such a pretty face before the pimples ran wild over it, then he thinks, Dammit, they forgot to ask the doc about that, when those would go away. The last thing he wants to do is cause her any more embarrassment or pain.
“John and Francie. I was in the garage at the hospital having a smoke when she got in her car.”
When she smiles at him, Jason feels like the painting where the sun is breaking through the clouds, and you’d swear it was Jesus himself peeking down from heaven.
“Okay,” Penny says, sniffing hard. She straightens her backbone, holding her own self up as she wriggles back into his armpit, her hand over his.
OREGON OPEN ADOPTION—A place for all mothers
FRANCESCA97201
Joined: 26 Jun 1998
Posts: 17299
Posted: Mon, Dec 25, 2000 4:39 pm
Happiest Christmas Wishes! I can’t believe I’m so late getting on the boards today! It was a whirlwind of presents, eggnog, and bliss. DH flew home the morning of Christmas Eve—I wish I had a photo to post, the three of us in front of the fire, but when we tried to take it, there was nobody to hold the camera.
“John, look at this!” Francie waves the striped bumblebee teether in front of Angus beside her on the floor, and he grins, his mouth a perfect U, an upturned umbrella. John is on the couch, dripping ice packs on his calves, his laptop open. He looks up, the twinkling Christmas lights reflecting off his glasses.
“He’s getting more alert,” she says. “Watch how he tracks this.”
John watches, and Francie feels a surge of pride when, like a trained seal, Angus performs in the brief spotlight of his father’s attention.
“Sure is.” John goes back to his keyboard. His computer pings softly, regularly; it takes Francie a few minutes to recognize it as a live online chat.
“Who are you chatting with?” she asks.
“Nobody. Work people. Contacts.”
On Christmas? And then he turns the sound off, and Francie rolls back toward the baby.
Angus is dressed in the most adorable three-month-size Polo outfit, a cabled navy sweater and coffee-colored corduroys that match his skin. The saleswoman at Nordstrom’s couldn’t believe how big he was for three weeks, had remarked, “You’re so petite and fair; he must look just like his daddy!” Francie had nodded, picturing Jason’s smooth skin and expressive eyebrows. Already Angus can give her a skeptical scowl that perfectly matches his birth father’s, reminding Francie of their awkward encounters.
ANGIE—glad things are going well!
EvaSuperNova—come out, come out wherever you are!
Francie frets; her IRL friend hasn’t seemed like herself recently. Her posts have been boring and self-centered, obsessively seeking information about nipple thrush and soothing techniques, void of Eva’s trademark perkiness. She is also not doing a good job of replying to others, which can mean death, total obscurity on the message boards. There is room for controversial, for outrageous, but not for egocentric. If they were good enough friends, if Francie knew her passwords, she could get on there and post for her. Just a few replies, even a general Merry Christmas, or a Season’s Greetings, if she wants to be PC.
John has fallen asleep, head lolling back against the brocade cushion. He has a flight back to Singapore in two days, and while she feels better, safer, with someone else in their dark, cavernous house, she and Angus are finding their groove, so John leaving doesn’t bother her as much as it probably should.
They stick close to home, Francie and her kiddo, never going much farther than Portland Heights. They get organics at Strohecker’s on Saturdays, gas at the Portland Heights Shell every other Monday, and once she took him to the shops on 185th, but came home quickly when she saw the riffraff that frequented the outlets.
Those two are out there in this city, probably among the unwashed who wander Burnside, maybe panhandling at the I-5 on-ramps, and Francie has no intention of bumping into Jason and Penny with her son in tow.
Francie scoops Angus up and settles onto the comfortable couch, near enough to the fire to feel it, but not so hot she’ll have to get up and move. She exhales, lets his warm weight push the last of the air from her lungs. When she breathes in deeply, she can smell the Douglas fir of the tree, the trio of Yankee Candle Co. gingerbread candles dancing on the coffee table, the boutique baby wash she uses on his perfect curls. If Dr. Richard Ferber, author of her sleep guru book, knew