Authors: Diane Chamberlain
The Dance Begins (6 page)
Here is where this interview falls apart,
I think.
Here is where my lies begin.
I’m relieved when Aidan goes first.
“My family’s totally on board,” he says. “I grew up right here in San Diego. Dad is also a lawyer.”
“Lawyers coming out of the woodwork around here.” Patti smiles.
“Well, Mom is a retired teacher and my sister Laurie is a chef,” Aidan says. “They’re already buying things for the baby.” His family sounds perfect. They
are
perfect. I love them—his brilliant father, his gentle mother, his creative, nurturing sister and her little twin boys. Over the years, they’ve become my family, too.
“How would you describe your parents’ parenting style?” Patti asks Aidan.
“Laid-back,” Aidan says, and even his body seems to relax as the words leave his mouth. “They provided good values and then encouraged Laurie and me to make our own decisions. We both turned out fine.”
“How did they handle discipline?”
“Took away privileges, for the most part,” Aidan says. “No corporal punishment. I would never spank a child.”
“How about discipline in your family, Molly?” Patti asks, and I think,
Oh thank God,
because she skipped right over the “tell me about your family” question.
“Everything was talked to death.” I smile. “My father was a therapist, so if I did something wrong, I had to talk it out.” There were times I would have preferred a spanking.
“Did your mother work outside the home as well?” Patti asks.
“She was a pharmacist,” I say. She might
still
be a pharmacist, for all I know. Nora would be in her mid to late sixties now.
“Are your parents local, too?” Patti asks.
“No. They died,” I say, the first real lie out of my mouth during this interview. I have the feeling it won’t be the last.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Patti says. “How about brothers and sisters?”
“No siblings,” I say, happy to be able to tell the truth. “And I grew up in North Carolina, so I don’t get to see my extended family often.” As in, never. The only person I have any contact with is my cousin Dani, and that’s minimal. Next to me, I feel Aidan stiffen ever so slightly. He knows we’re in dangerous territory. He doesn’t know exactly how dangerous.
“Well, let’s talk about health for a moment,” Patti says. “How old were your parents when they passed away, Molly? And what from?”
I hesitate. “Why does this matter?” I try to keep my voice friendly. “I mean, if we had our own children, no one would ask us—”
“Honey,” Aidan interrupts me. “It matters because—”
“Well, it sounds like your parents died fairly young,” Patti interrupts, but her voice is gentle. “That doesn’t rule you out as a candidate for adoption, but if they had inheritable diseases, that’s something the birth parents should know.”
I let go of Aidan’s hand and flatten my damp palms on my skirt. “My father had multiple sclerosis,” I say. “And my mother had breast cancer.” I wish I’d never told Aidan that particular lie. It might be a problem for us now. “I’m fine, though,” I add quickly. “I’ve been tested for the…” I hesitate. What was the name of that gene? If my mother’d actually had breast cancer, the acronym would probably roll off my tongue with ease.
“BRCA,” Patti supplies.
“Right.” I smile. “I’m fine.”
“Neither of us has any chronic problems,” Aidan says.
“How do you feel about vaccinations?”
“Bring ‘em on,” Aidan says, and I nod.
“It’s hard for me to understand not protecting your child if you can,” I say, happy to be off the questions about my family.
The rest of the interview goes smoothly, at least from my perspective. When Patti finally shuts her notebook, she announces that she’d like to see the rest of the house and our yard. Aidan and I had spent the morning dusting and vacuuming, so we’re ready for her. We show her the room that will become the nursery. The walls are a sterile white and the hardwood floors are bare, but there is a beautiful mahogany crib against one wall. Aidan’s parents gave it to us when I was pregnant with Sara. The only other furniture in the room is a small white bookshelf that I’d stocked with my favorite children’s books. Aidan and I had done nothing else to the room to prepare for our daughter, and I’m glad. I never go in there. It hurts too much to see that crib and remember the joy I felt as I searched for those books. But now with Patti at my side, I dare to feel hope and I can imagine the room painted a soft yellow. I picture a rocker in the corner. A changing table near the window. My arms tingle with an uneasy anticipation.
We walk outside after showing her the bedrooms. We live in a white two-story Spanish-style house in Kensington, one of the older parts of San Diego, and in the bright sunlight our well-maintained neighborhood sparkles. Our yard is small, but it has two orange trees, a lemon tree, and a small swing set—another premature gift from Aidan’s parents. Exploring our little yard, Patti says the word
awesome
at least five times. Aidan and I smile at each other. This is going to happen, I think. We are going to be approved as potential adoptive parents. Some birth parents will select us to raise their child. The thought both excites and terrifies me.
Patti waves as she gets into her car in the driveway. Aidan puts his arm around me and we smile as we watch her drive away. “I think we passed with flying colors,” Aidan says. He squeezes my shoulder and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“I think we did,” I agree. I pull a big gulp of oxygen into my lungs and feel as though I’ve been holding my breath all afternoon. I turn to him and circle my arms around his neck. “Let’s work on our portfolio this weekend, okay?” I ask. We’ve been afraid to take that step, afraid to pull together the necessary photographs and information about ourselves in case we somehow failed the home study.
“Let’s.” He kisses me on the lips and one of our neighbors honks his horn as he drives by. We laugh, and Aidan kisses me again.
I remember how I’d wondered if our daughter would have his brown eyes or my blue. His brawny athletic build or my long, slender arms and legs. His easygoing nature or my occasional moodiness. Now our child will have none of those things—at least not from us—and I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Aidan and I have too much love for just two people. Sometimes I feel as though we’re bursting with it. At the same time, I pray I’ll be able to extend that love to a baby I didn’t carry. Didn’t give birth to. What is wrong with me that I have so many doubts?
* * *
That night, Aidan falls asleep first and I lie next to him, thinking about the interview with Patti. There was nothing there to come back to haunt me, I assure myself. Patti’s not going to search for my mother’s obituary. We are safe.
The lies I told Aidan when we were first dating—my dead mother and her breast cancer, my cold relatives—had been accepted without question and set aside. He knew I meant it when I said I’d laid the past to rest the day I left North Carolina at eighteen. We never revisited those lies. There’d been no need to, until today. I hope the interview with Patti will be the end of it. I want to move on. We need to create our own healthy, happy, sane, and loving family.
I think about our “open communication” Aidan had described to Patti. Our honest relationship. At times I feel guilty for keeping so much about my past from him, but I’m honestly not sure he would want to know. I try to imagine telling him:
My mother murdered my father.
I’d said those words once and they had cost me. I will never say them out loud again.
Photograph courtesy of John Pagliuca
DIANE CHAMBERLAIN
is the international bestselling author of twenty-two novels. She lives in North Carolina with her partner, photographer John Pagliuca, and her shelties, Keeper and Cole. Visit her online at
www.dianechamberlain.com
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Contents
Excerpt from
Pretending to Dance
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
T
HE
D
ANCE
B
EGINS
. Copyright © 2015 by Diane Chamberlain. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.