“Ruffles wants a hug, too,” I say. The little dog licks Lily’s cheek.
Lily smiles and embraces the long-haired moppet. “Can I sleep with you and Ruffles?”
“Sure,” I say, then remember the potty training slips Miss Margaret mentioned. “But first, I think we should both use the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
Afterward, Lily, Sugar Bear, Ruffles, and I pile back into my bed. I read a story about a puppy, a kitten, and a rabbit until Lily falls asleep.
I turn out the lamp, then snuggle next to her, listening to her soft, rhythmic breathing. The room is dark, and so are my thoughts.
Another memory floats through my mind. I’d just come into the house from school, and my mother was on the telephone. I heard my name and froze.
“Quinn was a mistake,” I heard her say. “I never intended to have another baby after Will. I was already four months gone when I found out I was pregnant, so there was nothing to be done but have her. I cried for a full week.”
I stood there in the hallway, my eleven-year-old body quivering. I was too young to fully understand, but I understood enough: I wasn’t wanted.
A mistake. What child deserves to be labeled that? I feel a flash of anger now as I think about it. How that word colored me—as if the wordmistakehad been scribbled on my forehead in permanent marker. How I tried to prove to my mother that I wasn’t.
But it seemed like Mom never really saw me, never fully acknowledged my existence. I always felt like I was just background noise or a bit player to the center-stage drama of her own life.
How am I supposed to be a good mom with a mother like that as my example? I’m reading how-to-be-a-parent books and studying one that’s supposed to help me reparent myself, but it seems like putting a thin patch on a bad tire. Why, oh why had Brooke thought I was capable of caring for Lily? What was I thinking,getting pregnant on my own? Why did I ever believe I could raise a baby by myself?
But then—I never really did, did I? I always thought Brooke would be here. I’d thought she and I would raise our children together. I certainly hadn’t thought I’d be raising Lilyanda baby all alone.
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.Damn it, Brooke! How could you just go off and leave us?How am I supposed to answer all of Lily’s questions?What should I do about Zack? What if Miss Margaret doesn’t get better? What if she does, and wants to take Lily back to Alexandria, where another health crisis could happen at any time?
I realize it’s not just Brooke I’m angry at.Oh, dear God—I’m angry atyou! How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to be good! What the hell am I supposed to do?
There are no answers—just Lily’s steady breathing in the dark. I close my eyes and inhale the sweet scent of her hair, and eventually match my breathing to hers. And then, in the silence, I hear Brooke’s voice echo through my mind:You can do this.
How many times did she tell me that over the years? Too many to count. Sometimes she’d say, “Remember our favorite quote?” and one of us would recite Maya Angelou:Do the best you can until you know better. When you know better, do better.
A surge of my old optimism starts to pulse through me. I know a lot more than my mother knew. I know that children need to feel loved and wanted and secure. I know they need to feel heard and supported and encouraged, that they need to feel cared for and special and cherished.
I can give Lily everything I needed and didn’t get, everything I’ve gleaned from books and friends and friends’ families and kind teachers. I have a heart full of love to give and a deep desire to give it. “I’ll do my best,” I softly vow into Lily’s hair. “My very, very best.”
I hope that will be enough. I pray it will be enough.
As sleep finally starts to claim me, I swear I hear Brooke whisper,You’ve got this.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Zack
I SPEND THEevening on the internet, searching for information about my daughter’s mother and guardians.
It’s relatively easy to flesh out Brooke’s professional profile. She spoke at a lot of conferences and was quoted inLogistics Managementmagazine—apparently she was a well-respected expert. I learn that she left a high-powered executive position that required worldwide travel to move to New Orleans and focus on her family nearly five years ago.
Finding any more personal information than that is difficult. From an online bio, I learn that she was from Alexandria, graduated magna cum laude from LSU, and held a master’s degree. She was pretty circumspect on personal sites. She had an Instagram account and Facebook page, but both reveal disappointingly little to people she hadn’t befriended. Her obituary mentions that she belonged to a couple of professional organizations, served on a committee for United Way, volunteered with a few other charities, and was a member of a local church. Her survivors are listed as Lily and Margaret.
As for Quinn, her Instagram and Facebook pages are also only visible to friends. She has a professional-looking website, though, for her decorating store, Verve!, and her design business. I stop first at the bio page. There’s a photo of Quinn, seated at a glass desk, smiling up at the camera. She’s absolutely stunning. The copy says she’s a New Orleans native, holds a degree in design from LSU, and specializes in eclectic, personalized designs. I learn that she worked at a major design firm in Atlanta before moving back to NewOrleans a couple of years ago. A quick check of the Georgia firm reveals that it’s one of the top three design companies in that city.
Back on Quinn’s website, I browse through a collection of photos showing living rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms, and foyers. I don’t know much about design, but these photos look like something from a magazine. It looks like she’s really good at what she does.
When I search for Margaret Moore on Facebook, I hit the jackpot. Her page is wide open to the public, and there are tons of pictures. Holy profile—Margaret must have uploaded every image that crossed her phone in the last few years.
“Hot damn,” I mutter as I scroll through about a bazillion photos of Lily. Here she is as a newborn; she’s wrapped like a burrito in a pink blanket, her face puffy, her eyes little slits, and she’s wearing a pink knit hat. It does something spongy to my insides to see Lily as a brand-new earthling. In most of the photos, she’s cradled by Brooke, who’s wearing a jubilant smile of pure delight, her face radiant, her eyes smitten.
