My brunch with Emily went better than I could have hoped. She had a flight to catch, so it was a short meal, but she and Lane will be back to visit in two weeks. I felt a huge relief, finally admitting those hidden parts of my story, but mostly I felt embarrassed. Not about who I am or how I grew up—as I had expected—but embarrassed that I’d kept it hidden for so long.
Emily compared it to telling new friends that she’s transgender.No one is owed your history, but there is trust in telling,she had said. She called it anauthentic exchange. I liked that.
After lunch, I went to the grocery store to pick up this week’s shopping. While there, I received a brief but anxiety-provoking email from Rachel asking for me to call her when I have a minute.
An unfortunate dose of déjà vu hit as I read the message while in line to check out, standing close to the bathroom where I took my first call from Rachel all those months ago. I’m sure it’s nothing of importance. It was just the setting playing tricks on my mind. Now back in my apartment, I dial Rachel’s number as I finish unpacking the last of the pantry goods.
“Hello, this is Rachel Feroux.”
“Hey, Rachel, it’s Chloe.”
“Oh. Hi, Chloe, thanks for giving me a call back. How are you two doing?” The sound of Rachel’s rolling desk chair sliding across the floor comes through the phone as she speaks.
“Yeah, fine. Nothing new, really. Did you get my email with notes from her doctor? Her medicine change?”
“Yes, I did, thanks. How does she seem to be responding to it?” Rachel must be having a busy day; she’s typing as she speaks.
“It’s been two weeks, and so far, her blood pressure is trending down, but the artery isn’t showing signs of closing further. They’re giving it a few more weeks before considering surgery.”
I hate thinking about it—her tiny chest cut open; her heart and little body surrounded by a team of towering adults. How do they even have tools that small? I shiver and shove the thoughts far away.
“Well, let’s hope it closes then.” The typing stops as Rachel’s tone shifts to sincere.
“Yeah.” There’s a weighted pause as I wait for Rachel to speak. The more time that passes—the more I fear what she’s about to say.
“Thanks for calling; I actually have some news about Connie. She reached out to me yesterday.” Rachel waits for a response, but I don’t speak. “Connie has been sober since July, which has been verified by a worker at her residence. She’s at a shelter in the city for women in recovery.”
“Wow… okay… that’s great.” I’m shocked. I lean back on the counter and wait for Rachel to continue.I wonder if Odette has heard from her too.
“Connie is hoping to begin visits with Willow this month. She’s open to supervised visits here or visits in your home, depending on your comfort level.”
My back hits the fridge, and I slump down to the floor. “Oh” is all I can say.
“I know that this type of news can bring up a whole mix of emotions. I’m sure you need time to process.” Rachel sets something down on her desk with a thud, a stack of files perhaps. “I don’t need an answer right now, but… your mother is entitled to visits. Weekly, for at least two hours. If you were to have the visits take place here, you could choose to be present or not; a member of staff would stay with Willow.”
Rachel stops talking, and I chew my lip ferociously, unsure of what comes next or how to feel.
“Because she has been sober for upwards of three months and has put in a formal request… we do need to start visits within the next fourteen days,” Rachel says, words enunciated in a way that lets me know these are protocols we all must follow.
“Willow has, um, hospital appointments on Fridays. We could do it afterwards?” I offer weakly, rubbing my forehead with my free hand.
“Are you leaning towards having visits in your home?” Rachel asks.
I think back to all the times my mother showed up unannounced outside my school and house as a teenager.
“No. I think CPS for now,” I answer.
“Okay. That’s fine. Whichever you prefer.”I’d prefer not to.
Visits are one thing, but when my mother had gotten sober and requested visitation with me twenty-odd years ago, it was a matter of months before I moved back in with her, leaving my first foster home forever. I liked them. They had an older daughter who would braid my hair, and they let me watchMulanevery day for two months straight.
I need to ask, but I can barely bring myself to. My throat constricts as I go to speak. “Is she—is she considering…” I clear my throat. “Is Connie going to contest the adoption?” My teeth clench, the loaded question out in the open.
“She didn’t mention it, no. Connie signed the paperwork at the hospital, giving over her parental rights to you. Whatever happens, that would speak loudly to a judge.”
I nod but need to be sure. “But she could, right? She could change her mind?”
Rachel pauses, clears her throat, and then speaks. “Yes, hypothetically.”
