Inside Out Girl

by Tish Cohen

The pallbearers carried the coffin across the grass to the grave site, as the rain gathered strength and the minister struggled to keep his notes dry. Olivia sat in a little pile at Len’s feet, sucking her thumb. The child had to be exhausted. She’d barely had ten hours sleep in seventy-two hours, thanks to the still-missing Birthday Wishes Barbie.

  The minister pulled his collar closed and began to speak. “It is with profound regret that we gather here to mourn the loss of…”

  Grace nudged Len and gestured down the row of mourners to where Virginia’s cousin Jeremy was holding up a brown paper bag. Jeremy was almost smiling as he passed it through the crowd toward Len. One by one, guests took the bag, looked at Len, and passed it on, whispering something to the next person. Sort of a macabre version of broken telephone. When it reached Grace, right next to Len, she listened, nodded, and passed it along to her son, whispering in his ear, “Jeremy got it from the police. From the scene.” The bag was so drenched it split open as Len took it in his hands. Just as the minister began to speak, Len pulled the paper apart to see what was inside.

  Birthday Wishes Barbie.

  Len’s body went limp with relief. He could never give Olivia the ultimate prize—her mother—but he could offer this one small comfort. He handed his umbrella to Grace and knelt down in the grass. In an instant, the child grabbed Barbie, mashed the naked doll against her chest and leaned back against her father, her eyes shut tight. She rocked back and forth, patting her doll’s head and murmuring, “She did bring Barbie.” With the minister’s voice droning in the background, Olivia looked at her dad and smiled. “Is Mommy here?”

  One of the doll’s arms stuck out across Olivia’s shoulder, the delicate palm of her hand pointing up to the sky. For the first time, Len noticed it. A tiny streak of dried blood smeared across the fingers.

  “No, baby,” Len whispered. “Mommy’s not here.”

  Now, shifting in his chair, Len waited for Dr. Foxman, the neurologist recommened by Dr. Tanzer, to speak.

  “We’ve gotten all your results back,” the doctor said, pulling the glasses off his nose and closing the file. Leaning back in his chair, he pushed his fingertips together and sighed. “I wish I could say the news was better.”

  Len stopped fidgeting and waited.

  “There is a tumor. It’s not in a place we can easily reach to perform a craniotomy, or a biopsy. What’s usually done in these hard-to-reach masses is we perform a closed biopsy, or a needle biopsy, whereby we drill a tiny hole into the skull, through which we insert a long needle into the tumor to collect a sample of cells.”

  Masses.

  “However,” Dr. Foxman crossed his arms and leaned forward on the desk, “in your case, we’d rather not. You see, Mr. Bean, I’m afraid it’s too late. It’s already spread. I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, but what we’ve found in your lymph nodes confirms…”

  Fear. It should have been Len’s first thought. Complete and utter terror that his time on earth was coming to an end and he was to go on to the very least understood place known—or unknown—to humankind.

  But he didn’t feel fear.

  Sadness, even, might have made more sense. He should have wept perhaps, about the unfairness of receiving a death sentence barely a third of the way into what he’d always believed would amount to a rather lengthy sojourn.

  But there was no sadness. Not right away.

  The feeling that permeated his being was unmistakable outrage, he thought, as puddle water seeped through his leather shoes. The savagery of the day’s weather now made sense. It may not have played a hand in orchestrating the…masses inside Len’s head but it flaunted its derision by saturating him in what suddenly appeared to be a vicious, utterly unbecoming, daylong neener-neener.

  “…not entirely sure why such things happen to otherwise healthy individuals…”

  A quiet roar rushed through Len’s head. The neurologist and his file folder suddenly seemed far away as Len’s chair hurtled backward. Slivers of his life flew past him—the framed map across from his office desk, the sandwich he’d eaten in the car on the way over, his mother’s favorite tea towel, Rachel’s laugh lines.

  Olivia.

  “…we’ve found that while many patients choose to fight it as long as they’re able, in your case we’d completely understand if you chose to live out the next year or two as best you can…”

  Oh God. Olivia.

  PART II

  CHAPTER 19

  Closed

  Nothing, anywhere, will bring you more joy or more anguish.

  —RACHEL BERMAN, Perfect Parent magazine

  Rachel laid her head in her hands, hunched over the kitchen table. She’d barely slept. For the first time in years, she had the dream again—the one where she was holding Hannah as a newborn and put her down in the grocery cart while she reached for her wallet. When she looked back, Hannah was gone. Rachel tried to run, tried to scream, but no sound came out. Eventually, a woman holding Hannah walked toward Rachel, smiling. She said, “Look at my baby. Isn’t she beautiful? I gave birth to her.” It should have been easy for Rachel to lunge forward and grab her daughter, but she was never able to move her arms or legs, never able to make a sound.

  She looked at the clock on the stove. 8:20. She despised school holidays. Surely to God someone had realized by now that nearly every parent in the country had a job to go to and didn’t have the luxury of staying home every time the teachers’ union elected to hold a meeting during school hours.

  Technically, Janie and Dustin could be left on their own, Janie being fourteen. But the truth was, Rachel wouldn’t get a lick of work done worrying what sort of trouble they’d get themselves into over a nine-hour stretch. Leaving them at bedtime was far simpler—no meals were involved and they weren’t nearly as fresh and rested.

  The front door thumped shut and footsteps headed toward the kitchen.

  “Mother?” called Rachel.

  Piper breezed into the room in white yoga pants and a hot yellow T-shirt with her shaggy-on-purpose hair pulled up into a perky ponytail. She reeked of summer breezes and vitality. A good night’s sleep. Rachel glanced down at her own gray suit and wondered if she might have time at lunch to zip out and pick out a few summery outfits, then remembered she’d scheduled a midday managerial meeting to discuss layoffs. She pushed her hair off her face and gulped down her coffee.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” sang Piper.

  “Want some coffee?”

  “God, no. I don’t touch it anymore. It makes me jittery.”

  Jittery sounded pretty good compared to what Rachel was feeling, which was more like paste. Lead. Mud. Maybe all three. “Did you see Arthur last night?”

  Piper tried to hide her grin. “I did.”

  “And…?”

  “And nothing. We had Chinese for dinner, popcorn at the movie…” She set a few bags on the counter, her back to Rachel. “Poached eggs for breakfast.”

  “He stayed over?”

  “I’ve brought some cold cuts for lunch.” Piper pulled containers out of a paper bag. “Does Dustin like coleslaw?”

  “Mom!”

  “I stayed over. What on earth am I waiting for? We’re both adults. Besides we’re completely compatible. The man finishes my sentences.” She looked at Rachel. “He has a buyer for your house.”

  Rachel laughed. “Oh, he does, does he?”

  “An elderly couple from the Midwest. They’re not concerned about erosion at all. Not at their age, being childless.”

  “No.”

  “They’re very wealthy…”

  “Forget it.” Rachel scooped up her purse and placed her empty mug in the sink. “Remember, don’t leave it out too long.”

  Piper stopped. “Leave what out?”

  “The potato salad. It’s going to be humid today and the airconditioning is acting up. Just keep it in the fridge until the last minute. Is the coleslaw creamy?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Re
ad the label. It’ll say if there’s mayonnaise in the ingredients.”

  Piper placed the containers in the fridge. “If there’s a little mayo, we’ll probably survive it.”

  “Don’t go making me out to sound crazy. I’m just saying if it’s creamy, treat it the same as the potato salad—refrigerate until the last minute. It’s common sense. Salmonella is no joke.”

  “Just get yourself to work. I can guarantee we’ll be in one piece when you return.” Piper raised her eyebrows. “Salmonella-free.”

  Rachel peered into a canvas bag and reached inside, pulling out two DVDs, Robin Williams Live on Broadway and The Shining. “What’s this?”

  “Entertainment, obviously. It’s supposed to rain later. You didn’t think I was going to tell them jokes all day? Robin Williams will do a far better job.”

  “Mom. Dustin is twelve. He’s not watching either one of these. Look, The Shining is rated R. And Robin Williams is rated…” Rachel turned the DVD over and scanned the back.

  “Do you honestly think they haven’t heard all this from their friends?”

  Rachel put them back in the bag. “That’s not the point. The Shining will terrify him and he’ll use every bit of foul language from the other one at school. We have plenty of suitable DVDs in the drawers beneath the TV. They can choose from those.”

  Piper hoisted herself up onto the kitchen island and crossed her bare feet under her legs. She smiled glibly. “Hurry home, dear. We’ll miss you.”

  The morning after her night with Hannah, Rachel had slept late. She woke up in her hospital room and looked around, blinking in the bright daylight, unable to organize her thoughts after such a deep rest. She hadn’t slept well in the months of her pregnancy, even worse after Hannah was born. It was as if one of her limbs had been hacked off and was alive and well and living at the end of the corridor.

  Having had a taste of her baby, or her baby having had a taste of her, Rachel wanted more. If she could see Hannah one more time, just for a moment, she’d be okay. No. That was a lie. She’d never be okay. She just wanted more. Wrapping herself in her robe, she left her room, keeping her head lowered as she passed the nurses’ station. The nursery must have a window.

  No one could stop a girl from looking through a window, could they?

  She continued along the hall, past the private rooms filled with mothers feeding, changing, mothering their babies. Just before the end was the nursery. Sucking in her breath, she tiptoed close and saw two rows of glass bassinets offering up pink and blue bundles like éclairs in a bakeshop window. Frantically, she scanned the faces wrapped in pink. There were only five, none of them Hannah.

  Her breath turned ragged. She tugged on the arm of a passing nurse. “Please. Where’s Hann—Where’s the baby girl with the black hair and the rosy mouth and the eyes, the silver eyes…”

  “The one that was being adopted?”

  “Yes!”

  “She went home with her new parents early this morning. Left in a car seat, surrounded by toys, balloons. She’s one lucky little girl.”

  Rachel couldn’t breathe. She nearly dropped to the floor.

  She’d missed her last chance. Slept right through it.

  Late afternoon sunlight settled across Rachel’s desk, intense enough to illuminate the VISA statement warning Rachel that her company credit card was dangerously close to exceeding its limit. Beside that was a stack of paychecks, all patiently vying for Rachel’s signature. Next to the checks lay a resplendent sheet of creamy letterhead from the law offices of Kaufman, Keller and Zane, informing Rachel that her client, Irish & Lamb infant wear, one of Perfect Parent’s largest accounts, was breaking its advertising contract. Irish & Lamb had held the coveted inside front cover position since the days when her grandfather ran the magazine.

  She dropped her head into her hands and closed her eyes. It took a special kind of person to fuck up a successful business to such an extent. She slid the papers to one side of the desk and felt a bit better. Somehow the less space her troubles occupied, the smaller they seemed.

  Reaching across the desk to flick off her lamp, Rachel spotted her address book and stopped, her hand poised in midair. Forget it, she told herself. Just finish destroying your family’s business and go home to Janie and Dustin.

  She opened the book and flipped to the page lettered L. Leaside Adoption Agency. Staring at the number, she took a deep breath, then picked up the phone. She dialed, then hung up, asking herself, as she did the last time and the time before that, whether she could handle the news, good or bad. She dialed again. Maybe no news was the whole problem. Maybe if she got any news at all, she’d be able to move on.

  The line rang once. Twice. Just as she started to hang up, a woman answered.

  “Leaside Adoption, may I help you?”

  Rachel tried to speak but nothing came out.

  “Hello?” the voice said.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, hi. My name is…”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Rachel Berman. Or it is now, anyway. It used to be Dearborn. Rachel Dearborn. Oh God. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”

  “It’s not always an easy call to make, dear. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Um, yes,” Rachel said, sucking in a deep breath. “I just have a question, actually. Do mothers—birth mothers—ever get to, well, do they ever get to see the…” the unspoken words “little ones” brought tears to Rachel’s eyes. She whispered, “the children they’ve given up?”

  “Well, it depends on your arrangement. How long ago did—”

  “Sixteen years. Her name was,” Rachel paused, swallowed, “Baby Girl Dearborn. I was told it was a closed adoption, but I was allowed to send a letter once.”

  “You sent a letter?” the woman’s voice perked up. “Maybe you have extra privileges. Did you check in to see if your child responded?”

  “Well, no.” Rachel leaned forward on her desk. “I was going to check in. But then I just, I don’t know, I was afraid…”

  “Of course. But sometimes, if both parties agree, you can communicate through the agency, which might be the case for you. Let’s just see. Your child’s birth date, please?”

  Rachel gave her the information and listened to classical music while on hold. She forced herself to breathe.

  The woman was back. “Miss Dearborn?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got your file here…” Rachel could hear papers shuffling around. “Oh,” she said, before pausing too long. “Oh dear. I’m sorry. The letter you wrote is still in the file. Which means the parents refused to accept it. Many parents won’t take a thing from the birth mother.”

  “But, all I said in it was that I loved her. I’m no kind of threat, believe me. All I wanted was for her to know it wasn’t an easy decision for me. An adopted child needs to know that.”

  “I know, dear. She can see it when she’s eighteen, if she chooses. That’s not too far off.”

  “No,” Rachel said. “She’s, she’s mentally disabled. I don’t know how badly, but no matter what the law says, she’d probably need her parents’ help to find me.”

  “I see. And they don’t want contact. I wish I could be more helpful, but there’s nothing I can do. The best thing for you, love, is to just move on.” The woman pushed out a heavy sigh. “I don’t suppose one ever fully recovers from such a thing.”

  “No,” Rachel said, her voice splintered. “I don’t suppose one does.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Holidays in the Sun”

  —SEX PISTOLS

  Janie set the ancient hedge clippers to snip a long branch, but the rusted blades were too dull to penetrate. Instead of snapping cleanly and dropping to the grass, the branch splintered and flattened into a mushy center where the blades became wedged in the pulpy wood. Sweat rolled into her eyes. She dropped the clippers to the ground and used her shirt to wipe her face. It had to be ninety degrees in the mid-June sun. Janie looked over a
t her mother, cool and comfortable in the shade, snipping around deep purple lilac blooms. “Mom, do you want to switch places yet?”

  Rachel looked up at the lineup of shaggy dogwood bushes stretching all the way to the bluffs and shook her head. “Let’s wait until we get halfway along, then we’ll switch.”

  Great. Janie picked up her shears and hacked uselessly at the next branch.

  “There’s a phone message for you in the kitchen,” said Rachel. “Did you see it?”

  “From who?”

  Rachel laughed, wiping her face on her sleeve. “It was kind of cute, actually. She asked if you could come for a sleepover.”

  “Who?”

  “Len’s daughter. Olivia.”

  “Holy shit.” Janie dropped the clippers under the bush. “I’m nice to her for half an hour and she thinks we’re best friends.”

  “First of all, watch your mouth or you’ll be grounded. And second, lighten up on Olivia. She hasn’t had an easy life. Len says she gets picked on at school.”

  “Who doesn’t?” As she reached for her clippers, Janie spotted someone next door, dipping her toe into the pool. But not just any someone. Tabitha. And not just any Tabitha. Tabitha in a bikini.

  “Hey Tab,” Janie called through the bushes, waving her cutters. “Over here!”

  Tabitha looked up, smiled. She made her way toward the bush and parted the leaves. “Hey!”

  “Going swimming?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing else to do on a Sunday.”

  “Yeah. Unless your mother’s using you as cheap labor. Free labor.”

  Tabitha poked her head through the bush and looked around. “Whoa.”

  Janie nodded.

  “Brutal.”

  “Yeah.” Janie motioned toward some men digging in the garden, by the deep end of the pool. “What’s going on?”

  “My mom’s getting some garden work done. A new patio and a rock waterfall that’ll pour into the pool.”

  “Wow,” was all Janie could think of to say.

  “See you.” Tabitha let go of the branches and walked away. She looked back over her shoulder. “If you get done soon, come over and swim.”