pain this was causing BM, how hard it would be to give the baby up, how they needed $$$. I pretended not to understand, but oh, I do.
Give them money? On top of everything they have paid to the agency and invested in this? Do they buy this baby, the son of a criminal, a biracial thug? And the birth mother: ugly, scars all over her face, pores as big as pomegranate seeds, thank god it’s not a girl. The father is okay-looking, more than that, sinister, “dangerously attractive,” like Bruce Willis crossed with Samuel Jackson…
Francie has to be careful here. She had taken some heat on the boards and IRL for her posting earlier this month, when they were first chosen by Jason and Penny and she was freaking out a little over the race thing—how Chloe had shown their profile to biracial parents when their preferences were clear: white healthy newborn.
Eva told her that apparently some people think she’s a racist!
Her phone was ringing within minutes after she posted her rant against Chloe Pinter and the Chosen Child. It was Eva Nova, spouting platitudes about the hand of fate, the right baby choosing its parents.
“Not that we’re going to, but John says we could sue the agency for this.”
“But, Francie, it’s your baby…,” Eva had said.
“Oh, we’ve decided to go ahead and do it,” Francie said peevishly.
“You say it like you’ve resigned yourself to the hassle of changing long-distance phone carriers.”
In a whisper, Francie had confessed to Eva the most politically incorrect sentiment of all: “I didn’t want anyone to be able to tell, to know he was adopted. John and I just wanted to pretend that he was ours.”
I’m afraid this is our last chance,
she writes now.
I need for this to happen for me,
[BACKSPACE, DELETE]
, us.
The only thing worse than my own disappointment and pain, Francie thinks, is watching others experience it for me. There are women on the boards who love that attention, the pages of parenthetical hugs, whose signature line includes every Angel In Heaven’s due date, every Angel On Earth’s due date, all the babies that might have been theirs, wearing their sorrow like merit badges.
Francie used to do it too, but another disappointment, this potential rejection—from common criminals—is starting to feel personal, like there is something wrong with her.
Now Francie types, hands shaking:
Do I buy this baby? Is this my last chance? What about genetics? What about bonding? What about—
What about John? Her husband was fifty-four, more luke than warm on the adoption option. How much further down this road can she expect him to follow, writing checks in silence?
They met nine years ago when Francie was the Realtor lucky enough to land the listing of an authentic turn-of-the-century Tudor mansion in Portland Heights. John was the newly divorced dot-com millionaire geek relocating from California. They drove to the address in his 700 Series BMW. He had a bottle of wine in the trunk that they drank on the dusty stairs, Francie trying to make her mouth dainty as she sipped straight from the bottle. He talked about architects and period pieces, and instead of his thinning reddish hair, his perpetual limp, Francie focused on his eyes, which, behind his glasses, were a lovely shade of blue.
Within the year, John had invited her to move into the house they carefully remodeled. He gave her a platinum card, didn’t blink when she bought a bedroom set that cost more than her ancient Jetta, then replaced her car with a Mercedes SUV, a two-carat diamond dangling from the rearview mirror.
That fall, Francie booked a table at a Greek restaurant that was meant to be festive, but was simply loud, for the first dinner with John’s grown daughter, Melinda.
“So, Lindy, tell me about college. What’s your major?” John had said, swallowing his drink.
“Women’s studies,” Melinda had huffed, blowing her hair up off her forehead and glancing around the restaurant. “I told you last year.”
She was wearing a huge plaid flannel shirt over a man’s ribbed undershirt, dark jeans that were not hiding her saddlebags and broad hips, and those clunky black shoes! Nineteen years old, all the time and money and opportunity in the world to exercise, to care for her looks, the burning metabolism of youth, and that’s how she chose to present herself? Francie made a mental note not to ask her to be part of the wedding party, as she had originally thought she might.