A Necessary End (12 page)

I
knock on Principal Jorgenson's door and then readjust my wrap dress. It's form-fitting but with no cleavage. I dressed carefully today.

“Yes?” she says. Not “Come in.” Nothing welcoming.

I push open the door and give her my Splenda smile. “Do you have a minute?”

She closes her laptop, with obvious reluctance.

I sit across from her. On the bookshelves behind her desk, she's got her various diplomas and certificates framed and arrayed. There are also a ton of plants, the kind with explosive sprouting leaves, like eighties Tina Turner hair. She has no art or framed photos, nothing to suggest a personality lurking beneath her troll exterior. I notice that even though she's sitting way forward on her wooden desk chair, only her tippy-toes make contact with the floor.

“I need to talk to you,” I say, “about my maternity leave.”

She casts a pointed look down at my flat belly. “How far along?” Not “Congratulations.” Nothing warm.

“Sorry, I should probably have said ‘paid family leave.' Six
weeks to bond with my new baby, after the adoption.” I don't bother to explain the intricacies of my arrangement with Leah. I might need Hal to help me with paperwork that would satisfy the district, since there won't be the usual adoption paperwork for a year. For all intents and purposes, that baby will be mine. Everything else is just semantics. “Once the paid family leave runs out, I'd like to take my FMLA through the end of the school year. I realize that's unpaid.”

“Through the end of
this
school year?” Her eyes narrow slightly in calculation as I nod. “When is the mother due?”

“She's thirty-seven weeks now.”

“Out of how many?” Principal Jorgenson doesn't have any kids of her own, but I thought everyone knew the answer to this one. Or she's baiting me, because there's some regulation that says I was supposed to ask for my maternity leave four weeks in advance, or six. She'd know all the regulations. She's that type. She's a pointillist, where I'm an impressionist.

“Forty.”

How can her quiet be so disquieting? Maybe I shouldn't have sent the e-mail out to notify the parents already. What if the troll actually says no?

Then I'll go anyway. I'm sure the union will have my back, but even if they don't, I'm going. That baby is the most important thing in my life, and this could be my first chance to prove it.

“I'm really sorry to be missing the end of the school year,” I finally say when I can't take the silence anymore. “I love the end of the year, how they've gone from these tentative kids to little citizens. You know?” I smile, but either she doesn't know or she won't give me the satisfaction of an assent. I have this tight feeling in my chest, out of nowhere, and it reminds me of being a little girl again, wanting my mom to approve of me, knowing she never will.

“So you're giving me short notice to find a long-term replacement,” she says. The corners of her mouth turn down.

“I'm giving you almost as much notice as we had. We just made the connection with our birth mother.”

She clearly disapproves of that also, of this slapdash way of acquiring a child. My mother would, too.

It's annoying, how the thought of becoming a mother makes you think of your own. In my case, nothing good can come of that.

“It often happens this way,” I find myself saying, wanting to convince the troll, wanting to win her over, hating myself for it. “It takes birth mothers a while to find the right match. One set of adoptive parents falls through, and new arrangements have to be made.”

“So you're the second choice?”

Of course she'd seize on that. Her stare reminds me of my mother's: imperious, all-knowing, like she can see through me, can see what no one else can. She can see what I've done, and she thinks it disqualifies me. She thinks I don't deserve this.

“I'm going to be a good mother,” I blurt. “I'm going to give this baby everything I have.”

The troll breaks eye contact as she nods—not in agreement, but in eagerness to get on with her day. She's ready to vanquish me. Opening her laptop, she says, “I'm sure it's for the best.”

Is that what passes for congratulations? “Thank you.”

“I mean,” she adds, “it's good that you're going to tack the FMLA onto the paid family leave. It's too disruptive for the students if you're gone for six weeks and then you come back to close out the year.”

I wish I could say it doesn't hurt, that I can write it off as classic troll behavior. But I've been trying so hard with Leah—trying to be kind, to be motherly—and I'm failing. Leah won't accept it. No reciprocation, just polite distance. Leah doesn't want my attention, that's clear. She wants Gabe's. Whenever he's in the room, her focus is on him; her laughter is for him.

It could be innocent. Leah's looking for the daddy she never had. Well, I don't think she ever had him. She won't tell me anything about her family.

But I know that some girls are into older men, chasing the love they never got. I can't help wondering if Leah could be one of those, and if she is, what the next year holds in store for us.

So all that is in the back of my mind—subtext and context—and then there's the way the principal's gaze can turn me into a little kid again myself, and I know that she's given me what I want, she approved my leave, and I should be grateful and clear out of her office. But sometimes things hurt, things that shouldn't, and you just react.

“Are you this way with everyone?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the traditional thing to say to someone in my situation is ‘Congratulations.' It's not ‘Glad you won't come back and teach your kids for the rest of the year.'”

“You must have misunderstood me.”

“I'm a good teacher.”

“I never said otherwise.”

“I'm going to be a good mother.”

Her expression is one of mild surprise. “I never said otherwise.” She pauses. “Congratulations, Adrienne. Job well done.”

I feel my face reddening. I can't tell if she's ameliorating or mocking. I don't even know what I'm looking for, but I've made a fool of myself. Just like I always did when I chased my mother's approval, when I should have known better.

“Thank you,” I mumble, turning on my heel. I don't say anything to the front office staff as I rush out.

I sit in my car for a while, fighting to calm down. I text Gabe, but I'm not surprised he doesn't answer. He's at work, in the middle of a sale, hopefully. We need the money. FMLA is unpaid, but we have to keep paying Leah.

I'm light-headed. I can hardly breathe. I tell myself over and over, “You're going to be a mother soon,” but somehow that only makes it worse.

I
have something important to tell you,” I say. The class already looks especially alert, since I've brought them into a circle on the rug. I don't usually do that at this hour, and they're very sensitive to changes in routines. Even Dominic looks attentive. It's that time of year when I can see the fruits of my labor. I'm really going to miss them. Oh, Angie, with those braids. You want to nuzzle her and never let go.

But soon, I'll have one that's truly mine, not just on loan for seven hours a day. No matter what the troll thinks, I'm going to be great.

I take a deep breath and prepare to say good-bye. “In a few weeks, I'm going on maternity leave,” I tell them. “Who knows what that is?”

Hands shoot up. Of course I call on Angie.

“It's for after you have a baby,” she says. “You stay home and feed him and love him and—”

“It can't be that!” Dominic interrupts. “Because she's not pregnant! Look at her.”

Angie looks confused and chastened. But then, other kids seem a little confused, too, as they scan the length of my body. Dominic does appear to have a point.

“Angie's right,” I say. “Maternity leave is time for a mother to stay home and be with her baby after he's born. It's time for them to learn to love each other. It's called bonding. So that's what I'll be doing. I'm just not the one giving birth.”

Angie stays perplexed; others evince a dawning light.

“Do any of you know what adoption is?” I ask, largely for Angie's benefit.

Hands wave. I know that July is adopted, and that she knows it, too, but her hand remains stationary. Maybe she feels some shame about it. Someday, I hope my son will be proud that he's been chosen, but it reminds me of how unpredictable the whole enterprise is. A
baby could become anyone, could feel anything. Temperament is king. What do I know about Leah's temperament anyway? She won't let me know her. Trevor sounds like a dirtbag.

There it is again—the trouble breathing, the light-headedness. I thought I was over it by now.

I call on a kid, any kid, and their definition of “adoption” is close enough. I find I'm ready for this to be over already: all the announcing, with its attendant hope of a validating response. I didn't get it from the troll, and it's pitiful to seek it from a roomful of second graders.

“The baby I'm adopting will be born in a few weeks, and then I'll need to be home”—I smile in Angie's direction—“to feed him and love him.”

“It's a boy?” she asks shyly. I nod.

“When are you coming back?” Natasha says.

“Not until next year. So these are our last few weeks together. We can talk about how to make them count. What kinds of things should we do?”

Redirection, a teacher's best friend. Move them from the sadness of loss into the excitement of planning. They're still young enough that the “We're going on a picnic, what should we bring?” trick can work.

When our brainstorming session is done, Angie's brow furrows. “Mrs. T,” she says, “how come you're not doing it yourself?”

“What's that?” But I have a sinking feeling I know just what she's asking.

“How come you're not having your own baby? How come someone else is doing it for you?”

Eliza, next to Angie, gives her a poke. “Because she's too
old
!” she hisses in a stage whisper. This is what passes for manners.

“No, it's because her body doesn't work right,” Timothy says, full of authority. “That's what my mother says.”

July is staring down at her feet, probably thinking that she's being
raised by a woman whose body doesn't work right. Timothy's mother needs a solid ass-kicking.

“Sorry, Mrs. T,” Angie says. “About you being old, or about your body not working.”

“Shut up, Angie!” Eliza says.

“Eliza, it's not okay to say that.” I clap my hands together and take a deep breath. “Moving on!”

S
hould we tour the hospital sometime this week?” Adrienne asks. She's at the kitchen counter, carving a turkey.

We're having “Spring Thanksgiving.” She said it's the start of a new tradition. Since we have so much to be grateful for, it can't be contained in a single day. I'm a little afraid that she thinks this is what motherhood is: the death of edge, the corresponding initiation of cornball rituals. I couldn't even joke with her about it. Come back, Adrienne. Please, come back.

Leah and I are sitting at the dining room table, lit by taper candles. It's a little awkward, like a blind date, as we wait on Adrienne.

“I don't need to see the hospital first,” Leah says. “I'll be there soon enough anyway.”

“You'll be more comfortable if you see the maternity floor ahead of time,” Adrienne says. “You'll know what to expect.”

“I'm comfortable now.” Adrienne's blunted her edges; Leah sure hasn't. The harder Adrienne tries to mother Leah, the sharper Leah's going to get. When's Adrienne going to pick up on that? She's usually so perceptive about people.

Leah rolls her eyes at me across the table. I stare into the basket of home-baked dinner rolls. The last thing I want is to act as referee.

“Well, I'll schedule the tour just in case,” Adrienne says. “White or dark meat?”

Soon, we've all got our plates filled with turkey, gravy, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and bacony Brussels sprouts. “Do you have any wine?” Leah says. “It would feel festive. My doctor says I can have a half glass a few times a week. It won't hurt anything.”

Anything or anyone? I can practically hear Adrienne's thinking.

“We got rid of all the wine,” she says. “To be in solidarity with you.”

She's lying. She just moved the wine rack into the garage. It's in exile, along with my pool table.

“Could you buy me a bottle?” Leah begins to cut into her turkey. “It'll help settle the baby down at night.”

I see Adrienne fighting with herself. Finally, she says, “I'd rather you didn't drink. For one thing, you're underage. For another, it's not safe for the baby.”

“I checked with my doctor. Don't you think she knows better than you?”

It's the first true belligerence I've seen out of Leah. “Hey,” I intercede. “Do we have to do this now? It's Thanksgiving.”

“It's April, Gabe.” Leah chews her turkey with an unnecessary degree of force. All this stuff probably scares her, too. In a couple of weeks, she's going to eject a person from her body. His nocturnal hyperactivity probably hasn't been the only thing keeping her up.

“And you need to write a birth plan,” Adrienne says, her eyes glittering. Now, that's the woman I married. Relentless (though usually in a good way). “That's another reason we should take a trip to the hospital.”

“Another reason I need a trip to the liquor store,” Leah says.

Without conscious thought, I find myself drawing my head toward my shoulders, like a turtle retracting into his shell. This could get ugly.

Adrienne chooses to laugh, like Leah was making a joke. “Not on my watch, sweetie.”

Uh-oh.

“You do know it's my body, right?” Leah says.

“I don't know what medical journals your ob-gyn has been reading, but no amount of alcohol has been established to be safe for a developing baby. She's gambling with your baby. With
our
baby.” Adrienne gestures toward me.

“By now, the baby is almost entirely developed, and I've barely had a drink since I found out I was pregnant.”

Oh shit. My head can't get any lower.

“
Barely?
” Adrienne sputters. “I thought you told me that you stopped drinking as soon as you found out you were pregnant.”

Leah starts to wilt under Adrienne's gaze. “I did, practically. And I was never, like, an alcoholic.”

“The baby's fine,” I tell Adrienne. “You've seen the ultrasound pictures. Let's talk about something else, okay? Like how great this food is. Thank you for taking such good care of us.” Adrienne is still looking at Leah. “All of us: me, Leah, the little guy.” The last remark earns a smile cast in my direction. But her focus quickly shifts back to Leah.

“I have been trying to take good care of you,” Adrienne says. “I feel like it's fair to expect a few things in return, like a tour of the hospital, and you not drinking until after the baby is born. Once he's here, your body is totally one hundred percent yours again. I won't buy you alcohol since it's illegal, but I won't try to stop you. Just hold off a little longer, please.” Her gaze softens. “Please?”

Leah takes a sulky bite of sweet potatoes and then, finally, nods.

Is this what it'll be like to have a teenager of our own?

Despite a potentially incendiary moment, we've all managed to survive intact. That's when Adrienne says, “What about your parents? Have you thought about whether they're going to fly out for the birth?”

You have to know Leah as well as I've come to know her, or you'd miss it. She's deadpan most of the time, but it's there, in the slight twitch of her mouth, and for a split second it's in her eyes. The hurt. The fury at the person who's summoned the hurt.

“It could bring you guys closer together,” Adrienne says, mercilessly. No, she's not without mercy. She just doesn't know what I do. I haven't told her what Leah and I talked about that day at Lands End. She's clueless, and it's my fault.

“No,” Leah says, and there's a note of warning in it that I can only hope Adrienne will pick up and heed.

“I sometimes think,” Adrienne muses, “that if I'd gotten pregnant, things would be different with my mom. She would have had to come back into my life. She could ignore me, but a baby?”

I didn't know Adrienne had any regrets when it came to her mother. She certainly never mentions the woman.

“Thanks for dinner,” Leah says, standing up from the table and walking out of the room before she can say anything she'll truly regret.

Turns out I can muster some gratitude today, after all.