A Missing Heart (3 page)

“AJ,” Cammy mutters. “It’s
too
late.”

“No, it’s not,” I argue senselessly. I don’t know if it is or not, but I want to stand firm and tell her it’s not.
It can’t be too late. She’s our child.

An older male doctor walks in during the middle of more pleading from me to her and tells us he was informed that Cammy is ready to push now. A nurse slides two clean gloves onto the doctor’s hands and he sits down on a circular stool at the end of the bed where Cammy’s feet are being perched in stirrups.

I’m at a loss for words. I should be soothing her and trying to take some of her pain and fears away, but I can’t because of my anger. I’m so angry, and I know I’ll never get over this. I should leave. I should do what I can to avoid the pain I’ll feel when I see my daughter, knowing I will have to give her up. This is all too much.

Coming to terms with the thought of being a dad has taken me months. Every minute of every day since Cammy told me, I have convinced myself this is the way it’s supposed to be. I’ll make it through this. We’ll all make it through this. Now that I’ve finally come to terms with it, I’m not sure I can suddenly come to terms with not having this little girl in my life.

My thoughts fall quieter, and the pastel-washed room filled with a scent I will never forget joins me in silence as Cammy pushes through her pain. I’m still as a statue, holding her hand as sweat trickles down her red cheeks. I can’t hear anything. It’s as if the world around me has paused except for Cammy, the doctor, nurses, and...
that
cry.

The doctor holds her up like a trophy we just won, and to me, she feels like a trophy.
People don’t give up trophies
.

After cleaning her up, one of the nurses gently hands Cammy our baby girl, and I wait and watch for the look on Cammy’s face to morph from pain to love, but…it doesn’t happen.

“I can’t hold her,” Cammy utters. She closes her eyes to avoid looking at the most beautiful thing she will possibly never see.

How could she not touch our daughter? “I’d like to hold her,” I speak out, louder than I meant to.

“No,” Cammy argues. “She isn’t ours.” Cammy breaks down into a fit of tears, which turn into loud cries. She’s suffering in pain, both emotionally and physically, and I don’t know how to fix that because I don’t know how to fix my own emotional pain at the moment. “It’ll make it worse, AJ. Believe me.”

“It’s the only chance I’ll have,” I argue. “I wouldn’t give it up for the world, Cammy.”

Cammy clenches her eyes tighter and inhales sharply through a painful groan. The nurse takes her cue and walks over to me, placing my daughter into my arms.

Her skin is so pink and perfect. Her eyes are looking at me wildly like she’s trying to figure out what’s going on and how she ended up here. Little sprouts of dark hair are coiled into fine curls, and her lips are shaped like perfect bows. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone.

“Are you naming her or are the adopting parents naming her?” the nurse asks Cammy.

“They’re naming her,” Cammy says, with only a soft sound to her breath. Her words float through the air, and I realize the names we came up with were never set in stone, but I didn’t think she would choose against naming her.

My daughter is still staring up at me. Maybe she’s trying to memorize my face before she’s taken away. I wish I could tell her to memorize me. “Don’t forget me,” I whisper softly. “Please.”

“The adopting parents were called about an hour ago, as requested. They are in the waiting room. Once we freshen you up, would you like me to bring them in?” The nurse is focusing solely on Cammy because Cammy has said she doesn’t know who the father is.
I am this little girl’s dad
. I will always be her dad whether she knows it or not.

“Yes, please,” Cammy says through weak words. How is she so strong? How can she just do this? What is she feeling inside? Is she breaking like me? Is she already broken? This isn’t the girl I’ve known and loved for almost two years. This isn’t something my Cammy would do.

The nurse finally looks over at me and tilts her head gently to the side. Her eyes grow wide, and her shoulders slump forward a touch. She walks to a chair and drags it over for me and fluffs a hospital pillow, then urges me down. With her hand on my shoulder in a soothing manner, I carefully ease myself into the chair, holding this baby girl close to me, close to my heart, praying she can hear the beat and know she is connected to me for life.

I immediately become lost in my little girl’s eyes, memorizing them. Now I know how little girls wrap their daddies around their fingers. I want to give her everything. Seconds must have turned into minutes of gazing at her because there’s a knock at the door, and it startles both of us.

A young couple, straight out of that damn
Homes and Gardens
magazine Mom reads, walks in. These people are coming in here to take my child out of my arms.
I have a child. I have a daughter. She’s mine.

The woman walks toward me with a smile from ear to ear, tears in her eyes, red cheeks—every sign telling me she’s feeling the same amount of emotion as I am, except her emotions are all completely opposite. I think.

“Oh my goodness, she is absolutely perfect and beautiful. You should be so proud of the sacrifice you are bravely making,” the woman says.

“This wasn’t my decision,” I mutter softly. I don’t want my daughter to know I made this decision if she were to ever ask about me someday.

“Oh,” she says, shocked. “I see.” The woman, who can’t be more than ten years older than me, clutches her arms over her chest in discomfort.

The man with her, who I assume must be her husband, moves beside her and places his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sure this must be very difficult for you,” he says. “But please know, you are answering our prayers with your gift.” Who the hell says that? I’m answering his prayers with my gift? This baby is my daughter—my blood. I’ve created her, and now I’m supposed to hand her off to these schmucks—as a gift?

The woman remains standing in front of me, staring at my little girl as if she wants to hold her. I know once that happens, any control I feel like I have right now will be gone forever.

“We have to give her to them,” Cammy says through a croaky sob. “Please, AJ. This is killing me. Literally killing me. I will forever be devastated by this day and I can’t endure the pain for another minute. The paperwork is done, and there is nothing I can do now…please, AJ.”

I don’t take my eyes off of my daughter. Instead, I trace my pinky over the tiny birthmark beside her right ear, admiring the way it looks like a cluster of tiny stars. I won’t waste a second of time where I could be looking at her, no matter how much I want to see the look on Cammy’s face right now. There’s a part of me that needs to know she’s feeling the same pain I am. How could she not be?

I’ve never been in pain before—not this kind of pain. It feels like someone is punching me with boxing gloves from the inside, making every one of my organs hurt and throb. How can someone give up their baby? This is all my fault. I should have been more careful. I should never have let this happen in the first place. I’m destroying my life, and Cammy’s life. Even if she doesn’t realize it this very second, we’re hurting ourselves and giving these nameless people their answered prayer.

“AJ,” Cammy says firmly. The tone of her voice is strong enough to briefly pull my attention away from my baby girl, long enough to see a pair of arms reaching down for my daughter. I want to slap them, stand up and guard her from them, but there’s nowhere to run. The woman’s hands make contact with her tiny body, they’re cupping around her, embracing her, taking this little girl from my tight grip.

As the cold air hits my skin where her warm body was just lying, I come to terms with what is happening, knowing I will never feel that sensation again for the rest of my life. A part of me has just been stolen.

My eyes are set on the woman crooning, oohing, and ahhing at my daughter. She has tears in her eyes, and the husband does too. It’s like Cammy and I have disappeared from this room and it’s only the two of them and their new daughter. But she’s not their daughter. She’s mine! I didn’t agree to give her up. I didn’t have a say. This isn’t fair.

“What kind of adoption is this?” I ask. I don’t know jack about adoptions. I’m seventeen. The thought never crossed my mind. Why would it? I thought we were on the same page. Though, thinking about it now, Cammy never expressed what was on her agenda. I assumed we were on the same page, but as it turns out, we weren’t even in the same chapter. Dad has always told me what assuming does to a man, but I'm not the ass in this situation. No way. Not this time.

The man and woman look at me, puzzled, as if my question is odd or out of place. As if...wondering why no one explained this process to me yet. “It’s an open adoption, but this will be the last form of contact we have with each other,” Cammy says through a subtle whisper.

“Thank you for allowing us to be here,” the woman says.

“Please take good care of her…please,” Cammy replies through her hardly recognizable voice. All I hear is the same anguish I’m feeling inside, and it’s becoming clearer by the moment that this isn’t what Cammy wants.

“I'm not ready,” I argue.

“Please,” Cammy says to the nurse. “I can’t take this anymore. Will you have him leave?”

What? Me? No!

“That’s my daughter,” I shout. “No one asked me if I wanted this…them!” I point to the couple. “I don’t want this. I didn't agree to this!”

“Security,” the nurse says, calmly, into a corded phone.

“I thought you didn’t know who the father was?” the adopting woman asks. “That’s how everything was stated in the paperwork. There were no DNA tests or consent forms. Is this the father?”

“Yes! This isn’t fair. This isn’t right! She’s mine. She belongs to me. She’s everything to me. I’ll take care of her myself if I have to. I don’t want to give her up. I don’t. She’s my everything, Cammy…” My voice trails off into moans, a type of guttural sound that has never come from my throat before. “Please don’t take away my daughter,” I beg. “That’s my baby. She’s part of me. You can’t take away a part of a person like that. You can’t.” I sound insane. I sound wild and crazy, and Cammy is hysterical, watching me.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s too late,” the adopting woman says. “You would have needed to sign papers disagreeing with the adoption, but we were told the father was unknown.”

I look at Cammy, unable to understand how she could go through with something like this and not tell me. “Cammy, tell them I’m the father. I didn’t sign papers because I didn’t know we were giving her up for adoption until four hours ago,” I shout.

“He’s the father,” she cries through a whisper just quietly enough that I can hear, but we both know it doesn’t matter now. The woman said the paperwork was done. Cammy doesn’t respond. She just weeps. Her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are red, covered with big, thick tears. The couple—they’re holding my daughter tightly in a protective stance as if I were going to attack my own child. They’re protecting her from me. “AJ, you have to know that she’s my everything too, but—”

“They’re taking our daughter, Cammy! It can’t be this way!” I hardly have a chance to finish my sentence when hands wrap around my arms from behind, and I’m pulled out of the room, backwards nonetheless—just another form of punishment to give me one last look at this scene that will forever be burned into my mind.

While my world moves in slow motion around me, I keep my gaze set on our daughter, as a tiny pink hat is fitted snugly over her dark hair, and then I see her eyes—they’re large and looking everywhere, wondering what is happening in her world that was just created less than ten minutes ago.

The very last thing I hear before I’m out of the corridor is her cry—the sweetest noise I will never hear again.

CHAPTER TWO

Today is her birthday—my daughter. She’s twelve years old. I don’t know what state she lives in. I don’t know if her parents are good to her. I don’t know if she got exactly what she wanted for her birthday and I wish I could send her a gift—a card and tell her that today is the 4,380th day I have woken up, praying for her happiness and wishing I could see her again.