Out of nowhere, this morning I wanted to tell my mom how pretty she is. She’s so pretty it almost hurts to look at her. She never really wears makeup. She doesn’t need it. She’s naturally pretty. I really wish I looked like her. She must look at me and wonder what she would’ve gotten if she’d had her own daughter.
Samantha
The first time we heard Cammy’s voice she was screaming mo peas over and over, crying so hard she was practically choking. The social worker told us it meant “more please” and wasn’t it great, she yelled over Cammy’s two-year-old voice, wasn’t it terrific she already had manners. She says thank-you, too, the lady told us.
Cammy’s foster mother was bobbing her up and down, wrenching her bottle away so we could get a better look at her face. The more she pulled at the bottle, the harder Cammy cried. Isn’t she beautiful, she yelled over her. Here, now come on, Cammy, let them see those beautiful eyes of yours, she said. She was being patient because we were in the room. No telling what she’d be like alone with Cammy. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing the toddler, but I didn’t want to look crazed. Like a baby-stealer. On our way out of that third fertility clinic I was so hysterical Bob said I was one step away from walking into a hospital and stealing a baby.
“What’s in that bottle?” Bob asked.
I hadn’t noticed it was brown but the crying was so loud I couldn’t think of anything other than please just hand her over to me. For the love of God let me hold her. I’d read all the What to Expect in the Toddler Years books, but somehow it didn’t register that Cammy was still on a bottle. She was already underweight for her age so it was easy to forget this was a two-year-old who should probably be on solid food.
“It’s Coke,” the foster mother said. “Don’t give her the diet kind. She only takes the regular Coke.”
I felt a flush of excitement that she told us this like Cammy was already ours. Like the adoption agency had already approved us.
“You’re giving her Coke?” Bob said. I worried his tone would piss her off but then I remembered the foster parents have nothing to do with the adoption. She couldn’t stand in the way just because she was insulted. And she was insulted.
“Yeah, well, you try feeding a crack baby, how about that? If you can find something better—go for it. Be my guest if you think you know it all. It’s Coke or go deaf from the constant screaming. It’s around the clock. Say goodbye to a good night’s sleep.”
The social worker cleared her throat and said, “Yes, well, the Friedmans have been brought up to speed,” and then she leaned over to me and whispered, “As you can see, this particular foster family is a tad bit overwhelmed. They have a houseful of children. It’s really not so bad.” I can’t remember the social worker’s name, which is so weird because I had her phone number memorized back then we spoke so often. She spent every parenting class passing notes to us like this is important and that will come in handy when the group leader talked about how to raise a crack baby.
I’ve always hated that label. There must be something better. Child born addicted is what was first offered to us. The wait for healthy infants was so long. Crazy long. So we went to a private lawyer Mike found for us. Mike called him a fixer. Someone who got the job done. Greased the machine. He worked within the system. He expedited things. Bob and Mike whispered about it and I knew it meant money was changing hands under the table but I didn’t care. I just wanted a child.
We knew we’d be looking at pictures on our second appointment at the adoption agency. I was wearing my gray slacks because they were the only ones that still fit. I’d lost a lot of weight from all the stress. It was six-thirty in the morning when Bob turned to face me in bed. We blinked at each other and he touched my cheek and said let’s go get her like our little girl was waiting to be picked up from school. Which was exactly what I was thinking when he said the words. The way he said it, the smile he smiled, the feel of his hand on my face, pushing my hair out of my eyes, all of it made me cry and laugh at the same time. He was really trying to be a good sport and I knew it even then. Deep down I knew it was hard for him to muster up excitement that day. He sure did try though and I felt grateful for it. We scooted closer to each other. He rearranged the comforter over us. I ran my hand down his chest. He stopped me when I got to the waistband of his boxers. He kissed my forehead and said, “You want the first shower?”
It didn’t hurt my feelings as much as it made me sad. Looking back, I think I sensed that we’d turned a corner and we’d never find our way back to where we started. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. All I knew was that once we decided on adoption, sex felt redundant. Irrelevant. We’d come to hate sex by that time. Because of all the fertility visits. Bob disappearing into a stuffy room to “make a deposit,” they called it. Into a plastic cup. He said they had old Playboy magazines he wouldn’t touch because he said they looked sticky. They had lotion from a pump dispenser on the wall and a box of tissues and a Magic Marker to write your name on a sticker on the cup. There were the bruises on my belly from all the shots I had to give myself to boost my egg count. The ovulation kits. Having sex during surges like it was all one big science experiment, which of course it was.
We were half an hour early for the appointment at the adoption agency. The receptionist smiled and said a lot of people do that on picture day and then she said that’s a good sign it’s the right decision for you. Bob squeezed my hand.
When our adoption counselor told us there were “alternatives” to waiting on the list, however short it was thanks to our shady lawyer, Bob mumbled “alternatives are never good,” and I guess I should’ve paid more attention to that but I was single-minded. I elbowed him and he smiled across the desk like he knew I wanted him to. They look at everything, those agencies. Any hesitation could set you back. I don’t know why I was in such a hurry, but I remember it felt like time was flying by and we’d be passed over and never have children and a childless couple was something I didn’t want us to be. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t pushed and pushed us to have a family. Actually I wonder that all the time.
I was convinced we’d find her that day. Picture day. I’d gotten Bob a key chain engraved with the date so I could give it to him over dinner. The date we had our first child. I remember happily paying double for the engraver to rush the job. We’d only just gotten the call to come into the agency. Two weeks after submitting our application.
I stopped turning the pages in the photo album when I saw her. She was scowling at the camera and the downturn of her mouth looked like my mother concentrating on something. My mother made this same Charlie Brown face when she was cooking and checking a recipe or when I stayed out past curfew or if my father was late and missed dinner without calling from work.
There she was. This beautiful head of wavy light brown hair on the verge of being blond.
“That’s her,” I said. I thought when the time came I’d feel a rush of … something. I don’t know. Some kind of lightning bolt. Instead, it was as natural as looking at the sky. It was as if I’d known her all my life. Like I’d willed her to us.
Bob put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in closer to see. I slid the album over so he could get a better look. I traced the line of her face and looked at him and caught a flicker of something I’d rarely seen in him. He hid it when he felt me turn to him, but there was no mistaking it. He looked defeated. Resigned. I opened my mouth to say something but closed it because I couldn’t think of what to say. He’d folded into himself like a bat. His hands tucked into his armpits. Feeling the heaviness of the silence the adoption counselor said:
“I’ll give you two some privacy.”
She closed the door quietly behind her.
“What?” I asked him.
“Nothing,” he said. He didn’t look at me. He pulled the book over and smiled at her picture and then turned his face up like he was trying to make up for the grimace.
“You made a face,” I sai
d.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You made a face. If you’ve got something to say just say it,” I said.
“No. Yeah. I mean, she’s beautiful. Clearly. But—”
Maybe I was too quick with the defensive/offensive “but what?” but I was upset. How could he be backing off? We’d come this far. We’d talked about adopting a child with special needs. He seemed to think it was a good idea before picture day. He told me that if it would make me happy then fine. Okay, so he was doing it for me, but is there anything wrong with that?
I think it was because he saw that I wanted it. He knew I wanted to be extraordinary. Not ordinary … extraordinary. Making a difference in a child’s life is one thing … making a difference to a child with special needs—that felt right to me. Lynn kept asking me if there was any rhyme or reason to it. Had my mom worked with retarded kids? she asked. What the hell did I think was going to happen? she’d asked. Did I think I’d win some award or have a street named after me? she’d asked. I couldn’t explain it. Not to her and I suppose not to Bob. Not well enough anyway.
So there we were staring at Cammy in a three-ring binder.
“But what? Finish your sentence,” I said.
“Nothing.”
Then he cleared his throat the way he does when he has something to say.
“It’s just—” more throat clearing “—I mean, are we sure we can take on a crack baby?”
“I hate that term.”
“You know what I mean. A child born addicted. Whatever. It’s a huge thing.”
“We talked about this,” I said. “We’ve been over this. I thought you were good with it. We were on the same page. I can’t believe you’re changing your mind.”
“Sam, we only started talking about it when we heard there was a long wait.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So … it’s only been a few weeks, four, tops. It’s a big thing. Maybe we should take a little more time …”
“But here she is! She’s the one. She’s our girl. I don’t care what she’s got in her system. And up until now you didn’t care either. At least that’s what you said. Were you lying?”
“Jesus no. It’s just that it’s … real.”
“Yeah, well, having children is real, Bob. We’ve spent how many thousands of dollars trying to make one of our own. That was real, right?”
“You know what I mean. This is a child with addictions …”
“… and they said it wouldn’t be long until it’s out of her system altogether. They said the lasting effects are minimal. So she’ll have trouble concentrating in school. We’ll hire tutors.”
“You really want this,” he said. Like it was a Christmas present that cost a little too much but that he’d be willing to buy to make me happy.
“I really want this.”
He looked at her picture, smiled up at me and touched her photo like I had.
“Welcome home, Cameron Friedman,” he said.
I threw myself into hugging him. I hadn’t asked him if he really wanted this. I figured me wanting it was enough for the both of us.
My mother used to say there’s no such thing as too much love. But what happens when there’s not enough love? What if, when you look at your husband you feel blank like a piece of notebook paper?
I remember my mother leaning over the bathroom sink applying coral lipstick, checking her teased hair to make sure the bouffant was not too big because big is tacky. I would sit on the edge of the bathtub, watching her wave wet with nail polish fingertips, getting ready to go out with my dad. Even when she wasn’t in it, the bathroom smelled like nail polish, Joy perfume and White Rain hair spray. Her closet had sachets so her clothes all smelled like roses, so that’s what she was: petals and softness and color.
Mom’d say things like, “Rule Number One, never ever leave the house without lipstick.” She put it on right after brushing her teeth and as soon as I was allowed to wear it, I did the same thing. She told me Dad never ever saw her without it. She said in a fire there are two things you need to do before you run out, lipstick and mascara. I started having all kinds of nightmares involving fire and she told me that Dad always kept fresh batteries in the smoke detectors, he’s that kind of father, she said. For a long time if someone mentioned their father I’d ask if he changed the batteries in the smoke detectors.
I remember she’d tell me I was meant for greatness and boy oh boy just wait something special was surely in store and boy oh boy would I look back and laugh at how I never believed her. I didn’t believe her when she said I would meet someone who I would love more than chocolate. I didn’t believe her when she said I would love being married just like she did or when she said just you wait, Samantha. You’ll see. The love you’ll have for your children will be beyond your imagination.
It was definitely beyond my imagination the work it took to live day to day with Cammy. Lynn’s son, Tommy, was only a few months old at the time, so we hadn’t been able to spend time together, with or without the kids. Forget babysitters. No one had the patience for Cammy. Our social worker said the more exposure Cammy had to other kids her age, the better off she’d be. I thought I’d try the Mommy & Me class at our health club.
When you have a child born addicted to drugs you notice things you never before gave a second thought to, like taking Cam to the club. I’d never heard the loud music pumping bass like a punch, coming in through the revolving doors, which alone were confusing to her, I could see. I hadn’t thought of lights being particularly bright, but they were suddenly blinding. The line of people checking in felt interminable—had it always taken so long?
All this made Cammy hysterical. Hysterical. People turned around. They stared. Some shook their heads like I was a criminal for bringing her here. I found myself embarrassed. Looking back, I wish I’d said, “Really? Really. You’re upset about the noise my daughter’s making and you don’t mind Wang Chung blaring overhead?” Deep down, though, I couldn’t blame them. I was one of them not so long ago.
By the time I signed us in, my arm was breaking under the constant squirm of frantic Cammy. My other shoulder was pinched in the straps of the baby bag I hadn’t been able to readjust. I was sweating, passing the spin studio. The pilates room. The office for personal trainers. I was walking past my former life. By the time we made it to class I was exhausted. I looked in through the window in the door and all the moms were talking with each other. So pleasant. Then I looked at their kids. The class was for mothers and their two-year-olds. They were strict about the age apparently. So when I looked in at them I was shocked to see they were nearly twice Cammy’s size. I looked from her to them and back at her. They were healthy of course. They’d been breast-fed healthy milk. They’d had carefully scrutinized pregnancies. The babies were all bobbing up and down happily on their mothers’ laps, waiting for class to start. I turned and whisked us both out of there and never again went to the health club.
Bob and I went days without talking. It was a dance. Bob somehow sleeping through the cries in the night. Sometimes I knew he was faking sleep. He was teaching me a lesson. I was the one who wanted this baby. This child born addicted. If I wanted her so badly, he snored to me, I should be the one taking care of her. I felt in over my head but I wouldn’t admit it. I couldn’t bear to hear Bob say I told you so. I also wondered if he’d suggest returning her. Picking out another. Like a too-tight pair of shoes you need a half size bigger.
We passed each other silently. He’d dress for work while I stroked Cammy’s belly, trying to calm her. The house was in a constant state of Cammy’s moods. When we did speak it was never above a whisper. And our conversations weren’t conversations but directives. Bullet points.
“How’s she doing today?” he’d whisper on his way through the kitchen to the front hall to hang up his coat and change to house shoes. He never waited for an answer. Or, “We need diapers,” I’d whisper. He’d act like this was quite the imposition. Like it was the final straw when
really he did the bare minimum. Or, “Can you pop this in the mail when you go out?” He’d tap the bills into a pile.
I was too exhausted to ask him for help. I was too tired to fight with him about it. I should have said something. Maybe I did. But nothing changed.
Sometimes I’d make more of an effort.
“How was work today?” I’d whisper.
All of this while Cammy either slept or squirmed in my arms. I held her constantly. I developed biceps. Bob would try to hold her, but if she cried too hard he’d hurry her back to me and stalk out of the room.
It takes years to realize the impact an event has on your life. You don’t see it at the time. Then much later you have perspective.
Not in this case. I knew, as it was unfolding, that it was tragic. The whole thing. I’d bitten off more than I could chew with Cammy. Maybe I could’ve done better if Bob had helped, but that wasn’t in the cards. I didn’t know the man moving in and out of our house. He wasn’t even a roommate. He was a stranger. With Cammy asleep in my arms I’d look across the room at him and cock my head in wonder at his coldness. I knew he was hurt that our life had become all about Cammy, but I couldn’t have imagined he’d take it out on her. I never thought he’d withdraw completely. Many times I’d cry right along with Cammy. I remember the ache of it. I remember feeling lonelier than I ever had in my life. Lynn made efforts to relieve me, give me a break, but I shooed her off. She had Tommy to worry about. Besides, no one could handle Cammy as well as I could, I told myself. It was true. Other friends stopped by with baby gifts, but they’d back out the door within minutes, Cammy’s cries were that primal and unstoppable. Never-ending. So when the door closed behind my well-meaning neighbors and friends, I’d cry right along with my daughter.