The Yellow Sock: An Adoption Story (3 page)

But why?

She’d lived her entire life by the rules: don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t have sex before marriage. Do go to church, do study hard, do get a job, do maintain a good reputation. Her name was on the dean’s list at college and listed in two volumes of
Who’s Who in American Universities
. She’d grown up with God, and no one could say she hadn’t been at least a dutiful example of what a Christian young woman should be. She wasn’t perfect, no one was, but she’d always done her best to make good choices. She’d waited for Mr. Right, and she’d been delighted to find Dave and learn that he was planning to spend his life teaching young children. He was the most giving person she had ever met, and she’d been convinced they would make a great team.

So why was God sabotaging her plans?

The Lord knows what he is doing. He has promised to be with you in every difficulty, and he will not allow you to suffer beyond the limits of your endurance . . .

The words echoed in her mind, a lesson learned from Sunday school classes and Bible studies of years gone by. She believed those words in her head, but that belief, springing from her rational brain, did nothing to assuage the clawing pain that ripped at her heart.

She wanted to be pregnant, she wanted a baby, she wanted to raise a baby who would be flesh of her flesh and bone of her bones. And she did not want to wait. They had been married for three years and waiting for two, and surely they had waited long enough . . .

“Honey?”

She looked up. Both Dave and Stella were staring at her.

“Stella was just saying she has to leave soon. Would you like to serve the dessert now?”

Megan felt her lips twitch in an automatic smile. “Sure. I made chocolate pie.” She pushed back her chair and kept talking as she walked to the kitchen counter. “It’s an old recipe, from a friend. Sometimes the cocoa doesn’t dissolve, that’s why you’ll see these little sprinkles on top, but it should still taste okay . . .”

She stopped her mindless babbling when she heard the creak of a chair. She turned and saw Dave standing behind her, and something in his forlorn expression broke her heart.

Unable to speak, she burst into tears.

With his sobbing wife in his arms, Dave looked at his boss. “I’m sorry, Stella,” he said, softening his voice. “We got a bit of bad news today. Apparently . . . . well, it looks like we’re not going to have children in the usual way.”

The older woman’s eyes closed for a moment, then she nodded slowly. “I didn’t know you were trying, but I should have guessed. After all, you’ve been married for a while now, and I know you both love children . . .”

Her voice trailed off as Dave pressed his hand to the back of Megan’s head. He had never felt more helpless in his life.

“I’m okay,” Megan said, sniffing. She lifted her head and wiped away tears. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to blubber in the middle of dinner.”

Stella stood, then reached out and placed a hand on both Dave’s and Megan’s shoulders. “My friends,” she said, her voice breaking with huskiness, “you two are precious people. I know God has something special in store for you. But nothing worthwhile is easy, my friends. If it were, we wouldn’t appreciate it like we should.”

Her eyes closed for a moment, then opened. “I’d like to share a proverb with you: ‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick; but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.’”

She smiled, her eyes shining with beautiful candor. “Not
if
the desire comes, Dave and Megan, but
when
. This is God’s promise for you. Trust Him.”

She gave Megan a quick hug. “The pie looks delicious, my dear, but I ought to be going. I think you and Dave need some time alone.”

Dave stepped forward to see her to the door, but she waved at him over her shoulder as she picked up her purse. “Never mind me, I’ll see myself out. Thank you for the dinner, Megan. Thank you both for the fellowship . . . and the trust.” She gave Dave a confident smile. “I’ll be praying for your future—concerning your child and your job. I know you’d make an excellent principal, Dave. I’m curious to see how the Lord will work things out.”

Dave waited until he heard the click of the front door, then he turned to Megan, who stood at the kitchen counter, her woebegone gaze fastened to the speckled chocolate pie.

“I want to show you something, honey.” He pulled a photograph from his wallet. “Do you remember this day?”

He gave her the picture and waited while she studied it. He had taken the photo nearly six years before, just after they began to date. Megan had come to see him at the school where he taught, and during a lunch break she’d spent some time reading picture books to the first-graders. One little girl, a blonde, blue-eyed waif called Daniella, had stolen Megan’s heart. They’d made such a pretty pair, Daniella with her blonde hair and Megan with her brunette, that Dave had snapped a picture of Daniella sitting on Megan’s lap. Later, when he explained that Daniella was a foster child, Megan’s eyes had filled with tears. And at that moment, he decided to marry Megan Myers.

Her eyes were flowing again as she stared at the snapshot.

“I fell in love with you that day,” he whispered, leaning against the counter, “because I knew any woman who loved kids as much as I did would be a wonderful wife and mother. Nothing has changed, Meg. You’re still the same girl, and you’ll still make a wonderful mother.”

Her lower lip trembled, but she didn’t speak.

“Daniella needed a home . . . and though I don’t know what happened to her, I know there are thousands like her in foster care. We can be parents, Meg. I think we can find a child fairly quickly if we’re willing to accept one as old as Daniella.”

Megan bit her lip as she traced the little girl’s image with her fingernail. “I’d forgotten her name,” she said, her voice wavering. “But I could never forget her.”

Reaching out, Dave drew his wife into the circle of his arms. “We will have a child,” he promised. “You’ll see.”

The next afternoon, Megan said goodbye to Mrs. Leber, Princess, and the five newborn pups (two big black males, one big tan female, and two tiny black-and-white spotted females with pointy faces and oversized ears), then pulled her sack lunch and can of soda from the staff refrigerator. Dr. Duncan was holed up in his office, munching on a tuna sandwich between follow-up calls, so she knew she’d have a good half hour to eat and think in relative quiet.

The veterinary hospital bordered a community park, a quiet place for lunch, particularly in the humid heat of July. With her lunch bag and a book, Megan walked down the narrow path to her favorite bench, then spread her chips and sandwich on a paper towel. She hadn’t felt like preparing much this morning, so her sandwich was peanut butter and jelly—not very creative, but filling.

The afternoon air was warm and sprinkled with sunlight that dropped through the dense canopy of oaks. Chewing on her sandwich, Megan turned away from the sight of a young couple sprawled on a blanket a few yards down the path. College students, from the looks of them, a young couple in love.

Insects filled the air with a continuous omnipresent churr as she hesitated and swallowed the thick peanut butter. Did that young couple dream of marriage and babies? Probably not. These days marriage seemed trivial to most people, and most career women regularly postponed motherhood until they had established their careers.

But Megan had wanted a baby almost immediately after her marriage. Two years of community college had resulted in a degree that enabled her to work as a certified veterinary technician, a job she’d hoped to keep until she married and had children. Dave was only two months shy of thirty on their wedding day, so a honeymoon baby would have been a surprise blessing. Megan knew she and Dave were in love, committed to their marriage, and committed to God’s plan for their lives. A baby would only have increased their joy.

A mosquito buzzed around her ear, and she swatted it away. How odd that some people conceived easily, and others struggled for months. In the last two years she had often read the biblical stories of Hannah, who prayed for a child so fervently that the priest thought her drunk, and Rachel, who clung to her husband and cried, “Give me children or I will die!”

In her Sunday school days she hadn’t been able to understand how the lack of children could darken a woman’s soul . . . but now she knew that agony all too well.

Her gaze drifted to the edge of a sandbox, where a dark-haired woman sat with a blond, blue-eyed toddler in denim overalls. A boy.

As much as she wanted to look away, she couldn’t. The sight of the child intoxicated her starved senses. Who was this woman who tended him, and what had brought them to the park? The woman could not be his mother—that fair-skinned child couldn’t possibly have sprung from her genes. It was always possible that the boy’s father was of Nordic descent, but it was far more likely that the woman was a nanny or babysitter.

Megan crinkled her nose in speculation. After working with so many canine breeds, her thoughts routinely wandered toward questions about bloodlines and heredity. If she had a nickel for every time someone brought in a pound pup and asked, “What do you think he is?” she could have retired two years ago. She’d grown adept at looking for the dark tongue of a Chow, the pushed-in faces of Pugs and Pekes, and soft, snubbed Labrador noses . . .

She looked again at the unlikely pair near the sandbox. Could the boy be adopted?

The memory of last night’s conversation with Dave pricked at her nerves. He had been eager to embrace the idea of adoption, but he was thinking of adorable children like Daniella who needed homes. And she knew he didn’t care for doctors and hospitals. It had taken nearly two years for him to agree to fertility testing.

But he shouldn’t be so quick . . . because he didn’t understand what he’d indirectly asked Megan to give up. For a man, the experience of pregnancy and childbirth was practically a moot point. But he would never have to sit in a circle of women and remain silent as they swapped stories of back pains and labor and lactation . . . all the things that bound women together in a sorority of motherhood. He would never have to congratulate his friends on their impending arrivals when his own arms ached to protectively enclose a burgeoning belly; in a department store he would never walk the long way around in an effort to avoid the infant department.

Was she being selfish? Megan bit her lip. She didn’t want to feel like a martyr, but she couldn’t help it. In the past few months she had silently endured more hope and pain and agony than her friends and family would ever understand. Just last week her friend Shelia had stopped her in the church vestibule. With one hand on her own pregnant belly, Shelia had looked at Megan with sharp brown eyes and said, “No luck yet, honey? Maybe you and Dave just need to get away. You know—so you can relax.”

Megan clenched her teeth at the memory.
Relax
? Shelia’s comment had only wound her emotions tighter. She’d left church ready to scream, and things didn’t get any easier when in the parking lot the pastor called out, “Good to see you, Dave and Megan.” He then looked down at his wife, and, his voice booming, said, “Remember when we were young and not saddled with kids? Those two don’t know how lucky they are!”

Megan felt about as lucky as a black cat.

The woman and baby were leaving now, piling a bucket and plastic shovel into a denim bag that overflowed with books and toys. Megan smoothed her features and took another bite of her sandwich, deliberately looking away, but a moment later she found herself staring straight into the boy’s bright blue eyes.

“Excuse us for interrupting your lunch,” the woman said, an apologetic smile on her face. She spoke with a slight trace of an accent, reinforcing Megan’s belief that the pair could not be related. “But Andre wanted to give you something.”

Surprised, Megan looked again at the boy, who wordlessly held up a dandelion between chubby little fingers.

“For me?” The words caught in Megan’s throat.

The woman nodded. “He likes to give presents. And if I don’t let him give it to you, he’ll fight me all the way back to the car.”

Megan leaned closer and held out her hands. “I would love a flower.”

The wide blue eyes blinked once, then the boy edged forward and dropped the dandelion into Megan’s cupped hands.

Megan couldn’t stop a smile from stealing over her face. “Thank you, Andre.”

The boy beamed for an instant, then tugged on the woman’s hand and pointed to the dandelion-studded field beyond, eager to repeat his performance.

The woman sighed and released him. “All right, but just one more,” she called as the boy toddled away.

Megan sat silently, watching him zigzag toward another dandelion.

“He’s such a handful,” the woman said, crossing her arms. “But I wouldn’t trade him for anything.”

“Your son?” Megan asked.

“Yes.” The woman’s voice softened. “Thank heaven.”

Megan glanced up. A hint of wetness shone in the lady’s eyes.

“Forgive my curiosity,” Megan said, shifting her gaze to the boy again. “But I was wondering if his father is blonde and blue-eyed.”

The woman let out a laugh. “He’s Nigerian.”

Shock flew through Megan. “African?”

The lady laughed again. “We are an international family. I am from Spain, my husband from Nigeria, and Andre is from Romania.”

“Then—“ Megan sat back, amazed. “You adopted him.”

The woman held her head up in the hard light of the summer sun and for the first time Megan realized that she was speaking to a woman well past prime childbearing years. “Obviously,” she said, her voice soaked in politeness.

Megan bit her lip as a hundred questions bubbled to her lips. Could she ask? Or would she be prying personal information from a perfect stranger?

“My husband and I,” she began, looking at her hands, “are thinking about adoption. But I’m not sure I’m ready to give up the idea of having a baby of my own.”

“Your
own
?” A thread of reproach filled the woman’s voice. “I hate to tell you this, dear, but no child is truly your own. Children may come from the wombs of women, but all of them spring from the hand of God. They are only placed in our safekeeping for a little while.”