When You Least Expect It (5 page)

“The good news is that you can use the time it takes to find a birth mother to get your finances in order. If you don’t have that sort of money readily available to you …”

“We don’t,” I confirmed.

“Then perhaps you could look into getting help from your family, or perhaps refinancing your home,” Mike suggested. “You’d be surprised how resourceful you can be when you have to be.”

Even if India and I subsisted on ramen noodles and boxed macaroni and cheese for the next eighteen months, that was not going to make a dent in the $32,000—at a minimum—that we’d have to come up with. I looked at India, sure that she would be reaching the same conclusion, and braced myself for the inevitable look of despair and hopelessness. I wondered if we had enough left over in our emotional stores to ride out yet another devastating blow.

But to my surprise, India wasn’t at all upset. Instead, her face had a glowing intensity to it, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed.

“That’s true,” India said. “It would give us the time to figure out how we’re going to pay for everything.”

“Do you have any other questions?” We didn’t. Actually, I did—primarily where the hell was I going to come up with thirty-two grand in the next six months?—but I knew Mike wouldn’t have that answer for me.

“Think it over, and let me know if you’d like to go forward,” Mike said.

“We definitely will,” India said, standing to shake Mike’s hand.

“What do you think? I liked him,” India said, once we were back in my ancient Honda Civic, heading home. “Did you like him?”

“Sure,” I said. “He was …” I groped for the right adjective.

“Knowledgeable,” India supplied. “I agree. He seemed like he really knew what he was talking about. Mimi said he’s the best in town.”

I nodded and drummed one hand on the wheel.

“I’d feel comfortable signing up with him,” India said. “Would you? Or do you want to interview other attorneys?”

“If he’s the best in town, we should probably stick with him.”

“I agree. He’s perfect.”

“Except for the shirt,” I said, expecting India to laugh. I knew she shared my opinion of tropical print shirts.

But all she said was “Mmm,” and I knew she hadn’t heard me. She was too lost in starlit dreams of roly-poly babies with gummy grins and jelly bellies.

I hesitated, glancing sideways at her. I knew it was time to bring up the obvious obstacle to all of this, but it was a subject that had to be broached carefully. “The problem is,” I began.

“I know,” India said, cutting me off. “The money. We don’t have thirty thousand, or however much it’s going to be.”

“No, we don’t. Even the two thousand he wants as a retainer would be a stretch right now,” I said. “Maybe in a few months, maybe after I get the next royalty check from my publisher.”

I didn’t add that that money was already earmarked for our next few mortgage payments.

“I was thinking …” India paused.

“What?”

“We could ask your parents,” she said.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I had never had a close relationship with my parents. We got along fine on a superficial, see-you-once-a-year-at-Thanksgiving level. But you didn’t have to dig very deep to hit the undercurrent of tension. My parents had not approved when, five years ago, I gave up my job in corporate development to write full-time. My second novel had just been published, and I’d signed a new contract with my publisher. I was thrilled. My parents were not. In fact, there had been an ugly scene when I told them. My mother had actually cried, and my father had been in a tight-lipped fury over the money he’d “wasted” on my education.

“When it goes pear-shaped, don’t come to me for a loan,” he’d told me.

Not if.
When
.

At that moment, I’d decided that I would never ask him for
anything, ever again. India knew all of this, of course, although she hadn’t been present for the big confrontation.

“I don’t think my parents have that sort of money,” I hedged. My parents were not wealthy, at least not the sort of wealth where they could easily write us out a check for thirty-two thousand dollars.

“I’m not suggesting we ask them for all of it. Just enough to put down a retainer, until we can remortgage the house. And we’d pay them back, of course,” India said.

I breathed in, and let the air out slowly.

“It’s not as easy as you’re making it sound,” I said.

“I know,” India said. She reached for my hand. “But I don’t think it’s unusual for family to help cover the cost of an adoption. If my mother had any money, I’m sure she’d help us out.”

“If your mother had any money, she’d find a way to lose it before she could give it to us,” I said tersely. “Or she’d end up giving it all to an abused-elephant rehab center, or whatever bullshit charity she’s into at the moment.”

India didn’t argue with me. She knew what I said was true.

“And second, if we ask my parents for money, we’re going to have to tell them what we need it for,” I said.

“So what?”

“My parents aren’t the most pro-adoption people in the world,” I said.

“Seriously? Your parents are anti-adoption?” she asked. “You’re kidding me, right? Who the hell is against adoption? It’s like being anti-puppy.”

“Actually, they don’t like dogs much, either,” I said. “Look, it’s not that they’re anti-adoption, at least not for other people. But when it comes to them, to their family, to me, I don’t think it would be their first choice.”

India let go of my hand. “It wasn’t our first choice, either,” she said quietly.

“I know,” I said. I drew in a deep breath, and, after several long beats, I said, “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll talk to them.”

“Are you sure?” India asked, her brow puckering with worry.

I nodded. “What’s the worst that can happen? That I’ll be confirming all of my dad’s predictions that giving up my corporate job was the worst mistake I could possibly make, and that I’d end up a washed-up failure, crawling to him for money? It’ll probably make his year. You know how he loves to be right.”

“You are not a failure,” India said sharply. “And you’re not crawling anywhere. You know what? Forget I suggested it. We’ll find a way to raise the money ourselves.”

“Hey, I was just kidding,” I said. “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

To my mother’s credit, she hardly said anything negative at all when I called to tell her about our adoption plans. There was only one moment of loaded silence, after which she asked in a somewhat tremulous voice if we were planning on adopting “one of those Chinese babies,” which made me thankful that India wasn’t privy to the conversation. In the end, my mother—after a brief consultation with my father, out of my hearing—agreed to lend us five thousand dollars. It was enough to get started.

Once Mike’s retainer was paid, there was a ton of paperwork for us to fill out, but India threw herself at it with enthusiasm. She spent night after night sitting at our dining room table, pen in hand, filling out forms.

After a long debate, we decided that we would be comfortable sending the birth mother a yearly photo and written update, but that we did not want to have any post-adoptive meetings, at least not until the child was old enough to decide if that was something he or she wanted to do.

Next came the home study, which we were both dreading.
India insisted we purge all alcohol from the house and put child locks on every single drawer and cabinet door in the kitchen and two bathrooms, which meant that every time I went to get an aspirin, I had to struggle to remember how to open the door to the medicine cabinet. I kept pointing out that the social worker was unlikely to ask to see evidence of childproofing, considering it would be at least a year before we had an actual baby, but India insisted.

“I want this to go well,” she said nervously. “What do you think I should wear?”

“Definitely clothes. I’m sure they look down on nudists,” I said, in an attempt to inject some levity into the proceedings.

India rolled her eyes.

“What?” I said. “All I did was suggest no full-frontal nudity.”

“You have to promise me that you won’t make any stupid jokes in front of the social worker,” India said.

“Okay, okay. I promise I won’t mention anything about nudity,” I said. “Or our voracious porn habit. Or the meth lab we have set up in the garage.”

India pointed at me. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

The home study wasn’t nearly as bad as we feared. A frighteningly efficient social worker named Brenda came over to grill us on why we wanted to adopt, what our parenting style would be (I almost made a joke about how sparing the rod spoiled the child, but with a truly heroic effort, managed to stop myself), and what sort of child care we’d arrange for the baby. India surprised me by having good answers to all of these questions. If it had been up to me, I would have been left stuttering and probably making the exact sort of joke India had banned.

The only time things got tricky during the interview was when Brenda asked us how our extended family felt about our adoption plans. I glanced quickly at India, but she remained unflustered.

“My mother, who lives in town, is very enthusiastic,” India said. “And Jeremy’s parents have assisted us with the financial side of things.”

I was impressed. She somehow managed to not lie and yet still portray our parents as normal and supportive.

“Speaking of your finances, how are you planning on covering the cost of the adoption?” Brenda asked. She was fortyish, plumpish and black, with long braids caught back in a ponytail.

“We’re going to refinance our house,” India said.

“I thought I read in your paperwork that you’ve already done that once.” Brenda flipped through our file. “Right. To cover the cost of your infertility treatments.”

“The bank agreed to extend our home equity loan,” I explained. It was true, the bank had extended the loan, although not by much. But between the bank and my parents’ loan, our adoption budget was up to fifteen thousand dollars. “And I’m looking into taking on some freelance work.”

I held my breath while Brenda made a notation on her paperwork. Then she looked up at India, smiled warmly, and said, “Have you begun childproofing your house yet?”

After Brenda left, I wandered outside to water the hibiscus trees I’d recently planted in a line outside our front door.

“Hey,” a voice said. I looked up and saw Kelly Emmett crossing the street, bottle of beer in hand.

“Hey, man. What’s up?” I said.

Kelly held out his beer-free hand for me to bump, which I did, even though this ritual always made me feel slightly ridiculous, like we were pretending to be sixteen even though we were both in our thirties.

Kelly bought the house across the street from ours about a year after we moved in. He’d recently gone through an ugly divorce, and shared custody of his now-preteen daughter with his
ex-wife. The ex-wife had been replaced by a steady stream of tan, slim, young women, a phenomenon India could never figure out.

“What do they see in him? He’s not that attractive,” she’d always say, after sighting yet another gorgeous girl leaving Kelly’s house. “And he’s way too old for her.”

“But he is rich,” I said. It wasn’t clear where his money had come from—I never asked—but Kelly was definitely loaded. He owned a popular martini bar on Clematis Street, drove a new Lincoln Navigator, and had a huge boat that he kept docked at a local marina.

“He’s thirty-nine going on eighteen,” India would say, rolling her eyes, as though all the money in the world couldn’t make up for his immaturity. Then she’d grin at me. “I like ’em poor and grown-up.”

“Hey, I’m rich in potential,” I’d protest.

Kelly had thinning dark hair, shoulders that sloped forward, and was today wearing Wayfarer sunglasses, an Ed Hardy T-shirt, plaid shorts, and flip-flops.

“A group of us are heading out on the boat this weekend,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “You should come with, it’s going to be a blast.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s going?” I asked.

“A few of my buddies, some of the chicks from the bar,” Kelly said.

I could just imagine how India would feel about my spending a day out on Kelly’s boat with a group of bikini-clad cocktail waitresses while she stayed home and worked on our adoptive-parent profile.

“Can’t,” I said apologetically. “Too much to do around here.”

“Sure, I know how it is. I used to have a wife, too,” Kelly said. He laughed and took another swig of beer. “She always pitched a fit when I wanted to go out and have some fun.”

“India’s not like that,” I said mildly.

“Sure, whatever,” Kelly said.

Just then, a white Miata pulled in to his driveway. The door opened, and a tall, leggy brunette climbed out, shaking back her long hair and dusting off her practically nonexistent skirt.

“Hey, babe! I’ll be right over,” Kelly called out. The brunette waved and then sashayed into Kelly’s house. We both gazed after her.

“New girlfriend?” I asked.

“Who, Caitlyn? No, she’s been around,” he said vaguely, as though not really sure where she came from and how long she’d been there.

“What happened to …?” I asked, struggling to remember the name of the last one. “Rebecca?”

“Rachel.” Kelly shrugged. “Didn’t work out. She wanted to get married, and there’s no way in hell I’m going down that road again. Plus, Ashley thought she was a bitch,” he said. Ashley was Kelly’s daughter. She was twelve, and dressed like she was twenty-five. In fact, not unlike the way Caitlyn was outfitted. “Caitlyn’s less complicated. She doesn’t even want to stay the night.”

A sense of déjà vu swam up. I could swear I’d had this conversation before. And then I realized, I
had
had this conversation before. Back in college.

I gave the hibiscus one final squirt of water. “I have to get going.”

“Right. The Marlins game is on,” Kelly said.

I don’t follow baseball, or football, for that matter. The only professional sport I ever watched was the occasional televised tennis match. But because I was wearing a Marlins hat the first time I met Kelly—a gift from India, who thought the fish on it was cute—he’d gotten it into his head that I was a baseball fan. No matter how many times I’d tried to tell him otherwise, I hadn’t been able to dispel this myth.