“Have you fostered a baby before?” my mom asked in that same careful tone.
Oh no.Of course she hadn’t. The process took months, unless you were a relative of the child needing placement and it was an emergency situation.
“No,” Ani said doggedly. “But I’m willing to learn.”
My mother took off her glasses and pinched her nose. Guess I knew where I got that habit from. “Becoming a foster parent takes a few months and involves home visits and inspections, a full health exam, examination of your financial records, and so on. So, unfortunately, if you aren’t in the system?—”
“Can she be fast-tracked?” I blurted. Because I must be insane too.
My mother leveled a gaze on me that said,Are you really going there?I could feel her worrying, just as she had about my loneliness, my isolation, my sadness—these years since Livhad been gone. Except that this seemed like the kind of worry a mother feels when she believes her son is thinking with other parts of his anatomy instead of his brain.
“That’s usually the case for a family member when children need immediate placement because it’s best to place them with someone they already know and love. In this case, even if we tried to fast-track you, our reasons are weak. The mother handed the baby over to you, but as a health care worker,notas the person she wanted to care for her baby. There’s really no reason that you’re a preferred choice.”
“Yes, there is,” Ani insisted. “I delivered her. I promised her mother I would look out for her.”
“But she could have handed her over to any health care worker in the hospital. She had no special relationship with you. We need to find someone who can take the baby immediately. Every day that baby stays in the hospital without truly needing medical care is costly.”
“I see. I understand.” Ani paused. I could practically see her brain on fire, thinking, pondering, trying to figure this out. “Thank you,” she said, then turned to me. “Thanks for meeting me here. I’ll see you this week. I work in the ER Wednesday.”
“Let me walk you out,” I said.
“I’ll be fine.” Dale had gathered his coat and was on his way out too, and Ani hurriedly caught up with him.
As she walked down the hall, my mother and I had a staring contest. It felt like that time when I was thirteen and I’d decided that I was going to play guitar, stop doing my homework, and join a rock band.
She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly Ani was back, leaning over the counter to talk to her again. “Look, Daria, one more thing before I go. I know you don’t know me. But I—I believe in fate. For some reason, I was put there, in that moment, to deliver that baby into the world. And what I want might beunconventional and unorthodox, but I’m a great candidate for a lot of reasons.”
She proceeded to enumerate them. Enthusiastically, I might add. “I have a great job. I have resources. I have enthusiasm. I work hard. I already know CPR and First Aid, don’t drink—well, much—or do drugs. Unless you count caffeine. And yes, I’m single, but I understand what I’m getting into. I just—I just want to try. I want to present my case. I’m as worthy as anyone else.”
“I will present your case,” my mother said evenly. “That’s all I can promise.”
“Thank you.” Ani turned to me. “Bye, Adam.”
“Bye, Ani.” I watched her walk down the hall and, this time, off the ward.
It felt like the silence after a hurricane blows through.
When I glanced at my mother, she was staring at me. “We have to talk.”
“What on earth is going on between you two?” my mother demanded. “And I’m not just asking for fun.”
As I pulled up a stool, sat down, and crossed my arms, I understood what she was asking. My mother had been a social worker for thirty-five years. She knew people. She hadinfluence.“I’m not sure,” I wavered.
She tossed up her hands. “I have no idea what that means.” She wanted conviction, a yes or a no.
Mental snapshots ran through my mind, from last summer through now. I’d been coasting on the Ani train ever since, being pulled—mostly pleasantly, I had to admit—into whatever drama happened to be going on with her. But this—this was not a weeping-almost-bride-on-a-plane scenario. Or an attractivewoman who needed a friend in a tropical island paradise. This involved a littleperson. This was life-altering.
This was something that only a crazy person or a saint would take on.
Gandhi. Mother Teresa. Malala.
I realized that even now that I’d been essentially a spectator. Noncommittal. I hadn’t even asked myself the hard questions about how I really felt about Ani.
I didn’t know her favorite food, her favorite color, or her favorite book.
But, I realized with a start, I knew her heart.
And I couldn’t use my grief, my sadness, or my complete ineptitude at trying to move on with my life as an excuse not to get involved.
