Daughters for a Time (7 page)

That night, after the Meyers had left, Tim lay against his pillow with his clipboard on his lap, working on the week’s menu. Though I was still furious at him for bombing the Meyers on me unexpectedly, meeting Sasha
had
been eye-opening, and plus, I needed him tonight. I rolled over toward him, began rubbing his chest, working my way downward.

“Helen,” he said, putting his hand over mine. “I thought we were done trying.”

“Almost,” I said, freeing my hand from his, tracing a figure eight over his stomach. “I think we might have a good chance this month. I’m really doped up on drugs.”

“You say that every month. You’re setting yourself up for pain.”

“Please,
please
,” I begged. “Have sex with me.”

“Didn’t you think little Sasha was adorable? Didn’t that spark any interest in you?”

“It did,” I said. “Really, she was a doll and I could totally go in that direction. But we might as well give it one more try, right?”

That night, my exasperated husband made love to me and, afterward, stuffed pillows under my bottom. Meanwhile, I closed my eyes and did what I always did: visualized Tim’s sperm meeting up with one of my juicy, viable eggs, a Botticelli beauty that had been trapped in a war zone. Now she slid easily from my ovary and down my fallopian tube, ripe for a union with a handsome sperm.

Then I said a decade of Hail Marys, just for good measure.

Afterward, Tim got up, went to the bathroom, and brushed his teeth. He slipped into bed, smelling of Irish Spring and Crest, crisp scents that made me think of our first summer together. Only hours after we’d reached Athens, we caught the first ferry out, destined for the white beaches of Paros. Once there, we checked into a quaint beachside villa.

We swam in the turquoise water and stuffed ourselves with local delicacies. We explored the white stucco Orthodox churches and shopped for sea sponges and souvenirs as we ambled along the cobblestone paths through the marketplace.

On the eve of our departure, we sat on the patio outside of our villa, staring out at the azure Aegean and sipping chilled white wine. Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny silk pouch. He knelt before me as I pulled open the little strings.

“Oh my God,” I gasped, staring at the glistening silver ring.

“I love you,” Tim said, his green eyes watery.

“I love you, too.”

“So will you marry me?”

“I would die if I didn’t.”

Oh, the romance
, I now thought. “I would die if I didn’t.” That’s how our life was then, one romantic adventure after the next, one exotic trip after another, not a worry in the world.

Sixteen days later, for the first time in my life, I stared down at two pink lines on a pregnancy test. For good measure, I repeated the test—twice. Ten minutes later, I had three tests beaming positively at me: two pink lines, a plus sign, and one that spelled out “pregnant.”

I was speechless, as though if I spoke a word or moved a muscle, everything would change. Even though I was a fair-weather Catholic—only a fraction as faithful as my sister was and my mother once was—I fell to my knees and thanked God. At once, it seemed that true divinity was at work. I sobbed and sobbed, grateful giant tears of joy. “Thank you, thank you,” I cried, “I promise to be the best mother in the entire world.”

When I gathered and then slid the stack of adoption paperwork into my bottom desk drawer, a shudder of shame snaked down my back. I flipped the agency brochure over so that I couldn’t see the photo of the little girls.
I’m sorry
, I whispered, and then shook off the uneasy feeling and went to the kitchen for a prenatal vitamin, a tall glass of milk, and some slices of cheese.

Two months later, just as the zipper on my jeans was starting to pull tight, I sat down on the toilet seat and watched a clump of blood sink to the bottom. An ultrasound confirmed that the baby had been lost. A D&C followed the next day.

I stayed cloistered in my bedroom for nearly a week. The sonogram photo of my little bean lay on the pillow next to me.
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
sat on my end table, Post-it notes fanning from the pages.

Tim was helpless to ease my pain. In my grief and selfishness, I never once thought that he might be hurting, too. Claire visited every day and tried to help, but in her usual way, which, in my frayed state, seemed too intrusive. She’d dump my tea before I was finished, fluff my pillows when I liked them flat, and change my sheets while I was still in the bed. She meant well; of course she meant well.

But she was pushing me through the steps quicker than I could handle. It was her way, and I recognized her method of dealing with grief. I’d seen it before, as she dealt—or didn’t deal—with Mom’s death. Claire’s eerie calm, steely resolve, and uber-efficiency was too much for me, and everything she said hit me wrong.

“Miscarriages are blessings in disguise,” Claire said. “It’s nature’s way of weeding out unviable pregnancies.”

I wanted to smack her across the face for using the words “weeding out” and “unviable” when describing my baby. I didn’t want to hear her dissertation on baby Darwinism, how my baby had to endure the dog-eat-dog world of survival of the fittest before she was even born.
She
. Of course, it was too soon to know. But somehow I just did.

I wanted my mother. My mother, who would let me cry until the well ran dry; my mother, who wouldn’t try to rationalize the biology of a miscarriage; my mother, whose faith was so potent that only a drop would leave you convinced. I could just hear her telling me that my baby was in the arms of angels, that there she would grow big and strong, that someday I would see her again.

Two weeks later, I announced to Tim, “I’m done. No kids. I’ll be back at the restaurant in a few weeks. And let’s plan a trip. And let’s get drunk. And eat oysters.”

Tim looked at me with his pity face, the one that said he didn’t buy a word that I was saying.

“Helen,” he said. “You were this close to jumping on board with the adoption. You saw Sasha, you read the literature. You said yourself that you could see it working for us.”

“And what if we go through the process, and in the end, we don’t get a baby?” I asked, my voice shaking. “How would that be any better than the hell we just went through?”

I stayed in bed for another week. Waited for the open wound on my heart to dry out and scab over. Waited for the truth to sink in: Being a mother wasn’t in the cards for me. It was time that I accepted that fact.

Back to work
, I thought. Something that I could do successfully.

On the morning of my return, Tim had left the house before I did. I told him that I’d meet him at the restaurant a little later. When I went downstairs for coffee, I found a note from Tim:
Love you. See you at the restaurant. Let’s get going on this paperwork. The sooner we get it going, the sooner we’ll get a baby.

The stack of adoption forms sat on the counter.

I poured my coffee, stared out the window, and then systematically crumpled every single paper. Then, just for good measure, over the stainless steel sink, I burned them.

Each day, I went to work. Clouded by a certain numbness, I went through the motions of my day without a clear consciousness of each step. I’d get to Harvest, but not remember driving there. I’d eat, but not taste. I’d carry on conversations with Sondra, our hostess, and the other workers without having a clue what was being said.

Behind my workstation, I felt safe and warm. Cloaked in my apron, I felt disguised. With my hands pushing through
dough, I felt comforted. Each morning, I would take inventory of my supplies, plan my recipes, calculate the needs for each night’s dinner sitting. Then I would start. In my own little world, in a frenzied cloud of grief, I baked. I did the work that couldn’t be seen: the prep, the proofing, the careful kneading of the dough. I made biscuits and loaves and cookies and pies until the racks were filled. I needed to witness the conversion of flour, yeast, salt, and water. I needed to see how the mingling of these ingredients, when exposed to heat, produced something nourishing, something that filled holes in stomachs and hearts.

Most days I drove home alone because Tim came later to the restaurant and stayed later. But this night, we drove home together. Tim had decided to call it an early night. I peered out the window at Embassy Row: Peru, Trinidad, Chile. Tim and I used to take late-night walks all the way down to Dupont Circle to have a drink on an outdoor patio. It had been years since we’d done that. Now that we weren’t going to be parents, there would be plenty of time.

“I called the adoption agency today,” Tim said.

I whipped my head in his direction, sent him a treasonous glare. “Why’d you do that?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“Because you won’t do it,” he said. “And I know that it’s the right thing to do. I’m intervening, Helen. I’m intervening on your behalf.”

“We’re
childless
, Tim. That’s all there is to it. I’m accepting it, why don’t you?”

“We don’t need to be childless. There are thousands of babies out there.”

“What makes you so sure that an adoption will go through?” My voice cracking, tears filling my eyes. “How do you know that I’d pass the tests? I mean, hell, Tim. Look at my history—a mother who died, a father who left, and me—not particularly
stable during a crisis. What makes you think that some social worker is going to say, ‘Yeah, sure, let’s give that nut a baby.’”

“Helen,” Tim said through his own clenched teeth. “What about the good stuff? We’re a happily married couple, business owners, homeowners. We’re good candidates.”

“These children,” I said. “They’re orphans. They’ve been left. We might get a baby who isn’t capable of loving us.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You’re not the only one who has been on the Internet, Tim. I read an article by a psychologist who believes that adoption is like a trauma that produces a wound that never heals.
Ever
. She said that the separation between birth mother and child essentially leaves a hole in the baby’s heart. What if that’s true, Tim? What if we get a baby who has a wound that can’t be healed by us?”

“With two parents who love her, how could she have a hole in her heart? This baby is going to have so much love she’ll be waving a white flag.”

“But what if two parents who love her isn’t enough?”

“It’s two more than you had for much of your childhood,” Tim said, looking at me. “And you still turned out pretty good.”

“That’s debatable,” I said, thinking that I was far from whole. “Even if she’s happy with us, who’s to say she won’t leave us someday? Someday she might want to return to China.”

“She’s not going to be an exchange student, Helen. She’s going to be our daughter.”

“She might leave us, though. We’re not her blood. She might go looking for her real parents someday.”

“Is that what you’ve been worrying about all of this time?” Tim asked. “Her leaving?”

“People leave,” I said flatly. “Statistically speaking, one way or another, everyone leaves.”