Last night, in her dream, the woman holding her hand had been Angie.
Lauren sat down in the big old oak rocker on the porch. The curved seat seemed made for her. She sighed in comfort. She’d have to tell Angie that this would be a great place to rock the baby to sleep at night. That way she (Lauren always thought of the baby as a girl) would grow up listening to the sea. Lauren believed that would have made a difference in her life, being rocked to sleep, listening to the surf instead of neighbors fighting and cigarettes being lit.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said to her unborn baby, who kicked in response.
She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The gentle rocking motion was so soothing. Already today she needed that.
This was going to be a difficult day. One in which her whole life seemed to be trapped in a tiny rearview mirror. On this day last year, she’d gone to the beach with her friends. The guys had played football and hacky sack while the girls soaked up the sun, wearing tiny bikinis and sunglasses. When night fell, they built a bonfire and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and listened to music. She’d felt so safe in David’s arms that night, so certain of her place beside him in the world. She’d only just begun to worry that they’d go to different colleges. In one year she’d gone from child to woman. She hoped there was a way to go back again. When she gave her baby to Angie and Conlan, Lauren would—
She couldn’t quite finish that thought. It happened that way more and more often lately, this onset of panic. It wasn’t the adoption. Lauren had no doubt that she’d made the right choice and no doubt that she’d follow through with it. The problem came after that.
She was a smart girl. She’d grilled the adoption counselor and the guardian ad litem they’d appointed for her. She’d asked every question that popped into her mind. She’d even gone to the library and read about open adoptions. They were better than the old closed adoptions—from her perspective, anyway—because she could still hear about her child’s growth. Pictures. Artwork. Letters. Even the occasional visit was the norm in these new adoptions.
But the one thing all adoptions had in common finally, at the end of the day, was this: The birth mother went on with her life.
Alone.
This was the future that haunted Lauren. She’d found a home here with Angie and Conlan, a family in the DeSarias. The thought of losing that, of being alone in the world again, was almost more than she could bear. But sooner or later she would be alone again. David would go off to college, her mother was gone, and Angie and Conlan would hardly want Lauren hanging around once they’d adopted the baby. Some things in life had a natural order that was obvious to everyone. Good-bye birth mother was one of those things.
She sighed deeply, stroking her distended stomach. What mattered was her baby’s happiness, and Angie’s. That was what she needed to remember.
Behind her, the screen door screeched open and banged shut. “You’re up early,” Angie said, coming up beside her, placing a warm hand on Lauren’s shoulder.
“Have you ever tried to sleep on top of a watermelon? That’s what it’s like.”
Angie sat down on the slatted porch swing. The metal chains clanked and squeaked at her weight.
Lauren remembered a moment too late that Angie knew how it felt.
Silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of the waves below. It would have been easy—familiar—to close her eyes and lean back and pretend everything was okay. That’s what she’d been doing for the past month. They all focused on the now because the future was frightening. But their time for pretense was running out. “My due date is only a few weeks away,” she said, as if Angie didn’t know that. “The books say you’re supposed to be nesting. Maybe we should have a baby shower.”
Angie sighed. “I’ve nested plenty, Lauren. And I’ve got lots of baby things.”
“You’re afraid, aren’t you? You think something will be wrong with the baby, like Sophie?”
“Oh, no,” Angie said quickly. “Sophie was born too early; that’s all. I’m sure your baby is strong and healthy.”
“You mean your baby,” Lauren said. “We should turn my room into the nursery. I’ve seen all those boxes in the laundry room. How come you haven’t unpacked them?”
“There’s time.”
“I could start—”
“No.” Angie seemed to realize how sharply she’d spoken. It was practically a yell. She smiled weakly. “I can’t think about decorating yet. It’s too early.”
Lauren saw the fear in Angie’s eyes and suddenly it all clicked into place. “The other girl. She decorated the nursery with you.”
“Sarah,” Angie said, her voice almost lost in the sounds of early summer—the surf, the shore breezes, the bird-song. A pair of wind chimes clanged together, sounding like church bells.