel, and I believe that you’ve been speaking to my wife, Katie, about adopting our baby.”

  “Yes, I have. . . .” Charles walked into the room as I was speaking.

  “I need to tell you something. I’m really sorry about this. We have one daughter, who is three years old, and we are not putting her up for adoption. My wife is not pregnant. I don’t know why Katie did this; I just found out about it. There is no baby. I am very sorry.”

  “I appreciate your call. Thank you,” I said, and I robotically placed the phone down. I turned to Charles and said, “There was no baby, Katie was playing us.”

  Charles’s face turned bright red. I had never seen him that angry. He picked up the phone and redialed the number. Katie must have picked up the phone, because Charles railed into her.

  “How dare you do that to my wife? What kind of sick person are you to play with people that way?”

  Other candidates tried to extract money from us. After a while, we recognized the signs of a scam and quickly ended our interactions with these women.

  One day in late September, as the days grew shorter and the air grew cooler, I saw the flashing light of the answering machine. There was warmth in the husky, female voice that left a tentative message asking for a return call. Janice, a woman in her late twenties, was divorced and had an eight-year-old son. She was seven and a half months pregnant and in a complicated relationship. They couldn’t afford another child, so they had decided to give the baby up for adoption.

  “My mother is opposed to adoption because of that Joel Steinberg case that’s been in the news.” Janice sighed. “She’s worried that every lawyer is a scumbag who will make an illegal deal with parents and then abuse the baby. But you don’t sound like those kind of people. I want to meet you as soon as possible, because my due date is getting close.”

  She was anxious to meet us and our attorney, and we wanted to meet her, too. We bought her a
ticket to fly to Washington, DC and waited for her at the gate. She looked just as she’d described herself; we knew her the moment we saw her, not only by her round belly but also by her long, curly auburn hair, the freckles across her nose, and her dark green eyes. She was pretty in a very down-to-earth way, and we both liked her immediately.

  Charles drove to a diner close to our lawyer’s office for breakfast. If our meeting went well and felt right, we could adjourn to Jim’s office. We all talked openly about our lives and backgrounds, and we even talked about how it might be hard for Janice to give up the baby.

  “I’m sure this is the right thing to do, and so is Ray. I’m sure it’s a girl,” she added.

  There was silence, and then Charles asked, “Does that make a difference for you in terms of whether you give up the baby?”

  “No. I know it’s a girl, but if it was a boy, then the baby could sleep in the same room with my son, and we wouldn’t have to move.”

  Charles and I looked at each other and knew it could go either way, especially since Janice’s mother did not support her giving up the baby. Family support was, we were learning, crucial in a successful private adoption.

  We went from breakfast to introduce Janice to our attorney. He thought that this one was a good possibility. About ten days later, her boyfriend was in town on business, and he called and asked if we’d like to meet for dinner. It went well and further reassured us that the process was moving forward. But I couldn’t forget that Janice had said, “If it’s a boy, the two boys could share a room . . . but I know it’s a girl.”