The Opposite of Love (23 page)

58

CHASE

Candy meets Chase outside the door to Room 227 as he exits. She's probably been waiting there, pacing back and forth. Today, anxiety seems as contagious as the flu, just traveling through the air, infecting everyone. Her smile too forced, Candy greets him so full of anxiety he can see it throbbing in her neck. “I had you when
I
was sixteen.”

“I know that.”

“Sometimes I think having you saved my life.”

Chase raises an eyebrow.

“You gave me a purpose, a reason to wake up every day.” Candy shakes her head at the memory. “But it was hard, Chase.
Shit,
it was hard. I gave up the dreams I had for
me
. All of a sudden they didn't exist anymore.
I
didn't exist anymore. I tried to hold on to my social life as best I could, but everything was different. I got trapped in a relationship with Walter that we both know wasn't healthy, and I couldn't see a way out.” She hesitates and then goes on. “It's just that having a baby doesn't have to be so hard.”

Chase bristles, irritated. Great speech if he hadn't already knocked someone up. He turns away, but Candy grabs his shoulder. “I'm not telling you to give up the baby, Chase. Shit. I'm not saying this very well.” She stops and presses her shaking fingers to her lips. Chase can't help but notice her green-and-red Christmas-themed fingernails.

“What I'm trying to say is that I'm older now. I'm in a stable relationship with Bob. He's a solid, reliable man. He has a good job. Let me take the baby. You can see her every day, do as much or as little as you want. Same for Rose. It'll give you a chance to have a life, and me a chance to do it better.”

Chase stares at his mother. Takes in her faded skinny jeans and the “Kiss Me, Santa!” long-sleeved T-shirt that hugs her breasts a little too tight. She hadn't bothered with mascara or lipstick, so her face seems washed out. His mother. Candy. Some women are just having their first child at her age. “Thanks, Cand—I mean, thanks, Mom. I'll think about it, okay?”

Candy seems so vulnerable, standing there, looking her age for the first time in forever. She's let her teenage years bleed into her twenties and now into her thirties. She's sacrificed her youth to take care of him. Is it even fair to ask her to do it again?

Chase has barely taken three steps down the hospital corridor before Becca loops her arm through his. “I have an idea.” She leans in toward his ear.

“Becca,” he sighs. “I can't hardly hear myself think for all the thoughts I've got banging around in my head.”

“Just listen to one word. It's genius.” Becca waits, holding on tight. “Rosenberg.”

“What?” Chase pries her fingers from his arm. What's she trying to do, cut off his circulation?

“Matthew's mother. Mrs. Rosenberg. She's been trying to adopt another child.”

Suddenly, Chase's mouth is so dry he could have downed a gallon of water like a tequila shot and still been thirsty. “You're saying we should give up the baby … to her?” The fluorescent hospital lights seem too bright and make his head ache.

Becca pulls him around to face her. “It's perfect. Think about it. Why doesn't Rose want to give up the baby? Because she's petrified the baby would wind up mismatched with some awful family—and have the same kind of experience she's had.” Becca's face practically glows with excitement, or maybe it's the reflection of the overhead lights against her skin. “I haven't totally figured out Rose's parents yet, whether they're as horrible as Rose says. But Mrs. Rosenberg was born to be a mother. Any kid would be lucky to have her.”

Chase extends his arms, moving Becca away. “Rose might go for that, but I'm not sure I will. Maybe I want to keep the baby. Maybe I don't want to give her up at all.” He looks around for a water fountain.

Becca's eyes search the crevices of his face like she's looking for something written there. “You'd have to give up college, wouldn't you?”

“I don't know.” He starts to walk past her. His feet make scuffing noises against the hospital floor. “I have to think. I just need some quiet to think.”

“You might hate me,” Becca starts, her voice half its regular volume. Chase cocks his head so he can hear. “I called Mrs. Rosenberg and asked her to come.”

“You did what?” Chase's mouth is drier by the minute.

“You heard me. I figured Rose would need some convincing, so I called her and asked her to come.”

“Rebecca Stein, you have balls of steel. Too bad you don't use your head.”

“Oh, but I do.” Becca grins.

“And by the way, you reek of cigarette smoke. Better not stand near your parents. How many did you have today?”

“Eight. But I quit an hour ago.”

“I'll believe that when I see it.”

“It's true. Daniel took me on a field trip to see the cancer unit … which honestly didn't do much for me because I can't think twenty minutes down the line, much less twenty years.” Becca chews at a hangnail. “But then he bribed me and that did it.”

“With what, bubblegum and Blow Pops?”

“No. He'll take me to practice driving every day I go without a cigarette. But he's gonna do a sniff test. You know, breath, hair, clothes. So unless I plan on taking five showers a day, I gotta quit.”

“May the force be with you. You're gonna need it.” Chase waves his hand behind him and pushes through the double doors that separate the maternity wing from the rest of the hospital. “And may the force be with me. I'm gonna need it too.” He heads toward a soda machine, hoping it carries bottled water.

Daniel stands in front of another vending machine, his face pressed against the glass. “What's wrong?” Chase asks. “You trying to smell the snacks?”

“As of twelve hours ago, I've become a vegan, which means the only thing I can buy from this machine are the peanuts. I hate peanuts.” Daniel punctuates his words by tapping against the glass. He sighs and sits down on a green bench.

“Hmmm. You might have to give up the vegan thing if you don't want to starve.” Chase rummages through his pockets and comes up with five quarters for a bottle of Dasani.

“Guess so. It was nice while it lasted.” Daniel pulls his legs up onto the bench and crosses them. “I felt so … enlightened.” His hair sticks up in the back, and Chase figures it's been a while since he's seen a mirror.

Daniel is the one person Chase actually wants advice from, maybe because he doesn't give it lightly. “I'm dying here, man. Don't you have any Buddhist words of wisdom for me?”

“Nah.”

“Jewish wisdom?” Chase asks, staring at a cluster of people hurrying by, carrying presents and a hideous Big Bird balloon.

“Nah. All I got is what I would do.” Daniel waits a moment while Chase guzzles his water and then goes on. “I'd try to figure out what would let me sleep at night.”

“You mean like could I sleep at night if I knew she was in someone else's home?” Chase asks. Daniel nods. “Only if I knew that person.” An intercom pages a doctor to the ER, pauses, then pages the doctor again.

“Could you sleep at night if you knew you gave up a chance to go to college?” Daniel unfolds his legs and sets them back on the ground.

“Yeah, but I'd always wonder what-if, you know?” Chase looks up at the fluorescent hospital lights, as if the answer is written up there. “I mean, sometimes I wonder what got Walter so angry all the time. And I wonder if he felt stuck. Stuck with some girl he got pregnant and this whiny-ass kid. I just don't want to feel stuck.”

Daniel scuffs his tennis shoes against the scraped-up hospital floor. “You know Becca's got it in her head to fix you up with Mrs. Rosenberg?”

“She told me.” Chase groans. “And Candy's got some idea about taking the baby herself. Crazy. But then maybe I could still go to school … ”

“No offense, but somehow I don't think Candy will be up for Mother of the Year any time soon.”

“Tell me about it. I'm living proof of that. I know my parents made a lot of mistakes. Here's what I want to know. Did they screw up because they were young, or did they screw up because they were
them
?” Chase asks, but Daniel just shrugs.

“I don't know,” he says softly.

Chase feels the pressure of something behind his eyes, the way a dam must feel before it breaks. He hopes he won't cry. “This whole thing is a freaking trip. One day I'm filling out college applications and trying to figure out who I am, getting to know my dad … and the next I'm a
father
? No way. I think my head might explode.”

“Not much time to get used to the idea, I know.” Daniel stands up and reaches to sling his arm around Chase's shoulder. He can barely reach.

“I thought she was on the pill … ” Carrying sodas with straws, four doctors in hospital greens amble down the corridor, laughing at something one of them said.

Daniel shakes his head and pats Chase on the back. “What about doubling up on the protection? Didn't I teach you anything?” He waits a beat, and when Chase doesn't say anything, he adds, “Just kidding. I'll shut up now.”

“An accident. Happens all the time, right?” Chase thinks out loud. “But how can I be upset about something as perfect as that baby girl?”

If Daniel answers, Chase can't hear him. He moves past his friend and toward the elevator. He needs to get out of the hospital for a little while. He needs to run. He needs that burn. That adrenaline. That release.

So he does. He pumps his arms and pounds his feet against the sidewalk, hard and fast. The chill of a December day numbs the tip of his nose and the tops of his ears, and that feels good. Chase runs through mid-afternoon streets of Van Nuys until he can feel his heart all the way through his chest.

As usual, the running loosens his thoughts and helps him get himself unstuck. Suddenly he knows who to call. Panting, he leans over and pulls out his cell phone to dial the number. “Hey, Walt—hey, Dad?”

59

ROSE

Breastfeeding is harder than it looks. First of all, Rose's breasts are swollen like overfilled water balloons, the kind that burst when you barely pick them up because they're so full. Second, the baby's mouth can only open so big.

The perky swing-shift nurse keeps telling Rose how good breast milk is for the baby, how it's so much healthier than formula, how her own antibodies will be passed to the baby through breast milk. Rose doesn't even have a chance to tell the nurse she's thinking of giving up the baby. Perky Nurse reaches right over to Rose, grabs her boob, and helps her position it toward the baby's mouth, lightly brushing the tip against the baby's lips so her rooting reflex will kick in.

Rose isn't sure whether she should slap the nurse or thank her. And it's impossible not to stare at the baby's tiny pumping cheeks. Impossible not to love her. But Becca
is
right. With every pump of her cheeks, Rose is getting more and more attached. And it's dangerous to bond if she has any thought of giving her up.

That's why Mrs. Rosenberg's proposal tempts her.

At first when the assistant rabbi walks through the hospital door, looking strangely different without Matthew attached to her hip, Rose has no idea why she's there or even how she'd known to come. It doesn't take long to figure it out, though. Becca Stein, the matchmaker, who can't mind her own damn business.

She'll be happy to take both Rose and the baby if the Parsimmons agree, Mrs. Rosenberg explains, her wide lips curiously smile free. Rose can stay past the age of eighteen, as long as she follows the house rules. “And we're strict,” she adds.

There's one sticking point Mrs. Rosenberg insists is non-negotiable. “If we go with this, you'll have to understand that the baby would be
mine
. Legally, physically, emotionally.” Rose watches her smile-free lips quiver while she says it, like she's nervous or something. “Would that be hard for you?”

Rose cringes inside. It would definitely be hard for her. But everything about this situation is hard. She meets Mrs. Rosenberg's serious gaze head-
on. “Why would you want a package deal? Why would you want
me
?”

“Why
wouldn't
I want you?” Mrs. Rosenberg asks, her face softening.

“Ask the Parsimmons. I'm trouble. A disappointment.”

“Well, I don't tolerate trouble, so if you wanted to stay with me, you'd have to make some changes.” Mrs. Rosenberg leans back against the wall like she needs the support. “I know you could do it. You'd have to rise to the challenge, because I only allow positive influences around my kids.”

“And she'd be …
your
kid.” Rose brushes her fingertips against the soft fluff that is the baby's hair. “And I'd be what?”

“We'd be open with her, of course. We'd explain that she's adopted, and that you gave birth to her.” Mrs. Rosenberg says. “But I'd be her mother. Just like I'm Matthew's mother.”

“I don't know … ” Rose looks around the room, feeling like the walls are too close together. She wishes Chase would come back already. “Why do you want this?”

“Do you know how hard it is to adopt a healthy newborn?” Mrs. Rosenberg half laughs … to herself mostly. “I'm close to forty and my husband is forty-five. He's got diabetes. We're not ideal candidates.” She shakes her head, dangling silver earrings bouncing off the side of her face.

“But I want Matthew to have a sister. I want it so bad I can taste it.” She stops for a moment, runs a hand through her hair, then moves over to examine the contents of the IV bag, now half empty. She turns back to look at Rose directly. “And I'm a good mother. Yes, I work. But my work is flexible, and there is a quality day care right on site. But I guess you know that.”

“Why don't you just adopt from China or something?”

“I might, if this doesn't work out. Although with a foreign adoption, I wouldn't be able to take the baby until she was almost a year. I'd hate to miss out on that first year.” She sits herself on the edge of Rose's bed, uninvited, but somehow it seems more loving than rude. “This plan might be your best option, Rose. It allows you and Chase to stay peripherally involved. You get to enjoy her and watch her grow without having to give up your own lives. You can rest assured that she'll be in good hands.”

Rose aches in the center of her chest. Her throat feels like it's been burned, it hurts so bad. “Maybe you could be her foster mother, and I could stay with you until I get on my feet?”

“No,” Mrs. Rosenberg says quietly. “I have a lot of admiration for foster mothers, but it is not for me. I love too deeply. Once I let myself love that child, I won't let anyone take her away. Not even you. So know that going in.”

“The Parsimmons won't let me live with you,” Rose tosses out, feeling helpless and ripped in half.

“I think they might,” Mrs. Rosenberg volleys back. “Look, Rose, you have to take ownership of your problems with the Parsimmons. It's not all them. Nothing ever is. You have a part to play too.”

Rose swallows. She knows that's true. Sort of. But it's so much easier to blame the Parsimmons for everything.

Mrs. Rosenberg goes on. “Personally, I think if you handle this like an adult, you might be able to present an alternative living situation to them. They seem pretty burned out to me. They might be ready to hand over the torch to someone else.” A sliver of a smile touches her lips for a moment. “Of course, that means you have to stop running away from your problems and face them. You'd have to call your parents.”

Rose studies her fingers and holds in her tears as best she can. “I have to th-think about this.” Rats. Her voice breaks. And now a tear slides down her face. Others follow, more than she can count.

“I know this is a hard decision. Please do think about it.” Mrs. Rosenberg stands up, smoothing her slacks. She moves toward the door.

But that means giving up on the fantasy of finding her mother, at least temporarily. Moving back to Simi Valley. As much as she hates to admit it, the whole reunite-with-bio-Mom fantasy is just that, a fantasy. Even if she does find her mother—even if she's still alive—chances are slim that her lifestyle has changed all that much.

But Rose doesn't ever want to go back and live with the Parsimmons. Deep down she knows they don't hate her, not really. They just don't have a clue what to do with her. And deep down she knows she doesn't really hate them either. She just hates that she was taken from her real mother and dumped at their house. Rose wipes her face with her arm. She sits quietly except for those little crying breaths that feel like hiccups.

As Mrs. Rosenberg starts to slip out of the room, she asks, “If I gave her to you, would you still let me name her?”

Mrs. Rosenberg pokes her head back in. “Depends. You're not thinking of naming her something strange or hideous, are you? I am strongly opposed to naming children after pieces of fruit, months of the year, or states.”

“You don't like Georgia?” Rose throws out halfheartedly before she catches herself. “No,” she adds more seriously. “And I'm not making any promises here. But if I did give her up, I want to be able to give her something that can stay with her forever. Like my mom did for me.”

Mrs. Rosenberg nods slowly. “Well, in that case, yes.”