Dana Corbit - On the Doorstep

Polycystic ovarian disease. It sounded so complicated, but it was really just a fancy term for a combination of irregular cycles and ovarian cysts that could add up to infertility. Though it was still just a possible diagnosis, to Pilar it felt like a death sentence, at least for the future she’s always imagined.

She wouldn’t know anything for sure until the ultrasound her doctor had scheduled for Tuesday, but she worked in the adoption business. She understood the prospects. And the possibility hanging heavily over her heart was that even if she found a man to love, there was a chance she could never have his children.

Her nose burned and her vision blurred, but Pilar fought back her tears. She needed to push aside her worries and focus on her job. The coffee wouldn’t put itself on, and the Newlins would expect her to be there for their first interview later that morning.

She took a few deep breaths and found some tentative control. Grateful for the comfort of routine, she parked a few buildings past the agency office and back-tracked. A gust of wind fluttered her bangs and whipped her long black ponytail over her shoulder. She crossed her arms over her blouse, wishing she’d worn a sweater.

With her gaze on the sidewalk cracks, instead of the narrow former bank building that for thirty-five years had housed Tiny Blessings, she mentally ticked off a list of her other duties before the big Labor Day weekend. A home visit to schedule. An introduction to plan between prospective adoptive parents and a darling toddler with special needs.

“Lord, please help me not to be distracted from my work today,” she whispered when her thoughts flitted back to her own needs. Reflexively, she pressed her hand against her lower abdomen, as if she could protect the fragile organs inside. The minor cramps that had brought her into the doctor’s office in the first place squeezed again, taunting her.

“Please help me to stay focused,” she restated, knowing full well she should have been praying for healing or at least acceptance of God’s will.

That she couldn’t manage more than that today only frustrated her more. She’d never had patience for weakness in herself, and she wasn’t about to go soft now just because she had an upcoming appointment at the hospital.

If she’d been looking up from the sidewalk, she might have seen it sooner, but Pilar was already halfway up the walk before she noticed what looked like a giant lidded picnic basket resting on the building’s wide porch.

She jerked to a stop. Images of ticking explosives and chemical contaminants fluttered in her mind’s eye, before her good sense returned. She’d been watching too many television action shows. This was Chestnut Grove, she had to remember. Until a few months ago, she could have referred to her city as a real-life Mayberry, until her own agency’s horrible discovery of falsified birth records. That was inexcusable. Still, bombs and other big-city mayhem hadn’t taken the bus out to Richmond’s suburbs yet.

To be safe, Pilar approached the basket slowly, tilting her head and listening for any tick-tick-tick. At first, there was only silence. She snickered. Who did she think she was? Some Sydney Bristow Alias wanna-be without the cool disguises and martial arts moves? Her bomb-deactivating skills would probably be wasted on a gift basket from grateful adoptive parents. They occasionally received baskets, though usually during office hours.

Just when she’d gathered the courage to come close and lean over the basket, a strange grunting sound had her jerking her hand back. She listened again and heard the same grunting, human sound.

“Oh dear.” The words fell from her lips as she lifted the lid. A pair of bright blue eyes stared at her from a little pink face. Pilar didn’t move. She couldn’t. Seconds must have ticked by, but time stalled in a crystal vacuum as the baby’s unblinking gaze and Pilar’s frozen stare connected.

Strange how the child wasn’t upset, but content, swaddled in a receiving blanket and resting in a nest made of an expensive-looking blanket. But then a louder-pitched grunt splintered the silence as tiny feet kicked against the covering. The perfect round face scrunched and reddened.

“Oh, you poor little thing.” Finally able to move again, Pilar dropped her purse and keys and crouched next to the basket. Carefully, she lifted out the baby and loosened the blue receiving blanket that had a race-car pattern. Since the sleeper beneath the blanket was also blue, she assumed the baby was a boy. “How could anyone have left you here like this?”

Her sudden movement and her voice must have startled him because he jerked his hands and kicked his feet. Still, he didn’t cry. Warmth spread from the small bundle through Pilar’s blouse and into her heart. For several seconds she cradled the child, her body automatically rocking to a silent lullaby.

Pilar drew the side of her thumb down a perfectly formed jaw, the skin satiny beneath her touch. How pale his cheek appeared against her golden skin tone.

Instinctively, the baby turned his head toward the source of stimulation and worked his mouth in search of a meal. Pilar shifted him to her shoulder and stood.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Can’t help you with that. But I am going to help you.”

Balancing him against her, she crouched for her keys and unlocked the door. She rushed inside, rattled in a way that was so unlike her.

When she reached her desk, she rested her hand on the phone and hesitated. “Call the police and emergency workers first. Then Social Services. Or is it Social Services first?”

Did she really expect the baby to answer? She shook her head, both to answer the ridiculous question and to pull herself together. She could do this. Even if she did work for a private agency rather than Social Services, she still was familiar with laws concerning abandoned children. She’d just never seen one close-up before.

The first newborn wail came as Pilar dialed 911. The pitiful, hungry cry cut straight to her heart, making her feel helpless. She refused to give in to it. Maybe she couldn’t meet all of the baby’s needs at this moment, but she would do everything she could for him.

Over the noise, she communicated the major details: abandoned live infant, appeared healthy, found at Tiny Blessings Adoption Agency. After she hung up the phone, having been assured that help was on the way, Pilar lowered herself into her office chair.

The baby, though, would have none of it. He continued to protest until Pilar popped back up and started pacing. She walked, she swayed and she rocked. But nothing pacified him until, desperate, she washed her hand and popped her index finger into his mouth. As she moved him into a reclining position, he suckled greedily, still too new to understand he didn’t have the real thing.

He was so perfect, a tiny bundle from God that someone didn’t have the wisdom to recognize. She would have recognized the gift, would have had the good sense to cherish it.

As she touched his tiny hand, the baby grasped her index finger. Her chest ached. Her eyes filled. It was only another reflex, she reminded herself. He hadn’t chosen her and grabbed hold of her. Somehow, though, it still felt as if he had, as if an infant young enough to only differentiate comfort from discomfort had picked her, had placed his future in her hands.

For a blip of a moment, she imagined them as more than foundling and rescuer. In that stolen, secret moment, she was just a regular mother caring for her beautiful son.

In the distance, a siren fractured the silence, bringing her back to the real world where some people abandoned their children, while others only dreamed of a child to hold.

The child dozed in her arms, still sucking occasionally on her finger. The image was so precious and melancholy at the same time. A postcard for a place she probably would never see for herself. She wished— No, it didn’t matter what she wished. She had no business letting the tale unfold in her thoughts, developing it like a play with costumes, scenery and makeup. Coveting was sinful.