Butterflies in May

by Karen Hart

  At three in the morning, Erin comes in again to check me. She pulls on rubber gloves and asks how I’m doing. Dad excuses himself and leaves the room. “Six centimeters, and you’re 90 percent effaced. Do you want something for the pain?” she asks.

  “Yes.” We’ve already discussed what type of painkiller to use. Erin leaves and comes back right away. She’s holding something in her hands—the painkiller, I hope. I watch as she injects the medication into the IV in my arm, then I close my eyes. The pain is bad, but it’s not as unbearable as I thought it might be—not yet, anyway.

  The next hour goes by slowly, but the painkiller takes the edge off right away. Finally, I feel myself relax between contractions. Dad, stroking my head, sits behind me and tells me the story about the night I was born. The contractions are much stronger now. I kind of groan, but I’m not screaming like pregnant women always do on TV.

  “You’re doing great,” Dad says. He wipes my forehead with a moist washcloth.

  Dr. Bishop comes in, wearing green scrubs and a mask over her face. After examining me, she says, “It won’t be long now.”

  I feel another contraction beginning. With my mom, I inhale and exhale slowly. My legs are beginning to tremble, and I feel really scared, but I won’t let myself go there. When Erin checks me again, I’m at ten centimeters.

  All of a sudden, the door to my room swishes open, and two nurses roll in a cart draped with a sheet. They uncover it, and I see all sorts of instruments. I feel another pang of pain, and suddenly the urge to push is strong. The doctor takes over the coaching. “Bare down and pushhhh.”

  I push through each contraction, with Dr. Bishop, Erin, and my mom urging me to push an extra second or two each time.

  “You’re doing great,” says the doctor. “Okay, push, again, a little more, a little more, a little more. Keep pushing.”

  “You’re doing great. Just great,” Erin says. “Okay, are you ready again? C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. You’re almost there.”

  I push and rest, push and rest. Sweat is trickling down my neck, and just when I’m sure I can’t handle the pain one more minute, the doctor says, “Okay, Ali, one more good push should do it.” I grit my teeth and push as hard as I can, and finally, I feel the baby slide out.

  “It’s a boy,” says the doctor. It’s 5:06 in the morning. She holds the baby up, then snips the cord. His head is full of dark hair, and his body is reddish-blue and covered in some slimy mucus, which the nurse wipes away with a cloth. He makes tiny noises, his legs and arms flailing, and then he lets out a loud, lusty howl and doesn’t stop. The nurse weighs him and puts a band around his ankle while I watch from the bed.

  I thought I would feel something right away—a rush of love or a strong connection. But I don’t. I feel removed from the experience, as if I’m watching it happen to someone else.

  “Does he have a name yet?” Dr. Bishop asks.

  “Jonah,” I say, thinking back to Christmas when Matt and I had discussed it.

  “That’s a great name,” says one of the nurses. “And what’s his middle name?”

  It was going to be Matthew, but that was when Matt and I were planning to get married, so now I don’t know. I shake my head. Mom glances at me, then back at the nurse. “Can we wait on a middle name?” she asks.

  “Sure,” says the nurse. She writes “Jonah Parker” on a card with a black-felt marker and tapes it to the bassinet they wheeled in for the baby.

  While Dr. Bishop stitches me up, I stare at the ceiling. Dad, saying something about calling Aunt Laura, slips out of the room. Mom is holding the baby now, and tears are streaming down her face.

  When the doctor finishes, Mom sets the baby in the crook of my arm. He’s wrapped tightly in a blanket and has a soft blue cap on his head. I still feel shaky, but I hold onto him carefully. He’s so fragile, and he smells so new.

  “Hello,” I whisper, and he opens his eyes and looks at me as if he somehow recognizes me. He has dark hair, like Matt’s, and perfect tiny red lips.

  Erin squeezes my arm and flashes a big smile. “Good job, Mom. We’ll leave you alone for a while.”

  Mom. . . Mom. . . I’m a mother now. I thought that when I saw my baby or held him in my arms, I would feel different, but I don’t. I’m just Allison Marie Parker. . . exhausted, shaky, and a little scared. I don’t feel like anyone’s mother.

  Dr. Bishop and the nurses leave the room, but Mom stays with me.

  “He looks like Matt,” I say. He really does. . . his lips. . . his hair. . . the shape of his nose. But then I lift one tiny hand and examine his fingers, and they are shaped more like mine. I still can’t believe he’s really here. This is my son. I am his mother. Me. . . a mother?

  Later that morning, I wash my hair and put on a blue nightshirt I brought from home. All day, I’m sure Matt will visit us. He may hate me, but he’d want to see his baby. I’m certain he’ll come by, but he never shows up, and it’s hard—really hard. The maternity ward at St. Mary’s is filled with noises. There’s a chorus of babies crying, the chuckles of new fathers and grandparents, and the intermittent ping of a nurse’s call bell.

  Monica stops by and brings me a veggie sandwich from Java House and a silver toe ring with a butterfly on it. “I thought you might like it, now that you can see your feet again,” she jokes.

  “Thanks,” I say, setting it aside for later. I don’t feel like trying it on now.

  A nurse rolls in the bassinet. The baby is awake, and Monica asks if she can hold him. She’s surprisingly good with babies. He snuggles into her chest and falls right to sleep.

  “He looks like Matt, doesn’t he?” I say.

  “Maybe a little,” she says. Matt is not exactly her favorite person these days. When I ask whether she thinks Matt will stop by, Monica shrugs.

  Later, a nurse takes the baby back to the nursery so a pediatrician can examine him. Mom and Dad go home to shower, promising to come back later. Then Monica leaves, and for the first time all day, I’m alone. I start wondering whether I’m really ready to be a mother, when Andy knocks on the door.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.” Andy’s the last person I was expecting, but I’m glad he’s here.

  “I hope it’s okay I’m here. . . I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Monica told me the news,” he says. He gives me a toy bear with a balloon that says “Congratulations!” tied to a paw.

  Andy stays for an hour. He brings me a copy of the last issue of The Voice, with my last column, “Inside Out.” I almost ask him about Matt, but I stop myself. Then he asks if he can see the baby, so we walk down to the nursery together and watch Jonah from the window.

  After a while, he turns to me. “Are you keeping him?” he asks.

  I try to choke out a “yes,” but I can’t, so I nod. Andy walks me back to my room. Before leaving, he starts to say something, but stops himself mid-sentence. Instead, he leans down and hugs me tightly.

  An hour later, someone announces over the intercom that visiting hours have ended, and I know that Matt was serious when he said he wanted no part of this.

  My mother stays the night with me, sleeping in the green recliner in the room, but it takes me a long time to fall asleep. I feel really sore, and all I can think about is whether I’m doing the right thing keeping Jonah.

  When I finally fall asleep, I have this dream about Jonah. There he is, standing in a sunny field, and he’s older, maybe three or four, when he starts to run away from me. He’s happy and laughing. He turns to me and says, “It’s okay, Mommy. I’ll always love you.” All of a sudden, he becomes a dove and soars higher and higher into the sky until he disappears. Then, I’m alone in the field, surrounded by butterflies fluttering all around me. . . beautiful butterflies in colors I’ve never seen before.

  I can’t get back to sleep after that. In the morning, when the light turns yellow and pale, Mom gets up and goes for coffee. As soon as she leaves, a nurse brings the baby to me and asks if I’m nursing. “Yes,�
�� I say. I’ve read how good breastfeeding is for the baby, and I want to give him the best start possible. The nurse takes a few moments to show me how again and then leaves.

  It’s the first time I’m alone with him. I feel awkward at first, trying to nurse him, but it’s like he knows exactly what to do. He latches on to my nipple and sucks for ten minutes. It hurts a little, but I don’t mind.

  He falls asleep before he finishes, and I hold him in my arms and watch him. He starts to feel heavy, and my arms hurt a little, but I don’t care. He’s so sweet. . . so beautiful. . . but am I ready to be his mother? I was sure I could do this, with or without Matt, but I’m not so sure any more. I touch his silky hair, and his sweet baby smells shoot straight to my heart. He’s still sleeping, but his lips curl into a smile, and I wonder what he’s dreaming about. Something in my heart opens—a place I never knew was there before. I lean down and kiss him.

  “I love you,” I whisper, tears sliding down my cheeks.

  Suddenly, all I can think about is the Gardners and their pretty white house, surrounded with flowers. It’s so easy to picture him there on the front lawn, lying on a blanket, surrounded by a mother and father who love him. All this time, I’ve been thinking about how I could never give up my baby—about how awful it would make me feel. But maybe it doesn’t matter how I feel. When I look at Jonah, the one thing I know for sure is that I want only what’s best for him. And I can’t give him that right now.

  Later that morning, when I tell my parents what I’ve decided, it’s my mother who asks if I’m “really certain” that’s what I want. And she doesn’t ask me once, but three times. My dad says, “Ali, I know this isn’t a decision you made lightly. I think you’re doing the right thing for Jonah, and I’m proud of you.”

  My mom waits until “a reasonable hour” to call the Gardners. She’s worried about disturbing them too early in the morning, but we both know they wouldn’t mind. At 9:00, she makes the call. I can hear her discussing the details with them on her cell phone outside my room, while a nurse checks my pulse and blood pressure. Dad is holding Jonah as if he were a china doll, studying his face and his hands. Before the nurse leaves, she tells me I should try breastfeeding him again, and when Dad brings him to me, he wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. I’ve never seen my dad cry before.

  My mother is still in the hallway, talking to the Gardners. “Yes,” she says, “Ali is doing quite well, all things considered. We’re all so happy for you. . . Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow. . . Bye.”

  For the rest of the day, we take turns holding Jonah, commenting on how tiny and perfect he is. My mother keeps kissing the top of his head and wiping away her tears. My father sits in the chair, holding Jonah, and remarks about the size of his hands. For the first time, I consider how hard this is for them, too. My parents come up with all sorts of excuses to leave me and Jonah alone in the room. They go out for lunch, to get coffee, and to buy film at the gift shop. I’m glad they do. A nurse comes in every once in a while to take my blood pressure, but the rest of the time I hold him, committing every part of him to memory—the curve of his cheek, his soft downy hair, and the sounds he makes while he sleeps.

  I wish I could tell Jonah why I have to let him go. I wish he were old enough to understand.

  Later that afternoon, Mom tells me she’s going home to shower and change, and she promises to come back tonight. Dad says he needs to get some paperwork done at home, but he’ll be back first thing tomorrow.

  Before they go, I ask Mom to bring me the pink photo box that’s on my desk and to pick up some stationery at the store.

  “Do you have anything special in mind?” she asks.

  “Something with butterflies,” I say, looking at Jonah and remembering my dream.

  That evening, I’m coming out of the hospital bathroom, and Mom is sitting in the recliner holding Jonah, when a nurse comes to take him back to the nursery for the night.

  I look at my mom, and she looks at me. “No,” we both say at exactly the same time. Then my mother says, “Thanks, anyway, but we’d rather keep Jonah with us tonight.”

  I nurse Jonah again, and he falls asleep right away. My mother takes him for me, holds him in her arms, and watches him sleep. Then I pull out the stationery she’d brought me. The lavender paper has a pale green border and colorful butterflies in the background. I write “Dear Jonah,” and then I’m at a complete loss for words. This is the most important letter I’ll ever write, but I don’t know where to begin. I wasn’t aware I’d said that aloud, but then my mother says, “Start at the beginning.”

  So I write about the day I met Matt in the cafeteria. I write about how we fell in love, how Matt told me he loved me that day at Willow Lake, and how I had said it back. I tell Jonah that even though our love wasn’t meant to last, the feelings Matt and I had for each other were real. I tell him about meeting Ellen and Tom that day in the diner and how much they wanted him from the start. I tell him that Matt knew, even before I did, that he would be better off with Ellen and Tom. I tell him that giving him up is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I know there’s so much I’ll be missing—his first tooth, first words, first steps. I tell him that if I were older, things would be different, but I’m still growing up and have a lot to figure out. I don’t have a lot to offer him right now. I tell Jonah I’ll never forget him, and I’ll always love him, and that I hope someday we’ll meet again.

  When I started this letter, I thought all along that I’d close it with “Love, Mom.” But by the time I finish, it occurs to me that, while I’m the mother who brought him into the world, Ellen and Tom will be his real parents. So I write “xoxoxo” and sign it “Love, Ali” in my big loopy handwriting. Then, I look for the photo of Matt and me in the photo box.

  Monica took it last summer, that day at the lake when Matt told me he loved me and I said it back. In the picture, Matt and I are sitting in the sand, holding hands, smiling wide, and I remember thinking that we’d be together forever. It’s my favorite picture of the two of us, but I want Jonah to have it. I fold the letter with the photo tucked inside, and place it carefully in the envelope. I write “Jonah” on the front and draw a heart next to his name.

  The next morning, I’m in the chair next to the window, holding Jonah in my arms, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I’m about to tell my parents that I want to call the whole thing off when Ellen and Tom walk quietly into the room holding hands. As soon as they see Jonah, Ellen covers her heart with her hand and says, “Oh, Ali. . . he’s beautiful.” Then she starts crying, Tom pulls her close, and they both look at Jonah, blinking back tears. I kiss the top of Jonah’s head and give him a light squeeze before handing him over to Ellen. Jonah stretches and yawns and snuggles into the curve of Ellen’s arm, looking like he’s belonged there all along.

  Everything happens quickly after that. My father looks over the papers that the Gardners’ attorney had drawn up, giving them guardianship of Jonah for the time being, and I sign them with a blue ballpoint pen. My father explains that I’ll sign the official adoption papers later. Then the Gardners and my parents leave the room for a few minutes so I can say my final goodbye to Jonah. I hold him close, breathing in his sweet baby smells, and capture a memory to keep forever. When I kiss him goodbye, he opens his eyes and looks right at me, and I know everything is going to be all right. The Gardners will give him more than I ever could.

  Before we leave, I give the letter to Ellen and ask if she’ll give it to Jonah some day. “Of course,” she says, her eyes filling again. She starts to say something else, but her voice breaks and she shakes her head. Then Tom gives me a hug and says, “Thank you, Ali. . . for everything.” His voice is thick with emotion, and he looks like he wants to say something more, but then he shakes his head and gives me a light squeeze.

  We leave, and it’s over, just like that. I didn’t think giving up my baby would be so simple. . . so simple, and yet so hard. My father leaves first to bring the car ar
ound to the front entrance. I’m sitting in a wheelchair because the attendant insists I do, and Mom is beside me, holding my overnight bag. I’m thinking about how empty I feel leaving the hospital without my baby, when I hear a voice call “Ali.” I look up, and Ellen is running down the hall towards me. She stoops down next to me and takes my hand in both of hers. Her eyes are red and watery, but I’ve never seen Ellen look happier. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

  Three days later, on a cloudy Friday morning, I sign the official adoption papers at the court house in Lakeview. My parents offered to go with me, but I wanted to do this alone. My father has hired an attorney, and she meets me outside the court house. Her name is Jane Carmen, and she reminds me a little of Aunt Laura. Before we go inside the judge’s chamber, she tells me what’s going to happen and goes over some of the forms with me.

  The judge is an older man with gray hair and large, round glasses that make him look owlish. He asks if I’m on any drugs—legal or otherwise—that might cloud my thinking. He asks if anyone is paying me or forcing me to make this decision. I say “no” each time. Then he asks for identification, so I show him my driver’s license. Just before I sign the papers, he leans forward in his chair and asks, “Are you very sure? Because once you sign this document, you can’t change your mind. Your rights will be terminated.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  Afterward, the judge smiles at me with sympathetic eyes. Then he clears his throat and says, “Allison, you may feel badly now about placing your child with an adoptive family. But what you have done here today shows you’re putting your baby’s future first, and for that I commend you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, but his words don’t make me feel any better.

  Jane gives me a copy of the papers I’ve just signed and a different set of papers for Matt to sign. Then we say goodbye on the court house steps. On the way to the parking lot, it starts to rain. I barely make it to my mom’s car before it starts pouring. I quickly get in and then put the key in the ignition, but I don’t start the car. I sit there, with the rain pelting against the windshield, and cry and cry. . .