Scott Sherman - Third You Die

Her office, like the entire suite, was lavishly decorated in soothing pastels. Mary Cassatt prints of rosy-cheeked mothers and daughters called to the ladies, while Norman Rockwell scenes of fathers and sons playing baseball and reading with their children were hung to bring tears to the eyes of prospective dads. Ms. Peterson sat behind a glass table with no drawers or file cabinets. A sleek silver MacBook Air and our file were the only items on her desk. On a credenza behind her, a tall, single white lotus, in full bloom, arched delicately from a silver bud vase. I remembered reading somewhere that many considered the lotus a symbol of fertility, and I wondered if it was there to inspire or depress.

“Tell me”-Ms. Peterson smiled-“why do you want to adopt?”

“I’ve always wanted kids,” my mother said. The voice that came out of her was a new one. Half New York yenta, half British nanny. She sounded like a character invented by a bad actress in a Saturday Night Live skit that would never be heard from again. She threw me an accusatory glance. “But my old man over there only shoots blanks.”

She leaned in to give Ms. Peterson a conspiratorial wink. “When he even makes it past the starting flag, that is. Usually, One Minute Murray finishes before he even enters the race, if you know what I mean.”

If Ms. Peterson ever had nightmares of the kind of woman with whom she’d never want to be in a room, my guess is they featured someone very much like my mother. “I see,” she said, the smile still there but trembling.

“Personally,” my mother said, “I take it as a compliment. When they finish before they even begin? That’s how you know a guy’s really into you.” She paused for a moment. “If not, literally, into you, pardon the pun.”

I wondered if it were true that certain ninja masters and Hindu fakirs could, when required, turn themselves invisible. If so, it was a skill I’d have paid anything for at the moment.

Ms. Peterson smiled. “You two have been together long, then?”

I was sure that question had been answered in our application. I wondered if Ms. Peterson was trying to trip us up, or if she hadn’t bothered to read it.

“Forever!” my mother exclaimed. She glanced over at me. “Almost eight months, right, honey?”

“Urgh,” I answered. Maybe if I appeared incoherent, they’d leave me out of it.

“Eight months?” Ms. Peterson’s grin, for one quick moment, fell. “And you’re ready for a child?”

“Ready?” my mother asked. “ More than ready! When you meet the right man, the one you love, the one you want to spend the rest of your life with, the one you know is too smart to marry you without a prenup, which you wouldn’t sign with a gun to your head but who you know would never not provide for his beloved child, even if it is just adopted, you know it, don’t you, Amy, darling?”

Of all the objectionable, tasteless things my mother had just said, I think calling Ms. Peterson “Amy” was the one that bothered her the most. The smile stayed frozen but the eyes narrowed. I sat forward in my seat, looking forward to being kicked out of there.

“Ah,” Ms. Peterson began, “love. To hear you speak of ‘love’ warms my heart, Ms.”-she glanced at the file on her desk-“Heffelbergen?” She said the name as if she couldn’t believe it, then quickly recovered. “Isn’t that what a family’s about? Love? Where there is love, there is life. That’s what I always say.”

My mother nodded. “But let’s face it, Amy. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”

I was sure my mother noticed how much she did.

“Of course not,” said the grinning skeleton across from us.

“I’m not getting any younger. And I hear that these adoptions can take months. Years even. I don’t have that kind of time, Amy. When you have a big bass floating near your fishing boat,” she darted her eyes at me, “you don’t want to waste too much time baiting the hook. You want to reel that sucker in before some other, younger, prettier boat comes along, if you catch my drift.” She winked conspiratorially.

“Well.” Ms. Peterson smiled, tapping her perfectly rounded nails against the smooth glass of her desk. The clinking noise sounded like coins falling. Pennies from heaven. “These things can take time. There are many, many families looking to adopt. Do you have any conditions? Anything special you’re looking for in a child?”

“Oh, no,” my mother said. “We’d be happy with any baby, wouldn’t we, darling?”

“Rgghtd,” I said.

“As long as he’s white and healthy, we’re fine.” My mother continued. “And he should come from good stock. I don’t want to be raising some hillbilly trash conceived at the drive-in. I’d like him-oh yes, I’m looking for a boy, thank you-I’d like him to resemble us as much as possible, of course. More me, but that’s only because looks are so important, and why not give him every possible advantage in life, no? So, I’d say healthy, white, athletic, good-looking, with birth parents who have at least a college degree. If you could make him tall, that would be great. And, oh yes, green eyes. I love green eyes! Blue in a pinch, though, if supplies are limited.”

You’d have thought she was ordering from a catalog.

To me: “Am I forgetting anything?”

I turned toward her, remembering to get at least one shot of her with my camera tie. “Flrkk,” I said. “Nrffing.”

Ms. Peterson nodded. “I don’t see why we can’t make that happen.” If she had any objection to my mother’s list, she didn’t betray it. Nor did she seem the least unconfident in her ability to determine, at birth, if a child would grow to be athletic, tall, or handsome.

“But,” she said, resuming her fingernail drumbeat, “it is a… oh, I hate to make it sound like this… a competitive market out there. There are many, many loving couples such as yourself who are looking for the kind of child you describe. You have to find a way to make yourself stand out.”

“Anything,” my mother said. “My Murray here has been very successful. He’s what you call a real ‘on top of newer’ businessman.”

Ms. Peterson looked at me to elaborate. I was pretty sure my mother had been going for “entrepreneur,” but I was hardly going to start being helpful now. “Untrependerenter,” I said, with great certainty. “Intervestingstan.”

Ms. Peterson’s eyes stayed on me for another second before blinking twice, rapidly, like an iguana’s. Afraid I may have lost her, I slightly more clearly added, “Ova three hundred milzions. Fuzzbok. Twizter. Goggle.”

That seemed to ease her mind.

“Now, I can’t tell you what to do,” Ms. Peterson said playfully, her lilting tone at war with her pulled-back skin, perfect posture, and insincere expression, “but what we like to do here at Families by Design is put you directly in touch with the birth mothers. Through us, of course. You never actually talk to her. In fact, any direct contact is expressly forbidden.”

And thus, “directly in touch” took on a whole new meaning.

“On your behalf, we handle all the… negotiations. Now, the rules about this kind of thing are very strict. You cannot, under any circumstances, be perceived as trying to ‘buy a baby.’ ” For the first time, Ms. Peterson dropped her smile and looked serious. “That would cause me to lose my license and you to lose your baby. That must never happen. Are we clear on that?”

In the space of a moment, Ms. Peterson had gone from benevolent builder of loving families to mafia hitwoman.

“Who said anything about buying a baby?” my mother asked. “But surely there’s some way to… reward the mothers, yes?”

Ms. Peterson’s smile returned. “I see you’re every bit as clever as I thought,” she beamed. “Yes, according to state law, all you can do is provide basic support to the birth mother during and immediately following her pregnancy.