Days passed, but Kay did not return to the home to collect her things. Word filtered back from the hospital through the social worker who visited us periodically that she’d been in labor for two days before they’d finally done a C-section to deliver the baby. When we asked how she was doing, Miss Oldenburg told us it was none of our business.
When Kay had been in the hospital for three days and we still hadn’t heard a word, everyone agreed to let Marty be first in line for the phone so she could call and inquire. The hospital staff refused to give out any information, even though Marty pretended to be a relative. The consensus was that we had to go to the hospital and find out for ourselves.
Everyone wanted to go, but a crowd would never be able to sneak in. It was decided that, since Marty and I knew Kay best, we should be the ones to go.
It was too far to walk, so we were left with no alternative but to do what was strictly forbidden—take a cab. All the girls chipped in on cab fare, and we made another secret call. Marty told the cab company to have the driver park a block down the street from the home. When we got there, he was waiting. For an extra-large tip, he promised to hang around while we went inside the hospital.
Although our hearts were beating hard and fast, we faked an air of confidence that got us past the information desk without being questioned. We bustled through the marble foyer, concocting meaningless chatter and phony laughter and pretending we knew exactly where we were going.
A wall sign listed maternity on the third floor. We found the elevator and rode up, sharing our speculations that being pregnant might be helping us get past hospital staff. We must have been right, for no one seemed to notice us, although visiting hours were not until two o’clock, and it was only noon. We’d come during lunch so we could get back in time for afternoon chores.
We proceeded off the elevator with our heads high and our walks purposeful, as if we had every right to be there.
In the middle of the maternity floor, we encountered our first stumbling block. Kay was not on the south end of the corridor. To search for her on the north end, we had to pass the nurses’ station.
Ducking into the ladies’ room to reconnoiter, we smoothed our hair, blown awry by the open windows in the taxi, tugged on our maternity tops to straighten them, then stepped boldly back out into the corridor to make our move. Just as we were breathing sighs of relief that we’d passed the nurses’ station without notice, the one on duty at the desk called out, “Can I help you?”
“We’re fine,” I called back, and we doubled our speed.
It didn’t work. She was after us faster than a hot knife through butter, as Mama would say. Her piano legs carried her toward us, her pudgy cheeks jiggling with every step.
“What do you girls want?”
“We’re here to see someone,” Marty said in an authoritative voice.
The nurse came back using the same tone. “And who might that be?”
“Kay,” I said.
I hadn’t meant to say anything, and certainly nothing lame, but Marty had turned a greenish shade of pale, and I’d used up all my meager store of fake confidence.
The nurse raised her eyebrows. “Kay who?”
I didn’t have a clue who. We didn’t share last names at the home. I finally came out with, “We’ve been here before, and no one gave us the third degree. We just want to see our friend Kay for a few minutes.”
The nurse’s gaze dropped to our bellies. When her eyes sought our faces again, they conveyed that she knew we were from the home.
“Be quick,” she said in a low voice. “Down the hall, room three twenty-two. You have five minutes before I call security.”
We murmured our thanks and rushed to the third door on the right.
Propped up on pillows, Kay lit up when she saw us come in, and she reached out with both hands.
“How you doing, girl?” Marty asked.
Kay shook her head. “This having a baby smarts.”
“Don’t they give you pain medication?” I said.
Kay started to say something but, with a forced laugh, backed off.
“You gals’ll find out soon enough. You’re big as elephants. You won’t have as much pain as I’ve had with a C-section.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?” I asked.
I could see that she was fighting tears. “A little girl. They let me hold her once. She was perfect.”
“Was?” Marty said hesitantly.
“They won’t let me see her anymore,” Kay said, brushing away a tear. “They said it’s easier that way.”
“You signed her over for adoption, then?” I said.
“I did, yes. You’d better be prepared to sign too.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “They won’t let you—”
A nurse entering with a new IV bag interrupted her.
“Time for you girls to skedaddle,” she said. “I understand the nurse at the desk took pity on you, but don’t abuse the privilege. Say your goodbyes.”
“We just need a minute more,” I said.
“Some other time,” the nurse replied. “Now, shoo!”
“When are you getting out of here, Kay?” Marty asked, turning back when we were halfway to the door.
“In a few days,” the nurse answered for her.
Kay gave us a longing look and a feeble wave.
“It means so much to me that you came. I’ll never forget it.”
We were almost out into the hall when she yelled, “Remember, it’s all about money!”
We turned back into the room, but the nurse pushed us out and shut the door in our faces.
“So she was right,” I said. “The adoptive parents pay the home big money for our babies.”
Marty grabbed my arm. “Look, no one is around. Let’s see what else is on this floor.”
We cased the remaining length of the north hall. It paid off. At the very end was a large room where they kept the newborns. We stood at the observation window and watched them sleeping in their bassinets. My heart twisted.
“They’re so tiny, so vulnerable.”
“Look, over there in the corner,” Marty said. “That one’s in an incubator. It must be a preemie.”
“Wonder which one is Kay’s.” I said, straining to read the names on the identity cards.
“The name cards here up front say they’re all boys. And see, they’re using only last names, so it’s hopeless that we’ll ever find her little girl.”
I turned to Marty. “Kay was about to tell us something when the nurse came in and interrupted her.”
“I know. She said, ‘They won’t let you.’” Marty wrinkled her forehead.
“They won’t let you what?” I mused.
“They won’t let you stay here another minute longer,” came a voice behind us. It was the younger of the two doctors who visited us at the home. “If you girls don’t want me to report you to Miss Oldenburg, you’d better leave, right now.”
Marty and I took him at his word and left the hospital as fast as we could. The taxi driver, true to his word, was waiting for us, his radio blaring Elvis’s latest hit, “Teddy Bear.”
“Would you tell me what all you gals see in that dude?” he asked, putting the car in gear.
“I couldn’t make you understand it in a thousand years,” I said.
He jerked his head around and threw a grin to us in the backseat.
“Oooh,” he said. “So that’s it, huh? Well hey, I’ve got a little of that sex appeal myself. The girls used to go nuts over me when I was younger and didn’t have this paunch . . . and a few other things. Do you reckon, if I let my hair grow, I’d kick up as much dust as he does?”
“Sure,” I said and gave him a good-hearted pat on the back.
When he dropped us off, we gave him all the extra money we’d brought with us, thanked him, and walked the block back to the home to report to the others.
Miss Oldenburg met us at the door and waved her latest telephone bill in my face.
“Julie, I know it was you who placed this call to Memphis. You owe me a dollar seventy-five. Pay up, or you’ll be looking for a hotel room before dark.”
I still had three ones pinned in my secret bra bag, plus the hundred-dollar bill I’d never broken.
“I’ll go up and get it for you,” I said, partly ashamed of having it when we’d taken money from everyone to cover the taxi fare, but on the other hand, I’d contributed my fair share.
“You’re not allowed to make any calls for the rest of the time you are here,” she told me when I came back down with the money. “In case of emergency, I’ll deliver messages between you and the involved parties.”
“That’s not fair!” I cried.
“What’s not fair is that you haven’t signed the adoption papers,” she said back to me. “Your mother would be very distressed to learn of this.”
I knew she was right. During our most recent phone conversation, Mama had implored me to sign the papers and get it over with.
It was during that conversation that I’d asked her, “Did you have any feelings for me, like love or anything, before I was born, when you were carrying me?”
“Why do you think I divorced your father and saw to it that he would play hell seeing you and ruining your life like he ruined mine? You must sign those papers, or all our efforts, everything we’ve done to protect you—to hide this embarrassment and the shame and to ensure that you can start over and look forward to a bright future—will have been in vain.”
“Mama, I know you were angry and wanted to get even with my father for what he did, but what I’m asking is something different. Did you have a strong and deep love for me while I was still in your womb?”
“Of course I did. I loved you beyond measure and still do.”
“Then you know how I feel now and why I’m not ready to sign my baby away.”
“I do understand, darling, but once you have the baby, you’ll see how much it needs parents who can provide for it. Promise me you will do what is right and sign it over for adoption.”
“I can’t promise that, Mama. Maybe at some point I’ll be able to, but not now.”
She had said nothing more, except goodbye. We hung up, and we hadn’t spoken on the phone since.