The Yellow Sock: An Adoption Story (5 page)

Megan glanced again at her watch. Melanie was late, as usual. Honestly, you’d think a high school senior could manage to be on time to
something
. . .

She frowned as her sister hopped out of the car, slung her purse over her shoulder, then jogged toward the bench where Megan waited. “Hey, Sis!”

“You’re late.” Megan shielded her eyes from the sun as her younger sister approached. Melanie was eighteen, just beginning her senior year, and the baby of the family. Five years Megan’s junior, she was lean, leggy, and lovely. The striking combination of her dark hair and bright blue eyes rarely failed to turn masculine heads. Her smile could light up a marquee.

Megan’s frowned deepened as her sister drew nearer. The girl wore a tight sweater and a skirt that must have required a crowbar to enter and exit.

Breathless, Melanie dropped down onto the bench beside Megan. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

Megan blew hair out of her eyes. “I’m not old enough to be senile.”

Megan grinned. “Yeah, but you said—“

“Never mind what I said. I disagree with Senior Skip Day, but if you’re going to skip school, that’s your decision, not mine. And, like I said, I have to eat.”

Melanie grinned and pinched Megan’s arm. “Loosen up, Miss Goody-goody. And let’s go in. I’m starved.”

Megan reluctantly followed her sister into the restaurant. They’d held senior skip day when she was in high school, too, but only the hoodlums observed it. Now, Melanie assured her,
everyone
celebrated it, and any seniors silly enough to go to school on senior skip day found themselves in an all-day study hall. Megan finally agreed to meet Mel for lunch when her sister assured her that their mother knew and approved of her plan. So now they sat in Roberta’s, pondering the menu and trying to decide between fajitas and pita bread sandwiches . . .

“Megan Myers, I haven’t seen you in
ages
!”

Megan glanced up when a familiar voice broke into her concentration. Debbie Jennings, a friend from Megan’s high school days, stood at the edge of the booth . . . behind a swollen, terribly-pregnant belly.

“Debbie!” Forcing a smile, Megan focused on her friend’s eyes. “It’s Megan Wingfield now. And how are you?”

“Fine—well, great with child, obviously.” Debbie pressed her hand to the small of her back and leaned on the table. “Honestly, I can’t wait for this kid to pop out. I was in labor with Bobby Junior for twenty-two hours, so I’m hoping this one will come quick.”

Megan freshened her smile. “Your second?”

Debbie groaned. “Yes, and I don’t know why I ever wanted to be pregnant. I haven’t seen my toes in three months.” She hesitated and tilted her head toward Megan. “You have kids yet?”

“Not yet.” Megan looked toward the menu. “I’m working at Dr. Duncan’s veterinary hospital, and my husband’s an assistant principal at Valley View. We’re pretty busy.”

“You’re lucky.” Debbie shifted her weight. “Nearly everyone from our class is pregnant now—when I was in the gynecologist’s office last week, I thought I’d wandered into a high school reunion! Laurie, Alma Joy, Diane, Susie, Donna, Kathy, and Gail are due in the next three months, and Ruth, Susan, Sharon, and Becky have new babies.”

“Honey, I wondered where you went.” Bobby Wilson, whom Megan dimly remembered as a high school football player, came up behind Debbie and tenderly laid a hand on her belly. “The car’s waiting at the curb.”

Debbie nodded at her husband, then twiddled her fingers at Megan. “I gotta go. But have fun with the puppies and kitties, okay?”

“Sure.” Megan bit her lip as the Wilsons walked away, then turned her attention back to the menu. Beyond the expanse of plastic-coated paper, Melanie began to babble about her boyfriend, Todd.

Huddled over the menu, Megan slumped into morose musings. Was the entire
world
having babies? Was everyone her age pregnant or nursing? Yet it wasn’t a pregnancy she wanted—she wanted to love a child.

Debbie Wilson had two children, one born and one about to be born, and she’d had the nerve to call Megan
lucky
. What did she know? Women like her got pregnant without half trying. She’d probably have a baby every year and then gripe about stretch marks and the burdens of motherhood.

Megan would give anything for just one of those burdens. She’d gladly surrender her job, her time, her energy, even her identity, just for the honor of being called Mom.

“You’re not listening, Megan!”

Blinking, Megan lifted her head. Across the table, Melanie’s eyes were wide and her lips pursed in a petulant frown.

“I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?”

Melanie’s blue eyes flashed. “And who else is in this booth? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

Megan dropped her menu. “Sorry. I’ve had a few things on my mind.”

“I was telling you about Todd. Mom and Dad don’t like him.”

Megan inhaled a deep breath, bracing herself for the inevitable. “So—why do you keep going out with him?”

Megan flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I dunno. Because he likes me. Because he makes me feel special. It’s, like, all the other guys are so immature, but Todd’s really cool.”

As Melanie rattled on, Megan propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. Time to play big sister. But it was okay—Melanie certainly wouldn’t understand what Megan and Dave were going through.

“Tell me all about it,” she said, smiling.

On a cold, windy October night, Megan lowered her head into her fur collar and followed Dave into the social services building. Belinda had suggested that they attend at least one meeting of an adoptive parents’ support group, and, in an effort to prove how eager they were to Do Things Properly, she and Dave had made plans to attend the first meeting after the commencement of their home study.

There were already a dozen people in the conference room when they entered, and by the way they were laughing around the coffee maker, Megan guessed they knew each other pretty well. Their children, apparently, were in the care of babysitters or friends, for there were no children in the room.

Belinda greeted them with a smile, then glanced at her watch and clapped her hands for attention. “Welcome people,” she called, her voice cutting through the congenial chatter. “I’d like to introduce our newcomers—Dave and Megan Wingfield, prospective adoptive parents. They are currently involved in the home study process.”

Megan felt herself blushing as a dozen pairs of eyes turned in their direction. A few brows lifted, but most faces wore understanding smiles.

Belinda moved to the folding chairs. “If you’ll all find a seat, we can begin. Tom, I think you are the moderator of this meeting. Why don’t you get us started?”

Megan slipped out of her coat and took a seat next to Dave while the others left the coffee maker and made their way to seats in the circle. Glancing around, Megan tried to find a common denominator that marked these people, but she could see nothing obvious. The men and women in the room represented every race and age. If clothing could be trusted as a guide, they also represented several different income levels.

Tom, a balding, middle-aged man in Gucci loafers, stood and rubbed his hands together. “All right. Who has an issue they’d like to bring before us?”

A heavy woman in a plaid sweater lifted her hand. “Something happened to me this week. My little Michael—“ she paused as the others nodded, for apparently she’d discussed him before, “threw a temper tantrum in the grocery store this week. He was crying because I wouldn’t buy him a bag of candy, but my mother-in-law, who has never really approved of our adoption, declared that he was crying because he missed his
real
mother!”

The woman slapped her hands upon her blue-jeaned thighs. “Now how am I supposed to handle
that
? I wanted to slug her.”

Megan sat, stunned and silent, while the other parents made suggestions. Then another couple announced that they and their child had just moved from the
honeymoon
to the
protest
stage.

“There are stages?” Dave whispered in her ear.

“I guess so,” she whispered back.

Tom, the moderator, scratched his chin as the conversation died down. “I think the thing that bothers me the most is the vocabulary people use with regard to adoption,” he said. “People speak of birth mothers as
real
mothers or
natural
mothers, but adoptive mothers and fathers are the real psychological parents. And we speak of birth mothers who
give up
their babies, as if that’s either really noble or pathetic. It’s so much more accurate to say they
make an adoption plan
for their children.”

“The one I can’t stand,” another woman inserted, “is when people meet my twins and then ask if I have kids
of my own
. As if these two don’t belong to me!”

An African-American mother waved her hand. “You think that’s bad? I have two, you know—LaShonda and Kareem--and the other day someone asked me if they were brother and sister. I said, ‘They are now!’”

Belinda Bishop giggled. “I can top that. I have a friend who’s recently adopted an infant from Korea. She was at the pediatrician’s office the other day with her three-month-old, when a woman asked if the child spoke English! As if the baby could speak anything!”

As the group erupted in laughter, Megan caught Dave’s eye. Like the rest of the world, she and Dave and undoubtedly been violating adoption taboos for years, as ignorant as anyone who had never explored the delicate art of grafting a branch onto a family tree.

She reached out and squeezed his hand. They had a lot to learn, but they were willing. And ready.

On the third Monday in November, over two months after beginning their home study, Megan stood in the middle of her small living room and regarded the area with a critical eye. The floors were freshly vacuumed, the sofa pillows plumped, and she’d spent most of Saturday washing and ironing the full muslin curtains. The room—the entire house, in fact—was as spotless as she could make it. Dave had tiptoed out this morning, afraid he’d make tracks in the rug or spill water droplets on her gleaming kitchen counters.

In less than a quarter-hour, Belinda Bishop was to come for their final meeting, the home visit. She had assured Megan and Dave that this would be an informal time, more of a cursory check than a white-glove inspection. The home visit was only required to be certain that the department of social services wasn’t placing a child into a dangerous environment.

Despite Belinda’s assurances, Megan had baked chewy chocolate chip cookies and prepared a pitcher of sweet tea a Southern favorite. The pitcher and platter of cookies now sat on the kitchen table, a pretty spread that might appeal to Belinda’s mid-afternoon appetite. Whether or not the social worker succumbed to the culinary treats, Megan couldn’t imagine a less dangerous environment for a child. Throughout the house, she’d pulled up all the electrical cords, put rubber stoppers in the outlets, and screwed childproof locks into all the cabinets.

She wiped the kitchen counter again, then folded the dish towel and hung it on the rod hidden tucked beneath the sink. Then she moved through the house one last time, checking the bathroom, the master bedroom, and finally, the small bedroom meant for their child.

She’d begun to decorate it the week after they began their home study. Belinda’s patient confidence and unflagging support encouraged Megan enough that she felt confident to buy paint and wallpaper, and each weekend she’d worked on one particular aspect of the room she intended to be their nursery. Dave had installed a chair rail, then Megan painted it with white enamel to match the tall dresser from her mother’s house. Dazzling yellow paint covered the walls from the chair rail to the ceiling, and a bright rainbow wallpaper in primary colors decorated the space between the railing and the soft green carpeting.

The room looked large, bright, and empty. They hadn’t bought a bed, not knowing the age of the child they would welcome home, and they’d chosen primary colors because they didn’t know if they’d be getting a boy or a girl. Or both.

Megan leaned against the wall as her thoughts drifted back to last week’s meeting with Belinda. At the outset she had warned them that she would ask difficult questions, and she’d been right. To her surprise, Megan had discovered that her willingness to parent had unexpected limits.

“Would you consider a child of rape?” she’d asked. Megan and Dave both nodded eagerly.

“Would you consider a sibling group?”

“The more the merrier,” Dave answered, grinning. “I’m with kids all day, so more than one is no problem.”

Belinda made a note on her pad and moved on. “Would you consider a child who is biracial or of another race? We try to discourage interracial adoption because we feel children should grow up with parents from the same background and culture. But sometimes it is in the child’s best interest to make an exception.”

Megan thought of Andre and his mother. “No problem,” she said.

“In some communities, a mixed family will encounter difficulties,” Belinda said, a warning note in her voice. “You have to think about this.”

“We’d never live any place our children wouldn’t be welcome,” Dave answered. Megan shot him a look of gratitude.

“Would you consider,” Belinda consulted her list, “a child whose biological parent suffered from schizophrenia?”

Megan made a face. “I don’t know much about mental illness. Are such things hereditary?”

Belinda tilted her head. “The evidence is not conclusive, but it suggests they can be.”

Megan closed her eyes. Nothing in her lifetime had prepared her for dealing with mental illness—no one in her family had ever suffered from it. She felt certain God would give her grace and strength for anything that came her way, but would she be foolish to volunteer for a struggle He might not have intended to give her? Would answering negatively jeopardize their chances for receiving a child?

“I’ve had no experience with schizophrenia,” she said slowly, looking at Dave. “I think we could handle anything that came our way after the child became part of our family—“