Pregnant Pause

  We sing some more camp songs, but thankfully not the camp song about leaving our weight on an old tired log. When it's time for everyone to go to their cabins, we climb in a single file up the hill with our candles, and we sing that old folk song "Kumbaya."

  As kids drop out to go to their cabins and the boys troop downhill to theirs, the voices get quieter and quieter until there are just a few of us left outside still singing.

  We sing one more verse and stop, and all is quiet. I can hear people moving about in the cabins, but all the lights stay off and nobody talks. No one wants to break the spell of the service.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I TELL my parents that I need to talk to Ziggy, and before I can run to find him, my parents stop me and hug me. "We're proud of you, Eleanor. The campers here really seem to look up to you."

  This feels really good. Really, really good. "Thanks. They're great kids," I say.

  I go to Ziggy's cabin and knock quietly on the door. One of the boys answers it and says Ziggy's not there.

  I look for him in the break hut and haul myself all the way up the hill to the main cabin and check the boys' latrine even, but I can't find him. It's too dark to go all over the camp searching for him. I go to my cabin, the one I shared with Lam. I step inside. It still has that funky Lam smell. I just stand there and cry a moment. I cry for Banner, and I cry because I can't find Ziggy. I look around. It's dark, and everything is in shadow. I see the moose head still sitting on the floor propped up by its left antler, and I cry some more because the pathetic head reminds me of Lam and the mess the two of us have made of everything.

  I hear a few whispered voices of people walking by, but other than that it's quiet and cold. Yeah, it's really cold. I hug myself and shiver, and I feel spooked by the ghosts of Lam and me and our marriage. But then I hear Ziggy. I hear his voice! It's soft, but I hear it. He's talking to someone, and he's close. I hurry back outside, and I see him coming toward me. He has his arm around Jen, and his head is bent toward hers.

  "Ziggy?" I say, and he and Jen both look up.

  He doesn't smile. He just waves and keeps on talking and walking right past me—with Jen. I stand there too numb, too frightened, to take in what just happened. I tell myself to go after him, because what the hell is going on? But I don't. I can't move. I feel everything inside me crumbling. I'm shaking all over, and I can't breathe. I don't know how long I stand there not breathing, but it's either take a breath or pass out, so finally I take a big, loud, crying gulp of air, and then another and another, and slowly, slowly, I allow what just happened to register. I jam my fist in my mouth to keep from making that awful sound that's coming from my body, the gulping, crying, sucking sound, while the thoughts seep in. Ziggy hasn't been too busy to come see me; he's been too scared. Too scared of Down syndrome. He doesn't want me anymore. He doesn't love me! He's just like all the others. He doesn't want Emma Rose, and if he doesn't, then how can I take care of my baby? How can I do it on my own? I can't. I can't do it on my own.

  I start that loud gulping/crying noise again. I hurry back into the cabin and fall on the bed so I can bury my face in the mattress and really cry. After several minutes of weeping and pounding my fists into the bed, I find myself thinking again about Banner. Remember Banner, Leo said. Poor, sad, lonely Banner. At this moment I understand how alone and desperate she must have felt, because it's exactly how I'm feeling. Nobody's on my side. Nobody's going to help me keep my baby.

  I know my parents are somewhere in the camp waiting for me, so eventually I wipe the tears off my face and get up to leave. Before I go, I walk over to the chest of drawers Ziggy bought me. I run my hand over the top of it. "It's a pretty chest. I'll keep it." I turn away and leave.

  My parents are waiting for me in their rental car. I climb in the back seat. "I couldn't find him. Sorry I kept you waiting," I say, keeping my head down so they can't tell that I've been crying.

  "That's all right," my mom says. "We had a nice talk with the Lothrops. They're agreed. The best thing to do would be to put the baby up for adoption."

  The baby. Did she call my child "the baby" because if she said her name, Emma Rose, the baby would seem too much like a real person? Because she is a real person! And the baby is my baby. To lose her is to lose a part of my body, an arm or a leg. She grew inside of me, we shared the same heartbeat, and now my heart is being torn right out of me. That's what it feels like, but I don't say anything. I don't explain this. I know whatever I would say wouldn't matter and it would be too hurtful, because I'm hurting and I'm angry about Ziggy and about my parents always being right, and about the idea of having to give up my baby because I'm sixteen and I haven't graduated from high school and I don't have a job and my parents are going back to Kenya.

  ***

  The next morning I feel gross all over. I'm bleeding, my breasts are sore and engorged, so I have to use the breast pump to express the milk, and my belly feels full and heavy and achy. It takes so long to get myself clean and showered, and then once I do, my breasts leak into my bra because I forgot to put the little pads in to soak up the milk. I change my bra and put the pads in and go down to breakfast in the hotel with my parents.

  At breakfast, my dad pulls out a notepad, and on it he's written the name of an adoption agency. "We called them," my mom says. "They can come out today, and you can sign the forms and they'll take Emma Rose and find a nice mother and father for her."

  "You know that, do you?" I say. I shove my plate of eggs away. I can't eat.

  "What?" my mom asks. She looks irritated.

  "Do you have a crystal ball in your purse or something, Mom? Because I want to know how you know that they'll find a nice mother and father for her. How do you know? Huh? How do you know this? Is it really that easy? Is it? To just hand over a live human being?"

  My father stands up, because I'm getting loud and people are starting to look at us.

  "Let's finish this conversation in the car, all right?"

  "Yeah, whatever. I'm sure that's the right thing to do. And we must always do the right thing, mustn't we?" I throw down my napkin and get up. I'm in a foul mood. I spent the whole night trying to decide if Ziggy really was ignoring me or if maybe he just had something super important to say to Jen. I want to call the camp. I want them to put Ziggy on the phone. I want to give him one last chance. I don't want to give up on Emma Rose.

  I follow my parents out to the car, and we pile in. Once inside, my mother says, "They screen the couples. Anybody can give birth, but parents who adopt have to go through a rigorous screening process."

  "What you're really saying, Mom, is that anybody would be better than me."

  "Eleanor, enough," my dad says, twisting around in his seat. "This is not a personal attack on you. You're right—your baby is a live human being and she has needs. She needs food and diapers and clothing and visits to the doctors and constant care, night and day, so if you're not there because you're working, then you need to pay someone to care for her. She's not one of your dolls that you can entertain yourself with for a few hours then toss aside when you feel like going shopping or going to a party. She's for real. This is for real. And we need a real solution, not one of your pie-in-the-sky fantasies."

  "Well, thanks. Nice to know what you really think of me, folks." I say this because I'm hurt, but I know they're right. I hate that they are, because I'm desperate to keep my baby. I want my Emma Rose. And I don't just think I'm being stupidly stubborn about this or contrary because I hate that my parents are always right. This is something I feel deep in my bones. I do. I feel I'm the best person to care for my baby, and I don't care how insane that is. Emma Rose isn't even a week old, and already people are rejecting her—Sarah, the Lothrops, Ziggy, my parents. She could spend her whole life in an institution waiting for someone to adopt her, waiting for someone who will love her most especially, when here I am, I'm here, and I already love her. I need to be there to protect her, to make sure she knows she's loved, always. Oth
erwise—otherwise she could become one of the Banners of this world. We belong together; that's all there is to it.

  My father starts the car, backs up, and heads for the hospital. It seems all I do these days is cry, but anyway, I sit in the back of the car and cry some more. I'm so miserable I just want to sink to the floor of the car and roll up into a ball and cry the whole world away. Instead, I stare out the window at the beginning of another sunny day in Vacationland, USA.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ON THE WAY to the hospital, I ask my mom for her phone and I call the camp. I get Mrs. Lothrop. I ask her if she could get Ziggy for me. "It's really, really important," I say. "Practically a matter of life or death."

  Mrs. Lothrop sighs big, but then she tells me to hold on. I hear her open the cabin door and call out to a passing camper to go get Ziggy; he's wanted on the phone. "Tell him it's Eleanor Crowe," she adds.

  While I'm waiting, I think about Ziggy. We love each other. He fought with Lam over me. He kissed me, and we both felt that zing-zing. I know we did. We had dreams about Boston and taking Emma Rose to concerts and museums. I just misunderstood what was going on last night, that's all. That's all.

  We're pulling into the hospital by the time I hear the kid's voice in the background again. "Tell her Ziggy can't come to the phone."

  "Did he say why?" Mrs. Lothrop asks.

  "Uh-uh," the kid says.

  Then Mrs. Lothrop is on the phone with me. "Eleanor, I'm sorry..."

  "I heard," I say. "Thanks, anyway." I hand the phone back to my mother. I don't cry. I feel too numb to cry. I can't believe this is happening to me. I love my baby, and I have to give her up. That's it. It's over. I lose. Emma Rose loses, and now that's going to be her life—always losing. How nice that losing is the trait I've passed down to her.

  I tell my mom to call the adoption people, and I get out of the car, because I don't want to hear the conversation.

  I go into the hospital, and I see Rabbi Yosef walking toward the elevators carrying flowers. He was supposed to come back and talk to me. We were going to talk about the baby. I think that seeing him is a good sign, a hopeful sign, and I grab it. I hurry after him, holding on to my belly and hoping nothing tears. I call to him in the hallway.

  He turns around and he recognizes me. He smiles and waves to me with his free hand. "Is this Eleanor Crowe I see?" he says.

  I rush over to him. "Yes, it's me. Hi. We were—remember we were going to talk? I need to talk to you right away. It's an emergency. They're going to take my baby, and I don't want them to. They're taking her away and..."

  Now I'm crying so I can't speak—what else is new?

  The rabbi leads me to the elevator, and we get off at I-don't-know-what floor and walk to some empty meeting room, and he tells me to have a seat.

  I pull a chair out from a table and sit, and he does, too. He sets the flowers on the table. They're a mix of red and yellow flowers. They smell really sweet, like Emma Rose does. I wish Emma Rose and I had gotten flowers, but nobody was happy to see her except me.

  "I'm keeping you from seeing someone," I say.

  "I have a few minutes for you, too, Eleanor. What is the emergency with your baby?"

  "I—I had a baby, a beautiful baby girl, and she's—I call her Emma Rose. She has Down syndrome. My parents want me to give her up for adoption. They're talking to the agency right now! Someone will be coming today to take Emma Rose away!"

  "I see," the rabbi says, nodding. He studies my face. He takes my hands in his and looks straight into my eyes. "You want to keep her," he says.

  "Yes!"

  "How will you keep her?"

  "How?"

  "Yes, where will you live? How will you pay for her expenses? How will you care for her?"

  "That's what I don't know. All I know is I want her. I do."

  "Wanting her isn't enough, of course. You must provide for her. So how will you do this?"

  "I told you, I don't know." I feel exasperated. I want him to understand how badly I want Emma Rose. Can't he see it? Can't he see it in my eyes? He's looking right at me.

  "When you have the answer to this question, you will know whether or not you should keep her. She can't live on air. What will you do for her, Eleanor? What are you willing to do for her?"

  "Anything. Everything."

  "Do you have a job?"

  "No, but I'll get one."

  "Are your parents able to help? Will you live with them? You're how old?"

  "Sixteen. No, they're going back to Kenya. That's where they live now. But I'll get a job here and find a place to live and get somebody to look after Emma Rose while I work and—and, I'll do it all. I'll do everything."

  "That is exactly what you must do. You must do everything for this baby, because she is totally helpless. And if you can't do all of these things, then you need to find someone who can. And Eleanor"—the rabbi pauses—"you need to do all of these things before you take the baby. A promise isn't good enough. You need a job and a place to live and someone to care for the baby while you work now, not later."

  "But—but that's impossible!" I slap my hands in my lap. "I can't find a job in five seconds or an apartment just like that. I can't." I study the rabbi's face. He looks so—so sorry for me. He knows. He knows that it's over. I have to give Emma Rose away. I burst into tears all over again and cry into my hands.

  "I'm here," the rabbi says.

  I lean forward and reach out for him to hug me, and he does. I cry my eyes out. It hurts so much. Losing Emma Rose hurts so much. I can't bear it.

  The rabbi holds me and lets me cry on him. Then he re-leases me. "Eleanor, you're being paged," the rabbi says.

  I stop crying and listen. "Eleanor Crowe, please report to the information desk on the first floor," a voice says.

  "That's my parents. I've got to go. Thank you. I'm sorry I got your shirt wet. Thanks for talking to me." I stand, and so does the rabbi.

  "You've got a good head on your shoulders, Eleanor. Your heart is ruling right now, and that makes it hard to see what you need to do, but you know. Deep inside you know what's best."

  "I guess I do."

  "God bless you, Eleanor."

  "Yeah, I wish he or she would."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  MY PARENTS didn't want me to see Emma Rose again. "It will only hurt you, Elly," my mother said, and she was right, but I knew not saying goodbye would hurt more.

  The social worker from the agency arrives, and she waits with us for the nurse to bring me Emma Rose. The woman's tiny, like me, with red hair that hangs all the way down to her butt. She tells me that I have ten days to change my mind. I don't need ten days, because my mind is exactly the same as it was the first second I set eyes on Emma Rose: I want her; I love her! But wanting her and being able to take care of her, as my parents and everybody keep pointing out to me, are two different things.

  My mother sees the tears forming in my eyes as I prepare myself to say goodbye, and she turns to the social worker. "This is the right decision, isn't it?" she says. "Maybe you can help Eleanor understand. She's so stubborn. A nice couple will adopt her, won't they? People who will love her and who can provide for her."

  "Mom, I don't want to hear it. Okay? I've heard it all before."

  "Actually," the social worker says, "except for your daughter's lack of a job and a place to live, she would make an excellent parent for Emma Rose."

  "What?" the three of us say in unison.

  I lift my head and wait for this woman to explain.

  "I know she's very young and perhaps naive about what it's going to take to raise a Down syndrome child, but of course until we have a child of our own, we're all a bit naive. I'm sure you had a certain fantasy about how it was going to be raising Eleanor. It's never quite as we picture it."

  My parents both blush when she says this, and I imagine they had a nice rosy picture of how it was going to be raising me. And then came the reality.

  "As you've said to m
e a couple of times over the past few days, Mrs. Crowe, Eleanor is very stubborn. Emma Rose is going to need someone stubborn to be an advocate for her in the schools and with the medical professionals and in any activity Emma Rose may choose to pursue. From the things you told me when we talked earlier, Mr. Crowe, Eleanor has a lot of energy, which she will need in abundance if she were to raise Emma Rose. You said she's intelligent, and that helps. She is the child's mother, and she loves and wants her. With a child like Emma Rose, love obviously won't solve all her problems, but it will sure go a long way."

  "But she's only sixteen! She's inexperienced. She needs to finish high school and go to college," Mom says, looking apoplectic.

  "Of course, I know this," the woman says. "And single parents in general have a lower socioeconomic status than a two-parent family. No, it's not ideal. And it's certainly possible that we'll find a loving home for Emma Rose, but there are no guarantees. I just want you all to understand this. I want you all to consider both sides of the equation. There can be a lot of guilt feelings that crop up later when a child is given up for adoption, not just with the birth parents, but with the grandparents as well. I don't want you to let go without understanding this, because guilt can be seriously destructive." The woman takes a deep breath, and I think my dad's about to say something, but then the social worker speaks again.

  "I know you've said that you have plans to return to Kenya, Mr. and Mrs. Crowe, but perhaps you'd reconsider and stay home to help Eleanor raise Emma Rose."

  Okay, I cannot believe what I'm hearing. Someone on my side. A social worker on my side. "Thank you," I say, and I go over and shake her hand.

  "You have ten days; just think about it," the woman says, looking over my head to my parents.

  "I won't get Elly's hopes up like that," my mother says, her face turning ever-deepening shades of red as she speaks. "We've explained to her that we just do not feel equipped to deal with a Down syndrome child."