C Box: Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

Finally, she said, “Let’s adopt.”

We really didn’t discuss it. I trusted her judgment, and adoption is a good thing. And I had my wife back, and the clouds that had been building for years in our lives broke up and sunlight poured through.

Julie Perala at the agency explained to us that there were three kinds of adoption: international, closed, and open. We chose open. But there were levels of openness as well, from meeting the birth mother (our preference) to agreeing on visitation with the birth mother and her family.

The birth mother was a fifteen-year-old named Brittany. She was pale, freckled, and slightly overweight even before the pregnancy. Every other word from her was “like,” as in, “I’m, like, gaining weight,” or “It’s, like, a drag to get morning sickness.” The reasons she gave the agency for choosing us included the fact that we were fairly young, childless, and we looked “calm” and “outdoorsy.” We overlooked Brittany’s arrogance at times. She knew she had what Melissa wanted. Brittany was fertile, and she assumed Melissa wasn’t, so she took on a superior air. Once, though, when Melissa left the room, I leaned toward Brittany and said, “It isn’t her. It’s me .”

Even though, frankly, with our unexplained infertility it was most likely both of us somehow. But I didn’t tell Brittany that.

Terms regarding adoption are something we’re both sensitive about now, especially Melissa. Often, the wrong thing is said in all innocence, but it can cut deeply. For example, Brittany is the birth mother, not the “real” mother or the “natural” mother or the “biological” mother. Melissa is Angelina’s mother. Period. Brittany didn’t “give her baby up for adoption,” she placed the baby with adoptive parents. People have a natural instinct to pry. I try not to hold that against them when they ask, “Where did she get those dark eyes?” (since mine are blue and Melissa’s are green) or “Her hair is so thick and dark!” when mine is reddish brown and Melissa’s is light brown. We’d learned to answer, vaguely, “It runs in the family.” We weren’t lying. We just weren’t saying whose family.

In retrospect, we could have asked more questions about the birth father. But we were assured by the agency and from Melissa’s discussions with Brittany that the boy was no longer in the picture. Brittany wouldn’t even say his name other than to call him “Sperm Boy” and say he refused to take her calls. She never mentioned that he was out of the country, which led us to believe she hadn’t known where he was. He meant nothing to her, she told Melissa. She’d been drunk and in the backseat of Sperm Boy’s nice car. One thing led to another.

Angelina turned six, seven, and eight months old. She was healthy, cheerful, loving. She began to form the words “Ma” and “Da.” She loved Harry, our old black Lab and my last carryover from bachelorhood, who began to sleep under her crib to protect her. Everything was right with the world.

Then it wasn’t.

THERE IS AN ABSOLUTE irredeemable beauty to pure routine, for if there wasn’t, I’m not sure we could have gotten through that evening when I finally got home.

We ate, I’m sure.

We might have watched television.

I do remember halfheartedly playing with Angelina on the floor. She loved her Fisher-Price barn set. Angelina got all of the other animals as well as the farmer and his wife, and I was the cow and the cow only. Angelina’s menagerie spent all of their time telling the cow what to do. The cow spent all of his (her?) time trying to make Angelina laugh. But my heart wasn’t in it.

I also remember a disjointed, fierce “They’ll never take her away” discussion Melissa and I had. We were in the midst of it when Melissa walked over to the telephone in the kitchen and hung it up on the receiver to check and see if there were any more messages. I watched her eyes widen and her mouth purse, and she pressed the speaker button.

The voice was male, mature, and sympathetic:

“Jack and Melissa, I hate to place this call. This is Judge John Moreland. I know you’re aware of why I’m calling and believe me, this is just about as difficult for me as it is for you. No one ever in his or her life expects to be in a situation like this. For that I am deeply, deeply sorry. But I hope you appreciate the situation my family has found ourselves in as well. Angelina is our first granddaughter, and my son’s child. I assume you are checking messages, even though you aren’t picking up the phone. We will be at your house tomorrow at 11:00 A.M. Don’t worry-we’re coming simply to meet you and to talk. There’s no reason to panic or overreact. It’ll be a conversation among adults who find themselves in a bitterly tough situation through no fault of their own.”

Melissa and I exchanged glances. I could see relief flood into her face, and her shoulders relaxed.

Then he said: “The county sheriff is aware of my visit tomorrow. I’m sorry I had to contact him, but I thought it best for all concerned-especially the baby-that our meeting be under the auspices of the authorities. Don’t worry-he won’t be with us. But he’ll be available if the situation turns sour. Not that I expect it to. I admire and respect you both. And I think a reasonable solution to our dilemma is at hand. I hope you’ll hear me out, and I hope you will welcome our visit.

“God bless and good night, and we’ll see you tomorrow.” Click .

THAT NIGHT, as we lay in bed not sleeping, I slid out of the bed and padded over to the closet. On the top shelf of our closet, hidden by a ball of loose old clothing, was my grandfather’s single-action Colt.45 Peacemaker revolver. The Gun that Won the West. I wish I could say he gave it to me in some kind of intergenerational ceremony loaded with symbolism and meaning, but the fact is I stole it while I helped my father move Grandpa from his house in White Sulfur Springs to a nursing home in Billings. He never knew it was missing and never asked about it at the time. Later, as he slipped deeper into dementia, the nurses said he called out for his weapon, but they had no intention of locating it for him.

The revolver was blunt and heavy, with a six-inch barrel. It was loaded with five ancient cartridges. The firing pin rested on an empty cylinder to prevent accidents. The handgrip was made of ash, polished smooth by years of handling. The cylinder was rubbed clean of blueing from being drawn and put back into a leather holster hundreds of times.

“What are you doing?” Melissa asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

ON SUNDAY, MELISSA LOOKED both beautiful and scared. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks I’d always found girl-like and attractive. Her hair was shoulder length and the cut sophisticated. She’d spent hours wondering what to wear, trying on outfit after outfit to find a combination that would give her confidence and strength. She’d agonized over whether to wear panty hose but decided against it. She’d chosen a simple white sleeveless top, a sweater, and beige skirt. Her legs looked long, firm, and tan. She wanted to look nice, but not too nice. Not so nice that the birth father would hold it against her, she said.

I wore jeans, a dress shirt that showed some wear, and a navy blazer. Nice but not too nice. Melissa had asked me to change from my old cowboy boots to loafers, saying she didn’t want them to think me a redneck. When it comes to such matters, I learned long ago to defer. I think that deferring is one of the secrets to a happy marriage.

Angelina was in a white ruffled dress with red polka dots. She looked like a doll-jet-black hair, creamy skin, chubby cheeks, and those startling dark eyes. I loved it that our new baby loved me, and looked at me without a hint of what was going on around her, about her.