The Mothers A Novel - By Jennifer Gilmore Page 0,30
it amassing.
“Sorry,” Ramon said, “of course, the birthmothers, the birthmothers, well, they call us directly on this eight hundred number and we talk to them. Well, Jesse does. We’ve decided it will be Jesse.”
I smiled broadly and sarcastically. “Yaay.” I lifted my shoulders to my ears and kept them there for an extra beat.
Ramon looked at me very deliberately, and I could feel my parents’ excitement in receiving so much information. “We did this role playing.”
I began shoveling food into my mouth. I had to hand it to my mother; her famous tri-mushroom risotto was tri-fabulous.
“So we had these made-up cards of who the birthmother was—her identity, like where she was from, what her situation was, if she had other kids, which is a good thing as she knows how difficult it is to parent then . . .”
My mother nodded her head knowingly, and I wondered if she was also thinking about the help she got with parenting from Claudine.
“Anyway,” Ramon continued, “we had to practice what we would ask the birthmother on the phone.”
“If they call.” I watched Harriet come out from beneath the table and head straight for my father, always the softie when it came to table scraps. “If.”
“They’re going to call.” Ramon turned first to my father at one end of the table, and then to my mother. “We have a very good chance of being called,” he said.
“Wonderful!” My mother beamed. “That just sounds wonderful.”
“Wonderful,” my father agreed.
“Can we talk about something else please?” I asked. “I am really tired. Of this. I’m very tired of talking about this.”
“But, Jesse,” Ramon said, “we need to discuss the race of the child with your parents.”
My mother perked up. “Oh yes, let’s talk about that! I would love to talk about it. What are you guys thinking?”
“Absolutely,” my father said. “We are here to talk to.”
“No, I’m tired,” I said. “And come on, Ramon,” I said.
“We need to discuss this,” Ramon said. Was he smiling?
The three of them looked at me and I thought of Ramon in the car on the way back from the training, after we’d hugged everyone good-bye and gotten into our car and driven away. As we’d entered Virginia it had begun to grow dark on the highway, and in the gloaming Ramon had turned to me, as excited as he was tonight with my parents, and he’d brought up the issue of languages again. Of legacy.
“The child needs to be Jewish, too,” I’d told him. I had looked out at the highway growing so quickly dark.
“No, fuck you, Ramon,” I said now.
My parents gently set their napkins down at the same time.
“Stop it,” my mother said. “Jesse, please.”
“Okay then. What would you like to know? We are open to many many races. We’re not totally in agreement, as Ramon seems to think a child born in a meth lab—a white child—might be more appropriate for us than an African-American child because he doesn’t think we have black friends. Ramon is very happy with a Hispanic child, though, as that speaks to his origins. My origins, ours . . .” I swept my hands to encompass the dining room with its muted yellow walls and white molding, the African art and the tea set that had been my great-grandmother’s, the one my father was always hoping someone would break in and steal so we could collect the insurance. “Our origins do not seem to be relevant. But, as you’ve asked, we’re sorting out the race thing. We’re deciding on drug use and mental health and physical deformities and if I have to make one more decision I’m going to pitch myself out of a window.”
“We understand,” my father said.
“Seriously, Jesse?” Ramon asked.
“Seriously.” I turned to my parents. “So, Mom, Dad, how comfortable are you with a child of color in our family?”
“Stop it.” Ramon folded his hands in his lap. “This is not the way we want to have this discussion.”
Color. What is it? I thought of Ramon adjusting the brightness on one of his designs. Turn it up, tone it down. Color. “Me? You had no right to just bring this up. When does this get to be private again?”
“Okay,” he said. “I get it.”
“It’s okay.” My mother picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. “It’s okay, Ramon.”
“It seems I can’t control a thing, can I? Because normally, making a baby is between two people, so I don’t really care what my parents feel about a child of color.”