The Mothers A Novel - By Jennifer Gilmore Page 0,82

took me a second to be happy again.”

“Resurrected? How Catholic of you.”

“Well.”

The pillow was still beneath Ramon’s head, so I continued. “But look, we have everything ready. It could be quick, the adoption. We could have kids at the same time. Lucy and us. Our kids could be almost like siblings.” Of all the things I know, I know I am grateful for a sibling. I am grateful for my sister.

“Especially if she ends up in New York,” Ramon said.

I imagined it for a moment, Lucy finding a place in our neighborhood, walking the streets with her and Hannah, who would resemble us almost equally. If I were to take her out alone, a neighbor might ask me how I lost the baby weight so quickly.

I was glad for Lucy’s child, and for the first time in a long while, an aspect of Ramon’s and my future had a face and a body and a name. Another generation peeked her head around the corner. Someone else would be there to sit at that dining room table, and listen—or decidedly not listen—and grow up there.

Ramon rose out of his bed, a ghostly shape, a darker figure than the fuzzy darkness of the room.

“Hi,” I said as he crawled into bed next to me.

He moved in closer and placed his arm around me. He cupped Harriet’s head. Between them, I could feel two heartbeats. “Do you think it will happen?” I asked.

He bristled. “Do I think what will happen?” he said, holding me close.

“This,” I said.

He didn’t pause. “I do,” he said. “I know it will.”

Close together in my childhood twin bed, I could feel the “we” of our bodies. My family, I thought as the two of them fell to

snoring.

20

__

November 2010

The first birthmother to call was Katrina. It was just before midnight on Thanksgiving.

All that waiting, and when I saw the number coming in, I wasn’t prepared.

“Ramon!” I shook him awake. “It’s a birthmother!”

“Well answer it!” he said. “Before it goes to voice mail and we lose her.”

“Hello?” I could not still the crazed hysteria in my voice.

“Hi,” a voice said calmly. “I’m Katrina,” she said. “A birthmom. I found you online.”

“Wow,” I said. “Thanks so much for calling.” I got out of bed and went into my office/closet for my pen and notebook.

I sat down at my desk. “Hi,” I said, and before I could ask her what she liked about our “Dear Birthmother” letter, as I was trained to do (was it our many travels? our diverse community?), she began speaking.

“Let me tell you about me,” she said. “Because I’ve done this before, and I know what a gift this is for a family. I’m forty. I’m a grandmother.”

“Wow,” I again said. Forty, I wrote. Grandmother. “A child is a generous gift, absolutely.” A generous gift? One thinks of golf clubs. A trip to Paris. What gift could be more generous? “What can I tell you about Ramon and me?” I asked. “What would you like to know about us?”

The agency told us not to ask for any information we could get from them directly, as it could be construed as pressure. This is what the agency can later tell us: what color she is, what color the father is, if she has been to the doctor, if she has taken drugs, if she is on drugs now, how old she is, if she has a job, if she has a mental illness or if anyone in her family has a mental illness, if anyone has a clubfoot or a cleft palate. How open she wants this adoption to be. Will she want to come for Thanksgiving, for instance? Like tonight. Where had she gone for Thanksgiving? Or will she only want photos? How open?

Our offering of openness was our first and last names on our profiles. I’d spent countless hours fretting over students’ coming upon Ramon’s and my letter and profile along my Google trail of academic articles and disgruntled Rate My Professor reviews. But what was open, really? What would it look like? And feel like?

“I want to know,” Katrina said, “why you want my baby. I know,” she said, “that I have what you want.”

“I can tell you that we want to be parents.” I doodled in my notebook. Jagged stars. “Very much.” How desperate, I wondered, was it cool to appear?

I pictured this faceless woman holding her stomach. We, I wrote. I. Each of the birthmothers is a “we.” There we were, our different lonely