Monday, March 17
The adoption arrangements had proceeded as planned. Linda Wordsworth, our social worker, had finished and filed our new home study with the court. At our request, Julie Wutherspoon had arranged for another social worker to interview Miriam and Antonio at greater length, and we were waiting on the report. A private investigator David knew made discreet inquiries into the background of Miriam and Antonio’s families, and—other than Miriam’s father’s bigotry—nothing remotely troubling turned up.
For fear it might scare her away and nix the deal, David had balked at my idea of asking for hair analysis to see if Miriam had used drugs during her pregnancy. But I’d had trouble letting it rest—I’d been so badly burned and deeply hurt by Kate’s deception, and I’d come to doubt my own abilities to see and know the truth.
After sitting at my desk idly playing with paperclips and accomplishing nothing for almost an hour, I impulsively called Miriam and asked her to lunch. The minute the words left my mouth, I regretted it, with visions of an irate Julie Wutherspoon flashing through my mind.
“That would be great,” Miriam said without hesitation. “But would you mind if we just went someplace like Perkins where I can get bland food? These kids have been giving me heartburn lately.”
My breath caught in my throat as a wave of sadness hit me from behind. I’ll never know what that’s like—carrying an unborn child who holds such incredible power. I didn’t reply.
“Can you still hear me?” Miriam asked.
“Sorry. You cut out on me there for a second. Perkins is fine. The one on the beltline?”
“Yes. That’s great. Is twelve-thirty okay?”
Miriam was already seated at a table when I arrived ten minutes late. I began a profuse apology for mistiming the traffic, but she stood up, gave me a warm hug and brushed it off. “Not to worry. I’m free until two-thirty. It’s great to see you.”
This confident, radiant young woman—with clear skin and shiny hair—was the picture of physical and mental health. I felt like a fool for doubting her. And I was at a loss as to how to begin this conversation.
Miriam charged right ahead. “I’m really glad you called. Julie said we should let her and the social workers do the talking, but this adoption thing is a big deal, and I want to be sure about it. When I sign on the dotted line, it’ll be too late. Can I ask you some more questions?”
“Sure. I’d like to ask you some too.”
Our waitress was top-notch—she brought our order without chitchat or fuss, and left us alone to talk. Before I knew it, Miriam and I were baring our souls to one another. She told me about her adolescent struggles with bulimia and her ongoing conflicts with her demanding, perfectionistic father and her bitchy mother. I told her about my panic attacks, about defending Kate and the damage it had done to my confidence in judging people.
“I was going to ask you for a hair sample,” I said, shaking my head.
Miriam burst out laughing. “Oh, my God!” she said. “I was going to ask you and David for them too. I kept telling Antonio I didn’t want our kids ending up with closet addicts. He told me I was being paranoid.”
We both agreed our fears were allayed and lab analysis of our hair was unnecessary.
“So other than having heartburn, how have you been feeling?” I asked when Miriam waddled back from her second trip to the restroom, her hands bracing her hips.
She looked down at what used to be her lap. “To be honest, I’m running out of gas. There’s not much room for them to move around anymore, so the big kicks have pretty much stopped. But one or the other of them always seems to have the hiccups, and I’ve started having some of those Braxton Hicks contractions. It’s kinda scary.”
“Is your doctor concerned?” I asked, my heart in my throat. Dear God, please let everything be okay—for Miriam’s sake and ours.
“She’s concerned about my blood pressure. It was up when I was in for my last exam,” she said, shifting in her seat. “Hey—do you want to come with me to my appointment this afternoon? Antonio couldn’t get away today, so I was going to go by myself.”
I set down my fork and napkin and looked at Miriam. Her eyes glistened, and I realized she was on the verge of tears, much as Lily would be if a shot awaited her at the doctor’s office. Despite her maturity, Miriam was really a child having children—and without support from her own uptight mother.
My own sadness at never having experienced pregnancy dissolved, replaced by profound concern for this young woman. “I’d like that, Miriam,” I said.
**
One glance at Miriam told me she’d also seen the alarm on the nursing assistant’s face when she took her blood pressure. “Thanks for coming with me,” she said in a small voice as we waited for the doctor.
“I’m glad to do it. They try to make these examination rooms bearable, what with the pastel walls and cheerful artwork. But you can’t disguise the smell of alcohol and disinfectant, and there’s no way to make a paper gown comfortable. It’s like a recipe for claustrophobia.”
She nodded. “You got that right.”
If Dr. Winters was surprised at meeting the adoptive mother-to-be of Miriam’s twins, she didn’t show it. She said hello and shook my hand, then got right down to business.
“I’m going to check your blood pressure again myself,” Dr. Winters said, wrapping the cuff around Miriam’s arm. “Sometimes the nursing assistants don’t read it correctly, and sometimes we get a more accurate reading after you’ve been seated for a while.”
Dr. Winters was better at keeping a poker face, but she jotted a note in the file and immediately voiced her concern. “We need to get your BP down,” she said. “And the protein level in your urine today is a bit high too. We’ll do an ultrasound to see what these kiddos look like, and then we’ll talk about where to go from here.”
I watched in amazement as the doctor squeezed gel onto Miriam’s huge belly and began the sonogram. She smiled and pointed to the images on the monitor, telling us the babies looked great. “You’re at thirty-one weeks right now, and their weights look okay. But we need to keep ‘em cooking for a while longer to get their lungs in a better position for delivery.”
Miriam and I looked at each other in shock. We both knew twins often arrived early, but the average is thirty-six weeks. No! This is more than a month too early. I, for one, wasn’t prepared.
**
“Thank heaven I went with her,” I told David as we sat together on the couch that evening. “When the doc said Miriam had to be on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy, she fell apart. It was heartbreaking. She said she and her mother were fighting all the time, and there was no way she could be on bed rest in her parents’ home. The doctor didn’t want her driving, so I took her to Antonio’s house. There’s not much room there—his grandmother lives there too. I’m not sure what will happen.”
“Don’t even think it,” he said.
“What?”
“I know you, Caroline. You’re thinking the guest room is still available, and you’re winding things down at work. You’re thinking Ida could look in on Miriam if you weren’t around.”
He was right. “Why wouldn’t it work?” I asked. “It would be to everyone’s advantage if Miriam had a comfortable, quiet place to rest. There’d be a better chance she could maintain the pregnancy longer, and our kids would have better odds at survival.”
“Think back to the last time we had someone living in our guest room. It turned into a nightmare, and we knew Kate a helluva lot better than we know Miriam. We’ve met her, what, two times?”
“She and I got to know one another pretty well over lunch and at the doctor’s office today.”
“Which probably wasn’t the wisest idea either,” he said. “When we first talked, Miriam and Antonio made it clear they don’t want future involvement in the babies’ lives—and we don’t want that either. Which would be a lot harder if we became friends with them during the last month or so of this pregnancy. She’s feeling vulnerable and would love to have a welcoming house to go to, and I’d like that for her too. But we need to look ahead toward our family’s long-term wellbeing. And having her stay here would more than complicate things.”
I didn’t want to admit it, but he was right again.
Feeling a shiver run down my back, I pulled the afghan from the arm of the sofa and wrapped it around my shoulders. “David, what if the babies are born too early? Or if they’re not healthy? I’m not sure I could deal with it.”