The Mothers: A Novel (14 page)

16

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L
ydia, who had spoken to us at our session in White Plains, turned up for our home study visit in a torrential downpour at the end of April. I had hired a professional cleaner to prepare for the occasion. When I called to book someone from a woman’s co-op, I said to these strangers on the phone that we were having a home study visit, where a social worker comes to your home to make sure it’s suitable for a child and that you and your partner are adoption material. It needs to be very very clean, I said. These women were expensive, but I was willing to pay extra for their days off and health insurance, so as not to be exploitative. When the woman came to clean, she said, You can’t have babies? Her palms moved in circles over her stomach.

I looked at her hands, her short fingers, the bitten nails, circling and circling. Just make it clean, please, I told her.

I bought daffodils and set them in a little vase we keep on the mantel. We have several vases there, but rarely are they filled with flowers. I baked banana bread. In our birthmother letter there was the bit about the pies, but it was morning, and there was no reason for pie in the morning. Also? I don’t really make pies. I could. I could absolutely bake a pie. And I would.

Magical thinking: the cleanest house, the best banana bread, the prettiest flowers, will yield the healthiest, most beautiful baby. I knew this was not true. This visit afforded a simple “approved” or “not approved.” Couldn’t it be, though, “highly approved,” or “extremely approved,” or “
significantly
approved”?

_______

Lydia arrived dripping wet, and Harriet came out of the bedroom to greet her at the door, tail wagging.

“I don’t like dogs.” Lydia straightened. “But this one doesn’t jump up, which is nice.”

“She’s amazing with kids.” I took Lydia’s raincoat, hanging it carefully on the rack behind the door.

“Old dogs usually are,” she said.

Ramon stood, smiling broadly with teeth. “Well, she is. Hi, Lydia.”

She smiled at Ramon and then she smiled down at Harriet in that distant way that people who are not dog people smile for dogs they are trying to make the owners think they like. “Good.”

“Have a seat.” I pulled a chair out from the dining room table, normally strewn with Ramon’s papers and folders and invoices, but today wiped completely clean. “Coffee?” I asked.

“Sure.” Her eyes wrinkled at the corners when she smiled. She had a batik scarf on her head that was shot through with gold and silver threads, tied at the nape of her neck, the way I used to wear a bandana in college. “Black,” she said.

I went to the island by our dollhouse kitchen and poured her coffee in the china cups I’d set out. Once they had been my grandmother’s. “Would you like some banana bread?” I unsheathed it from the tinfoil and Saran wrap I’d swaddled it in last night so it would retain its freshness. I wished I’d had the wherewithal to bake that morning so that now the smell of sugar and cinnamon—the smell of motherhood—would permeate the room, warming it on this rainy early-spring day.

She shook her head and looked up. “Just coffee.”

My heart fell. I looked at Ramon, who had not moved from his position in front of the mantel, but was now starting to shift his limbs, as if his batteries had warmed up.

“None for me,” he said. “Not now.” Ramon looked at me and shrugged.

“We got your application, and I’ve read it, and you seem like such wonderful people.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said.

“Thank you,” Ramon said.

“This is really a time for me to get to know you.” We all leaned in around the table. “It should not be stressful at all. I’ll just go over the forms—the employment history, your family information, the autobiography—and this will serve as a starting point for our discussion. Then I will quickly look around the place so I can draw a map of it for your home study document. We do not go through your drawers or open closets. It’s really just to see how you live and if it would be appropriate for a child.”

“Great,” Ramon and I said.

He reached for my hand, and I took it.

Lydia saw this and smiled. “I am an advocate for you,” she said. “I just want to get it all right. I hope you can see it this way.”

_______

Over the course of four hours we discussed our lives with Lydia. We went over it all again. What our parents did and didn’t do, what they wanted for us and what they got and did not get for us. We discussed our jobs and why we wanted to adopt. How we came to adoption. It was an enjoyable conversation, talking about our lives together. It felt natural, helpful even.

Until the word came up.

“Let me just ask you about the cancer. It’s a word that frightens many people.”

I laughed. “With good reason,” I said. “As it says on my physical forms, I have been cancer-free for almost fifteen years.”

“That’s wonderful.” Lydia sipped her coffee from my grandmother’s teacup.

“Would you like some banana bread now?” I asked. I had also bought a very beautiful hand-churned local farm butter at the farmer’s market over the weekend, which I’d hoped to put out with an olive-wood knife I’d purchased in Italy several years before, made solely for the purpose of spreading soft butter.

She shook her head and continued on.

“Ramon?” I asked.

He also shook his head. “No, thanks.”

I could not believe the betrayal.

“Now, to religion,” Lydia said. “I understand that, Jessica, you’re from a Jewish family, and you’re from a Christian background, Ramon. What are your plans for raising children?”

“We’re not religious,” Ramon told her.

I imagined Paola, stealing our child away in the middle of the night to be baptized in the church where I’d seen Ramon’s cousins’ children, held up to the golden icons, dripping in oil. “But we plan to expose our child to both traditions.” I cleared my throat. I knew I had interrupted.

“We did meet in a church though,” Ramon said, turning to me.

“Well, yes, but I was just visiting one. As a tourist, I mean.”

Lydia nodded, her pencil on her yellow pad moving with comic speed.

“My father loves Christmas,” I offered.

Lydia cocked her head at me.

I shrugged. “I know. But he does. And, as Ramon’s mother is so far away, we spend Christmas with my family. Chrismakah, we call it.”

She nodded at the paper and continued to write.

Ramon shot me a sideways look. Was that wrong? I thought. Did that somehow dilute both religions? Was it disrespectful? I thought of my father setting poinsettias along the fireplace and hanging mistletoe. Who’s going to kiss me? he’d scream, and Lucy and I would squeal away as my mother ran to stand beneath it, exaggeratedly puckering her lips.

“It’s nice to make your own family traditions,” I continued. “We went to temple at the high holidays too, of course, but I hope Ramon and I can find creative ways to integrate our upbringings, both religiously and culturally.”

“Yes,” Ramon said. “My mother took us to church, and I have that religious training, if you will, but I plan to be less rigid about this.”

Lydia looked up at Ramon and smiled encouragingly. Every time my husband spoke he got some kind of golden star.

“You talk a good deal about your mother, Ramon.” She leafed through her papers. “And I see your father lives in Indonesia. What is your relationship with him like? And yours?” She turned to me.

Cancer, religion, and now Ramon’s father. We are going to fail the home study! I thought. Do not panic, I thought. Do. Not.

“My father married another woman, a local, and he stayed there.
Because he sort of left the family, we don’t have a lot of contact with him. Just e-mail and the occasional phone call.”

“When did this happen? Do you have stepsiblings?”

“About twelve years ago. And no,” Ramon said. “I remain an only child.”

That word. Only. Lonely.

“Have you met Ramon’s father?” Lydia asked me.

I shook my head. “No.” I said. “Unfortunately I have not.”

“Look,” Lydia said, and as she did so I realized that it is the social worker’s practice to offer comfort. Not to judge, but to understand. Even though Lydia was not, for some reason, eating my banana bread—was this some kind of a mandate? Do not eat the food of the people in the homes you visit?—she was not being critical. In fact I found her encouraging. Or, I thought, watching her search for the right words, perhaps this is a trick! It’s a scheme to suck us in, allow us to reveal our lives openly and honestly, and then, because we are so clearly insane, revoke our rights to a child. “Families are very complicated. We all understand this.”

I nodded. But Ramon Sr.’s story disarmed me: someone who could just walk away like that, and not look back. Is that passed on from father to son? And how does that get passed on? Nature or nurture? Perhaps Ramon too would one day just bolt.

Ramon looked down at his hands.

“Let’s talk about your choice of child. Is this correct, you are requesting the placement of a healthy infant of either gender, aged zero to six months, of
Caucasian, Hispanic, African-American, or Middle Eastern descent, or of any combination of Caucasian, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, Asian, Pacific Islander, East Indian, African-American, or Native American descents?”

It was dizzying. “Yes,” I said.

“Now, am I correct that you also prefer the placement of a healthy child?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You might want to consider a child with special needs,” Lydia said. “You will get a child more quickly, if you are as open as you can be.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but we are not equipped to raise a child with special needs. We just are not.”

We were not here to save the world. Unfortunately we were only here to save ourselves.

Lydia bobbed her head as she wrote. “Well, it’s something to think about. I do see that you are open to a child with a family history of mild mental illness, and a child whose birthmother has used alcohol or other substances in the first trimester of her pregnancy.”

Ramon looked at me. I had not yet mentioned how I had gone up after the meeting all those months ago and changed the form, another deception.

I nodded. “We were told that even if a birthmother had gone to counseling just once, about being pregnant even, this would constitute mild mental illness, and if we didn’t check ‘mild mental illness’ we would be precluded from that child. And that even if she had a beer, say, before she knew she was pregnant, this would constitute drinking in the first trimester, according to our agency’s criteria. So.”

Ramon sat back and crossed his arms. I willed him to be silent.

“This is correct,” Lydia said. “I think you are making the right decision. You can always say no to a situation. And I can send you some reports we’ve been gathering—drugs are a lot less detrimental to a fetus than alcohol. Heroin does not enter the placenta. Smoking cigarettes is the worst,” she said.

Ramon closed his eyes for a moment longer than a blink. I admit I did not care what he was thinking.

“Great!” Lydia said, both hands gripping the glass table. “So. Do you mind if I have a look around?”

_______

Lydia made her way—tentatively and yet with authority—into the kitchen and along the living room and dining room, and then, as if to acknowledge the terrible awkwardness of the situation, she walked quickly through our bedroom. My closet/office was last.

“This will be the baby’s room?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “we’re not sure. I work in there now. For the first year we thought we’d have the baby in the bedroom with us.”

“Babies come with a lot of stuff. You’ll be a lot happier if you make that the baby’s room,” she said. “It’s not a requirement, but I’m telling you, I don’t see how else you’ll do it.”

Where will I go? I thought. Where will I work? “That makes sense,” I said. “I have an office at school.” I would never work there. I had tried it recently, when Ramon started working in the dining room. But the glare of the lights, and my colleagues with their student meetings, their phone calls, their
typing
—I found it impossible to concentrate.

“Okay!” Lydia said when she was done. It took her a grand total of three minutes to get through the rooms of our estate. She sat down again and began to draw a crude map of our apartment. “We work with your agency a lot. They are always so confused by New York apartments. I have to explain how not having a baby’s room, say, or a playroom, is typical of all New Yorkers.”

Ramon looked at her blueprint of our apartment. He cocked his head as she moved her pencil and I know what he was thinking: Why
didn’t
I become an architect?

“Thanks so much for sharing your life with me this morning.” Lydia glanced outside onto our fire escape. It was still raining in great sheets. “Ugh,” she said.

“Wait! Let me give you some banana bread for the road.” I got up and cut a hunk off and wrapped it in wax paper. Then I put it in a sandwich bag, which I sealed tight. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to us today.” I handed the package to her.

“Yes.” Ramon stood. “Really. And when can we expect to get the home study document? I imagine you are busy and these take a while to write up.”

“Too true,” Lydia said. “But I understand that time is passing. I know everyone’s anxious to get their profiles up and running and available. I should have this in a few weeks, maximum. I’ll do my best to get it to you sooner.”

I turned to get her raincoat and heard a squeal.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Lydia said.

Harriet went cowering into a corner, and Ramon headed over to pet her.

“I didn’t see her,” Lydia said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “She can get underfoot.”

Lydia stuffed the banana bread into her bag and went to leave.

“Let me walk you out,” Ramon said, opening the door.

I heard Ramon chatting easily with Lydia as he sent her out into the rain. Would she throw my banana bread away, or would she eat it, enjoy it even, back at the office? Would it be moist and sweet and delicious? Would it change everything?