The social worker paused, nodded at the infant, and said pointedly, “There you go.”
flooded my brain, a holdover from my own childhood. My brain was stuck in audition mode. The challenge of absorbing what was happening felt like a teeny tiny dog toy lodged in my throat.
dating. No one could ever be enough for me. Or I could not be enough for them. My own parents had been together just briefly, hitched in a quickie ceremony in Vegas and then split up, and growing up, I’d had a front-row seat to each of their dating lives, neither of which were easy. I’d lived in 12 different homes by the time I finished high school. After my brother died in a car accident, my dad and stepmom fostered children.
The conference room was actually a supply closet, and we crowded into it together and shut the door, baby breathing softly on my husband’s neck, the dog whimpering in the bag. We just needed a moment, that’s all, for our thoughts to catch up. At a pediatrician’s office off the highway, we paid cash. Even when stuck with needles, the sweet baby barely stirred. In a bustling exam room, nurses coming and going, a doctor said he was so small he didn’t register on the growth chart.Back in the car, when I wasn’t driving, I kept a hand on Clarence’s warm body curled in my lap, and I turned frequently to check that the sleeping infant was real and breathing. My neck hurt from doing it.
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