aren’t they picking us?” Eva asked George, astonished. “What’s wrong with us? I’d pick us!”
Finally, a week or so later, to Eva’s great relief, the calls began. The birth mothers didn’t want to speak to George at all (“Well, they’ve all had bad experiences with men,” the agency told them) and the few times Eva tried to get George on the phone, sure his warmth and wit would melt any unease, the birth mothers hung up. But worse, the birth mothers who called didn’t seem to like Eva.
“You go to church?” one birth mother had asked her.
“We’re Jewish.”
“Would you convert?” And when Eva waffled, the woman sighed. “Forget it.”
“You’re a teacher?” one birth mother asked, disapprovingly. “So you won’t be at home for the baby?”
Every plus about them Eva thought of, a birth mother saw as a minus. When she said she loved movies, one girl complained, “Kids need sunshine.” When she said they lived in a semi-urban area, a birth motherprotested, “Then there’s no place for a kid to play.” Every time Eva got off the phone, she felt overwhelmed. And none of the birth mothers ever called back. “Maybe we aren’t doing the right thing,” George suggested, “maybe we should fudge a little,” but Eva was adamant. “No fudging,” she said.
Eva began to despair of ever finding the right one. She began to feel like Miss Haversham, lost in her ragged white wedding gown, waiting and waiting for something that everyone else knew was never going to happen. But what worried her more was George, who didn’t seem distressed at all. “What happens happens,” he told her. “Either way I’ll be happy.”
She couldn’t tell him how that seemed the worst answer of all to her.
All the waiting made Eva feel as if she had lived her whole life wrong, that her possibilities were sifting out of an hourglass. George kissed her shoulder. “So would it be the worst thing in the world if we didn’t have a child?” George asked her, and all he had to do was look at her to know her feelings.
And then Sara had called.
Eva had loved their talks, had loved it that Sara talked with George, that George seemed to like Sara, too. “She’s smart, that one,” George said approvingly. And she had loved Sara on sight, such a dreamy-eyed girl, healthy, from a good home, with an IQ off the charts. Gorgeous red hair. A mouth that had a darling little slant to it. Meeting Sara’s parents was another story. They sat so close to Sara on the couch, they looked like bookends. And as soon as Eva had mentioned a really open adoption, Jack had practically spilled his coffee. “Open is one thing, no doors is another,” Jack said. Sara didn’t speak much and finally, impulsively, Eva jumped up. “Come on, Sara,” she said. “Let me give you a tour. George can talk to your parents.” She held out her hand and Sara took it, and it was then Eva saw the bitten nails painted red and it touched her so much she wanted to reach over and take both Sara’s hands in her own and warm them.
In the den, Sara picked up Eva’s copy of
Wuthering Heights.
“I love the Brontes.”
“Me, too,” said Eva. She folded Sara’s hands over the Bronte. “Borrow it.”
And then Sara began coming over, more and more, and each time she did, she borrowed another book, returning it in such pristine shape that if she didn’t talk about them so excitedly with Eva, Eva wouldn’t even think she had read them. “I can lend you books, too, if you like,” Sara offered.
“Oh, I’d love it,” Eva said, and after that Sara began bringing books over to her, memoirs and novels and once a book about the color red that was so fascinating Eva sat up all night reading, her delight like sunlight splashed in the room. “I love this book,” she told George, but what she really meant was she loved Sara.
Make friends, the adoption agency had urged them, get the birth mother to like you, and Eva had, and it had been ridiculously
Finally, a week or so later, to Eva’s great relief, the calls began. The birth mothers didn’t want to speak to George at all (“Well, they’ve all had bad experiences with men,” the agency told them) and the few times Eva tried to get George on the phone, sure his warmth and wit would melt any unease, the birth mothers hung up. But worse, the birth mothers who called didn’t seem to like Eva.
“You go to church?” one birth mother had asked her.
“We’re Jewish.”
“Would you convert?” And when Eva waffled, the woman sighed. “Forget it.”
“You’re a teacher?” one birth mother asked, disapprovingly. “So you won’t be at home for the baby?”
Every plus about them Eva thought of, a birth mother saw as a minus. When she said she loved movies, one girl complained, “Kids need sunshine.” When she said they lived in a semi-urban area, a birth motherprotested, “Then there’s no place for a kid to play.” Every time Eva got off the phone, she felt overwhelmed. And none of the birth mothers ever called back. “Maybe we aren’t doing the right thing,” George suggested, “maybe we should fudge a little,” but Eva was adamant. “No fudging,” she said.
Eva began to despair of ever finding the right one. She began to feel like Miss Haversham, lost in her ragged white wedding gown, waiting and waiting for something that everyone else knew was never going to happen. But what worried her more was George, who didn’t seem distressed at all. “What happens happens,” he told her. “Either way I’ll be happy.”
She couldn’t tell him how that seemed the worst answer of all to her.
All the waiting made Eva feel as if she had lived her whole life wrong, that her possibilities were sifting out of an hourglass. George kissed her shoulder. “So would it be the worst thing in the world if we didn’t have a child?” George asked her, and all he had to do was look at her to know her feelings.
And then Sara had called.
Eva had loved their talks, had loved it that Sara talked with George, that George seemed to like Sara, too. “She’s smart, that one,” George said approvingly. And she had loved Sara on sight, such a dreamy-eyed girl, healthy, from a good home, with an IQ off the charts. Gorgeous red hair. A mouth that had a darling little slant to it. Meeting Sara’s parents was another story. They sat so close to Sara on the couch, they looked like bookends. And as soon as Eva had mentioned a really open adoption, Jack had practically spilled his coffee. “Open is one thing, no doors is another,” Jack said. Sara didn’t speak much and finally, impulsively, Eva jumped up. “Come on, Sara,” she said. “Let me give you a tour. George can talk to your parents.” She held out her hand and Sara took it, and it was then Eva saw the bitten nails painted red and it touched her so much she wanted to reach over and take both Sara’s hands in her own and warm them.
In the den, Sara picked up Eva’s copy of
Wuthering Heights.
“I love the Brontes.”
“Me, too,” said Eva. She folded Sara’s hands over the Bronte. “Borrow it.”
And then Sara began coming over, more and more, and each time she did, she borrowed another book, returning it in such pristine shape that if she didn’t talk about them so excitedly with Eva, Eva wouldn’t even think she had read them. “I can lend you books, too, if you like,” Sara offered.
“Oh, I’d love it,” Eva said, and after that Sara began bringing books over to her, memoirs and novels and once a book about the color red that was so fascinating Eva sat up all night reading, her delight like sunlight splashed in the room. “I love this book,” she told George, but what she really meant was she loved Sara.
Make friends, the adoption agency had urged them, get the birth mother to like you, and Eva had, and it had been ridiculously
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