Outside the grocery store bathroom, crowds of shoppers go about their days. Announcements on the overhead speaker include a promotion on paper towels. The beeps of the cash registers are steady and jarring. The smiles of the cashiers plastered and polite. A woman uses a coupon on cat litter that gets her a whole twenty cents off. The world hasn’t turned upside down for anyone else.
I abandon my cart of groceries and make a mental note to never return to this store in case I was spotted doing so. There is frozen stuff in the cart, after all.
I pass by a picture-perfect family entering the store as I leave. Two parents, two kids. They’re giggling with one another. The dad makes a silly face at the little girl balancing on the end of the cart, holding on for dear life. I push down the resentment that threatens to burn its way up my throat and turn into tears. I envy them, deeply, in my gut.
Finally outside, I lean on the concrete wall of the building and take a much needed breath of the mid-June air. When I woke up this morning, my to-do list consisted of buying groceries, watching a documentary my father recommended, and possibly getting tipsy enough on wine to download yet another dating app. Now, bigger things to tackle.
I pull out my phone to call Rachel’s colleague.
“Hello, this is Odette.”
“Hi. It’s Chloe, Connie’s… daughter.”
“Oh, yes!” Odette sings out. “Hi, hon. Good to hear from you.” Her tone is so warm it builds an ache in my chest. The longing to be comforted by her is outweighed by my need to keep this day progressing forward at top speed. I need to remain a moving target.
“I was wondering if you could tell me where Connie is and how to see her.”
“Of course. Is this a mobile number? It may be best to text the details to you. Is that okay?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
“Okay, hon, talk soon,” Odette says softly.
I copy the address of the hospital from Odette’s text and paste it into the GPS on my phone. There is no way I’m paying for a cab ride across the city, but I also don’t have any change for the bus. I’d go inside and use the ATM, but they could be waiting for the owner of the abandoned grocery cart to return or beginning to hang wanted posters, so I won’t be doing that.
I do have my expired student bus pass, however, given to me by my alma mater. It’s only been one month since graduation. That has to count for something. Perhaps the pass is sort of like expired yogurt: you can still try it if you’re too broke to afford more—which I am.
The bus driver waves me on without reading the fine print—thank god—and I take a seat towards the back next to a window. I shut down thoughts of where I’m headed, hoping to not add “cried on public transport” to today’s list of achievements.
The ride passes far too quickly. The back doors open to a crowded stop filled with scrub-wearing folks clamouring to get on. I make my way through them and up the ramp to the visitor entrance of the hospital.
As I get into the empty elevator, it dawns on me that, prior to ninety minutes ago, I hadn’t thought of Connie in weeks. Not since Mother’s Day. The guilt comes in an unexpected and tsunami-sized wave.
Without pausing, I frantically search the collection of buttons on the wall and push the emergency stop button. The elevator immediately halts. I place my hands around the base of my neck, apply pressure with my forearms against my chest—as my adoptive parents taught me when I was experiencing anxiety or, what they affectionately called,nerves.
I haven’t seen Connie for six years. I hadn’t known if she was alive, though I always suspected I would feel it if she passed. What do I say to her? Call her? Should I have stopped at the lobby gift shop first? Do you get flowers for the new mother who will be leaving alone?
“Hello, is something wrong?” A muffled male voice comes through the elevator’s speaker.Shit.
“Oh no, sorry, I pressed it accidentally,” I stammer.
“No problem.” The elevator hums and starts back up.
Two floors later, I step off and follow the purple arrows on the floor to the maternity ward, per Odette’s instruction. There is a phone on the wall hanging outside the entrance of locked double doors. A sticker next to it reads: “Inform the charge nurse who you are here to visit and wait for the doors to open.” I pick it up, and it trills a few times before a rather crabby sounding woman answers.
“Hi. I’m here to see Constance Walden.” I haven’t said my pre-adoption surname out loud in a long time. It feels foreign now.
“One moment, please.” The line clicks, and the doors open slowly with a hum. I walk in and nod at the nurse at the front desk. She barely looks up as she points over her shoulder toward, presumably, Connie’s room.
“End of the hall on your left,” another, kinder, nurse chimes in from behind, offering me a sympathetic grin.
“Thanks.” At this point, to keep me upright, my feet have to keep moving faster than my fears can grow.
I knock three times, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, before a towering woman steps out. She is probably in her midsixties, dressed in purple from head to toe, and has dreadlocks that rest past her shoulders. She has dark skin, painted-on red cheeks, and kind eyes that she uses to look me up and down adoringly.
“Oh, miss Chloe… look at you.” She clasps her hands in front of her face. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I have known your mother for a long time. We met when you were only five years old.” She lowers her hands and holds one palm out for me to take, which I do willingly. “It’s so nice to see you again, my dear. Though I wish it was under different circumstances.” We both let go.
I do remember her, or her kind eyes at least, and I feel a little safer for it. “It’s nice to see you again, Odette.” I force out a smile, and she puts one hand on my shoulder, the comfort of which almost sends me into a fit of tears. I resist.
