The Mothers A Novel - By Jennifer Gilmore Page 0,62

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?

Seeing Lydia made me think, as I often had, about Lisa. Whether she and that hideous Danny were fostering a child now, and if they were, would they be able to keep the child. Forever. I could not bear to picture gaunt, timorous Lisa, her hands marked by the attenuated, welt-like bones of her fingers, gripped tight around a steering wheel, driving her child back to social services. Honestly, I could not.

I wondered what happened to many of those people whom we’d talked with up in White Plains. I was curious about the ones in Raleigh, too. Unless we scanned the couples on the agency’s site, constantly watching for who had been matched—an activity I could not do for the stress it caused me—we had no news of anyone but Anita and Paula.

I am moving closer to you, I thought. And then Harriet walked over, wagging her tail. “Pea,” I said. “Poor Pea.” Mutterly love, I thought, kissing her and receiving several licks in return. I remembered bringing Harriet home from the vet after she’d been spayed; her belly was shaved, and stitches bisected her abdomen, not unlike my own.

Dogs could be enough, I thought as Ramon came back in, shutting the door quietly behind him. I imagined, not for the first or second or third time, giving up this ridiculous idea of New York City, the hum of the fluorescent light in my shared office, the apartment that affords such gifts as roaches, belly-up, when it rains, the scratch and shit of mice when the weather is cool and dry. I saw hills and grass and a backyard filled with dogs. But I could not picture children playing there.

“Weren’t we going to start with the best-case scenario? Mental illness?” he said. “Drugs and alcohol use?”

I rubbed Harriet’s ears and stood up. I turned to face my husband. Dogs running free and wild in my own backyard. They jumped out of the hair-filled car, leapt with joy from it, when we went for weekend hikes. The seasons were changing. “Yes,” I said, crossing my arms. Suddenly none of this felt like it was Ramon’s choice to make. “Bring it on.”

17

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Just after classes ended in mid-May, and before our annual trip to Italy, our home study was approved. The letter stated: We are very pleased to recommend Ms. Weintraub and Mr. Aragon as adoptive parents and believe that any child placed with them would receive the benefits of a stable and loving home life. They meet the standards of this agency and the preadoption requirements of the State of New York to be adoptive parents.

On a Post-it attached to the document, Lydia wrote: The banana bread was delicious!

It could have been what did it, I thought, tearing the note from the document. My banana bread.

_______

In Terracina, just as we were recovering from the jet lag that made us sleep too late, waking up groggy, dehydrated, and hungry, I grimly turned thirty-nine.

The day was not unusual for us. We stepped into the kitchen, where our fresh-squeezed orange juice awaited us, the tops of our glasses covered in tinfoil to keep out bugs and germs and microbes. As I removed this protective cap, the story of the agony of the oranges began. They had to be picked from the trees; they had to be hand pressed; it was not easy, not at Paola’s age. Look! These calluses from so much work. Then there were the farm eggs fried in olive oil and topped with a farmer’s cheese, served with fresh bread, each with its own tale of woe in how far the special bakery only the locals knew of was from Paola’s house, and how the eggs from the farmers are very special, practically gold. Liquid gold, I thought, as I pierced the bright orange yoke, and I agreed then that these were special eggs, very very special eggs indeed.

Ramon and Paola fought as usual on my birthday. Today Paola wanted her blood pressure taken at the special pharmacy, where her friend worked, before 10 A.M.—10 A.M. was the cutoff—and Ramon did not want to make that trip, not that morning. I finished my breakfast—delicious, yes, but what’s the point of it when there is no talking, no discussion, no conversation while consuming