The Day We Met

by Dusti Bowling

  “Lenna, why don’t you come by one day this week after school?” he said. “I’d like to do a little catch-up on what’s been going on this year.”

  “I don’t think… I’m just… I have a lot of work to do this week. I really don’t think I can.”

  His smile faded. “Maybe you should rearrange your schedule.”

  I nodded. “I’ll try. I’ll definitely try.”

  He studied my face, making me feel like I was under a microscope and all my flaws, all my sins, were being uncovered. I smiled nervously and ran off under the pretense of trying to find Will, who hadn’t shown up yet. Instead, I wound my way through the ever-increasingly crowded sanctuary until I got to the exit doors. I pushed my way out into the icy air.

  I stood outside the doors awhile, watching my breath puff out in rapid bursts of steam. After a couple of minutes, the bursts of steam came slower and slower until my heart finally stopped racing and my hands stopped shaking. I wiped my eyes and readied myself to reenter the gym. I turned around and was startled to see someone sitting on the bench next to the doors.

  “Lenna,” Will said, a confused look on his face.

  My stomach balled up. “Why didn’t you let me know you were out here?”

  He shook his head like he didn’t know what to make of the situation. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  “I’m not crying.” I felt angry even though I didn’t want to be. “And I wish you had said something rather than spy on me.” I immediately regretted saying that. This wasn’t the best way to make amends with him. I wanted to say sorry, but I felt like my stomach was in my throat, choking me.

  Will stood up and walked inside without saying another word. I wanted to run after him, to make him come back, but my legs wouldn’t let me. So I just stood there, emotionally exhausted and alone. I wanted desperately to leave, but Heather was my ride home. I only had two choices: stay outside in the cold for four hours or brave the auction and the possibility of having more confrontations with people. I decided to go back inside rather than freeze me and my baby to death.

  ~ ~ ~

  “So, how was the auction?” my mom asked the next morning, putting my bowl of oatmeal and several different vitamins in front of me.

  I stared at the colorful pile, already gagging at the thought of swallowing them. “I can’t take those, mom. They make me gag.”

  “Well, then just take the prenatal one.” She separated a brown pill from the pile and pushed it in front of me. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What?”

  “How was the auction?”

  I took a bite of my oatmeal and nodded. “Yeah, it was good.”

  “Did you get to spend some quality time with Heather?”

  “A little bit. She was pretty busy all night, but we ate some leftover pizza after it was all over and got a minute to talk.”

  “Did you tell her about the pregnancy?”

  I shook my head, cramming another bite of oatmeal in my mouth.

  “I guess it probably wasn’t the right time.” She ran her hand over my hair. “But you better tell her soon before your belly blows up.” She held her hands out in front of her, making a ridiculously giant belly shape with them.

  “I’m sure I won’t get that big.” Despite the ridiculous size of my mom’s imaginary belly, I couldn’t help but feel slightly panicked. “I mean, it’s not like I’m carrying tentuplets or something.”

  She shrugged. “For all we know, there could be a dozen babies growing in there—dozentuplets.” She giggled softly to herself. Unbeknownst to her, I was actually picturing a dozen babies growing in me. My head spun. She must have noticed because she said, “Oh sweetie! I’m just being silly. Nobody in our family has ever even had twins.” She wrapped her arms around me. “I’m sure there’s just one perfect little baby growing in there, floating around in a sea of Lenna fluid.”

  “Mom.” I turned to face her. “That’s really gross. Please don’t ever say the word ‘fluid’ to me while I’m eating.”

  She walked over to the sink and filled the oatmeal pot with water, still giggling at her own silliness. “So,” she scrubbed the pot, putting her whole body into the task, “did you get to talk to Will last night?”

  I sighed, smacking the surface of my oatmeal with my spoon. “No, not really.”

  “Why not?”

  I smacked my oatmeal again, and a piece flew up into my hair. “He was busy.” I pulled the oatmeal out of my hair, leaving a big messy streak down several strands.

  “Did he say hi to you or anything at all?”

  “Yeah. Sort of.” The truth was that after our exchange outside, he had ignored me the rest of the night. He was in charge of collecting the money for the auctioned items, and every time I got even remotely close to him, he acted as busy as possible. So I decided just to leave him alone. Since the youth group hadn’t been expecting me, I didn’t really have a job to do. I spent most of the night just wandering around, asking guests if they needed help with anything. I didn’t want to be totally useless.

  By about nine o’clock, I found myself sitting at a table alone while the last vestiges of people finished paying for their items and pizza dinners. At one point, I glanced over at Will and caught him looking at me, but as soon as we made eye contact, he turned his head to talk to someone next to him, probably hoping I hadn’t caught him. Once everyone finished paying, Will left, and after all the guests had gone, Heather came over to my table with a box full of individual slices of pizza—a couple pepperoni, one cheese, a few deluxe. I had half of the cheese slice while she finished off the pepperoni. Then we helped clean up the mess and left.

  “What do you mean sort of?” my mom asked. “Didn’t he talk to you at all?”

  “No.” I yawned. “Not really, I guess.”

  “Hm. I wonder why he’s being so cold to you?”

  I shook my head, pushing my oatmeal away from me. “I told you, mom. It’s complicated.”

  Chapter 7

  My mom had scheduled both our initial meeting with the adoption facilitator and my first appointment with the obstetrician for the day before Christmas Eve. This way I would only have to miss one day of school, and we figured I wouldn’t be missing too many important things as everyone was preparing for winter break.

  It took me well over an hour to figure out what to wear to the adoption meeting. I didn’t have a nice dress that would be warm enough, and I didn’t want to wear jeans. I eventually decided on a pair of gray pants with a black turtleneck. I looked at my outfit in my full-length mirror, pondering whether it made me look too dark. But I was dark these days.

  If I were a color, I would be gray.

  “Stop spazzing out,” I scolded myself and grabbed my brush angrily off the table. I brushed my hair so hard it hurt, threw my brush on the bed, and left my room, not looking at myself again in the mirror.

  “You look nice.” My mom stood at the stove, stirring the usual pot of oatmeal as I entered the kitchen.

  “For heaven’s sake mom!” I threw my hands up in the air. “Isn’t there anything a pregnant woman can have for breakfast besides oatmeal?”

  She shrugged. “I guess so. I’ll try to figure something else out.”

  I opened the pantry door and rustled around, making sure to be as loud as possible. “I won’t eat that,” I mumbled over my shoulder as I knocked over a box of cereal, spilling tiny circles of bland wholesomeness over the shelves and tiled floor. My mom ignored my dramatics. I walked over to the stove, my black boots crunching over the cereal, and pointed at the pot. “I won’t eat that and you can’t make me!”

  She gaped at me. “Lenna, why are you trying to start a fight?”

  “I’m not!” I nearly shouted. “Just because I can’t stand to eat another bite of slimy oatmeal does not mean I’m trying to start a fight! I just can’t eat any more oatmeal! I just can’t!” I started crying, not entirely unaware of my total irrationality.

  “Oh sweetheart.” She
dropped the spoon into the pot and wrapped her arms around me. She kissed the top of my head. “No more oatmeal for Lenna,” she sang in a whisper, swaying us gently. “No more slimy oatmeal. Lenna won’t eat it, so I’m not gonna make it. No more slimy oatmeal.”

  I giggled through my tears, pulled away from her, and wiped my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “This is a tough day.”

  “I think I’m hormonal.”

  “You’re allowed a certain degree of hysteria today.” She poured the oatmeal into a container—she hated wasting food—and put it away, where it would remain for weeks until someone noticed it moldering in the back of the fridge with numerous other unidentifiable meals gone by.

  “I have an idea!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go out for breakfast!” Her complete lack of grudge against me for what I was putting her through astounded me on a daily basis.

  “That sounds nice,” I said. She grabbed her purse and we walked out to the car, hand-in-hand.

  ~ ~ ~

  The All the Little Children office was about a forty-five minute drive from the restaurant, and we rode most of the way in silence. My mom asked me at one point if I had any idea what I wanted to tell them, what I wanted in the couple who would adopt my baby. I had no idea. Happily married—sure. Nice people—of course. Psychotic—definitely not. How did I choose the parents for my baby? What if I made a bad choice? I had been doing that a lot lately.

  The office was located on the third floor of a large brick building. The receptionist greeted us as soon as we walked in the door. “You must be Naomi and Lenna James.” She shook both our hands. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Just some water would be nice,” my mom said. “We just had a big salty breakfast of eggs and bacon—”

  “Mom,” I interjected, “please don’t remind me.” I clutched my churning stomach. I should have known better than to eat that heavy, greasy food. Perhaps my mom had been right about the oatmeal all along, a realization that made me feel guilty for my outburst that morning.

  The receptionist came back with two water bottles and told us it would be a minute before Melissa, our adoption facilitator, would be with us. We sat down and sipped our water in the quiet office. It was so silent, I was afraid to even whisper anything to my mom. She picked up a magazine and thumbed through it loudly, obviously not as paranoid about shattering the silence as I was.

  Finally, a short, stout, curly-haired woman walked into the waiting area. “Hi there!” she said. “You must be Lenna.” She addressed me first, shaking my hand firmly. “I’m Melissa. And this must be your mom.” She shook my mom’s hand.

  “Naomi,” my mom told her.

  “Of course,” Melissa said. “Won’t you just follow me back to my office.” We followed her back to a tiny office with baby pictures, hand-written cards, and letters plastered over the walls. On the far wall hung a poster of Jesus—with all the little children, of course.

  “So, Lenna,” she said, sitting down at a small desk and motioning for us to sit in the chairs on the other side. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Uh,” I said, sitting down. “What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me!” she said with great enthusiasm, curls bouncing all over her head. “What do you like to do? Do you like school?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess so.” I twisted the bottom of my turtleneck in my hands. “It’s okay.”

  “What do you like to do in your free time?” she asked as I nervously looked from her to the wall and back again.

  “Um, I like to… um.” Nothing came to mind except sleeping and crying.

  “She’s very active in our church’s youth group,” my mom joined in. “She’s been a little out of it, you know, with everything that’s going on, but she’s going back now.”

  Melissa smiled approvingly.

  “She organized a huge bake sale one time,” she continued her praises of me. “The church does a lot of fundraising for small mission trips, and Lenna will probably be going on one herself eventually.”

  “Mom,” I muttered, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I looked at Melissa. “Actually, I used to be active in my youth group. I sort of drifted away from it at the beginning of the school year. I went to a silent auction a little while ago and I do plan on going more regularly.”

  “That’s good,” Melissa said. “I’m sure they can provide you with a good support system there. You need a lot of loving support throughout the adoption process.”

  “I haven’t actually told anyone yet,” I confessed. “But I’m planning on telling my best friend tomorrow. So that will be a start.” I smiled wearily. The heavy breakfast was starting to drag me down. Or maybe it was something else.

  “So I guess I should tell you how this whole thing works.” Melissa picked up a folder from her desk, opened it, and removed a stack of papers, which she handed to us. I scanned over the papers as she told us how we go about choosing the parents, who pays for my medical care, what All the Little Children does for us, and what my legal rights are.

  By the end of the presentation, my head was too full of information to talk about anything else. I needed to go home and process everything, but then I remembered I was going to the obstetrician later. Shoot.

  “So,” Melissa pulled another sheet out of her folder, “do you have any specific requests about the family who will adopt your baby? It will help us to narrow it down.”

  I looked at my mom. “The parents should be married, of course.”

  “How about other children?” Melissa asked. “Is it okay if they have other children?”

  “Sure,” I said. “As long as they take care of them.”

  Melissa laughed. “We don’t accept prospective parents who don’t care for the children they already have.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Any preference as to religion, ethnicity, disciplining practices?” Melissa asked.

  “My only big preference is that they would be Christian,” I said, looking at my mom. She nodded in agreement. I looked back at Melissa. “I’m kind of thinking about my baby’s long-term well-being, not just the short term, if you know what I mean.”

  “Definitely,” she said. “After all, this is a Christian organization.”

  “I don’t care about ethnicity,” I added. “Does anyone really care about ethnicity?”

  “Yeah, we get a lot of requests for Caucasian babies, so excuse me for saying this, but your baby will be in high demand. You should have a lot of couples to choose from.”

  I felt sick again. “You mean people actually request white babies specifically?” I asked, folding my arms over my stomach, terrified at the thought of my baby ending up in some crazy white supremacist’s home.

  “Yeah, unfortunately a lot do, which sometimes makes it difficult to place babies of other ethnicities. It’s not like the people who make the requests are racist or anything like that. They just want their babies to look like them.”

  “That’s really sad,” my mom said. “To think of babies being unwanted because of the color of their skin.”

  I looked back and forth between my mom and Melissa. “But there are couples who don’t request white babies, right? Or any specific color for that matter?”

  “Oh sure,” Melissa said. “We do get some who put no preference on their application.”

  “Then,” I said, “let’s only look at the no preference couples.”

  Melissa smiled. “You got it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—my requirements narrowed our search down to only five couples. Melissa gave me their files to take home and look through. I glanced at them in the car on the way to the obstetrician’s office but ended up throwing them on the backseat after a few minutes. I wasn’t in the right mood just then to choose my baby’s parents.

  “So what’s going to happen at the doctor’s office today?” I asked my mom.


  “Oh, he’ll probably just want to talk and maybe give you another test to confirm the pregnancy.”

  “He’s not going to, you know, poke around down there or anything, right?” I grimaced at the thought.

  “I don’t see any reason why he would do that today. And, from what I’ve read, it’s best that he limit the number of pelvic exams. They should only be done as necessary.”

  “Good.” Relief washed over me. “Why should they be limited?”

  “Oh, because of the risk of infection. Every time something goes up there, your risk of infection increases as well as the risk of your bag breaking prematurely.”

  “You mean my Prada bag?” I asked, feigning alarm. Yeah right. As if I had a Prada bag.

  “Your water bag.” She frowned. “You haven’t read that baby book I gave you, have you?”

  “Sorry.” I shrugged. “But why do I need to when I have you to read it for me?” I poked her in the ribs.

  She pushed my hand away. “I want you to read it over your break.”

  “Okay.” I reached for the radio.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Turn the music on. I don’t want any music right now.”

  I stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Lenna.” She took a deep breath. “Just because you’re putting the baby up for adoption does not mean you can ignore your pregnancy.”

  “Believe me, mom. I am not ignoring my pregnancy.”

  “Then I want you to read the books I gave you and take proper care of yourself.”

  “I will,” I said, offended she thought I wouldn’t.

  “How do you know how to take care of yourself if you don’t read the books? How do you know what the right food to eat is or what kind of exercises to do?”

  “I said I’ll read the stupid books!” I snapped.

  “Don’t talk to me like that!” she yelled, taking her eyes off the road to stare me down.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, calmer this time. I turned and stared out the window. “I guess I’m not the only one who’s having a tough day,” I mumbled as I looked out at the white countryside. A few flakes dropped from the gray sky but nothing significant. After a minute of sitting in silence, I heard my mom sniffle. I turned away from the window. Tears streamed down her face. “Mom.” I leaned over and put my head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”