A Mother's Goodbye

‘Yes.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘I’ll tell them after I make partner.’ Once I have that security, everything will feel simpler. I’ll celebrate, then. I’ll bring in a cake.

Joanne sits back. ‘I’m surprised,’ she says after a moment. ‘I thought you didn’t have that biological clock.’

‘I’m not sure I do.’

‘Then…?’

‘It’s deeper than that. Bigger. You know about my dad…’ I’d texted her after the funeral, and Joanne had sent flowers, a beautiful, big bouquet.

‘I know. I’m sorry, Grace.’

‘I want a family. I want to give a child something of what my dad gave to me.’

‘That’s very noble.’

‘Not really.’ I try for a laugh. ‘It just feels… compelling. And right. I need to do this.’

She sighs, the sound of someone washing their hands after having given their advice. ‘If this is what you really want, then I say go for it. But is it what you want? Because, to me, you just sound lonely.’

I am lonely, but that isn’t the whole story.

‘Maybe you just want a boyfriend?’ Joanne suggests. ‘Or a dog?’

I try for another laugh; they’re hard to come by. ‘Those are two very different things.’

‘But they serve the same purpose,’ she answers with a smile. ‘It’s just that a kid is a big investment, you know? Lifetime commitment, and all that. And if you decide in a couple of months or a year or whatever that you weren’t actually up for this parenting thing…’

‘I wouldn’t.’ My face burns; does she think I’m that shallow, that selfish? That I’d hand my child back? ‘Look, I’m being honest here. I know I’m not maternal, not really. I barely remember my own mom, at least before she got sick.’ My throat is tight again and I take a long swallow of whiskey, savoring the burn of alcohol at the back of my throat. ‘But I’ve thought a lot about this. I don’t want to just live for my work any more, or even just for myself. And I’ve done the research. I want this baby.’

Joanne nods slowly. ‘So you have one in mind? How does it even work?’

I explain to her about Open Hearts and Heather. ‘The baby’s due in May,’ I finish, my voice filled with prid

e. ‘A little girl.’

‘And she can’t change her mind? You read about that, you know? It’s so sad for the adoptive parents. They just get this baby they’ve loved and cared for yanked away from them without, like, a second’s warning.’

‘She can change her mind,’ I say, ‘but she won’t.’ I think of Tina warning me about this delicate situation, of Heather at the ultrasound, trying on clothes, the sad, pensive look she gets on her face sometimes. ‘She won’t,’ I say again and this time I sound like I am trying to convince myself.

Nine

HEATHER

In the middle of February, when I am twenty-four weeks pregnant, I decide it’s time to tell everybody. My belly has started to pop, and I can feel the baby move, real kicks that I savor even though I feel like I shouldn’t, each little flutter a reminder. I’m here. I’m yours. Except she’s not, and everybody needs to realize that, including me.

That afternoon at that swanky boutique felt like a turning point, from the what-if to the inevitable. When Grace handed me three hundred dollars in cash, it felt as if we’d shaken hands on a business deal. There was no going back, even if, somewhere in the foggy reaches of my mind, I had imagined there was. If Kev got a job. If we found a new house, or a pot of gold, something. That tempting, treacherous if.

Taking that money stomped it right out, which was a good thing. There’s no point thinking in ifs. Not anymore.

When I got back home Kevin was out for once, at a meeting with the union lawyer, to see if he could claim unemployment while he looked for a job. I laid out all the fancy maternity clothes on the bed, making sure their price tags were showing, and then I took photos. Within an hour, before the girls had got home from school and with Lucy tuned into PBS Kids, I had them up on eBay and the bidding had already started. In the end I got nine hundred dollars for everything but the jeans and lacy top that I kept, just in case Grace expected to see me in something she’d bought. I also kept the yoga pants, because of all the stuff, I might actually wear them. And I tried not to feel guilty, because nine hundred dollars will pay our rent for another month. I need that a lot more than I need a fancy shirt with a big bow on it.

I’d just bundled the clothes away when Emma and Amy came running in from the bus, complaining they were hungry, as always, and Amy whining that the strap on her other shoe had broken. I stared at those battered, duct-taped shoes and for once I smiled.

‘You know what we’re going to do, Amy?’

Amy looked at me warily. ‘What?’

‘We’re going to get you a new pair from Payless.’