hadn’t been.
“Happy accidents” was what her mother had liked to call her and her sister, even after they had little to be happy about. When the girls reached puberty, the refrain became, “Just don’t imagine I’d be able to raise yours. We can barely afford ourselves and, though God knows I try, I am not as capable as my mother.” That would be their grandmother, Kate, who’d helped raise them. Until she died, and then they’d had to for the most part raise themselves.
“Oh my god, oh my god.” Bat leaned over to watch the baby emerging, still squeezing her friend’s hand. “Oh my god! You did it! Jesus! Check him out! It’s a boy!”
A son. Good. Everyone wanted a son. He’d be especially loved by his parents. He was from questionable stock, but the adopting parents didn’t care. It was enough for them that he be white and healthy—he was healthy, just look at him, listen to that cry!—and free of complications. Meredith had assured her that this way was best, no strings for any of them. As soon as the adoption paperwork was filed and finalized, the original birth certificate would be sealed away, accessible only by court order. She would own her future again, free and clear, as if he had never happened. No strings, no trail.
Meredith would be back later, and tomorrow, and again, if needed, in the weeks to come. Post-partum was the word she’d used. Any trouble and Harmony Blue was to call the number she’d called when her labor began, and Meredith would come. “If it isn’t an emergency, don’t go to the ER,” the midwife had said.
Bat had nodded as though she, too, was wise, and said, “Not unless you want to have to answer a lot of questions.”
She didn’t. Not any. Ever.
“Not unless she wants to wait all day,” Meredith said.
Now Meredith held the baby up, one hand beneath his buttocks, one beneath his head. “Do you want to hold him?”
“I do!” Bat said.
Harmony Blue struggled to sit upright. The pain was a shadow now, the way her belly was a shadow of what it had been just moments before. Her belly. Round but no longer bulging. A cantaloupe instead of a watermelon, and why was she thinking of fruit? Would the tiny thing, sputtering there in the midwife’s hands, that red-faced creature with blood drying on his newborn skin, would he love fruit the way she did? Would his parents one day tempt him with fresh pineapple and find he took to it like a duck to bugs? Her grandma, Kate, had always said that, like a duck to bugs.
Would he have her brown eyes, her slender fingers? Would he love to play Scrabble the way she once had? Before, in that other life that now seemed as far away as Sirius. Sirius was the brightest star, the most hopeful point of light in the sky. She had wished on it so often. Had begun, for a time, to believe she’d been heard.
“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
