“Yeah, that’s a better idea.”
“Why are you both home today?” my mom asks from where she’s standing by the glass doors overlooking the balcony.
“It’s Sunday,” I reply as I squat down and take the rag from Claire’s hand. “I’ll take care of this.”
“That’s right. I work every day. I can never keep track of the days of the week,” my mom calls to us from the living room.
Claire smiles at me as we squat over a pile of waffle mix. “When are you building that house in the country?”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I whisper as I kiss her cheekbone.
We clean up the mess together and I toss the rag into the sink before we meet my mom in the living room. She’s holding a stack of mail and looks slightly annoyed.
“What were you doing in the kitchen? Wait—I don’t want to know,” she insists as she holds out the stack of letters.
“Mom, I told you I’d be by to pick up the mail tomorrow. You didn’t have to drive all the way down here.”
She frowns as I take them from her hand. “There’s a certified letter in there.”
I flip through the envelopes until I see the green certified sticker and the return address makes my heart race. The letter is from Hirschberg, Leidenbach, and Associates. Tasha and I were finally able to sit down with the Jensens and Ira to discuss the agreement last week. I’ve been trying not to think about the meeting too much because I left the meeting feeling as if the Jensens regretted allowing us to hold Abigail.
“What is it?” Claire asks as she sits cross-legged on the sofa.
I stare at the return address for a moment before I turn the envelope over and rip it open. “I don’t know. It’s from the Jensen’s lawyer.”
Claire leaps off the sofa and my heart leaps in my chest as I pull out the folded contents of the envelope. There are at least three pages here and I see a few red signature flags sticking out of the pages.
“What does it say?” Claire demands anxiously.
I unfold the stack of paper and my gaze falls right past the gold logo at the top of the page to the black text in the center.
Mr. Knight:
It was a pleasure speaking with you and Miss Singer this week about the post-adoption contact agreement. As I have previously mentioned, Brian and Lynette Jensen continue to express hesitation about how an open adoption will affect Abigail’s well being in the future. With that in mind, we have drafted what I believe is a reasonable post-adoption contact agreement for your consideration. This decision was not entered into lightly. In the end, I’m sure all any of us wants is what is best for Abigail.
Please read the attached two-page agreement thoroughly and seek counsel from Miss Singer before signing. If the agreement is to your satisfaction, please return to us the fully executed documents and we will file the agreement within five business days of receipt.
Kind regards,
Ira Hirschberg
Claire’s nails dig into my bicep as she reads the letter. “Turn the page,” she whispers.
The agreement stipulates no visitation rights past Abigail’s first birthday. The only contact the Jensen’s will agree to after that is the exchange of photographs, which Abigail won’t have access to until her eighteenth birthday.
“What does it say?” my mom asks, still standing a few feet away as if she’s afraid to come any closer.
“To keep dreaming or fuck off. That’s what it says.”
I toss the agreement and the rest of the mail onto the coffee table and head back to the kitchen. My mom follows me, but Claire just stands there staring at the papers scattered across the surface of the black table. She’s probably going through the usual mental self-flagellation. As much as I want to comfort her, I’m too upset. I feel as if I’ve ripped my own heart out and handed it to the Jensens only to have them stick a fucking red flag on it and ask me to sign it away.
“You can still fight for her. You didn’t sign the adoption decree,” my mom insists.
I grab the edge of the counter and stare at the dirty rag in the sink. Just moments ago, Claire and I were working together to clean up the mess we made while lost in the throes of passion. It seems that we’re always fucking stumbling. We can’t seem to find our footing ever since we broke up last year. Like the whole fucking universe is off balance. I’m not strong enough to right the universe.
Turning around to face my mom, I glimpse Claire sitting on the floor next to the coffee table, her eyes closed and hands clasped in her lap.
“I can’t talk about this right now. You’ll have to come by another time, Mom. And next time, please call before you come.”
“Don’t shut me out, Christopher. I deserve to know what’s going on.”
“This is not your battle,” I say, placing my hand on her back and gently guiding her toward the door. “Claire and I need to talk right now. Thanks for bringing the mail.”
“Thanks for bringing the mail? Listen to yourself.”
“Mom, please, we need to work this out without you here.”
“But I want what’s best for everyone,” she says, and the painful look in her eyes makes me sick to my stomach.
“I know. I’ll call you later.”
I kiss her cheek and send her off then make my way back to the living room. Claire looks up as I enter the room and looks me straight in the eye. She’s not crying and she doesn’t really look upset.
“What are you thinking?” I ask as I push the mail aside so I can sit on the table in front of her.
“I’m thinking of the last time we went to Jordan Lake.”
“Why are you thinking of that?”
“Because we had sex on your bike and we weren’t careful. It was almost exactly a month before we broke up. If I had gotten pregnant then instead of a month later, everything would have been so different.”
“Come here,” I say, beckoning her into my lap. She stands up and wraps her arms around my shoulders as she sits. “You want to know something crazy?”
“What?”
“I was just standing in the kitchen, silently cursing the universe for everything we’ve been through this past year, but you just helped me realize something.” I pause to brush the hair out of her face and look her in the eye. “The universe hasn’t been tossing us around, it’s been tipping over on its side trying to push us back together since the day we broke up. It’s just taken us a while to stop fighting gravity.”
She smiles as she runs her fingers through my hair. “You mean, it was the gravitational pull of your huge head that sucked me back in?”
“That, and my waffle-making skills.”
She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. “If you want to fight for her, I’ll understand. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“Just hearing you say that is enough. If I do this, I’ll do it on my own. I don’t want you to get sidetracked from school. Besides, you already have enough to worry about with the upcoming visit to your dad and the wedding in three weeks.”
“Ugh. That’s reminds me. Rachel left me a voicemail last night asking whether we prefer steak or chicken for the reception. She said the caterer needs everyone’s order now. Which do you want?”
“Steak. Did she happen to mention how many people she’s inviting? I told her I didn’t want this to be a huge thing.”
“I don’t think Rachel cares what you want. This is her wedding. I think she did mention there’s going to be like fifty or sixty guests.”
“That’s not bad. I just didn’t want it to be a huge crowd, then I end up spending the whole night signing autographs and filling song requests.”
“Again, not your wedding, so please don’t say anything like that to Rachel. I really don’t want to hear the words she will choose to remind you of that.”
“Got it.” I slide my hand under her tank top and take her breast in my hand. “Can I make you some waffles now?”
She grins as I gently tweak her nipple. I can feel her heart pounding under my fingertips.
“Only if making me waffles is code for making me scream.”
“You’re going to regret saying that.” I scoop her up in my arms as I stand from the table and she lets out a high-pitched squeal. “That scream doesn’t count. When I’m done, the cops will be breaking the door down to get to you. But it will be too late.”
“Good. I don’t want to be saved.”
Chapter Nineteen
Claire
Dr. Goldberg’s office feel like an oven compared to the nipple-cracking air outside the James A. Taylor Building. I tear off my coat and hang it on the back of the chair before I sit down across from Goldberg for my last session before Winter Break.
“How was your last day of classes?” he asks.
He’s leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his belly. This puts me at ease. I’m so accustomed to him taking notes while I speak. It’s nice to have his undivided attention.
“It was okay. It was nice to not have to worry about where I’ll be spending the holidays. It’s also strange.”
My stomach clenches inside me as I’m reminded of how I spent last Christmas, balled up on Senia’s bed.
“Why is it strange?”
“I’d gotten so used to everything being in flux, the way it was six years ago. It seems everything is settling down again and I feel… restless. Almost uneasy, like I’m just waiting for something terrible to happen.”
“That’s normal. When we’ve been through trauma, it’s difficult to deal with the feeling that it can happen again at any moment. It’s a feeling we all live with, but even more so for those of us who have experienced a deep loss.” He finally picks up his notepad and pen and I try not to sigh too loudly. “When we spoke last week, you were upset that you still had not reached an agreement with Abigail’s adoptive parents. How are you feeling about that today?”
I should tell him about the agreement we received this past weekend, but instead I blurt out, “Have you ever lost someone close to you?”
He looks up from his notepad and presses his lips together in a hard line before he sets down the pad and pen. “Yes. My first wife died of ovarian cancer eight years ago.”
Something about this makes the tears come instantly. I can’t imagine what it would be like to listen to people complain about the pressure of exams and botched adoption agreements after experiencing that kind of loss.
“What are you feeling right now?” he asks as I wipe the tears from my eyes.
“I’m feeling scared. I know things can get worse, but I’m not sure I can take any more.” I swallow the painful lump in my throat and dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand as I prepare myself for the words I’ve been thinking for weeks, but haven’t had the courage to speak aloud. “I’m also feeling sad because I’m beginning to think that the best thing for everyone, especially Abigail, is for Chris and me to give up on the open adoption.”
I arrive at Tristan’s—and Senia’s—house at 5:30 p.m., but Tristan and Chris are still at the studio. Senia gives me a very unenthusiastic tour of their 3,500 square foot house in Cary.
“And this is the room where he plays his bass for about ten hours a day,” she says, opening the door to a room the size of a small bedroom where various bass guitars and awards hang from the walls.
“You sound so happy,” I remark sarcastically as she leads me back down the hallway toward the great room.
“I hate the commute.”
“It’s thirty minutes from campus.”
“I used to live zero minutes from campus.”
“Are you mad that I moved in with Chris?”