Friday, October 12
David’s alarm woke me at six o’clock. He was leaving in half an hour to fly to Denver, so I had get-Lily-to-school duty. It’s a new day! Use this opportunity to chill out and enjoy your daughter, I told myself.
My positive self-talk worked only to a point. I couldn’t stop Kate’s terse phone messages from playing over and over in my mind. Her tone and the word “urgent” gave me the dreadful feeling our next conversation wouldn’t be a good one. Lily—the ever-keen observer—sensed my preoccupation. She grinned unabashedly when I reminded her Ida McKinley would be picking her up from school today for a long-awaited sleepover. With Ida, she’d receive undivided attention. Though happy for Lily, I couldn’t help feeling guilty that I was neglecting her.
The slate gray sky was spitting rain as I dropped Lily off. I hated the thought of her waiting at the bus stop in the rain and had fallen prey to her pitiful plea, “Can you give me a ride?”
Running late, I opted for the beltline, usually the quickest route to my downtown office. When I found myself in the middle lane of a three-lane parking lot, boxed in by two semi-trucks, it was too late to turn back. My windshield wipers slapped at the now-steady rain, and I saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles off in the distance.
The perfect storm for this panic attack sufferer: oppressively dark daytime weather, trapped in traffic, loud catastrophic thoughts that would not be silenced. Kate’s probably dead, and I wasn’t there to help her!
Before I could brace for it, the anxiety engulfed me. Heart racing, ears ringing, palms sweating cold, my fingers gripped the unmoving steering wheel with white knuckles.
Stop it! It’s just a panic attack—no big deal. Predictable even, what with little sleep, the weather, David traveling, Kate’s messages.
I remained paralyzed with terror for at least ten minutes, though it felt twice that long. Rather than helping, deep breathing made me more anxious. I stabbed at the preset radio buttons in a frantic effort to find a song I could sing to but found nothing but commercials and inanely yammering drive-time jocks. Finally—despite the deluge—I rolled down my window. The rain peppered my skin with almost instant, blessed relief. I looked to my left and saw a driver in the next lane staring incredulously. No matter—I’d broken the vicious, anxious cycle in my mind and had come back to the present reality.
Battling panic attacks is exhausting, and I arrived at my office looking like I’d been through a jungle war—or at least half of me had. I glanced at my wall mirror in disbelief: the left side of my hair was drenched, and mascara ran down my cheek. I looked down to see my left sleeve soaking wet and dripping on the floor. My right side, though sodden, was at least not drenched. I felt foolish, too, for two Kleenexes I’d grabbed from my purse during the elevator ride from the parking garage were no match for the water drizzling down my neck.
Rosalee walked in a moment later, took one look at me, and laughed. “What on earth? Did your umbrella blow inside out or something?”
I took off my blazer, pulled several more tissues from the box on my table, and blotted my neck. “I haven’t been outside at all,” I said ruefully. “But I did drive halfway to work with my window wide open.”
“Because?”
“Because I had a horrific panic attack and needed wind and rain to pull me out of it.” I’d shared little tidbits about my anxiety issues with her before, but she’d never seen me in a state like this.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she said without being overly solicitous. “Let me go get you a hot cup of tea and see if I can find you a towel.” Her response was just what I needed—caring yet calm.
She came back in less than a minute, wielding a fluffy bath towel. “I had it in the gym bag I packed last week and never used,” she said sheepishly. “The tea’s brewing.”
“Thanks, Rose.” I closed the door and my window blinds, took off my wet clothes, and changed into a spare business suit I had hanging in my armoire for those occasions when I needed to spruce up in a hurry. I toweled off my hair and finger-combed it, then shuffled through the message slips on my desk. Among them were requests to call Kate, Monica Smith-Kellor, and George Cooper. Each had called the previous afternoon, Kate three times.
Before I even had a chance to sit down another attorney, Julie Wutherspoon, knocked on my door and walked in, carrying a bag of PDQ donuts and a cup of coffee.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said and, without ceremony, pushed the door shut with her foot, set the bag and coffee on my desk and settled herself into one of my chairs. Her visit took me aback: Julie and I were friendly but not friends, and she’d never set foot in my office before. Perhaps more surprising, she took no notice of my still-bedraggled state or the damp towel hanging over the back of her chair.
“Long story short,” she said, reaching in for a powdered sugar donut and pushing the leftovers toward me, “would you and your husband be interested in adopting an infant?”
“What?” I asked, sinking into my chair with weak knees. “I think you’re gonna need to make the short story longer.” One of Julie’s specialties, I knew, was adoption law, both international and domestic. But, since David and I had used another adoption attorney—one whom we trusted implicitly—I’d never discussed the subject with her.
“Fair enough.”
Julie proceeded to explain: One of the firm’s well-to-do clients had an eighteen-year-old daughter who’d just learned she was pregnant. Keeping the baby was out of the question for the family, since the father was a Mexican landscaper, far beneath their social strata. But the girl had adamantly refused to have an abortion and would agree to relinquish parental rights only if she and the father could select the adoptive parents. Julie was having a tough time finding a couple that met their criteria. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “What made you think of us?” I asked. I didn’t think our infertility was a topic of office-wide knowledge. I certainly hadn’t talked about it with anyone but Rosalee, and she was the best keeper-of-secrets I’d ever known.
“I was talking to David at the Cleavers’ anniversary party. When he found out adoption is one of my areas of specialty, he asked a ton of questions. What were the drawbacks to various international programs? How long does it take? Stuff like that. I just assumed you were considering it. Sorry if I misread things.”
Though somewhat incredulous that David would speak at length with Julie about this at a cocktail party, I couldn’t help being swept up by her proposal. “No, no,” I stammered like a schoolgirl. “It’s something we’ve certainly considered… what I meant was, what makes you think this couple would consider giving their baby to us?”
“I can’t be sure, but based on the couples they’ve nixed, I think you’re right on. They want people in their 30s with at least one other kid. Not too rich. Not too poor. ‘Good marriage partnership.’ In other words, a hands-on dad. Decent people but not ‘right wing-nut Christians.’ Does that fit you guys?”
I laughed. “I guess so.”
“Plus, I’m guessing you wouldn’t be opposed to having a Hispanic child. David was going on and on about the beautiful kids his sister adopted from El Salvador several years ago.”
“True.”
“Well, run it by him and let me know your initial reactions,” she said, getting up to leave. “I’ll put the search on hold until I hear from you, but let me know your tentative answer by early next week, okay?”
Dazed by this turn of events, I walked Julie out. “I’ll get back to you on Monday,” I said. Then—for good measure—I added, “I promise.”
Sitting at her workstation outside my door, Rosalee raised an eyebrow and followed me back into my office.
“Pray tell, what’s up!” she said, handing me the tea she’d brewed for me. “You’re always turning down my homemade treats. Then Jules brings you cheap-ass donuts, and you’ve got crumbs on your face, and you’re looking punch-drunk?”
I sank back onto my chair. “Julie just told me about an adoption lead for an infant. I gotta call David.”
“By all means, call him,” she said with excitement. “I’ll keep the wolves at bay.”
I looked at my watch. Shit! He’s probably in the air.
But he answered on the first ring. “Hey! I was just going to call and let you know I’m stuck at O’Hare with weather delays. No way I’ll make the Denver meeting, so—”
“Hush a minute,” I said. “I’ve got some news: Julie Wutherspoon—you met her at Frank and Judy’s party—just came in and asked if we’d be interested in adopting a baby. The mom is due in about seven months.”
Silence.
“David, did you hear me?”
“I heard you,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I don’t know what to say… this could be an answer to our prayers. What do you think?”
The level of emotion in his voice caught me by surprise. “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “I was just wrapping my head around the surrogacy plan and this comes up. Julie needs an answer early next week.”
“And Linda Wordsworth’s scheduled to head up north to meet with our prospective surrogate next Friday.”
“Maybe we need to reconsider our decision?” I asked, my stomach aflutter.
“I’d say so. Look, I’m gonna do this meeting by teleconference and catch the two-thirty Van Galder bus back to Madison. I know Lily’s going with Ida tonight. How ‘bout I meet you at Paisan’s at six and we’ll talk over dinner?”
“It’s a date.”
Then—without warning—my office door burst open and in stormed a wild-eyed Kate. “They’re trying to lock me up again,” she yelled. “And my lawyer doesn’t return my fucking calls!”
Stunned and beyond words, I realized I still had the phone in my hand. “David—”
“I heard,” he said tersely. And he hung up.