Daughter's Keeper (27 page)

“Has she talked to you about what she's going to do with the baby?” Arthur said.

“No. Not really. A while ago she mentioned going back to school. I said I'd help her pay for tuition and child care. If she keeps it.”

Arthur grunted. “That's if she wins her trial. What if she ­doesn't? What then?”

Elaine slowed down and came to a stop. She leaned over, propped her hands on her knees, and blew out through her mouth. “Sorry, honey. I'm out of shape, I guess.”

Arthur ran in small circles around her, lifting his knees high. “What's going to happen if she goes to jail?”

“I honestly don't know, Arthur. She hasn't talked to me about that.”

“Well, don't you think you should maybe ask her? I mean, will she give it up for adoption, or does she expect us to take care of the kid?”

“I don't know. She hasn't said anything about giving the baby up, and I'm pretty sure she hasn't done any research into adoption, but I made it very clear to her that we're not able to care for it for her.”

He stumbled, something he almost never did, and caught himself. “Did you? You told her that?”

“Yes, Arthur. I've told you before that I told her we wouldn't be able to take the baby. I'm ready, let's go.” Elaine started running again, taking the fork in the path that looped back up the hill toward the road.

They ran in silence for a while, and then Arthur said, “It's just that I've
done
the kid thing, you know? I just made my last child-support payment, like, six months ago. I'm finally free of that.”

“I know, Arthur. I'm not any more interested in having a baby than you are. I told that to Olivia. She knows.”

“Okay. Sprint home?” Without waiting for her reply, Arthur ratcheted up his speed. Elaine watched him as he got farther and farther ahead. For a dangerous moment she allowed herself to imagine holding a baby again, smelling its milky neck, rubbing its soft head against her cheek. The pleasure this fantasy afforded her surprised her. She hadn't felt any kind of ­sensual joy, none at least that she could recall, when she had a child of her own. She emptied her mind and concentrated on the burning in her thighs and chest. Slowly, she ran home, grateful for the long downhill stretch leading to her front door.

She found Arthur leaning against the kitchen table holding a small pile of papers and brochures out to Olivia. Olivia sat, her legs up on the seat across from her. She rested her hands on her protruding stomach and looked up at Arthur. Her face was blank.

“The way it works is that you get this book from the agency, full of bios and pictures. You can find out anything you want to know. You know, what kind of house they live in, how much money they have. Do they have a dog.”

Olivia raised her eyebrows. “Really?” she said.

“And the beauty of it is,
you
get to choose. You get to decide who the parents will be. I mean, I imagine there might be some couples who might not be interested in your baby because of Jorge. The whole Mexican thing. But honestly, even with the drug case, you're smart, you're attractive, you went to college. You're
Jewish
, for Christ's sake. You're an adoptive parent's dream come true.”

Olivia smiled ruefully. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“No, really, you are. I'm sure of it. And the thing is,” Arthur continued, “these open adoptions are, basically, unregulated. I mean, technically, yeah, there are state laws governing them, but we're dealing with desperate people here, you know what I mean?”

He pushed the papers toward her hands. She didn't take them.

“No, I don't really know what you mean,” Olivia said. She pointed and flexed her toes. Her face was rubbed blank. She looked, if anything, bored.

“They're supposed to pay only for your living expenses and medical costs, but I can't imagine that anyone's asking for receipts. Why not have them set up a college fund for you for when you get out? I mean, if you end up losing the case. This could be a way for you to guarantee yourself some kind of future. You could come out ahead in the end. Having a baby could end up being a
good
thing, after all.”

“It's already a good thing,” she said, and placed her hands more firmly over her belly, as if to protect the baby from Arthur's words.

Arthur blinked wordlessly. Then he shook his head. Before he could speak, Olivia hoisted her substantial bulk out of the chair and started up the steps to her room.

“Don't you want the brochures?” Arthur called after her.

Elaine tamped down a flare of irritation and impatience with her soon-to-be husband.

“I just don't think she's ready to deal with all this,” she said. “She thinks she's going to win the case. Considering the possibility of adoption means considering the possibility of losing and going to jail.”

“Well, she needs to consider the goddamn possibility. She's got to be prepared. Otherwise it will be too late.”

Elaine nodded her head. “You know that, and I know that. And she'll figure it out. She just needs time.”

Arthur gathered the papers in a neat pile. He took a yellow Post-It note and wrote Olivia's name in large block letters. He stuck the note to the top sheet and placed the pile of papers on the counter, using an empty juice glass as a paperweight.

“I'll leave these where she can find them.”

***

Olivia dressed carefully for her first birth-preparation class. Her midwife had given her the flyer, telling her that by now, six months into her pregnancy, it was time to start thinking about the labor. She had, however, put off calling the instructor for days. She was loath to explain that she would be coming on her own, unattended by a doting husband. But when finally she did make the call, a cheerful, friendly voice with a thick Brooklyn accent had reassured her that it was perfectly all right not to have a partner, and Olivia, relieved, had decided to go.

She pulled on her least tattered pair of black leggings, tucking the waistband under her belly—it cut into her stomach when she tried to pull it up and over. She chose a black tunic from the boxed set Elaine had given her. She shook out her curls, grown even thicker and shinier from all the hormones dancing around her body. She left her hair hanging loose down her back. She gathered up a pillow and a bottle of water, as instructed by the flyer, and headed out the door.

“Where are you off to, honey?” Elaine called from the kitchen, where she was scrubbing out the pot from the chili Arthur had prepared for their dinner. Olivia hadn't been able to eat more than a few bites. No matter how many times Elaine told him, Arthur couldn't seem to remember that spicy food gave Olivia heartburn.

“A birth-preparation class,” Olivia said, her hand on the doorknob. “Is it okay if I take your car?”

“Sure.” Elaine came out of the kitchen, wearing a pair of pink rubber gloves dripping in soapy water. “Is it like Lamaze or ­something?”

“Sort of, I guess. I don't really know.” Olivia propped the pillow on her hip and reached into Elaine's purse. She pulled out the key ring. “I'll be back by nine or so.” She jangled the keys against her palm.

“Where's the class?” Elaine asked.

“North Berkeley.”

Elaine wiped her forehead with the back of one gloved hand. “Would you like me to come?”

“What?”

“Would you like some company?”

Olivia considered the question. While she never would have expected the baby inside her to provide her with companionship, neither could she have imagined how lonely her pregnancy would make her feel. Every time she saw a pregnant woman accompanied by a solicitous husband, she felt a twisting knot of jealousy and alienation, and a nearly overwhelming need to strike out, to wipe away the smug contentment of the couple's unity. Olivia had never considered herself a violent person, and the brutality of her loathing came as a shock. She was consumed with envy for expectant couples; she hated them. But would the companionship of her mother do anything to dissipate this despair?

“You're not busy?”

“No.”

“You don't have anything else to do?”

Elaine made a show of wrinkling her brow. “No, nothing that I can think of.”

“Well, okay. Sure. Come along.”

Despite the instructor's assurances, Olivia had fully expected to be the only participant in the class without a husband or boyfriend. But she had forgotten that this was Berkeley. There were six ­couples in the birthing class, and only three were made up of the traditional husband and wife.

Frances, the instructor, a middle-aged woman with long gray hair who swaddled her substantial girth in an Indian print sarong, handed each pregnant woman a large paper cup full of lukewarm, bright-red tea.

“Berry Berry. For easing the travails of pregnancy and birth. Partners, feel free to help yourselves,” she said and pointed to an oversized teapot.

Olivia sipped her tea, grimacing at the sour flavor. She looked around Frances's living room. All the furniture had been cleared out, and brightly colored pillows were scattered around the room and against the walls. The men and women in the class were leaning against the walls in a rough circle. Frances settled herself down and asked them to introduce themselves. The three “normal” couples went first. Olivia forgot their names as soon as she heard them, and almost immediately lumped them together in a category of people she would not bring herself to befriend. The next to introduce themselves were not a couple at all, but rather a triple: a husband, a wife, and the young woman they introduced, to her obvious embarrassment, as the “birth mother” of their baby. The adoptive mother gripped the birth mother's hand with a ferocity that made Olivia wonder if she was afraid that the young woman might slip away, her baby still in the custody of her womb. There was a lesbian couple, the only one of the six with another child at home; the partner who wasn't pregnant had given birth to their first baby two years before. When it was Olivia's turn to speak, she told the group her name and then said, “My baby's father is in jail on drug charges. I've also been indicted in the same case. Trial is set for a month before my due date.”

The room fell silent at Olivia's words. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a red flush creep up Elaine's neck and across her face.

Frances finally spoke, “Welcome, my dear. I can't think of anyone who needs a supportive and supported labor more than you.”

For two hours, Olivia and Elaine took turns deep breathing while they gripped ice cubes in their hands. They learned how to do cat and cow stretches, and watched while Frances demonstrated various labor positions. Frances encouraged Elaine to share her birth experience and tsk-tsked at her admission that she really couldn't remember much, other than that things had improved significantly once she'd been given a nice, big shot of Demerol.

Finally, Frances said, “Partners, I want to thank each and every one of you, especially, for being here. I can't stress enough how important the role of the labor partner is to a positive and satisfying birth experience. You will be able to keep your own partners comfortable. You will be able to help them focus on their breathing, not on the discomfort of the rushes. You will be their advocate and their voice with the doctors and nurses. While a pregnant woman can certainly give birth without a loving support system, she cannot birth
well
. So I thank you, and your wives, spouses, partners, mothers of your children, and,” she smiled warmly at Elaine and Olivia, “your daughters, thank you.”

On their way out, she handed each of them a tiny clay figure of an obese women with pendulous breasts and a swollen belly. “Your birth talismans,” she said as she pressed them into their palms.

As Olivia and Elaine walked back to the car, Olivia gently tossed the little figure up in the air. “Hey,” she said, holding it up so Elaine could see it. “It looks like Grandma.”

Elaine laughed. “But thinner.”

“Actually, it looks kind of like me,” Olivia looked down at her breasts. “I'm like a forty-two quadruple D or something.”

Elaine looked her up and down. “Well, I got
huge
when I was pregnant with you. And Grandma always said that she gained all her weight when she had me. So it runs in the family.”

“Great.”

“If you're worried about it, you could exercise.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. The sensation of physical contentment that had arrived along with the second trimester had not included any desire or need for exercise. All she really wanted to do was read ­pregnancy books and eat. She knew she'd gotten fat. Her spreading thighs and vast rump didn't even look like parts of her own body, and she couldn't quite recognize her face in the mirror. Her features had grown thicker, somehow blurred, wobbly, and her double chin was so huge that it resembled nothing so much as a goiter. But strangely, she didn't really care. She knew it bothered her mother that she was gaining so much weight, and she could see Arthur cringe every time she ate a cookie or fried herself an egg. The two of them kept pushing carrots and celery on her, as if she were some kind of enormous rabbit.

“Don't worry. Once I have the baby, I'll be on the prison diet. Bread and water.” Olivia grinned to show her mother that she was kidding. Elaine's attempt to return the smile didn't succeed particularly well, and Olivia felt guilty for having reminded her about the case. It had seemed like they'd both forgotten about it for a little while. They arrived at the car, and Olivia paused before opening the door. She wanted to say something that would make Elaine feel good, that would let her know that she loved her. Before she had time to consider what she was about to say, the words escaped her.

“So, Mom, do you want to be my birth partner?” She immediately regretted the invitation. “Your job can be to pray to the fat little birth Buddha,” she continued, as if she had been, after all, only kidding.