Before I Called You Mine, page 17
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.
chapter
eighteen
Monday, December 9. 7:45 a.m. Text from Jenna.
Hey, the office said you’re getting a sub today. Are you sick?
Monday, December 9. 10:04 a.m.
Lauren, I’m getting worried that I haven’t heard from you. Is it the flu? I hope you’re not texting back because you’re sound asleep. Let me know when you wake up.
Monday, December 9. 11:37 a.m. Text from Joshua.
Sure, sleep the day away so you don’t have to deal with the lunch line. I see how it is. J/K. Jenna says you have the flu? Guess we should reschedule the desk moving this afternoon? Unless you need some chicken noodle soup? Ben and Jerry’s? Whiskey?
Monday, December 9. 1:21 p.m. Text from Jenna.
I’m officially freaked out. I checked with the office again and they said you aren’t coming in tomorrow either. What’s going on, Lauren??? I’m headed to your house the minute school is out.
Monday, December 9. 2:06 p.m.
I just spoke with Gail. Oh Lauren . . . I don’t even know what to say. Can I come over? What can I do?
Monday, December 9. 2:08 p.m.
I’m not ready to see anyone yet. Soon though.
Monday, December 9. 2:08 p.m.
Okay. I love you, Lauren. Whatever you need . . . I’m here for you. Always.
Monday, December 9. 2:10 p.m.
I know. <3
Tuesday, December 10. 7:55 a.m. Text from Joshua.
I popped in to your classroom to say good morning to you . . . but unless you’ve aged about thirty years, started wearing bifocals, and changed your ethnicity to Hispanic, it probably wasn’t you. 🤔 Sorry you’re still feeling lousy. I’ll live text all today’s big happenings. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on a riveting day at Brighton.
Tuesday, December 10. 9:29 a.m.
Scarlet Peters just asked if I’m old enough to remember a time before cell phones. I assured her that I am, indeed, a survivor of the dreaded BT (before technology) era. I’m fairly sure she—and the rest of her classmates—think that screen time was invented with electricity. Godspeed, history teachers of America!
Tuesday, December 10. 11:15 a.m.
STEM time. Donovan just chucked a hundreds block at Mason R’s back. That kid needs to try out for the majors. Willing to take a 60/40 cut for scouting him. Fine, I’ll do 70/30. Final offer.
Tuesday, December 10. 12:59 p.m. Link to a video of class singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
Sorry, but it’s the only song they know all the words to from music class. Hope it cheered you up.
Tuesday, December 10. 2:34 p.m. Text from Jenna.
Can’t stop thinking about you. I’m so, so sorry.
Tuesday, December 10. 2:39 p.m. Text from Joshua.
Less than thirty minutes to go and Violet tosses her cookies all over Mason R’s backpack. It’s not that kid’s day. Probably should let him pick from your magical prize bag. If I don’t hear back from you in two minutes, I’ll consider that consent.
Tuesday, December 10. 2:55 p.m.
Will you grace us with your presence tomorrow? Crossing my fingers you say yes. Not sure I can hold down the fort without you much longer.
I powered off my phone, clutched it to my chest, and tried to pretend the world was as simple as Joshua had made it out to be.
chapter
nineteen
As a young girl, I remembered questioning my dad about the four bedridden grandparents in the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory movie. My youthful body and active mind couldn’t grasp the concept of living in bed, eating nothing but boiled cabbage, and wearing only threadbare nightgowns—not to mention staring at the same three faces all day long. Like usual, I’d asked far more questions than my father was willing to construct answers for. An ironic exchange, considering only a few years later, he would choose a similar path after his fall.
But unlike my father, I refused to give up on life the way he had.
With shaky arms, I shoved the hundred-pound comforter off my weary body and found my footing on the icy floor below. As cold seeped into my bones, I repeated the mantra I’d been saying to myself since deciding to go in to work tomorrow morning. “Just one day at a time.”
Gail had advised me—numerous times—to use my three personal days and two of my stored-up sick days and take the week off. But I couldn’t do that to my students. They didn’t deserve a bedridden-by-choice teacher. They deserved the Miss Bailey before the call. The naïve first-grade teacher ignorant of soul-crushing computer glitches that stole children from the hearts of the mothers who loved them.
I’d give anything to be her again.
And yet, even as I thought it, shame descended over me like a storm cloud. Wishing I could be her again meant never having laid eyes on Noah’s sweet face. Never knowing the hope of motherhood to come. Is that really what I want?
Too afraid to wait for the answer, I headed for the shower and tried to will energy into my body. I needed to see what condition today’s sub had left my classroom in and read through any notes before I showed up to school tomorrow morning.
I’d never been a fan of coming to Brighton at night. It was too dark, too cold, too empty without the children who gave it purpose. Though I’d only been absent from this place for two school days, I felt like a foreigner visiting an unknown land the moment I entered the shadowy lobby and switched on the main lights.
At least there was nobody here to give me an awkward hope-you’re-feeling-better pat on the shoulder—or worse, a probing stare while asking about the symptoms of my rumored flu bug. I knew Mrs. Pendleton and Jenna would never break my confidence about the truth of my absence to the staff, but even still, I simply didn’t have the energy to answer twenty questions about body chills and fevers or be told which homeopathic tincture I should take the next time a virus tried to take me down. All I wanted—needed—was time in my classroom with my kids so I could forget everything having to do with babies. Or adoption. Or shattered future dreams.
Tomorrow morning couldn’t come soon enough.
I shoved my key into the glass office door and sailed past the secretary’s desk. It was a blessing not to have to stop for chitchat with Diana about all the social happenings at Brighton before I could gather the sub’s notes from my mailbox. But as I rounded the corner to the mail station wall, my eyes wouldn’t believe the sight in front of them. My box, the second from the left on the top row, was stuffed to overflowing. I grabbed an empty box from the stack near the copy machine and began scooping get-well-soon cards, letters, and drawings—so many precious drawings—into it. Unfolding one such piece of art, my chest knocked twice at the smiley-face balloons colored across the page with the words Feel Better! scrawled along the bottom in red crayon.
Still in search of the sub notes, I spotted a small blue gift bag smashed in the back of the four-by-ten rectangle. I tugged it out, a mixture of dread and anticipation causing my fingers to trip over themselves as I freed the package and pried it open. With a single peek under the tissue paper, my heart lurched to a stop.
A plush blue-and-green T-Rex stared up at me with big oval eyes.
I pinched the red tag around his neck to read the words penned there.
How could I resist?
—Joshua
Joshua bought Noah a present. I clutched the dinosaur to my chest as tears climbed my throat, creating the first fracture in my carefully constructed dam of denial. Days of bottled-up emotion now threatened the integrity of a structure that only a few minutes before had felt solid and secure.
A single tear trailed the length of my cheek and dripped off my chin. And then another rolled down after it.
Stop it. Don’t do this here. Not now.
But my chastisement was immediately combated with the recycling of Gail’s compassionate rebuke. “You need time to grieve, Lauren. Your heart grew attached to a little boy it believed would become your son . . . and now it needs time to let that same little boy go. Be gentle with yourself.”
Only, I didn’t want to be gentle with myself.
I wanted to be a mother. I wanted Noah.
And right now . . . I desperately wanted to sleep.
In less than ten minutes, I scribbled out a new lesson plan for tomorrow’s sub, left a message on the school district’s sub line, attached a note for Diana, and hoofed it out of the office.
Back to the parking lot.
Back to my townhouse.
Back to my bed.
As it turned out, I’d been unfair to criticize Charlie’s relatives. Because sometimes going back to bed was the only option a broken heart could handle.
chapter
twenty
The doorbell might be the worst invention of its century. Why anyone would devise something so profoundly irritating, I couldn’t possibly understand. Nor could I understand the people who buzzed it like they were seeking asylum from a zombie attack.
Skye barked relentlessly at the sound. “Hush, Skye. They’ll go away.” I rolled over, my face brushing against Joshua’s stuffed T-Rex as I pulled the blankets over my ears, my eyes, my broken heart.
The doorbell continued.
So did Skye.
My phone pinged a text alert.
I slashed an arm out from under my cave of covers and ripped the device off my nightstand. It was Jenna.
Not leaving till you open the door.
Pretending to sleep was so much easier than trying to hold a conversation—text or otherwise—but the doorbell had now taken on a melody. Was that . . . “Stayin’ Alive”?
I’m serious. Not leaving.
Ugh. The second my socked feet touched the floor, Skye was up off her bed and darting past me on my hike down the stairs to the front door. I hastily punched my arms through a worn-out cardigan hanging on my banister, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door to reveal my best friend . . . and Joshua? A pang of guilt resounded in my hollowed heart at the sight of them bundled to their chins as if they’d planned to do a winter sit-in if necessary. And apparently they’d each come bearing gifts. Jenna: a bucket of cleaning supplies. Joshua: two armloads of groceries.
Before I could register what was happening, Jenna hurled herself into my unyielding body. Her arms tightened around my waist as her wool-mittened hands caused a fire-starting friction on my upper back.
“What are you two doing here?” The sleepy rasp of my voice betrayed my silent alibi, and alarm sparked in Jenna’s eyes as she pulled back to assess me.
“Were you just . . . sleeping?” For the first time, she seemed to take in my rumpled appearance, assessing the state of my hair far too long to be considered complimentary. I touched my ponytail, willing my flyaways to tuck themselves back into my hairband and go along with the charade that I’d only been reading. With my eyes closed. Since about noon.
“Think I’m gonna go with a yes on that one,” Joshua said, without a hint of judgment. “Mind if I bring these bags inside for you?” He made a move toward the door, and Skye gave a warning bark, still standing guard at my side as she waited for a command I wasn’t sure I would give.
Joshua knelt and set the bags down beside him on the porch. He offered his hand for Skye to sniff, saying her name and sweet-talking her as if they’d been great friends in a past life. After only a second of hesitation, she went to him, rubbing her nose against his open palm.
Traitor.
“My house isn’t exactly company-ready.” Understatement.
Jenna raised her bucket-o-clean as the mop handle drooped to one side. “Figured you’d say that, which is why I came prepared. I’m gonna clean and Joshua’s gonna cook.”
“What? No. That’s not . . . that’s not necessary.”
Joshua patted Skye’s head, then hefted the bulging bags to his chest once again. “If you want to get technical about what’s unnecessary, then I think you should probably evaluate all the cold air you’re letting into your warm house by continuing this conversation with us on your front porch.” He inclined his head toward Jenna. “Besides, it’s like she said. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Come on, Lauren. Just let us inside. We want to help. Please,” Jenna begged, stomping her fur-lined boots on my welcome mat.
Defeated and chilled, I double-tapped my outer thigh to signal Skye to move aside so they could pass. She obeyed.
“Thank you.” Jenna kissed my cheek on her way in, keeping any comments about the way I’d let my house go these last few days to herself. She climbed my stairs, dictating where Joshua could set the groceries down in my kitchen. “And don’t forget to put the milk products in the fridge,” she bossed. As if I weren’t standing there at all. As if I were caught in a Dickens drama, playing the part of the Ghost of Christmas Past while I observed the interactions of a life that no longer felt like mine.
I waited for the mortification of such an untimely visit to sink in, for a reminder of why I should be rushing to assist them with their self-assigned pity tasks. Shouldn’t I be scrambling to take out the trash or unloading the dishes that had been trapped inside the dishwasher since Sunday? Because strangely enough, I simply couldn’t dredge up enough energy to feel anything but tired.
So, so tired.
My body craved the solace of my down comforter and the peace of my bedroom.
“. . . pantry or cupboard?”
I blinked to refocus. “What?”
Concern edged Joshua’s gaze as his eyes found mine. He held up a box of Raisin Bran. “Cereal. Where do you keep it?”
