Leap of Faith

by Jamie Blair

  I pinch the skin on my forearm to relocate the pain from my chest. A physical pain I can handle, more than the endless urge to lie down and die. It’s times like these, when Addy’s quiet and content, that I need a way to get out of my own head and stop thinking about what I’ve done to Chris.

  For the second time in his life, he’s lost two people in an instant. Just . . . gone. No warning.

  Addy is sitting on my lap, leaning back against me, sucking on her fist. Every now and then she bounces and makes a sound like “uhn.”

  If Hope can’t help us, or doesn’t want to help us, I have to decide if keeping Addy is the best thing to do. There have to be a lot of people looking for babies like her. She could have a perfect home somewhere with a mom and dad who love her, who will put her in a pink room with little white furniture and a dollhouse in the corner.

  That’s what I’ve wanted for her even before she was born. A swing set, a baby pool, a sandbox, a doting mom and dad, and a safe neighborhood to play in.

  I twist the hair on her head around my finger. I can’t give her those things. Not anymore.

  • • •

  I alternate between dozing and crying on the bus ride. There’s an old man in front of us. When we got on, he turned around and said, “I hope that baby doesn’t cry the whole way.” But I’m the one who cries, not Addy.

  The bus stops at the terminal in Columbus, and the old man stands up to get off. He looks over the seat to where I’m sitting, holding Addy. “You have a content baby. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  I roll my eyes. I don’t need this right now.

  “It means you’re a good mom. Not many young mothers are. It’s a big responsibility.” He smiles and steps out into the aisle.

  Whatever. I’m so great at this that I don’t even know where we’re sleeping tonight. But call me Mom of the Year.

  Crazy old man.

  I get us off the bus and onto another, one that will take us to campus. My nerves can’t be more shot than they already are, so I don’t feel anything when I think about seeing Hope. Even though her help is a long shot, she’s my only chance at keeping Addy.

  chapter

  twenty-five

  When I finally find the track, I don’t need to be close to know which one she is. Hope’s long, golden ponytail flies out behind her as she sprints toward the next hurdle. Her long, tan legs whip out—one straight in front, one bent behind—as she leaps over it.

  All of a sudden, I realize I have no business being here. I’m an intruder in Hope’s life now. After practices, she plants her fancy track shoes, paid for with student grant money, at the base of her bed, in her dorm room, where the air is fresh and clean, free of stale cigarette smoke and beer stench.

  My feet freeze to the ground just inside the field. I can’t take one more step.

  She really did get free.

  I twist around, the treads of my sneakers yanking up dirt and grass. This was a mistake. My feet come off the ground and allow me to take a few strides.

  “Faith?” Hope’s voice crashes into me from behind.

  I turn to find her jogging toward me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Her face is flushed, windburned.

  I muster a stunted smile. “I’m not sure. Didn’t know what else to do.” Then the tears start. They stream down like a faucet has been turned on full blast inside my skull.

  She’s a blur, but I feel her squeeze my arm. “Hang on. Stay right here.” Then she leaves me standing there looking like an idiot seventeen-year-old with a baby who’s been kicked in the ass by life. And that’s exactly what I am.

  • • •

  Hope’s dorm room is just how I pictured it, cold from the AC, neat and clean, and smelling of nothing at all.

  I’m instantly jealous. She hands me a bottle of water and plops down on her bed next to me, eyeing Addy. “Why?”

  I lean back against her wall and shrug. “At first, I just wanted to punish Mom. She wouldn’t get the money without the baby. Then I wanted to get Addy out of there so she didn’t end up like us.”

  “Addy? That’s her name?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Something wrong with her name?”

  “No. I guess I just didn’t think that you would name her.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “You didn’t think I’d name a baby I’ve had for almost three months? Good thing you got a track scholarship, brainiac.”

  She shoves my leg. “Shut up.”

  We’re quiet for a minute. Then she says, “Mom doesn’t want her.” It’s not a question. It never has been. “Dave’s gone.”

  “I know.”

  “What are you going to do? Where have you been living all this time?”

  “With friends.”

  “Are you going back?”

  I shake my head. “Can’t.”

  She nods like she’s not surprised to hear I can’t go back, that I screwed it up.

  “You can’t stay here.” She looks around the shoebox-size room she shares with a roommate.

  “No shit.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “Money.” The word feels like poison shooting off my tongue. When you’ve never had it, asking for money is like asking for a person’s soul.

  She stands up and moves across the room.

  Poison.

  “I don’t have any.” She turns to her desk.

  “You have to have something.” I can’t stand pressing her, but I know she got grant money, and if there’s even a little bit left, I could keep Addy for another day or two.

  Hope spins back around. “I’m here on a scholarship and grants. Why would I have money?”

  “Brian does.” The words are out before I have a chance to stop them. Desperation has taken over the filter between my brain and mouth.

  She purses her lips and shakes her head, looking at the ceiling. “I’m supposed to drag him into your mess too, huh?”

  Why can’t she see what even twenty bucks would do for me? “Just forget it.” I stand and start for the door. “We’ll just starve and sleep on the street. Have a nice life. Try not to feel too guilty tonight sleeping in your bed.”

  Her hand slams down on the desk. “Fine! Just wait outside and let me call him. Give me two freakin’ minutes, Faith, okay?”

  I nod and leave her room to wait out in the hallway. I shut the door behind me. It echoes in the empty hall. Nobody’s around. Addy’s heavy in my arm, so I lean against the wall and switch her to the other side.

  Then my breath catches—someone’s strumming a guitar.

  I know with every ounce of my being that I’ll never be able to hear a guitar again without my heart squeezing, threatening to stop.

  Hope doesn’t come out of her room, but fifteen minutes later, Brian shows up and hands me an envelope.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes.

  He pats Addy’s head. “She looks a little like Hope.”

  “Yeah, she does.”

  He knocks on the door. “Hey, it’s me.”

  She opens it. Her face is red and puffy from crying. “I’m sorry I had to ask—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” His hands cup her chin.

  I can still feel Chris’s hands on my face.

  “Did you tell him thank you, at least?” she asks me.

  “She did,” he says.

  “Hope, . . . .” I don’t know what to say to her. “Thanks. We’ll leave you alone.”

  She lets Brian slide past her and inside the room. “Where are you going to go?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  She bites the inside of her cheek. “Stay close. I want to know you’re okay.” Then she lunges for me and wraps her arms around me, squishing Addy between us.

  “I thought you were done with your past . . . with me.”

  She lets me go. “I am done with my past, but you’re my Faithy.” She wipes her eyes, pushes my hair up, and leans in to kiss th
e back of my neck, right on my tattoo—the twin to her own. “Call me and let me know where you are.”

  “Okay.”

  I leave, feeling like Addy and I aren’t completely alone in the world after all.

  • • •

  Brian’s envelope holds five hundred dollars. The first thing I do is hit the McDonald’s right off campus. I haven’t eaten in a day and a half.

  Addy’s propped in a high chair with Ronald McDonald’s face on the back of the seat. I stuffed a blanket around her so she wouldn’t slide down or tip to the side. She’s watching me eat like she’d pounce on my burger if she could.

  “Want a fry?” I hand her one. Screw the books, she can gnaw on a fry for a while. What can it hurt? Maybe we’ll skip the rice cereal and baby food I’m supposed to give her soon and go right to fast food. She seems to like it.

  She’s mine, anyway. I’m making the rules now.

  She coughs and I grab her. She stuffed the entire fry into her mouth. I swipe my finger over her tongue and fish it out. My eyes stay on her face, making sure she doesn’t have a piece of fry stuck in her throat and doesn’t turn blue. Older, more responsible people wouldn’t have done that. She should be with somebody who knows what they’re doing.

  “Is she okay?” I turn around to see the middle-aged woman in the booth behind me watching us. Her husband’s reading the newspaper, oblivious.

  “I think so. Yeah.”

  “Don’t feel bad. I did the same thing when my youngest was about her age. God makes them resilient so they can endure our learning curve.” She laughs. “Both of mine are in college now. Enjoy her. Before you know it, she’ll be out of the house.” She gives Addy a wave and turns back around.

  Learning curve? How can I be sure I’ll come out of the curve? I might crash right into the guardrail with Addy riding shotgun.

  Good thing God makes them resilient. If you say so, lady.

  I give Addy a bottle and change her diaper before we leave. There’s a bus stop right outside. We wait there, and the bus comes within a half hour. I ask the driver to stop at the nearest hotel that won’t cost me a fortune.

  In the last seat on the bus, I sit and break down.

  I can’t do this.

  I don’t know how.

  The next day, we wake in our hotel room and go through our routine: bottle, bath, diaper, fresh clothes. I call Hope and tell her where we are. Then I spend my time trying not to think about the ultimate decision that looms in the corner of the room.

  • • •

  For no reason at all, I flip through the phone book to the government agencies.

  Social Services.

  I stare at the number until it turns to nothing but dots in front of my eyes.

  Then I slam the phone book shut and drop my head down on top of it.

  Addy’s on the floor rolling around, trying to lift her head and chest off the floor. She slides her knees underneath her and shoves, then her arms give out and she falls on her chest. Her face shows determination in her creased brow and focused eyes. She won’t give up.

  Maybe she doesn’t need to be resilient. She’s tough. Maybe even tough enough to survive me.

  But she can’t survive starvation, and I don’t have much money. When what Brian gave me is gone, we’re screwed. I can’t ask him again—there’s no way.

  My decision will be made for me.

  I sit up and clutch the phone book to my chest and close my eyes.

  This is going to hurt.

  chapter

  twenty-six

  Mrs. Wilkins is our social worker. “You’re living here in this room?” she asks, with her creased, plum-colored suit and black flats. Her hair is short and sticks to her head.

  “Yes.” I look around. “Not permanently or anything.” What’s her deal? It’s clean. The maid comes every day. It’s an assload better than where I grew up.

  Her eyes stay on Addy for a few minutes. She doesn’t say anything, just watches her as she rolls around again. After two days, she hasn’t scooted an inch, but she’s still not giving up.

  “She seems well-adjusted.”

  Is she waiting for me to respond or something? “Uh, thanks?”

  “Has she been to all of her well visits? Are her shots up to date?”

  “No.” I bite my lips.

  She jots down something in her notebook, probably that I suck.

  “Has she had any shots at all?”

  I shrug. “Just what they gave her in the hospital.”

  “Do you have her birth certificate here with you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we’ll need that to proceed. She can’t be placed without it.”

  “What if I can’t get it?”

  “The county keeps a record. You’ll just have to stop and get a copy.”

  “What if my name’s not on her birth certificate?” I cringe, waiting for her to pull her cell phone out and call 911 to report a kidnapping. “She’s my mom’s baby—my sister. My mom doesn’t want her.”

  Her eyebrows shoot to the ceiling and she blinks double time. “How old are you?”

  I lie—fast—without hesitation. “Nineteen.” She’s not taking Addy this second, like I know she will if she finds out I’m underage.

  “And you’re her legal guardian?”

  “Not yet. This was pretty sudden.”

  She closes her notebook. “Okay. When you have legal guardianship, we can proceed. Until then, try to get her health record up to date.”

  She shakes my hand, and I walk her to the door. “I’ll check back with you,” she says. I watch her walk down the sidewalk, her shoes clicking against the concrete.

  “I can’t even give you away,” I say to Addy. I sigh. “Legal guardianship. Perfect.”

  There’s no way I’m getting Mom involved with Addy again. I want her just where she is—out of Addy’s life. It’s shocking that she hasn’t thought of selling Addy to some black-market adoption gang.

  Maybe I’ll just put an ad in the paper and find a good home for Addy myself. Maybe they won’t care if she doesn’t come with all the right paperwork. Maybe they’ll even let me visit her.

  I shudder with the realization that I’m thinking like a pet owner with a litter of puppies to give away.

  I stride over to Addy and scoop her up. I love the weight of her in my arms, and the smell of her new-baby skin, even her spitty fingers poking my cheeks.

  Who will I be without her?

  Who will I have?

  Nobody.

  It can’t be about me, though. I have to put her first. Living in a hotel room for a few more days and then who knows where—probably on the street—isn’t how I want her to be raised.

  I took her in the first place so she could have a better life. We just got lucky. We found Ivy.

  We found Chris.

  But that’s over for us, and I don’t have anything to offer her anymore. Just love, and you can’t eat love for dinner. Ketchup packets aren’t so great either.

  The answer floods my brain like a flame flickering to life. I know exactly how to do this without the paperwork and red tape, even if I don’t want to, even if it’s going to kill me to hand her over to someone else.

  We walk to the library, where I know there will be a computer I can use. Inside, it smells like dusty old books. It’s one of my favorite smells. It’s comforting, which is what I need right now.

  With Addy on my lap, I type a classified to post online:

  Homeless baby needs adoptive parents. Baby left at church. If you can give her a good home, please call.

  After I type the phone number to our hotel room, I post it as fast as I can before I have time to think about it.

  chapter

  twenty-seven

  The next day, I start to panic. The phone hasn’t rung.

  I don’t really want it to.

  But it has to. I’m out of money. I would’ve never guessed diapers and formula were so expensive and that babies needed so much of
both. I try to eat minimally, spending only a buck or two on fast food.

  Addy’s lying on the floor watching Sesame Street and being still for once.

  Eating a cheeseburger every other day isn’t giving me enough energy to keep up with her. I’m light-headed and ready to fall over at any second. All I want is a nap. Or even a shower, but I can’t watch her and take a shower at the same time, so I have to wait until she finally goes to sleep. Now that she’s rolling around, I have to worry all night long that she’s going to wake up and fall off the bed.

  My mom was right, being a mom kind of does suck sometimes.

  Just as Addy goes to reach for the lamp cord beside the bed, the phone rings. I’m sure it’s not as loud as it seems, but my ears buzz as the sound reverberates inside them.

  I lunge off the bed and grab Addy.

  This is it.

  I can feel it.

  “Hello?” I hold my breath.

  “Hello. My wife and I saw the ad online about the baby. She’s on the line too—my wife. We’d like to talk to you and maybe set up a time to meet.”

  I talk to Mr. and Mrs. Schroeder for an hour. He’s a teacher. She’s a lawyer. They live close, in a first-rate school district, in a big house, in a nice neighborhood. They attend church, have tried any and all methods of getting pregnant, and have recently begun looking into adoption, which is how they ended up finding my ad from an Internet search.

  We arrange a meeting the next day at noon, at a restaurant around the corner. If it ends up that they’re not serial killers in disguise, I’ll go to their house and they’ll show me Addy’s room. They’ve had a nursery ready for three years.

  Just add baby.

  Just add Add.

  Just delete me.

  • • •

  I think I’ve washed my hair five times, but my mind isn’t in the shower with me, it’s cycling through my conversation with the Schroeders over and over. How can I hand her over tomorrow to people I don’t even know?

  My hand grips the faucet and turns off the water. I’m on autopilot. Feet step out. Hand grabs towel. This is how I’ll live for the rest of my life.