that way middle-aged men who don’t normally drink get when suddenly, at the odd wedding reception or holiday party, they do.
“What’s all this?” Chloe gestures around the office, where Leon, Judith and Ken’s Guatemalan son, is photocopying his cherubic profile. Judith is hugging Beverly in the reception area, adjacent to the large room of international program cubicles. Casey has Snoop Doggy Dog on her tinny desktop speakers and is dancing with Ayisha, the Duvalls’ five-year-old, in her arms.
“We got Marshall Islands approval! The agency can start placements in January. Judith has Beverly making tickets for our first group now.”
“Oh, Ken, that’s great news. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” He beams, patting his paunch absently, as though he has been congratulated on a pregnancy. “What are you doing here this late on a Friday?”
“I have to do paperwork with John and Francie McAdoo. Their birth parents just signed.”
“Oh.” He looks past her as Judith bursts into the reception area, her arm around Beverly’s narrow shoulders.
“Did he tell you? Marshall Islands!”
“It’s wonderful,” Chloe says, looking past them to the conference room. Leon and Ayisha are on their stomachs on the table, making V-shaped shovels out of their hands and plowing M&M’s into their mouths. “Congratulations.”
“So, birth mother signed?” Judith says blandly, as though she hasn’t been barking at Chloe every hour the past two days about making sure the McAdoo adoption goes through.
“Yes, this afternoon. Can I get one of you to notarize?”
Judith has the gall to sigh. “I’ll send Casey up before she goes home. Beverly really deserves to celebrate.”
“Can’t I use the conference room?” It is where they always sign paperwork. All of their eyes converge on the open doorway just as Ayisha and Leon, squabbling over a large bottle of bubbly, tip it over on the table.
“Never mind,” Chloe says. “They can come up to my office.”
Upstairs, in her haven, she finds Marius, the Duvalls’ Romanian son, curled up on her couch, stimming, flicking his fingers in front of his eyes, while Chien is coloring devil’s horns and fangs on every model in the December issue of Elegant Bride Chloe had tucked behind the sofa cushion.
“Chien!” she yells, snatching it away. Chastened, Chien grabs Marius’s hand, jerking him off the couch like a rag doll, and they are both clattering down the stairs like horses on a trailer ramp.
Her cell phone rings, and she grabs it, hoping it is Dan.
“Hello?”
Long silence, but in the background, she can hear the bustle of people, and someone paging Dr. West. Great—a hospital call the day after an adoption. She knows who is on the other end of the line. There are things she should say now; at the very least she should refer them to the agency’s grief counselor.
“Penny?” she says instead. “Jason?”
No answer.
Chloe waits a moment, then presses End and folds her phone in half.
When it rings again, it is Dan, and Chloe can’t help but smile. Even if they have just argued, she still hopes every phone call is his.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice is gravelly, but he draws that syllable out like honey over granola. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean for you to leave.”
There is a long silence.
“I think I have SAD,” Dan says soberly.
“What?”
“Seasonal affective disorder. I think I’m depressed because of the weather here.”
Chloe doesn’t answer, turning on her computer and printer.
“Or it might be SRS,” he says.
“SR-what?”
“Sperm retention syndrome. I miss you. I’m sorry I’m being such a dick these days. I’m working on a plan to make it better, to be better. You’ll see. Are you coming home soon?”
“They’re not even here yet. God, I’m so tired of being the agency’s redheaded stepchild. My program’s application fees pay all of their salaries when these foreign governments get finicky and shut down their approvals. Guatemala just closed down for six months! And I’m in here on a freaking Friday night, taking care of their cash-cow client—”
Her office intercom buzzes, amplifying the noise downstairs that had been partly muffled through the wooden floorboards.
“Chloe, Casey’s on her way up,” Beverly drones.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Hurry home. I want to talk to you, and I have plans….” There is something delightfully wicked in his tone.
A flurry of feet on the stairs, Casey’s clogs, and she appears in the doorway. “Hey. Beverly sent me up with your most recent press clippings.” She waves a handful of computer printouts from the message boards. These boards are not supposed to be read by agencies; they are for waiting families to share information and experiences, grief and