Baby Girl

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “Oh, you must,” she urged. “It’s dandelion tea, which is wonderful for renewing the spirit and relaxing the soul.”

  Before I could refuse she pulled two mugs from the credenza behind her desk, snapped on the electric water pot and began filling two infusers. We talked as she went about the task.

  “I know this is an overwhelming decision,” she said, “but rest assured, we will only do what is in your best interest. Nothing is carved in stone. If you change your mind and decide to keep the baby, you will have that prerogative.”

  “I won’t,” I said wistfully. Then I told her about Ryan and how he felt we had to get ourselves established before we could get married and start a family. I repeated all the reasons he’d given me: we were too young, we were just starting our careers, we had plans that didn’t include a baby, we were building for the future.

  When the tea was ready, Melanie handed me a mug and gave a non-judgmental smile.

  “Let’s talk about the type of family you’d like your child to have,” she said.

  We sat there for almost two hours talking about everything and nothing. Sitting across the desk from Melanie was like sitting at the lunch table with Nicole. It was a shared conversation that slid back and forth easily. When we finished the first cup of tea she brewed a second, then pushed aside a pile of papers and set a plate of Stella D’oro cookies on the desk.

  She asked if I smoked, drank, did drugs or had a family history of addiction. I answered no to all the questions but mentioned Mama’s love for coffee.

  “Coffee has a lot of caffeine, but it’s not considered an addiction,” she said with a smile. “Personally I find tea a lot more relaxing. Especially dandelion tea.”

  I had to agree with her. Although I’d walked in with a knot of nervousness stuck in my chest, I felt better than I had in weeks. I can’t say if it was the tea or the soothing sound of Melanie’s voice, but I had begun to see a faint glow of something positive.

  Before the afternoon was out, I’d described what I thought would be the perfect family for my baby. I wanted a Christian family, a stay-at-home mom with some college so she could help with homework and a dad who was patient and kind, a man who didn’t travel for work and would be at home to spend evenings with his family.

  “Tall,” I said, “with brown hair and blue eyes…” As I continued I realized I was describing my daddy.

  I had painted a picture of what I thought was the perfect family, but Melanie didn’t laugh at all the small nuances I’d tucked in. She simply said to give her a few days, and she’d send over some binders for me to review. When we finished talking she came around the desk and gave me a warm hug.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’re going to get this right.”

  I thanked her and started for the door; then at the last moment I turned back.

  “That tea was so soothing,” I said. “What kind was it?”

  “Dandelion tea,” she replied. “It comes from a charming little apothecary on the far side of Burnsville.”

  “That’s fairly close to where we live. What’s the name of the shop?”

  “I don’t know that it actually has a name,” Melanie said, a twinkle in her eye. “It’s just a little apothecary in the front of the Memory House Bed and Breakfast on Haber Street.”

  “I’ll look for it and stop in,” I said.

  “If you do, please tell Ophelia Brown I send my love. She’s such a darling.”

  Memory House

  After my meeting with Melanie I took the long way home and drove past the apothecary. It was after six so my intent was to drive by, make note of where it was and then come back when I had more time.

  I almost missed the sign because it was shadowed by a huge weeping willow. Behind a low-hanging branch I spotted the glint of what was once bright gold lettering and slowed the car.

  Memory House Bed and Breakfast it read. There was no mention of the apothecary.

  My curiosity got the better of me, and I turned into the driveway. As I came closer to the house I could see gold lettering on the front window: Apothecary. Inside the light was on, and a woman stood behind the counter.

  Being I’m already here… I thought and pushed the gearshift into Park.

  I stepped onto the porch, rapped the brass knocker and called out, “Are you open?”

  “Yes,” a voice called back. “Come on in.”

  I twisted the knob and stepped into what looked like the center hallway of someone’s home. There was the scent of baby powder in the air.

  “Over here,” the voice said; then a silver-haired woman poked her head out of the door on the right-hand side. “Did you need something from the apothecary?”

  I nodded then asked, “Are you Ophelia Browne?”

  “I surely am,” she answered.

  “Melanie Dodd said to give you her love.”

  She smiled, and I could see a violet sparkle in her soft grey eyes.

  “Are you a friend of Melanie’s?” she asked.

  Since this afternoon was the first time we’d met, I wasn’t sure whether Melanie considered me a friend or not.

  “Sort of,” I answered. “I’m working with her.”

  “Well, then,” Ophelia said with a laugh, “I bet you’re here for dandelion tea.”

  “Yes, but how did you—”

  “Melanie sends a lot of her prospective mothers here,” she replied. “Dandelion tea has a relaxing effect that helps wannabe moms stay calm while they wait for Melanie to find them a baby.”

  Today I could have cried a dozen different times, but I’d held back the tears. This time it was impossible. I felt the heat of that first teardrop rolling down the side of my cheek.

  “I’m not waiting for a baby,” I stammered, “I’m giving mine away.”

  Ophelia Brown opened her arms and I fell into them, sobbing as if my heart would break. I told her things I hadn’t told anyone else. Not Ryan. Not Mama. Not even Nicole. She listened as I poured out the story of how I was such a terrible mother and hadn’t fought hard enough to keep my baby.

  “Ryan and I lead such a selfish life,” I said through my sobs. “Instead of loving this baby, he bought a boat!”

  Ophelia gave a muffled chuckle. “But that’s him, not you.”

  “I want those things too…” My words trailed off because I knew it wasn’t the whole truth. Yes, I wanted those things, but if Ryan had agreed to keeping the baby I would have been deliriously happy with just having a family. The thought of swimming naked in a fancy pool paled in comparison to that of holding our baby to my breast.

  Ophelia took my hand in hers and said, “Actually what you’re doing is extremely unselfish. You’re giving your baby a chance at a happy home and a good future.”

  “You really believe that’s true?” I asked.

  “I know it is. I’ve met a number of Melanie’s clients and can tell you most of those women pray long and hard that one day she’ll find a baby for them.”

  We talked for a long while, and even though I knew Ryan was going to be annoyed about dinner being so late I didn’t rush out. Listening to Ophelia tell of the joy I would give someone else gave me a bittersweet sort of happiness.

  When the sky turned dark and I turned to leave, Ophelia followed me to the door. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I know you can’t see it now, Cheryl, but I can, and I promise you one day you’ll have a house full of little ones. You’ll be happier than you ever dreamed possible.”

  As I backed out of the driveway I saw Ophelia standing beneath the porch light, waving goodbye. It’s not goodbye, I thought. Although this was the first time I’d met this strange and wonderful woman, I knew somehow it wouldn’t be the last.

  ~ ~ ~

  That night I told Ryan I hadn’t gone through with the abortion.

  “I just can’t do it,” I said. “I’m going to have the baby and give it up for adoption—”

  “If this is some kind of game you’re playing, count me out. I’ve al
ready told you, I can’t deal with us having a baby right now.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Don’t think I’m changing my mind. Maybe in the future, once we’re established.”

  God, how I’d come to hate that word. Established. It reminded me of a business too big to care about its customers. A business with “Established in 1910” written under the name. I had no idea when the apothecary was established, but it didn’t matter. The important thing was that Ophelia Browne cared about her customers.

  “I’ve already spoken to an adoption agency,” I said icily.

  “Good,” he said then gave a crooked half-smile, popped open another Budweiser and headed for the living room.

  Five days later Melanie sent over the binders she’d promised. There were four of them, each one representing a family who wanted a child. I set them aside, thinking after dinner Ryan and I would sit together and scour through the details.

  Knowing how he felt about not keeping the baby, I thought he’d be anxious to help find a family. He came home in a bad mood because one of the workers failed to show up that day and he’d had to fill in behind the counter.

  I waited until after dinner. By then he’d had two beers and was leaning back watching the Baltimore Orioles get killed by the Yankees. I plopped down on the sofa beside him.

  “How’s the game going?” I asked.

  He groaned. “Terrible. Bernie Williams just hit another one out of the park.”

  “Melanie sent over four binders for us to look at—”

  Without looking away from the television screen he asked, “Who’s Melanie?”

  “Melanie Dodd. The woman from the adoption agency.”

  “Oh.”

  “These books are profiles of families who’d like to adopt our baby.”

  We sat for five minutes with me watching him and him watching the TV.

  “I thought maybe you’d like to go through them with me,” I finally said.

  He shook his head. “You do it; I wanna see this game.”

  “I could wait until later—”

  “Nah, that’s okay. You go ahead. Whatever you decide is fine by me.”

  I can’t say whether Ryan saw the tears in my eyes, but if he did he never mentioned it. I picked up the stack of binders and carried them to the bedroom by myself.

  That night I sat on the bed and went through every page of all four binders. I’m certain any one of those couples would have made wonderful parents, but something about Dean and LeAnn Stuart drew me in. Dean looked a bit like Daddy, younger and taller, but with that same crinkly smile. LeAnn was everything I wanted to be. She taught Sunday school to first grade kids, and the binder included a picture of her standing with a group of ten students. I noticed how LeAnn had her arm wrapped around a little blonde girl who was squished up against her leg. In her letter she wrote, “One of my greatest disappointments in life has been that I have been unable to bear a child.”

  After I had gone through all of the binders I turned back to the one about the Stuarts. Dean was a graduate of Duke. He worked with the Federal Reserve Bank of Richmond. LeAnn was an only child. She worked as a dental hygienist but planned to quit and be a stay-at-home mom if they were fortunate enough to find a baby to adopt. As I reread her biography, I noticed something else: she had studied at Bay River Junior College, the same school I’d planned on attending.

  Their house was a mid-sized split level in Lawton, a town 74 miles south of Burnsville. There were photographs of the house and a floor plan showing the baby’s room just steps from the master bedroom.

  I reread each of their letters a third and then fourth time.

  “It makes no difference whether the baby is a boy or girl,” Dean wrote, “we would be equally happy with either one.”

  LeAnn promised that if they were fortunate enough to be given a baby, she would love and cherish the child for as long as she lived.

  “Fortunate enough to be given a baby…” That phrase appeared in several different places, and I could almost hear LeAnn’s voice speaking the words.

  The next morning I called Melanie and said I’d like to meet the Stuarts.

  That Friday we met at the Magic Mug, a coffee shop in downtown Wyattsville. Melanie and the Stuarts were already seated in a booth when I arrived.

  Melanie spotted me and waved. As I walked toward the back, Dean slid from the booth and stood.

  He reached out and took my hand in his. “Thank you so much for considering us. LeAnn and I are both thrilled at the prospect.”

  I couldn’t help but notice how he was dressed: white shirt, midnight blue pinstriped suit and red tie. His shoes looked as if they’d just been polished. It’s funny how a small thing like that becomes so important, but it does. Seeing him dressed that way made me feel he cared enough to be at his best. That was precisely the kind of daddy I wanted for my baby.

  LeAnn was just as I imagined. Soft-spoken, with a smile you could feel as much as see.

  Melanie did the introductions; then I slid in beside her. Dean sat next to LeAnn.

  “We want to thank yo—”

  “I’m glad you could—”

  My words and LeAnn’s overlapped one another. We both stopped, gave a nervous twitter and each deferred to the other.

  I laughed. “You first.”

  She told me about the church they belonged to and how there were oodles of children in the neighborhood. I liked that LeAnn had blue eyes, the same as me. When she smiled I could tell by the lines at the corners of her eyes she was a person who smiled a lot.

  Mama hardly ever smiled. She had dark brown eyes and a scowl that seemed to grow more solemn every year. I got my blue eyes from Daddy.

  I sat there listening to LeAnn talk about what a good life my baby would have, but all the while I was wondering if the baby would have blue eyes like me.

  Before lunch was over, I’d made my decision.

  The Nineteenth Week

  Looking back I know that was the year my relationship with Ryan changed. We became two separate and very different people with only the plans we’d made tying us together. He was now district manager for nine stores, so he left the house early and got home late. When we were together we talked about jobs and ways to grow our bank account. We seldom made love and never spoke of the baby.

  LeAnn Stuart was the person I’d call when I had an urge to talk about this tiny life growing inside of me. She was interested in every detail. She’d ask if I’d felt the baby move. Was my nausea getting better? Was there anything I needed? Twice she sent over a basket filled with fresh fruit, nuts, granola and jars of honey. And one Saturday she drove all the way over to Burnsville to bring me a book called What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I noticed the spine of the book had already been cracked.

  “Did you read this?” I asked.

  She gave a sheepish nod. “I wanted to feel like I was a part of your pregnancy.”

  Since Ryan quite obviously didn’t want to be, I welcomed the thought. I hugged her affectionately and invited her in. He was working that Saturday, so we sat with our cups of dandelion tea for almost an hour.

  “I’ve begun walking three miles a day,” I said.

  “That’s wonderful,” she replied. “Walking is good for expectant mothers. It helps to avoid preeclampsia and…”

  As she rattled on I knew she had not only read the book, she’d studied it.

  The maternal feeling that had settled in my heart superseded everything else. It fostered a spirit of love I wanted to share with the world. I began thinking about Mama and wondering if she’d had this same feeling when she was carrying me. In the years I’d been gone we’d spoken six, maybe seven times. I’d given her my telephone number, but she never called.

  As much as I enjoyed talking with LeAnn, she hadn’t gone through this and I wanted to talk with someone who had, someone who could understand the thrill of feeling a tiny baby twist and turn inside your stomach.

  One afternoon I was driving home f
rom Wyattsville I thought about Mama and decided to call her when I got home.

  “It’s been a long time since we last talked,” I said, then told her about having the baby.

  She groaned. “Lord God, Cheryl, Aren’t you ever gonna get any sense?”

  I didn’t want to talk about the right or wrong of us not being married or the misery of knowing I would one day have to give this baby away. I only wanted to talk about what I was experiencing. There was dead silence on her end as I gushed over my feelings for the baby.

  “I’m exercising and eating right because I love this little baby and want the best for it,” I said. “Didn’t you feel that way when you were carrying me, Mama?”

  “Hardly,” she replied. “You were a problem from day one. I was sick the entire time, and all I remember is nine months of puking my guts out.”

  No matter what I said, Mama came back with a negative retort. When I spoke about the joy of knowing the baby had grown ears and fingernails, she talked about the constant pain in her back. When I told her how I sang and talked to the baby, she claimed that was nothing but damn foolishness. Finally I told her I had to get going, and we said goodbye. The minute we hung up I scratched a line through Mama’s number in our address book. It was a small act of rebellion but one she deserved.

  I’d spent the first seventeen years of my life in that house and knew the number by heart. Sooner or later I would rewrite the number on a new line but not now. Not while I wanted to enjoy the sweetness of loving this baby.

  That night I told Ryan I’d called Mama.

  He rolled his eyes and said nothing. This had become our way of life. We simply didn’t talk about these things. Although by now the rise of my stomach was obvious, he never acknowledged it. During the months of pregnancy I had a swell of raw emotions I wanted to share, but Ryan was not willing to listen. To him this was simply a time to be tolerated. Another four months until we could go back to the life we’d been living. Another four months until we could pretend it never happened.