Thirty-seven

BIJAN HELD THE baby for over an hour. He sat captivated by the child as she laughed and cooed, reaching tiny, star-like hands up to touch his cheek. Kimberly had never seen two human beings respond so to each other; apparently neither had the two adoption counselors.

“You know, I bet she sees his pretty dark eyes and thinks of her mother,” croaked Mrs. Hatcher.

“Oh, Myrtle, she’s much too young for that,” snapped Mrs. Templeton, passing the sandwich tray to her colleague.

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Hatcher grabbed two cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwiches from the silver tray. “Like seeks its own. Blood knows blood.”

Kimberly scooted closer to Bijan and put her arm around his shoulders. She needed to be absolutely sure of him before she gave the last remaining shred of her heart to this baby. “You still think it’s a go?” she whispered in his ear.

“Oh, yes,” he said, not taking his gaze from the little girl’s face. “This is our Jennifer Aziz.”

Kimberly looked across the room, where Edwina Templeton sat riding her antique armchair like a gold brocade throne. “Well, Mrs. Templeton, what’s the next step?”

“I’ll need to fill out some forms, and you’ll need to write a check.” Mrs. Templeton smiled, but made no move toward any paperwork. Apparently, the wheels of adoption did not start turning until cash lay on the barrelhead.

“I’ll go get my briefcase from the car,” said Bijan, reluctantly handing the baby to Kimberly.

The two older women exchanged a glance as he left the room. They waited until the front door closed behind him, then Mrs. Hatcher leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

“I’ve placed hundreds of children, dear, and I’ve never seen such a bond. And right off the bat! He’s going to make a wonderful father.”

Kimberly looked down at the little girl, who was now smiling up at her. “I knew he would be.”

“I’ll go get the papers.” Mrs. Templeton rose from her chair. “In just a little while, you two will be parents.”

The rest resembled a house closing. Edwina Templeton passed around various legal-sized documents that required everyone’s signature contracts with both adoption counselors, releases that absolved both her and Mrs. Hatcher of any legal malfeasance, should any be discovered.

“I’m not sure what this means,” Kimberly said, her pen poised above the paper.

“It protects private adoption counselors from people who run baby scams,” explained Mrs. Templeton. “Someone brings a baby to us, says it’s theirs, we find a parent, collect a fee, then the real parents show up with a lawyer and sue everyone for damages.” She glanced at Mrs. Hatcher. “Latinos run that scam a lot in California.’’

“Forgive me, but how do we know that’s not the case here?” Kimberly couldn’t believe such distrustful words were coming out of her mouth, but Bijan was sitting next to her, besotted with the child, barely able to look up. Someone had to be practical.

“Well, you’re doubly protected, because I’m licensed by the state and you’ve got an original birth certificate and a release from signed and notarized by the child’s biological father.” Mrs. Templeton handed three sheets of paper to Kimberly. “Read these closely. Tomorrow morning I’ll file them with the Department of Human Services. The State of Tennessee will seal them, from there on out.”

Kimberly studied the first sheet. Jennifer Aziz Khatar had been born Behbaha Jane McIntosh on July 24, in Sullivan County, Tennessee. Her father was John Winston McIntosh, her mother Mahvash Ankasa. The delivering physician was a signature she couldn’t decipher, and Earlene Toomey was the official registrar. As her fingertips brushed the ridges of the official embossed seal, her tight little knot of hesitation loosened slightly. Little Behbaha seemed to be exactly who she was supposed to be.

The other papers made her sad. One was an account of Behbaha’s mother. She’d been Iranian, a nurse, and had died accidentally, from drowning, at the age of twenty-five. The other was a lengthy document, mostly written in the arcane language of the courts. John Winston McIntosh had scrawled his name in blue ink at the bottom, printing in the word “deceased” in the space designated for the child’s mother. The date indicated that McIntosh had signed away his daughter only three days ago.

That was probably the saddest day of his life, Kimberly thought, picturing the young man walking away from his baby, his wife, his life. Silently she handed the papers back to Mrs. Templeton. And this is the happiest day of ours. Strange, how different two sides of the same coin could be.

“That does it for my end.” Edwina Templeton collected the papers. “Now I need a check from you, made out to me, Edwina Scruggs Templeton.”

“One hundred thousand dollars?” Kimberly looked at Mrs. Hatcher as she pulled their checkbook from Bijan’s briefcase.

Mrs. Hatcher grinned smugly at Edwina Templeton. “That’s correct.”

She turned to Bijan, who sat making faces at the baby. “Do you want to write this or shall I?”

“You write it,” he answered. “And we’ll both sign it.”

Her heart pounding, Kimberly filled out the check. It was the largest she’d ever written in her life. She carefully wrote the “1,” then an impressive line of five zeros behind it. With only the slightest tremble of her pen, she signed her name and then passed the check to Bijan. He barely shifted his position, just held the checkbook in his left hand while he scribbled his name with his right. Kimberly tore off the check and handed it to Mrs. Templeton, who took it with a smile.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve just become parents.”

“Oh, I’m so happy!” Mrs. Hatcher warbled as she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

“We are, too.” Bijan leaned over and gave Kimberly a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered.

“Love you, too” she murmured, kissing him back.

They sat there enjoying, for the first time in their lives, the feeling of being three rather than two. Suddenly, more than anything, Kimberly wanted to take their little girl back to Florida, so they could be a real family in their own home, instead of in Edwina Templeton’s antique-stuffed parlor.

“Honey, why don’t I call and see if we can get a flight back tonight?” she asked.

Bijan grinned, understanding her need with that uncanny knack of his which made her wonder sometimes, if they hadn’t been married before, in some other life. “That sounds terrific.”

“Mrs. Hatcher, is going back tonight okay with you?” Kimberly dug in her purse for her cell phone.

“Whatever suits you suits me, dear.”

While Kimberly called the airline, Mrs. Hatcher followed Edwina Templeton to her office, ostensibly to divide up the fee. Bijan sat there, still mesmerized by the baby. A skinny Latino man dressed in white peeked shyly into the parlor as Kimberly asked the travel agent to change their reservations.

“We got the last flight out,” she told Bijan as she switched off the phone minutes later. “Nashville to Fort Lauderdale, seven p.m., on Delta.” She looked down at the child in her hus­band’s arms wishing she’d brought her camera, wishing she could somehow freeze this moment so she could go back to it, over and over again. Her Bijan. With their new little girl. “Just a few more hours, Jennifer Aziz, and you’ll be home.”