Leap of Faith (24 page)

“I thought you were done with your past . . . with me.”

She lets me go. “I am done with my past, but you’re my Faithy.” She wipes her eyes, pushes my hair up, and leans in to kiss the back of my neck, right on my tattoo—the twin to her own. “Call me and let me know where you are.”

“Okay.”

I leave, feeling like Addy and I aren’t completely alone in the world after all.

• • •

Brian’s envelope holds five hundred dollars. The first thing I do is hit the McDonald’s right off campus. I haven’t eaten in a day and a half.

Addy’s propped in a high chair with Ronald McDonald’s face on the back of the seat. I stuffed a blanket around her so she wouldn’t slide down or tip to the side. She’s watching me eat like she’d pounce on my burger if she could.

“Want a fry?” I hand her one. Screw the books, she can gnaw on a fry for a while. What can it hurt? Maybe we’ll skip the rice cereal and baby food I’m supposed to give her soon and go right to fast food. She seems to like it.

She’s mine, anyway. I’m making the rules now.

She coughs and I grab her. She stuffed the entire fry into her mouth. I swipe my finger over her tongue and fish it out. My eyes stay on her face, making sure she doesn’t have a piece of fry stuck in her throat and doesn’t turn blue. Older, more responsible people wouldn’t have done that. She should be with somebody who knows what they’re doing.

“Is she okay?” I turn around to see the middle-aged woman in the booth behind me watching us. Her husband’s reading the newspaper, oblivious.

“I think so. Yeah.”

“Don’t feel bad. I did the same thing when my youngest was about her age. God makes them resilient so they can endure our learning curve.” She laughs. “Both of mine are in college now. Enjoy her. Before you know it, she’ll be out of the house.” She gives Addy a wave and turns back around.

Learning curve? How can I be sure I’ll come out of the curve? I might crash right into the guardrail with Addy riding shotgun.

Good thing God makes them resilient. If you say so, lady.

I give Addy a bottle and change her diaper before we leave. There’s a bus stop right outside. We wait there, and the bus comes within a half hour. I ask the driver to stop at the nearest hotel that won’t cost me a fortune.

In the last seat on the bus, I sit and break down.

I can’t do this.

I don’t know how.

The next day, we wake in our hotel room and go through our routine: bottle, bath, diaper, fresh clothes. I call Hope and tell her where we are. Then I spend my time trying not to think about the ultimate decision that looms in the corner of the room.

• • •

For no reason at all, I flip through the phone book to the government agencies.

Social Services.

I stare at the number until it turns to nothing but dots in front of my eyes.

Then I slam the phone book shut and drop my head down on top of it.

Addy’s on the floor rolling around, trying to lift her head and chest off the floor. She slides her knees underneath her and shoves, then her arms give out and she falls on her chest. Her face shows determination in her creased brow and focused eyes. She won’t give up.

Maybe she doesn’t need to be resilient. She’s tough. Maybe even tough enough to survive me.

But she can’t survive starvation, and I don’t have much money. When what Brian gave me is gone, we’re screwed. I can’t ask him again—there’s no way.

My decision will be made for me.

I sit up and clutch the phone book to my chest and close my eyes.

This is going to hurt.

chapter

twenty-six

Mrs. Wilkins is our social worker. “You’re living here in this room?” she asks, with her creased, plum-colored suit and black flats. Her hair is short and sticks to her head.

“Yes.” I look around. “Not permanently or anything.” What’s her deal? It’s clean. The maid comes every day. It’s an assload better than where I grew up.

Her eyes stay on Addy for a few minutes. She doesn’t say anything, just watches her as she rolls around again. After two days, she hasn’t scooted an inch, but she’s still not giving up.

“She seems well-adjusted.”

Is she waiting for me to respond or something? “Uh, thanks?”

“Has she been to all of her well visits? Are her shots up to date?”

“No.” I bite my lips.

She jots down something in her notebook, probably that I suck.

“Has she had any shots at all?”

I shrug. “Just what they gave her in the hospital.”

“Do you have her birth certificate here with you?”

“No.”

“Well, we’ll need that to proceed. She can’t be placed without it.”

“What if I can’t get it?”

“The county keeps a record. You’ll just have to stop and get a copy.”

“What if my name’s not on her birth certificate?” I cringe, waiting for her to pull her cell phone out and call 911 to report a kidnapping. “She’s my mom’s baby—my sister. My mom doesn’t want her.”

Her eyebrows shoot to the ceiling and she blinks double time. “How old are you?”

I lie—fast—without hesitation. “Nineteen.” She’s not taking Addy this second, like I know she will if she finds out I’m underage.

“And you’re her legal guardian?”

“Not yet. This was pretty sudden.”

She closes her notebook. “Okay. When you have legal guardianship, we can proceed. Until then, try to get her health record up to date.”

She shakes my hand, and I walk her to the door. “I’ll check back with you,” she says. I watch her walk down the sidewalk, her shoes clicking against the concrete.

“I can’t even give you away,” I say to Addy. I sigh. “Legal guardianship. Perfect.”

There’s no way I’m getting Mom involved with Addy again. I want her just where she is—out of Addy’s life. It’s shocking that she hasn’t thought of selling Addy to some black-market adoption gang.

Maybe I’ll just put an ad in the paper and find a good home for Addy myself. Maybe they won’t care if she doesn’t come with all the right paperwork. Maybe they’ll even let me visit her.

I shudder with the realization that I’m thinking like a pet owner with a litter of puppies to give away.

I stride over to Addy and scoop her up. I love the weight of her in my arms, and the smell of her new-baby skin, even her spitty fingers poking my cheeks.

Who will I be without her?

Who will I have?

Nobody.

It can’t be about me, though. I have to put her first. Living in a hotel room for a few more days and then who knows where—probably on the street—isn’t how I want her to be raised.

I took her in the first place so she could have a better life. We just got lucky. We found Ivy.

We found Chris.

But that’s over for us, and I don’t have anything to offer her anymore. Just love, and you can’t eat love for dinner. Ketchup packets aren’t so great either.

The answer floods my brain like a flame flickering to life. I know exactly how to do this without the paperwork and red tape, even if I don’t want to, even if it’s going to kill me to hand her over to someone else.

We walk to the library, where I know there will be a computer I can use. Inside, it smells like dusty old books. It’s one of my favorite smells. It’s comforting, which is what I need right now.

With Addy on my lap, I type a classified to post online:

Homeless baby needs adoptive parents. Baby left at church. If you can give her a good home, please call.

After I type the phone number to our hotel room, I post it as fast as I can before I have time to think about it.

chapter

twenty-seven

The next day, I start to panic. The phone hasn’t rung.

I don’t really want it to.

But it has to. I’m out of money. I would’ve never guessed diapers and formula were so expensive and that babies needed so much of both. I try to eat minimally, spending only a buck or two on fast food.

Addy’s lying on the floor watching
Sesame Street
and being still for once.

Eating a cheeseburger every other day isn’t giving me enough energy to keep up with her. I’m light-headed and ready to fall over at any second. All I want is a nap. Or even a shower, but I can’t watch her and take a shower at the same time, so I have to wait until she finally goes to sleep. Now that she’s rolling around, I have to worry all night long that she’s going to wake up and fall off the bed.

My mom was right, being a mom kind of does suck sometimes.

Just as Addy goes to reach for the lamp cord beside the bed, the phone rings. I’m sure it’s not as loud as it seems, but my ears buzz as the sound reverberates inside them.

I lunge off the bed and grab Addy.

This is it.

I can feel it.

“Hello?” I hold my breath.

“Hello. My wife and I saw the ad online about the baby. She’s on the line too—my wife. We’d like to talk to you and maybe set up a time to meet.”

I talk to Mr. and Mrs. Schroeder for an hour. He’s a teacher. She’s a lawyer. They live close, in a first-rate school district, in a big house, in a nice neighborhood. They attend church, have tried any and all methods of getting pregnant, and have recently begun looking into adoption, which is how they ended up finding my ad from an Internet search.

We arrange a meeting the next day at noon, at a restaurant around the corner. If it ends up that they’re not serial killers in disguise, I’ll go to their house and they’ll show me Addy’s room. They’ve had a nursery ready for three years.

Just add baby.

Just add Add.

Just delete me.

• • •

I think I’ve washed my hair five times, but my mind isn’t in the shower with me, it’s cycling through my conversation with the Schroeders over and over. How can I hand her over tomorrow to people I don’t even know?

My hand grips the faucet and turns off the water. I’m on autopilot. Feet step out. Hand grabs towel. This is how I’ll live for the rest of my life.

Numb.

If I could just get my mind to shut down like my emotions have, I’d be set. But it won’t. Right now, it’s picturing me back at school next month. My senior year. There’s no way I can go back there. I just don’t fit in anymore.

I don’t fit anywhere.

I used to fit with Chris.

I still ache for him.

So much for being numb and emotionless.

I make my hands tug a T-shirt over my head and yank underwear up my legs. My feet walk me over to the bed, and I crawl in next to Addy.

This could be our last night together. I’m not sure. Will they want to keep her tomorrow?

I pull her close. She fits against my stomach, a little comma-shaped pillow of baby for me to cuddle with. She lets out her sigh and gurgle and starts moving her mouth around like she’s carrying on a dream conversation. I wish I knew what she was saying. I wish I was going to be around for her first word.

• • •

I wake crying. Morning wasn’t supposed to come this fast.

Addy’s happy. She’s making little humming, yelling, almost singing noises, and kicking her feet in the air. I wonder if she knows she’s hitting the jackpot today.

I can’t lift my head off the pillow. There are too many heavy thoughts weighing it down. After I hand her over and they take her away . . . then what? Where do I go? With all my attention focused on keeping Addy fed and making sure we have a place to sleep, I haven’t had to think about myself. She was my driving force. When she’s gone, what happens to me?

I just want to pull the covers over my head and cry all day. Maybe I should just have them come and take her to get it over with. Then I’ll lie here, comatose, until the hotel kicks me out.

Addy doesn’t like my plan. She wants a bottle. I shuffle over to the minifridge and pull out her second-to-last one. “Guess this really is it, Add. They can buy formula and even baby food. You’re going to be their princess.”

After I give her the bottle and bathe her, I dig through her clothes, looking for the best of Emma’s hand-me-downs. There’s a pink dress with a butterfly on it that has matching leggings. “I think this is the one,” I tell her. “Your new mommy will love you in this.” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard.

She kicks while I pull on her leggings, and squirms when I tug the dress over her head. Then I crash back down on the bed and let her roll around on the floor, making her last few passes over the hotel carpet.

I feel like a turnstile with everyone in my life shoving past, leaving me spinning in circles. I hardly have time to recover before someone else speeds through. I can’t take it anymore.

I don’t want to live like this.

I’m so hungry. I’m trembling with the effort of getting out of bed. It takes all my strength to pull on jeans and brush my hair and teeth. I don’t need to look perfect. It’s not me they’re adopting.

Addy lies beside me as I stuff my clothes into my duffel bag. Hers I leave separate. They’re not coming with mine anymore.

Saying good-bye this time isn’t something I can wrap my head around. Before, when I thought she was going with Angel and Dave, there was a slight chance I’d see her again.

This time, good-bye is for keeps. I won’t ever see her again.

She pats my leg with her chubby hand. Then she lays her head on my calf.

“Are you tired, baby?” Just before taking her in my arms, I anticipate the feel of her little body. I have to make sure I’ve got it right and commit it to memory.

I hold her against me and lean back against the dresser. If I close my eyes and squeeze her tight enough, maybe I can wish us out of this mess.

• • •

This might be an out-of-body experience. I’m honestly no longer inside my own head. It’s like watching myself from someone else’s eyes.

Faith swings Addy’s diaper bag over her shoulder.

Faith takes one last look around the room she’s lived in for the past week with the baby she’ll never see again.

Faith hears a knock on the door and stares at it like it’s playing a cruel joke. Nobody’s out there. She’s hearing things.

Two steps forward brings Faith to the door. She leans against it and peers out the peephole.

He stares back at the peephole with his blue-green eyes.