The second Sunday in December was Baking Day at the Cartwright house, an event I’d been participating in since Benny’s first Christmas season at home. Each year after attending the early service at church, we’d dedicate an entire afternoon to baking holiday treats for different organizations and foster/adoption families in our community. Trading in a week’s worth of paint fumes for the delectable aroma of Gail’s homemade gingerbread had been a major upgrade to my routine.
With a holiday basket filled with a variety of yummy treats on my lap, I navigated us to Melanie and Peter Garrett’s house for a special delivery from the front seat of Gail’s van. Though there were piles of treats back in Gail’s kitchen waiting to be packaged for delivery, she’d heard the Garretts were leaving on an emergency road trip later this evening with their two children, and she didn’t want to miss a chance to bless them, even in the smallest of ways.
I’d muted Siri’s voice on my phone’s map and simply gave directions as needed so we could still have a conversation without the constant interruption of a robot. “Once we get off Thirty-Second Street, you’ll take a right on Spruce and then a left at Black Briar Estates.”
“Got it. Thanks,” she said, setting her cruise control on the two-lane highway. “I just love seeing all the lights and holiday decorations up, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” Everything about this year’s holiday season felt more intense somehow, like each of my five senses had heightened to a new level. The pine trees were more fragrant, the twinkle lights glowed brighter, and everything from melt-in-your-mouth sugar cookies to my late-night hot cocoa ritual, while finishing the trim in Noah’s nursery, tasted richer than I’d remembered in years past.
Thankfully, my to-do list in the nursery was nearing the finish line. Joshua had agreed to move the clunky work desk out of the room tomorrow after school, and I couldn’t be more grateful for his help. Things weren’t completely back to normal yet with him, but there had been a concerted effort on both our parts to funnel whatever romantic feelings had developed between us into Noah-oriented feelings. My son had become the subject of approximately ninety percent of our communication—a safe, platonic topic for us to discuss at school or via text threads in the evenings. And Joshua had no shortage of questions, either. How did you decide on international adoption? What made you choose China? Have you always wanted to adopt? What are you most excited for? What are your fears?
Our discussions had been lengthy at times, ending well after Cinderella’s curfew, but his questions never failed to make me dig deep. For a man like Joshua, a man who’d grown up with a church family and with parents much like the Cartwrights, these kinds of exchanges came easily to him. But in many ways, when I spoke on matters of faith, I felt like a child playing dress-up in a closet made for mature believers only. Though Joshua was always quick to swap my timidity out for truth.
As Gail turned onto Spruce, my insides fluttered with nerves. I hadn’t seen the Garretts since their first night at group, though I’d wondered about them often.
“How are they doing—Melanie and Peter?”
Gail’s pitying smile was answer enough. “A little better. They say they’re committed to staying in the group, though, and they’ve recently started working with an attachment therapist. Our hope is that with time they might let us help.” She flicked on her left blinker. “People have to want to be helped. And while I’m proud of them for taking the first steps, there’s a long path ahead of them. True attachment is rarely easy or convenient. It can be exhausting work, but it’s also the most rewarding work I’ve ever done.”
“Did you struggle with attachment?”
Gail’s laugh was light, kind even. “Yes. Every one of our children required something a little different when it came to bonding with us as parents. Even the babies. Some of our kids needed a more hands-on approach, and some needed a bit more space to process, but all of them needed to be shown we were trustworthy. That we would meet their needs. That we were theirs forever.”
Forever. The word rang bright in my ears. I’d done a lot of research on attachment, even taken some online classes by the renowned Trust-Based Parenting Institute of Texas. But hearing it from Gail was far more impactful. She’d told me stories of the early days, of course, but the difficult days she spoke of seemed light-years away from the family she had now. I tucked that nugget of wisdom in my heart and studied the newer subdivision of single-family homes in Black Briar Estates, searching for the Garretts’ address.
“They’re just up there on the left. Three-nine-one.”
Gail parked in their driveway, and in a matter of moments, we were ringing their doorbell, both our faces holding an extra dollop of holiday cheer as the door swung open to reveal a worn-looking Melanie with a chubby, near-naked toddler on her hip.
“Oh . . . um, hello.” Melanie took us in with equal parts shock and surprise.
“Merry Christmas!” we replied in unison.
Gail stepped forward. “Lauren and I made you some special treats to take on your road trip.”
“You’ll love Gail’s gingerbread—it’s everybody’s favorite,” I added. “And the peanut butter balls are better than any you could buy at a bakery.”
“Uh . . . thank you?” Melanie took the outstretched basket and gave the now-whining toddler a bounce on her hip. Another nearly naked child raced through the house in the background while Peter’s voice rang out from somewhere out of sight for them to come and get in the bathtub.
Immediately a tiny voice yelled back, “But I hate taking baths!”
Melanie closed her eyes, her cheeks flushing as she breathed slowly through her nose. “Sorry, it takes both of us to do bath time with these two. But I’ll let Peter know you stopped by. We . . . we really appreciate this. Peter’s grandpa is in hospice, and we’re hoping we can say good-bye before he passes. . . . He’s over in Missoula. I’ve been trying to pack up, but as you can see . . .”
“Lauren and I would love to help you get ready, Melanie,” Gail interjected in a most unlike-Gail tone as she peered around Melanie’s slight figure and pointed to the leather sofa overburdened with three full laundry baskets. “Why don’t you and Peter tackle bath time with the kids, and we will tackle your clean laundry so it will be easier for you to pack up.”
I worked to rein in my surprise at Gail’s assertive suggestion, then quickly nodded my head in agreement. “Absolutely. You won’t even notice we’re here. We are certified laundry ninjas.”
“Oh no, that’s—I could never ask anybody to—”
“Mel? Do you have Aubrey out there? I could really use a hand!”
“It sounds like Peter needs you,” Gail prodded in that therapist-like way of hers. “You wouldn’t have to worry about us at all. We’ll be quick and quiet, and we can leave as soon as we’re finished folding. It would certainly make your packing easier.” She smiled, paused. “Just say the word and we’ll get started.”
I wondered if Melanie was aware of the test she’d just been given by Gail. Her answer determined so many things about their future . . . and yet, we couldn’t force the help on her. She had to choose it. To want it.
A brisk wind blew past us, causing Aubrey to wail.
Melanie rubbed the sweet girl’s plump leg, her moment of indecisiveness suddenly cleared. “Okay,” she said. “Yes, but I don’t understand why you’d even want to do this for us.”
“It’s simple,” Gail said, taking a step inside the modern home and wrapping her arms around Melanie and the baby. “Because folding your laundry is how we can love you best today.”
Later, after leaving the Garretts’ house on a cloud of euphoria, we returned to Gail’s kitchen to assemble another dozen or so baskets. I couldn’t wait to bless other families. Melanie was shocked when she’d come out of the bathroom to find piles of folded clothing sorted by age group and ready to be tucked inside a suitcase. Her once-hardened exterior had begun to crack . . . and all it had taken was a few extra minutes on our part and a willingness to meet a need.
Kindness wasn’t overrated.
I stretched my back from side to side as Benny and his older sister fought over whose turn it was to find a new holiday playlist on my phone for our last few basket assembles.
“Miss B, can you tell Allie it’s my turn now?”
“No way. I only got to choose two songs so far because you played the entire Avengers soundtrack—which isn’t even Christmas music!”
“Kids,” Gail practically sang. “If we can’t figure it out without fighting, then I’ll gladly choose the next songs. There’s a new hymns instrumental album I’ve been waiting to hear for some time.”
Both children groaned, and I took that moment to head to the restroom.
The hallway bathroom had a beach theme to it—handpicked seashells and dried starfish resting on the shelf above the toilet. A sand bucket filled with fresh washcloths and a framed picture of a young Benny and Allie building a sandcastle sat on the counter near the faucet. Benny’s cheeky expression, like his personality, was big and bright. Would Noah’s be like that, too? Or would he be more reserved like Allie?
I turned on the tap, washing the chocolate down the drain and taking in the hot mess that now adorned my apron.
A knock sounded on the bathroom door. Benny. “Miss Lauren, you had a call on your phone. Actually, two calls.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks, bud.” I quickly patted my hands dry on the towel hanging by the mirror, then cracked open the door to take the phone from my favorite twelve-year-old.
I expected to see Jenna’s name on the missed call list since she was likely still out bargain shopping with her mother. Between the two of them, they’d already purchased a complete wardrobe for Noah, including shoes and clip-on ties.
But it wasn’t Jenna’s name in the notification box. It was Small Wonders adoption agency.
I tapped on the voicemail, trying to fight the building anxiety over why they’d be calling me on a Sunday afternoon. Were they even open on the weekends? I didn’t think so.
I closed the bathroom door to block the Jonas Brothers’ rendition of “White Christmas” and cupped the phone to my ear to listen to the message.
“Hi, Lauren, this is Stacey at Small Wonders. I’m sorry to call you on a Sunday, but I just heard from our office staff in China and, well, I need you to call me back as soon as possible. Call me on my personal cell. It’s . . .”
I repeated the number out loud and immediately dialed, telling myself all the while that everything was fine. Nothing to worry about. It was probably just regarding the next stage in the paperwork process. Visa applications could be tricky.
But the instant Stacey answered and spoke my name, all my positive thinking died.
From somewhere outside my body, I heard it. A rhythmic knocking. A doorknob jiggling. A voice calling.
“Lauren, is everything okay?”
Gail’s muffled words waned in and out of focus like a child playing with the volume on a TV remote. Up and down. In and out. On and off.
“Lauren . . . sweetie, can you let me in? Tell me what’s happened.”
A part of me wished I could answer her, wished I could reach up, unlock the door, and let her inside this small space with me.
But I couldn’t do that. Because if I did, it would all be real.
And it couldn’t be real.
Please, God, don’t let it be real.
Another twist of the doorknob, another light knocking sound, and then several hushed voices seeped beneath the hollow door.
“Is Miss Lauren all right, Mom?”
A pause.
“I don’t think so, honey. Why don’t you and your sister go put a movie on in the family room, okay?”
Two metal clicks of a turning lock later, and Gail was inside the bathroom, closing the door behind her and settling down beside me on the ocean-blue rug. Or maybe it was Cadet Blue?
“I have a key,” she said. “As a mom of a herd of teenagers, it’s essential.”
I managed to nod as disjointed thoughts clogged the space between my ears. I stared at the hand still clutching the phone, wondering when my fingers had stopped tingling. They’d gone numb.
Like my heart.
Like me.
Gail remained silent for so long that when she finally did speak, her voice sounded too loud for such a tiny space. Too nice for the nightmare closing in on every side.
“What did they say, Lauren?”
I shook my head. How could I ever say it?
She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, asking again. My body remained stiff and unyielding. I didn’t want to be hugged. I didn’t want to be anything. Anywhere.
“Did something happen to Noah?”
Reflex had me squeezing my eyes shut as nausea churned in my belly. The overpowering scent of gingerbread and freshly whipped frosting made me want to retch, to strip myself of everything sweet and good and right.
Because that’s exactly what has been done to me.
“He’s not . . . he’s not mine.” The words tasted metallic.
“What? No.” Gail’s shocked reply was more than I’d been able to articulate to Stacey. More than I’d been able to comprehend. “That’s not—no. How can that be?”
“A glitch. In China’s orphan assigning system. He was matched with a different family before I was . . . in Connecticut. He’s not mine.”
He’s not mine. Noah’s not mine.
“Oh, Lauren.” As if I weighed nothing, she pulled my head against her chest and let her tears wet my cheeks while my own eyes remained dry.
For the first time since being matched to Noah, I had no tears left to cry.
I had nothing left at all.
Not even the title of mother.