possibility. And now here she was, almost sprawled on the black sofa, telling him with perfect ease all the things he realized
he'd needed to know, to be comforted about.
"She was wonderfully straightforward with me," Sasha said. "I mean she said, 'Look, absolutely no therapy-toting, understood?'
"
"She hates that—"
"Of course. It can be such an intrusive approach. Anyway, I was there to ask, not tell, thanks to you."
Steve's eyes fell from her face to her boots. They had scarlet-edged eyelets and scarlet laces. They were brazenly unwomanly
and therefore—Steve swallowed.
He said, "Nothing to it. She wouldn't have agreed if she hadn't wanted to see you."
"She told me her father's theory. So interesting. He used to tell her and her brother that adoptive parents don't feel as
guilty about their children's personalities as birth parents do, so that frees them from the responsibilities that encourage
resentment. And I don't know about you, Steve, but my family heaves with resentments, and we're all far too involved with each other. Nathalie said she's always had space, that her parents have always given her space."
Steve thought of Lynne, of those persistent unspoken needs and wishes, of the anxious, silent pleadings for recovered hope.
He picked up his coffee mug.
"Of course we talked about it when we first met. We talked about it a lot then. But she really wasn't bothered and if she
wasn't, I wasn't going to push her."
"You wouldn't need to," Sasha said, "she was perfectly clear. She said she was thankful to be free of all that genetic claustrophobia.
She said she knew all she needed to know about herself from her birth papers but that she'd far rather have had the freedom
to make herself and her own way than have the path mapped out for her, which is what would have happened if she'd known any
more. She said she never doubted she'd been loved."
Steve took a mouthful of his coffee. Then he smiled, almost privately.
"Oh no."
"I can think," Sasha said, "of so many of my friends who can't say that of their natural parents."
Steve thought about his father. Then he considered mentioning him and decided, reluctantly, against it.
He said instead, "I wonder why people still feel so uneasy about adoption?"
"Oh, that's just numbers," Sasha said. "It's just less common. IVF, legal abortion, less stigma about illegitimacy. One study
I read said there are only about a quarter of the adoptions now than there were thirty years ago." She uncrossed her legs
and leaned forward to pick up her coffee. "Social attitudes are so different. I mean, in Nathalie's day there were two social
improprieties to wrestle with—her natural mother being not married and too fertile and her adoptive mother being married and
infertile. All that's gone, thank heavens."
"Has it?"
"Oh yes," Sasha said confidently. She smiled at Steve over the rim of her mug and her nose stud blazed with a sudden tiny
turquoise fire. "As a society, we talk about everything now, don't we? I mean, can you imagine Nathalie's mother and mine having the kind of conversation Nathalie and I had?"
"No—"
"She's a stunning woman," Sasha said. "Lucky you. A stunning woman with no hang-ups."
Steve said awkwardly, "I just had a feeling that maybe I wasn't doing enough, being sympathetic enough. That maybe this whole
adoption thing was some kind of problem for her and I wasn't helping, I was just making assumptions—" He stopped and then he said awkwardly,
"I'm grateful."
Sasha's eyes widened.
"Who to?"
"Well, you. You've—you've set my mind at rest."
"Good," Sasha said. She smiled again. "Just think of the selection procedures Nathalie's parents went through to get her.
Pretty rigorous. They must have wanted her very badly."
Steve looked into his coffee again. He nodded.
Sasha said, "Can you imagine wanting anything that badly?"
He shrugged.
"Career things, maybe. I certainly wanted my daughter, but far more when she was
he'd needed to know, to be comforted about.
"She was wonderfully straightforward with me," Sasha said. "I mean she said, 'Look, absolutely no therapy-toting, understood?'
"
"She hates that—"
"Of course. It can be such an intrusive approach. Anyway, I was there to ask, not tell, thanks to you."
Steve's eyes fell from her face to her boots. They had scarlet-edged eyelets and scarlet laces. They were brazenly unwomanly
and therefore—Steve swallowed.
He said, "Nothing to it. She wouldn't have agreed if she hadn't wanted to see you."
"She told me her father's theory. So interesting. He used to tell her and her brother that adoptive parents don't feel as
guilty about their children's personalities as birth parents do, so that frees them from the responsibilities that encourage
resentment. And I don't know about you, Steve, but my family heaves with resentments, and we're all far too involved with each other. Nathalie said she's always had space, that her parents have always given her space."
Steve thought of Lynne, of those persistent unspoken needs and wishes, of the anxious, silent pleadings for recovered hope.
He picked up his coffee mug.
"Of course we talked about it when we first met. We talked about it a lot then. But she really wasn't bothered and if she
wasn't, I wasn't going to push her."
"You wouldn't need to," Sasha said, "she was perfectly clear. She said she was thankful to be free of all that genetic claustrophobia.
She said she knew all she needed to know about herself from her birth papers but that she'd far rather have had the freedom
to make herself and her own way than have the path mapped out for her, which is what would have happened if she'd known any
more. She said she never doubted she'd been loved."
Steve took a mouthful of his coffee. Then he smiled, almost privately.
"Oh no."
"I can think," Sasha said, "of so many of my friends who can't say that of their natural parents."
Steve thought about his father. Then he considered mentioning him and decided, reluctantly, against it.
He said instead, "I wonder why people still feel so uneasy about adoption?"
"Oh, that's just numbers," Sasha said. "It's just less common. IVF, legal abortion, less stigma about illegitimacy. One study
I read said there are only about a quarter of the adoptions now than there were thirty years ago." She uncrossed her legs
and leaned forward to pick up her coffee. "Social attitudes are so different. I mean, in Nathalie's day there were two social
improprieties to wrestle with—her natural mother being not married and too fertile and her adoptive mother being married and
infertile. All that's gone, thank heavens."
"Has it?"
"Oh yes," Sasha said confidently. She smiled at Steve over the rim of her mug and her nose stud blazed with a sudden tiny
turquoise fire. "As a society, we talk about everything now, don't we? I mean, can you imagine Nathalie's mother and mine having the kind of conversation Nathalie and I had?"
"No—"
"She's a stunning woman," Sasha said. "Lucky you. A stunning woman with no hang-ups."
Steve said awkwardly, "I just had a feeling that maybe I wasn't doing enough, being sympathetic enough. That maybe this whole
adoption thing was some kind of problem for her and I wasn't helping, I was just making assumptions—" He stopped and then he said awkwardly,
"I'm grateful."
Sasha's eyes widened.
"Who to?"
"Well, you. You've—you've set my mind at rest."
"Good," Sasha said. She smiled again. "Just think of the selection procedures Nathalie's parents went through to get her.
Pretty rigorous. They must have wanted her very badly."
Steve looked into his coffee again. He nodded.
Sasha said, "Can you imagine wanting anything that badly?"
He shrugged.
"Career things, maybe. I certainly wanted my daughter, but far more when she was
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