December 2024
THE DIARY LAY on the desk, opened to the last entry.
The blue ink was faded, and the pages yellowed with age. Here and there, words were crossed out and other words inserted. On a few pages, entire paragraphs had been struck through and rewritten. Sometimes, more than once.
The entries recorded the progress of the pregnancy, tracking weight gained and vitamin supplements taken. Absent were doctor appointments and ultrasound scans. A debate raged on the pages about what to do with the baby. Emotions ran high.
The diary was damning. It had to be destroyed, but first the last entry had to be reread.
December 29, 2000
The months of deception culminated in a visit today to the Foundation for Aiding Unwed Mothers (FAM) in Den Bosch.
The office was painted in the sunny colors of a kindergarten. Baby Mirella napped in the carry-cot on the floor. Only three days old, she was wrinkled and blotchy, and her fine black hair stood up in wisps. I had wetted it down in the hotel bathroom, but as soon as it dried, it sprang up again. Louisa sat next to me, her legs crossed, her foot swinging.
Ms. Janssen, the young social worker from FAM, sat behind her desk, her bright blonde head bent as she consulted the form I had completed.
“Your baby was born in a hotel?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise.
“That’s right.”
“Did a doctor or a midwife attend the birth?”
“No, only my stepsister,” I said, without turning my head to look at Louisa. I didn’t want to see the artfully arranged concern on her face. She was putting on an act for the social worker. When we were alone, she called Mirella “it” or “the baby.” To Louisa, Mirella was a mistake to hide and forget. As if Mirella had no right to exist. I couldn’t understand how she could be so heartless.
“Weren’t you taking a risk?” Ms. Janssen said.
Louisa leaned forward, moving into my peripheral vision. “After her water broke, labor progressed quickly. We didn’t have time to get to the hospital. Fortunately, there weren’t any complications.”
Labor had lasted six terrifying hours, and despite my pleas, Louisa had refused to call an ambulance.
“A precipitous labor is rare,” the social worker mused, biting down on her pen. Then she looked at me. “Has a doctor examined you?”
“Yes,” I lied. “And a doctor examined the baby.” That part was true.
The social worker looked at the form. “Father unknown? Is that correct?”
“Yes.” I wondered what she was thinking. Did she assume I was a rape victim? Or the father was married? Did she suspect I was lying? I gritted my teeth and endured.
Ms. Janssen nodded. “Why do you want to give up your daughter for adoption?”
“I explained in the form,” I said. Louisa had dictated every word.
“I want to hear it from you,” the social worker said gently.
“I can’t give her what she needs … two loving parents and a stable home. I can’t even support myself, and I want to go back to school. Adoption is best for both of us.”
“Have you thought of alternatives? Can your stepsister help?
“No,” Louisa said firmly. “I travel. I can’t take care of a baby.”
Louisa was keeping a low profile, I thought. For once, she didn’t wish to be recognized. For once, her face was bare of makeup, and her hair pulled into a practical ponytail. She’d left her jewelry in the hotel safe. Her formless off-the-rack dress came from the local department store. Even her most avid fan wouldn’t recognize her.
“I don’t have any other family,” I said.
“Have you considered foster care?” the social worker asked. “You can keep a tie with your daughter, and if your circumstances change—”
“I don’t want a tie.” I sounded like a cold-hearted bitch, even to my own ears.
“Adoption is final. You can’t undo it.”
Mirella woke up and started howling. Louisa dug into her bag and passed me a bottle filled with formula. I picked up the baby and pressed the nipple into her mouth. I tried to ignore her warm, soft body snuggled against my chest and her sweet smell. I wished there were a way I could keep her. I kept hoping Louisa would change her mind and say she had thought of a solution that worked for everyone. A solution that didn’t mean giving up parental rights to Mirella.
“I understand. What happens next?” I asked.
“We’ll notify the Child Protection Agency, and Mirella will be placed with a foster family for three months. During that time, we’ll offer you counseling. You can visit her if you wish. If you change your mind within the three-month period, we’ll reunite you with your daughter. Otherwise, she’ll be placed for adoption.”
“Katja doesn’t need counseling,” Louisa said.
The social worker tilted her head and studied Louisa briefly. “Do you mind stepping into the waiting room? I want to speak to Katja alone.”
Louisa shot me a look, as if to say, “Can I trust you? You won’t change your mind, will you? Not after all our trouble?”
I thought back on the bulky, shapeless clothes, the obsessive weight watching, the lies. It turned my stomach.
I nodded and Louisa left the room.
The nipple slipped out of Mirella’s mouth. She was asleep.
“Well,” said the social worker, fixing her eyes on mine.
I waited.
“I want to make sure adoption is your decision. Not your stepsister’s.”
I was sick of the charade … the claustrophobic six weeks hiding in the hotel, waiting for the birth. And the months before that, concealing the pregnancy. I should never have agreed to being Louisa’s secretary. Never agreed to any of it. She was putting pressure on me, but not how the social worker meant. Maybe I should study to become an actress instead of a writer.
I bent over, shielding my face from the eyes of the social worker, and laid Mirella in the carry-cot.
“No, Ms. Janssen. This is my decision.”
A fire blazed hot in the hearth. When the diary was thrown in, the flames flattened and sputtered. But a moment later, the flames raised their red-gold tongues and licked at the edges of the cover. Tasting. Testing. In a greedy gulp, the fire devoured the diary and sent clumps of soot swirling into the living room.
What to do about Anneliese?
The injuries she sustained in the bicycle accident looked worse than they were. Scrapes and bruises, a mild shoulder sprain, two stitches in her chin, a slight concussion. She had experienced cramping, but the ultrasound at the hospital showed the fetus was intact, an ugly new cycle beginning.
A more drastic measure was called for.