David was seated at a window table when I arrived at the restaurant, an open bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses in front of him. He stood and hugged me.
“I’m so glad to see you,” I said, choking back a sob that had been building all day. “I started to worry you’d be so angry about my dealings with Kate that you wouldn’t show up. I know it was totally irrational, but…”
He put his index finger to my lips and kissed the top of my head. “Hey, you don’t ever have to worry about that. I promised I’d always be there: for better, for worse. And if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I keep my word.”
I nodded weakly as we sat down. “But you didn’t vow not to say, ‘I told you so.’”
“C’mon! You have to admit that’s not my style,” he said, pouring me a much-needed glass of wine. He was right—he wasn’t into recrimination. So why am I so uneasy?
We sipped and looked out at Lake Monona, devoid of boaters in this evening’s abysmal weather. The cruel white-capped waves lapped at the shore, and I suspected even the fish were hugging the weedy bottom for refuge from the wind and rain.
“I told the waiter to leave us alone with our Pinot and to bring a salad and two Garibaldis in half an hour. Let’s get all the unpleasant news off the table before dinner,” he said, refilling his own glass. “Tell me about Kate’s histrionics.”
“I guess that’s as good a place to start as any,” I said with a sigh. I really didn’t want to talk about her, but Kate was the elephant in the room. “How much did you overhear?”
“Just that they were trying to lock her up, and she was pissed that you didn’t call her back yesterday.” He paused to clear his throat, and when he continued his voice quaked with emotion. “I was so angry about the way she talked to you… and more than a little angry that you took it. Sometimes I just want to jump in and defend you.”
I reached over and put my hand atop his. “I’m angry at myself, too. For not being assertive enough with her. For ignoring the clear signs of her drug addiction.”
David looked up from our hands in mild surprise.
“Yeah,” I said wearily, “she tested positive for cocaine and apparently tried to dilute the urine sample. The pretrial services officer gave Kate the results yesterday and also told her George Cooper was filing a motion to revoke her bail. Of course, the officer called me, too, but I wasn’t in the office to get the message. So… I spent today getting her assessed by a treatment specialist—who diagnosed her as dependent—and later getting her checked into treatment at a place near Oregon. Even that may not be enough to satisfy the judge. We’ve got a hearing on Monday morning.”
“Coke would explain a lot of her irascible behavior,” he said, nodding slowly.
“Tell me about it,” I said. And, after a fortifying sip of wine, I described how Kate had looked and acted while high and while crashing. I described the demeaning process of her admission to The Meadows and her desperate expression when the small stash was discovered in her shoe.
David leaned forward to listen and never shifted his gaze from me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It sounds like one hellacious day.”
“If only I’d been prepared. I should’ve suspected.”
“You know what they say about hindsight.”
I fingered the stem of my wine glass, trying to summon enough courage to tell him what else was bothering me.
“Out with it,” David said, gently pulling my hand away from the glass and caressing it.
“Do you remember when Kate came to talk with us about adopting her baby?”
“How could I forget?”
Kate had come to Madison to meet with Marty Braxton and iron out the details of joining his research team. She had—quite insistently—invited David and me to meet her at a campus bar one evening for drinks. Before we’d even been served, Kate had told us she was pregnant and hoped we’d adopt the child. A child it was “too late to abort.”
The baby’s father, a Moroccan doctor who was doing his residency with Kate at Stanford, knew nothing of the pregnancy and would shortly be returning home to his wife and children. Kate planned to tell people she was studying abroad during her last trimester and would give birth in Milwaukee. Then she’d move to Madison, and Marty Braxton would be none the wiser. Her parents did not and must never know. Kate’s identity as the biological mother would be legally sealed until the child’s eighteenth birthday. She had thought it all out and, moreover, had been confident we would accept.
“Remember how forthright she seemed?” I asked. “How she encouraged us to ask her any questions we could think of?”
David nodded.
“And do you remember I specifically asked whether there was any family history of mental illness or substance abuse?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“And how she said no?”
Another nod.
“Today, Kate told me her mother’s an alcoholic. Not just a problem drinker—a hard-core alcoholic who’s been in detox and treatment three or four times since Kate was a kid. Like that information wouldn’t have been germane to our decision-making? Or like we wouldn’t want to arm Lily with knowledge about a possible predisposition to alcoholism?”
I’d worked myself up into a furor, and David could hardly miss the tension in my voice.
“You confronted her, I take it?” he asked.
“Yes. And her lame response was she was ashamed. Plus, ‘All families have skeletons in their closets.’ She actually said that!”
“It’s probably true.”
“What? You’re not defending her, are you?” I asked.
“No. Kate is a manipulator. She was then, and she is now. But I seriously doubt knowing about Margaret’s alcoholism would’ve made much of a difference to us. We would’ve concluded a possible predisposition to addiction was no more a deal-breaker than a family history of cancer or heart disease. We wanted a healthy baby, which Kate gave us. And for which I’ll always be grateful.”
“You’re saying I shouldn’t be angry?”
“No. I’d never presume to tell you how to feel. I’m only suggesting you keep it in perspective.”
He’s right. It wouldn’t have changed our minds.
With impeccable timing, the waiter brought our food, giving me time to compose myself. David and I always ordered Paisan’s signature sandwich, the Garibaldi. Made with salami, ham, spicy cheese, tomatoes and peppers on a toasted roll, it was the best thing on the menu.
Over dinner, David and I chatted about his aborted business trip, about Lily’s plans with Ida McKinley that evening, and about how we preferred the restaurant’s old campus location to the current, modern space.
“There’s still something bothering you, isn’t there?” David asked after he’d finished his last bite of sandwich.
Sometimes it’s so daunting being married to a mind reader. Especially one who believes you shouldn’t stuff your emotions. I drained my wineglass.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And it clouds everything: I had a full-blown, monster of a panic attack on the way downtown this morning.”
David moved to the chair next to me, slid close, and pulled my head onto his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said.
“It’s been forever since I had a bad one, and I was feeling so confident being off the Zoloft for a month. And, of course, I started thinking about how awful they were when Lily was a baby and I was home with her… and how I couldn’t bear it if they came back like that again.” I leaned against him, overcome by my negativity.
“But you’ve learned a lot in the past six years. You’ve learned to control them. You’ve got Dr. Brownhill,” he said, gently stroking my arm. “And there’s no shame in taking the meds if it comes to that. Go easy on yourself.”
His words and his deep, soothing tone weren’t quite enough to assuage my fears. “Yeah. But we’ve got these new, exciting baby opportunities to think about, and instead I’m concentrating on the albatross I’ve got around my neck and the specter of panic disorder stalking me.”
“Just to be clear: Kate’s the albatross, not me. Right?” he asked with a grin. I couldn’t help but laugh. David went to the restroom and left me alone with my thoughts. I stopped to consciously focus on the joy Lily had brought to our lives. Yes, she was an anxious child, but she was also kind, sensitive, funny and breathtakingly beautiful. Kate had shown us a photograph of Lily’s biological father, Fouad, and I could see why she’d fallen for him. And, not surprisingly, their child embodied their best physical attributes: Kate’s long, lean frame and grace, Fouad’s flawless butter-toffee skin and straight brown hair, and both Kate’s and Fouad’s ebony eyes. Lily looked nothing like David or me—something she occasionally lamented—yet I knew without question she felt securely a part of our family.
Would our having a biological child by a surrogate disturb Lily’s sense of belonging? Would adopting the baby be fairer to her?
I looked up to see David approaching—followed by our waiter, carrying another bottle of wine.
“Did you think I got lost?” he asked with a grin.
“To be honest, I was lost in thought myself and didn’t even realize you’d been gone so long. And if I have any more wine, no way can I drive home.”
“Not to worry. I made some calls. Got us a room at the Hilton, and their shuttle will pick us up if it’s still pouring. Called Ida and Lily, and they’re happy as clams, all cozy with cookies and cocoa.”
“But the money—”
“The Hilton is one of our clients. I got a great rate. We deserve a night out, Caroline.” Warmed by wine, coffee and tiramisu, and especially by my husband’s love, the day’s disappointments and trials finally melted away. David chided me playfully when I pulled out a notebook and my purple pen to list the pros and cons of adoption and surrogacy. And I gloated when—coming back from the restroom—I saw him sneaking a peak at the notes.
By the time we left for the three-block walk to the hotel, the rain had stopped and we’d made our decision.