Therese Fowler - Reunion

“Yes, I’ll hold him,” she said. Meredith cut the umbilical cord and tied it off. She squeezed drops into the infant’s eyes, then wrapped him in a pale yellow receiving blanket and handed him into her arms. He continued to sputter, but it was a half-hearted noise, as if he knew some sound was expected but really didn’t want to make any further fuss. He’d be a good baby, she could tell already.

When the placenta was out and the contractions had subsided, stitches were put in, plastic bags filled and tied and placed in the cardboard box that Meredith had put by the door. Meredith picked up the box and left the room, saying she’d be back in a few minutes. “We’ll do the paperwork, and then … I’ll be needing to go .”

After the door closed, Bat smoothed the baby’s damp hair and traced his eyebrows with one finger. “You have to keep him. Don’t you want to keep him? God, he’s so … I don’t know. I mean, wow! ”

Harmony Blue recognized the feverish look in her friend’s eyes. Speed, probably. She looked away, back to the purity, the innocence of the tiny boy in her arms. “He deserves better .”

Meredith had quizzed her on her drug use when they’d met two months ago. How often? How much? She had backed off once she realized she was pregnant, she truly had, even as she’d still felt the need to disappear from herself. “Not too much,” was the answer she’d given Meredith, “and nothing really, you know, bad.” Nothing from a needle. She’d heard of AIDS, she said—only to have Meredith look at her side ways .

“ You know about AIDS, but not condoms? ”

Guilty .

The baby seemed to be studying her. What did he see? Was her face, with its narrow nose and wide mouth and olive skin that tanned so quickly, being stored in his memory, so that if he saw her one day he would know? Would she know him? Not that such a meeting would happen: the adopting parents, whom she’d spoken with twice before making her decision, lived far from Chicago. They said they were West Coast people who had tried every fertility treatment medical science had to offer. They seemed caring and kind—she’d thought so even just seeing the Polaroid Meredith had given her before they’d spoken, anonymously of course. Meredith the matchmaker. To the couple, she had given two photos of Harmony Blue: a close-up and a side view—to prove she was seven months along, she supposed. At forty and forty-three, the parents-to-be were a little older than she might have chosen, all things considered—but that was why they were using a law firm, and Meredith: no agency would approve them. They had money though, so why not use it to help out a troubled young woman and fulfill their single most important dream? Their compassion and their money meant this child would never suffer for her weakness .

She whispered to him, “Never .”

They’d told her to take her time deciding—at least a day or two after the birth, so she would be sure she was making the right choice for her, and them. But, having finally made her decision, she’d told Meredith she wanted to get it over with quickly. She was strong, but not that strong .

Soon the front door opened again. She could see Meredith shake out her umbrella then pull it inside and prop it by the door. Terrible weather for a first trip out into the world, but children were resilient, her grandmother had always said so .

Wiping her shoes, Meredith reached into her trench coat’s right pocket. She crossed the front room and came into the bedroom, saying, “Where do you want me to put this? ”

The envelope was so fat that a rubber band had to bind it. All twenties? The baby pushed a foot against her ribs reflexively, same as he’d done for months, only on the inside .

She shook her head. “I told you: no money .”

“ And I told you, you need it. Take it.” Meredith’s eyes were sympathetic. “Consider it payment for the hard work you just did for this family. Consider it a scholarship fund .”

“ Take it,” Bat said .

She kissed the baby’s downy head, letting her lips linger as if to imprint herself on him. He wouldn’t remember her, not really. Thank God he wouldn’t. Except in some quiet piece of his soul, where he would know she loved him .

“ Have them start a savings account, with the money .”

Meredith came over and squatted next to her. “He’ll have a savings account already. And everything else he needs. Don’t be foolish .”

“ Too late .”

Meredith watched her for a moment, then sighed and put the money in her pocket. “We’ll talk about it again later. Let’s do the paperwork .”

She would not remember, in the years to come, much of what was on the forms she signed. She would remember instead the warm weight of the infant in the crook of her arm, the vision she conjured of the new parents’ joy when Meredith delivered the baby for the second time .

Meredith tucked the papers into a folder and set them aside. She asked Bat, “Do you want to go over the care instructions once more? ”

“ No, it’s cool, both of you can count on me .”

“ All right then,” Meredith said, turning back to the girl. “Supplies are in the bag. I’ll check on you later tonight. Meanwhile, use cold packs for your breasts if needed, and Tylenol every four hours. You’ll be sore all over —”

“ I know. Take him .”

Meredith reached for her free hand, held it while she said, “Now I know what you told me, and I know we’ve signed the forms, but until I leave you can still change your —”

“ Take him .”

“ All right then,” Meredith said, reaching for the child. “It’s a good decision. I want you to know that .”

She could only nod .

Empty. Her arms, her belly. Now, quickly, she had to empty her mind, too, or be destroyed. Teeth clenched, she watched Meredith diaper the infant, watched her wrap him in a heavier blanket and put a cap on his head, watched her put him to her shoulder, watched her grab the file and leave the room and grasp the front door’s knob. Meredith didn’t look back; she’d done this before .

The door closed, and it was over .

Part I

I do not like the man who squanders life for fame; give me the man who living makes a name .

Emily Dickinson

Chapter One

In Chicago, the snow was falling so hard that, although quite a few pedestrians saw the woman standing on the fire escape nine stories up, none were sure they recognized her. At first the woman leaned against the railing and looked down, as if calculating the odds of death from such a height. After a minute or two, though, when she hadn’t climbed the rail but had instead stepped back from it, most people who’d noticed her continued on their ways. She didn’t look ready to jump, so why keep watching? And how about this snow, they said. What the hell? It wasn’t supposed to snow like this in spring!