My mother looks unconvinced. “Will there be any boundaries ?”
Tony says, “This agency is really great, Vera. They help you set up an individualized plan and guidelines for visits, letters, and phone calls. We’re working on those details But it’s clear that we want the same thing as Amber. She wants to see him a few times a year, not be over here every day or anything like that. She wants to go on and have her own life.”
“Yes, but what will you tell your son?” my mother asks. “Won’t this whole thing confuse him?”
I am’ struck by the irony of such an unorthodox mother being so thrown off kilter by an untraditional arrangement. I can tell by Maura’s expression that she is thinking the same thing. But Daphne remains patient. She says, “Think about it, Mother. If an aunt or uncle or grandmother is a part of a child’s life, is he confused?”
“No” my mother says.
Tony cuts her off. “Well, those people are blood related, too But there’s no confusion, you know?”
My mother nods.
“Your parents are your parents. Kids know who their parents are And the whole point of an open adoption is that the birth mother supports that. She chose us . Amber wouldn’t want to ruin her own plan by interfering in our son’s life.”
Daphne finishes by saying, “A child’s birth family is a part of who he is Whether we knew Amber or not, that would be the case. And we want our son to know her. We think this will be best for everyone I know it might sound weird in theory, but once you meet Amber, you’ll see that this is right for everyone involved.”
I know what Daphne means about this statement. About how something can feel one way in theory and a very different way when you apply it to your own life and the people who comprise your life. I think of several examples of this phenomenon right here at the table Maybe in theory my sisters and I, and even my father, should hate my mother, but we don’t. We tolerate, even love her, in spite of herself Maybe in theory, a woman should leave a man who cheats on her. But in Maura’s case, this might not be the right answer Maybe in theory I didn’t want children. Maybe I still don’t. But as I watch my sister and Tony gaze at each other, I think of what it would feel like to be back with Ben and expecting a baby. Our baby. And for the very first time in my entire life, I actually almost want one.
* * *
thirty-one
Daphne tries to convince me to spend Thanksgiving night at her house, but I tell her I have too much work to do. The truth is I just want to be alone to continue my pity-fest in solitude. So over the next three days I do just that. I wallow in what if and what could have been and what will never be .
At some point every day, I shower and brush my teeth but that is the extent of my grooming. I order food in, the greasier the better. I drown in wine, opening bottles before dark. I listen to sad songs, or happy ones that remind me of Ben and, therefore, might as well be sad songs. I read old journals. I comb through all of our photo albums and boxes stuffed full of playbills and ticket stubs and casual notes we left on the kitchen counter for each other. Things as simple as: Be back in an hour. Love, Ben . I relive all of our memories, dwelling the longest and hardest on small, intimate, seemingly inconsequential moments. The sort of moments I thought Ben and I would never run out of.
I don’t answer the phone and don’t leave the apartment at all until Sunday afternoon. The local news and the view outside my window let me know that it’s chilly and damp, but I still forgo gloves or a scarf or a hat, wearing only a sherpa-lined jean jacket. As the heavy, prewar apartment door swings behind me, I inhale the cold. It hurts and feels good at once. I have no destination in mind so I just wander the virtually empty city streets until I find myself on a bench in Washington Square Park. At a nearby table, two old men play chess. They look like brothers, but perhaps I just think all old men look alike. In any event, they are the mirror image of each other, both with the same thick, mottled hands, drab-brown messenger caps, and black orthopedic shoes pointing out and away from their folding chairs. I know only the basics of chess, how each piece is allowed to move, but I pretend to contemplate their strategy. I frown and nod as if to say, “Ahh. Nice one. You’ve got him now!” They ignore their audience of one, which makes me feel as invisible as air and even more desolate. An hour seems to pass before one man finally chalks up a silent victory, not even uttering the word checkmate .