And she is horrified by the disappointment she sometimes feels, alternating with a helpless, almost violent love for her boy. So what if he isn’t normal? she admonishes herself. Had she borne a child only to watch him succeed at the endeavors she values? Would she only prize a child who was like other people’s children?
Elliot’s features are delicate, symmetrical. The bridge of his nose is broad and thoughtful-seeming, but his hair is bran-colored and feral. Even when she manages to wrestle a comb through, it splits back into scrappy chunks. Her son pats his head compulsively while eating, so that his hair collects the juices of ham and salami and, by the end of the day, smells like a trash can. She is sorry to leave him each morning—she feels a cavity open in her chest as she kisses his indifferent head and closes the door—but once she is moving, once the terror of the train’s velocity, the panic of physical distance, has diminished, her disorientation recedes and is replaced by a kind of light and floating relief. She closes her eyes. She goes to work.
This month’s book selection is about an Ethiopian orphan adopted by Iowans. Suzanne has gotten through only twenty pages of it, but dresses in anticipation of the evening’s meeting, to be hosted by Madeleine Gaines next door. She chooses a fawn-colored sheath with red slingback sandals. No accessories: just a stroke of ruby lipstick and an elastic for her hair. She girds herself for what she might encounter next door, what clutter or unseemliness—and is surprised to enter a house that is clean, sparsely furnished, nondescript. There is a mirrored console table in the entrance hall, imitation art deco. No one greets her at the door. Mingling voices lead her to the sunken living room, where women huddle near a card table with glasses of sangria. Madeleine herself shuttles to and from the kitchen, bringing out appetizer forks and little stacks of paper napkins.
Suzanne greets the other women and surveys the hors d’oeuvre table. Limp prosciutto rolls, pucks of bruschetta, stuffed mushrooms still on the baking sheet. As Suzanne pours herself sangria, a clump of messy fruit splashes into her glass. Sangria is a nice idea, but will never be as elegant as clean white wine.
“You know, I have to say, I feel bad for the children,” April Carlson remarks, when they are all sitting. “I know they’re lucky to escape Africa, I know things would have been worse for them there, but I can’t help thinking how hard it must be to look so different from their adoptive families.”
April is fresh and blond, in clam diggers and espadrilles, though it is barely Memorial Day. It is clear, just from hearing her glass-chime voice, that she has no real worries to speak of. But it is impossible to be sure. All these women guard the details of their lives. Like surfacing whales, they arch their smooth rounds only briefly into view. The great bulks remain underwater. Once a month, they appear, breathe one another in, then dive again. There are alcoholic husbands, certainly. There are prescription drugs, cosmetic surgeries, eating disorders. There must be shames in this room dark or darker than Suzanne’s own.
The women nod at April’s comment, some tightening their mouths as if in contemplation. Leanne Vogel tells of a friend with an adopted Chinese daughter, the quizzical looks they receive from supermarket cashiers. There is a general murmur. Swiftly, the discussion shifts to same-sex parenting, then to gay marriage, then to tax evasion.
When the conversation begins to splinter, the women rise and chatter, moving sinuously through the room in groups of two and three. Suzanne approaches Madeleine, who is standing with two other women. It is not difficult to insert herself here, and when she does, the other women shrink away. Alone with Madeleine, she begins with questions about the baby: How has she been sleeping? Are you still nursing? She adopts a tone of sisterly experience, but the truth is that the early days of Elliot’s infancy feel as distant to her as something she has dreamed. Madeleine responds in a choppy fashion, nervously alert, running her fingers through her hair as if dislodging loose strands.
Suzanne lingers with Madeleine. Before she can weigh the wisdom of it, she hears herself asking, “What does your husband do?”
Madeleine smiles strangely and glances to the side. “Well, he just changed careers, actually. He worked in advertising for years, but now he’s started a business of his own.”
“Oh? What sort of business?”
She pauses. “A kind of holistic healing business, I guess you could say. Traditional medicine.” Madeleine flushes. “It’s something new for him.”
Suzanne feels herself staring. “Eastern medicine, like acupuncture?”
“Not exactly.” Madeleine trails off. “It’s hard to explain.” Her eyes dart to the side. “Excuse me,” she mumbles, “I have to say good-bye to someone.”