The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,80
frame and sat on the floor.
The Davids had paid for everything, not that there was a price tag for this, and she’d changed her mind? How could this happen? I wanted to find Kim, scream at her, shake her. What the hell are you thinking? This couldn’t be true.
VIJAY’S GIFT ARRIVED, A BEAUTIFUL, MONOGRAMMED PINK fleece blanket. When Gerald puked up a paper-filled hairball in the kitchen I used the blanket to wipe it up without thinking. Later I rinsed it out and took it down to the barn. Standing with Moonshot as he snuffled comfort across my face, I felt a shift inside me. It was time to reach out, to be there for someone else.
Friends told the Davids, “You can start the process again,” and “You’ll be selected for another baby,” but with my own loss still fresh, I knew that such offerings were insulting, that no matter how well intentioned, such platitudes trivialized the real pain. I said many times a day, “I am so sorry this happened to you.” And truly, I was sorry it happened to Grace.
Their goodness, even in the face of such grief, leveled me. After a discussion with Helen—their new lawyer had proven to be worthless—they decided not to contest Kim’s decision. They also decided not to ask for the money back—the money spent on her prenatal care, the groceries, the vitamins, the hospital delivery—even though by law and the adoption contract, they were completely entitled to do so.
“What would it accomplish?” Big David asked. “Kim’s got no money. What money she has, we want her to spend on Grace.”
They even gathered many of their shower gifts—the diapers, baby wipes, and blankets—and took them to Kim. Kim accepted the gifts but wouldn’t allow the Davids to see Grace.
I contemplated kidnapping.
I asked Helen, “Tell me the truth. Would this have happened if they’d stuck with you?”
When she exhaled, she seemed to deflate. She shook her head. “You can’t lose the baby to second thoughts if the birth parents’ legal rights are properly upheld. This bonehead tried to shortcut the procedure. He screwed the Davids—and probably Grace—in the process.”
This heartache had an added dimension in that it sent Ava on a downward spiral. She became prone to panic, constantly opening the closed nursery door and crying out, “Where’s the baby?”
The fourth time I witnessed this, it pained me to see Davy walk away from Ava.
“Why isn’t she here, the mother?” Ava demanded. Then, whispering, “Now, which one was married to her again?”
She’d sometimes confide to one or the other of the Davids, “If that other man wasn’t here all the time, she might come back. It isn’t natural, you know.”
I thought back to my unraveled days and realized that when people said, “If I can do anything to help, please let me know,” I hadn’t been capable of asking for anything.
So, I brought the Davids flowers, cheerful movies, made sure they had good food, and, whenever possible, I’d take Ava away for a while, giving the Davids some time alone.
Ava was happy to accompany me on my evening barn chores. Mr. Gerald would hop over to her and allow Ava to carry him like a baby, on his back, in her arms. She’d sing to him, in a surprisingly lovely voice, songs like “You Are My Sunshine,” “Swingin’ on a Star,” and “Embraceable You.” He’d reach up and rest his one front paw on her cheek while she sang.
ANOTHER MONTH PASSED. NO COURT DATE WAS SET YET for Moonshot, but other Humane Society volunteers had come to document his progress. I was told rules I already knew—for instance, that I had to allow Ginger Avalon to visit him. When the volunteers asked for receipts for Moonshot’s bedding, feed, and the vet visit so they could reimburse me, I told them to consider it a donation.
My ribs felt stronger with each passing day. Every morning, I crossed to the window and looked down on the farm in the first hint of light. I loved the paths in the diamond dew that deer had made, the ripe promise in the air, the last of the honeysuckle fading on the fence.
Although my heart held room to mourn for the Davids and to dread the loss of Moonshot, in another, new way I recognized I was happy. Happy to watch Biscuit roll in the dust to scratch his tabletop back, happy to notice the barn swallows dive-bombing Gerald (who caught and killed a surprising many of them, even