Flying Changes (27 page)

As they leave, Dan pauses just long enough to kiss me. He also plants a light kiss on the back of Jeremy’s head.

About ten minutes later, I’ve just gotten Jeremy down. He’s lying on his side, and I’ve propped him up with rolled towels on each side so he won’t roll onto his stomach. I’ve left the side of the crib down because I’m sitting right at its edge, gazing upon his sleeping face and the raised purple bruise in the center of his forehead.

I can’t see Roger in him. Nor can I see Sonja. I suppose that might develop later, but right now he just looks like Jeremy.

“Annemarie,” says a voice from the doorway.

It’s Sandra. She’s leaning against the frame, a thick folder under her arm.

I hold a finger to my lips and point at the sleeping baby. Then I carefully pull up the side of the crib, waiting for each side to click so that it’s secure.

I walk toward Sandra, who spins on her heel and leaves the room. She leads me to the same conference room as before, always staying ahead of me, which strikes me as strange.

When we get to the room, she takes a seat and sets her folder in front of her, still without saying a word. She straightens its edges so that it’s square with the edge of the table. Only then does she raise her eyes to mine. She leans backward in her chair.

“So I got a phone call from the Inspector General this afternoon.”

She stares at me, her lips pursed in a crabby rictus. She crosses her legs and begins bobbing her foot.

“I beg your pardon?” I say.

“It looks like he got a phone call from the Secretary of State. Congratulations,” she says without smiling. “It looks like you’d better get yourself a car seat. Because I can assure you I’ll be inspecting it personally before you leave the hospital.”

“I…I beg your pardon?” I repeat weakly.

“There’s some paperwork to fill out, but it appears you’ve been granted temporary custody of Jeremy until we can get out to do the home studies and background checks.”

My hand springs to my mouth. “Oh my God! Sandra, thank you!”

“Oh, don’t thank me,” she says, looking back down at her manila file folder and tracing loop-de-loops on its cover with her finger.

“I’m sorry?”

This time when she meets my gaze, her anger is clear. “You look like a nice enough person, but then again, so did Ted Bundy and Paul Bernardo. And Karla Homolka looked wholesome enough. Would it have been wise to hand babies over to them?”

“Karla Who?”

“The woman who helped her husband rape and kill teenage girls, including her own sister. And videotaped it.”

“Sandra, I’m not…My God, you don’t actually think I’m like that, do you?”

“No. I don’t. But evidently you think the normal rules don’t apply to you, and I don’t appreciate people going over my head.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh really,” she says wryly, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms across her chest.

“I’m a riding instructor! Part-time, at that. I don’t hold any sway with anyone.”

“Well, apparently somebody you know does.”

I look at the table for a moment, considering. “Okay. Here’s everything I know. As you know, Roger was a lawyer. This morning, after we met, I went back to the hotel and called one of his partners. I asked him to track down the will and tell me what it said about guardianship. He said he’d get back to me.”

Sandra drops her chin to her chest and scowls at me above her glasses.

“Then I got distracted for a couple of hours. My…fiancé showed up and I had to fill him in on what was going on. He didn’t even know that Roger was dead yet.”

Sandra’s eyes spring open. She sits forward almost violently. “Your fiancé? Your
fiancé
? Why didn’t you mention this fiancé before?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” I say, not wanting to admit that Dan was not my fiancé the last time we spoke.

“It’s incredibly relevant. For instance, how does he feel about taking on a four-month-old baby?”

“We’ve always planned to adopt,” I say meekly. “I can’t have any more children.”

Sandra stares at me, shaking her head slightly. I can’t tell if it’s in disgust or disbelief. Probably both.

“So anyway, when I got back to my room, there was a
message waiting for me. Lawrence—Roger’s partner—had tracked down the wills. They had very specific instructions for burial, which the executor is now taking care of. But they said nothing about guardianship. Anyway, the last thing the message said was that the executor was ‘working on it.’ That’s all I know.”

“Working on it,” says Sandra. Now she’s nodding, her eyes exuding fury. “I’m tempted to ask you what business this executor is in, but I think maybe I don’t want to know.”

I swallow in embarrassment. “It’s not what you’re thinking. Not at all. He’s a federal judge.”

Sandra looks at me for a while. Then she sighs. Her whole body softens. “Oh. Well, in that case, this makes perfect sense.”

“It does?”

“Oh yes. Considering the political ambitions of a certain somebody I shall not name.”

“I’m sorry you got railroaded,” I say. “I swear to you, I didn’t know what they were going to do. But I’m not going to pretend I’m unhappy that Jeremy is coming home with us. It’s where he belongs. I’m sure the normal set of safeguards makes sense statistically, but I’m not Karla Homolka. Don’t you think, in your heart of hearts, that this is better than sending him to yet another home, keeping him there just long enough for him to get used to them, and then tearing him away again?”

Sandra’s eyes flicker. Then she looks down at her folder.

“At any rate,” I repeat. “I’m sorry you were railroaded.”

“So,” she says, ignoring my apology. “We’d best get started on the paperwork because the hospital wants to
discharge Jeremy tomorrow. I’m guessing it’s more likely to happen the next day because I have to get all of this,” she stabs the folder with her forefinger, “signed off at my end. And even though it’s been suggested to me that I make it a priority”—another quick disapproving glance—“it’s still a lot of paperwork.”

She pulls out a sheaf of papers almost three inches thick. Each form turns out to be a stack of thin colored sheets—white, yellow, pink, green, and blue—attached at the top by a perforated strip.

“Are there five copies of each of those?” I ask in astonishment.

“Oh, at least,” she says, pushing a fine-tipped ballpoint pen across at me. “Hope your wrist is strong.”

Two and a half hours later, I press my wobbly signature onto the final form, flip to the blue copy at the back to make sure it’s legible, and push it across the table.

“Well,” says Sandra, adding it to the stack of finished forms. “I’ll have these signed by Mr. Potato Head—er, the soon-to-be Attorney General of New Hampshire—and get back to you as soon as possible.” She puts the forms into the folder and stands up.

I stare helplessly, not sure whether a thank-you would just annoy her further.

She glances at me and seems to take pity. “I’m sorry I was so hard on you earlier,” she says. “I know you want what’s best for Jeremy, and for what it’s worth, I do think this will be better for him in the long run. I just hate seeing…Well, I won’t bore you with my office politics, but let’s just say there’s a history.”

She holds the folder in the crook of her left elbow and
reaches her hand across the table. I shake it, although my hand and wrist are numb with all the writing—or more accurately, the pressing—I’ve just done.

“I’ll see you tomorrow or the next day. I’ll bring that list of grief counselors we talked about,” she says, heading for the door.

“Sandra?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not sorry about the result, but I’m sorry about the way this happened. I know you were trying to help me, and I appreciate it. Thank you.”

There’s a long pause. Finally she says, “You’re welcome.”

I burst into the baby’s room. Dan is sitting on the window seat, jiggling Jeremy on his knee. Eva sits on the floor in front of them, wiggling her fingers and threatening Jeremy with tickles. Mutti sits in the gliding rocker reading a magazine.

They all look up.

“Well?” says Mutti.

I close the door and scream, “We got him!”

The nurses, who are not nearly as married to DCFS regulations as Sandra, are delighted. I remember the words of the first one, how they’d come to think of Jeremy as their own baby and, by God, I believe them. In their enthusiasm, they sneak us in four dinner trays, each of which holds a lobster tail, a filet mignon, and a swirl of piped garlic mashed potatoes. It’s the celebratory din
ner they serve to new parents on the maternity ward. They also let it be known that if we were to bring in our own bottle of champagne, it’s unlikely that any of them would see it.

I offer to go out and get something suitably green and unbuttered for Eva, but she graciously allows me to eat my dinner while it’s still hot. She decides to check out the cafeteria, and when she returns, raves about the salad bar. Her foam box has a few pieces of romaine and sweet peppers on the bottom, which are nearly obscured by a mountain of chickpeas.

Good. Protein, fiber, and probably lots of other good stuff as well.

When the nurse comes back to remove the dinner trays, she says that it would be fine if one of us wants to stay overnight with Jeremy. Although her words aren’t specific, she’s looking at me. I think it’s at this moment that it really hits me.

I am once again a mother.

It occurs to me that I haven’t had a shower in living memory (actually, I believe it was when Nathalie burst into our room at Strafford), so I excuse myself long enough to go back to the hotel to get cleaned up.

When Dan says he’ll come with me, at first I think he wants to make love again. But when we get to our hallway, he passes my door and heads for his.

I stop in shocked surprise. “Where are you going?”

“To grab a few things,” he says, and then looks at me as though that should be sufficient explanation. I guess I still look confused, because he continues. “I was
thinking I’d spend the night at the hospital as well. Since I’m, you know, going to be his, er…”

I break into a huge grin. “His daddy?”

He blushes, bashful and happy, and then lets himself into his room.

Dan and I spend the night perched carefully on the unfolded window seat, which is designed to hold a single person. Each time the baby moves—even though he never wakes up—our heads shoot off our shared pillow.

I get up a few times to adjust the light weave blanket that covers Jeremy from the chest down, but mainly just to look at him. It’s all I can do to not pick him up and try to settle in the gliding rocker, but if there’s one thing I remember clearly about Eva’s days as an infant, it’s that you never wake a sleeping baby.

And so I return to the window-seat-cum-bed and slide back against Dan’s warm body. He throws an arm around me to keep me from falling off.

When morning comes and Jeremy finally begins to stir in earnest, Dan leaps over my prone form and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To get his bottle,” he says.

I laugh.

“What?” he says, looking back at me with his hand on the doorknob.

“Nothing,” I say, trying to keep from laughing. “Go! Go!”

Eva and Mutti show up while I’m in the middle of a diaper change. I am astonished at how terrible Eva looks. Her face is puffy, and her eyes have dark circles around them. She drags herself across the room and throws herself down on the window seat.

I do the tabs of the diaper up quickly, look at Mutti and incline my head toward the door, asking her to follow me.

Once we’re out in the hallway and the door is closed, I turn to her. “What’s going on? What happened?”

“She had a bad night. She had a nightmare about Roger, and then couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“Oh no. Should I have stayed at the hotel with you two?”

“No,
Schatzlein.
Although if we stay another night, you may want to consider letting her spend the night here as well. The only thing she’s been talking about since three this morning was when we could come back.”

Dan returns from the kitchen with a bottle. “What’s going on?”

“Eva had a rough night.”

“Where is she now?”

“In the room.”

He turns and peers through the small window, tapping his chin with his finger.

“Dan?” I say.

“What?”

“What are you thinking?”

Instead of responding, he opens the door and goes in. Mutti and I follow.

“Come on, Eva, get your stuff,” says Dan.

“Huh?” she says, frowning.

“You and I’ve got some shopping to do. It’s a good thing I brought my truck.”

For a moment it looks like Eva will refuse. But then she rises and grabs her jacket.

“Where are you going?” I say, turning to Dan, who is struggling to get his second arm into his own jacket.

“Family business,” he says, winking. He turns back to Eva. “Come on, Kiddo. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

It’s late afternoon before we see them again.

“Ma!” says Eva, bursting through the door. “Holy crap! You won’t believe all the stuff we bought!”

Dan follows her, looking very smug.

“Like what?” I say from my perch on the window seat. The doctor came in this afternoon and removed Jeremy’s splint, so Mutti and I have been trying, unsuccessfully, to teach him patty-cake. Peekaboo is much more successful.

“Like a crib, a playpen, a bottle sterilizer, bottles, sleepers, snowsuit, onesies, blankets, slippers, sheets, socks, a changing table, diapers, wipes—oh, and a wipe warmer—a nursery lamp, one of those windup music box mobile thingies, a dresser, bumper pads, a battery-operated swing that plays lullabies, a car seat, a stroller, rattles, stuffed animals, one of those spring-up baby gyms with toys that dangle—Oh! And an ExerSaucer! Wait until you see it! It’s got everything—piano keys, and chewable butterflies, and frogs, and sparkly water bubbles—”

“Whoa! Whoa!” I cry out in alarm. I turn to Dan, dumbfounded. “Dan! Is this true?”

He smiles wickedly. “She missed a few things. But yeah, it’s more or less true.”

“We didn’t need to get all that! At least not
here
!” I lower my voice to a whisper and lean in close. “Besides, surely they’ll send us his other stuff at some point.”

“Trust me. We needed every last stuffed duck.”

I glance over at Eva, who has taken over my spot in the patty-cake lesson, her face shiny and bright.

“Besides,” Dan continues, “we’re going to need two of almost everything anyway. One for your mother’s house, and one for ours.”

“Does it all fit in your truck?”

“Not sure. We made several trips. But if it doesn’t, we can always rent a U-Haul.”

“A U-Haul?”

“Only if we have to,” he says, slipping out of his jacket. He pulls a book out from under his arm:
What to Expect the First Year.

He settles on the rocker and puts his feet up. He flips through the book until he finds the chapter he’s looking for, and is lost to the world for an hour and a half.

In the middle of the next afternoon, Jeremy’s doctors, accompanied by Sandra, come to discharge him.

We had been forewarned by the nurses that he was going to be released—and also that, even though we are only walking him across the street to the hotel, DCFS would be inspecting our car seat. Despite this obvious disconnect in logic (after all, they’re not also checking
the crib or stroller), I don’t want to buck any more of Sandra’s rules. And so the softly padded car seat sits conspicuously on the floor at the end of the crib.

Sandra takes one look at it—a Britax Marathon in a pattern called “cowmooflage”—and rolls her eyes so hard that if I were her mother I’d warn her about them getting stuck up there. But at least she seems satisfied that we don’t intend to bungee-cord the child to the roof of the car.

She hands me a thick manila envelope, shakes my hand, and wishes me luck. Her eyes are stern while she’s talking to me, but when she shakes Mutti’s and Dan’s hands, they’re filled with kindness. And when she pulls Eva into a hug, I see the Sandra I first met—the one who wasn’t railroaded and humiliated. But while I feel bad about upsetting her faith in the system, I’m still utterly unrepentant about the outcome.

And so, fifteen minutes later, we cross the street to the hotel. Dan leads, carrying the cow-spotted car seat. Mutti and Eva follow, clutching hands. I bring up the rear, grasping Jeremy tight to my chest because he’s swimming in his brand-new red snowsuit with farm animals on it, and I can’t help feeling he’ll slip from my grasp.

Although there’s nothing tying us to Lebanon anymore, we stay an extra night. Partly because it’s a long drive home and it’s already late afternoon; and partly because Dan now freely admits that we need a U-Haul.

My understanding of the situation isn’t complete until Dan swings open the door of his hotel room and I see
the sheer volume of things he and Eva purchased. It’s nothing short of astounding. Bulging plastic bags cover both beds and the easy chair. Boxes containing the furniture and larger items fill the center of the room. Obviously, we’re all sleeping in the other room tonight.

Dan is completely unapologetic.

Although Eva is eager to give the new playpen with its removable full-sized bassinet a test drive, I wait until she and Dan run out to pick up our dinner and then call the front desk to see if they offer cribs.

It arrives just as Dan and Eva return carrying brown paper bags of Chinese food.

Eva takes one look at the hotel’s crib and shakes her head. “Uh-uh. No way.”

I investigate the inside and find that it is lined with a full-sized sheet. I’m not impressed, but I happen to know that we have several sets of crib sheets in the room four doors down the hall, along with a suspender-type device to keep them in place. But even so, this glaring fault leaves me dubious. “Did you guys get soda?” I ask Eva.

“Yeah,” she says.

“Give me a can,” I say, extending a hand sideways.

A cold Sprite appears. When it passes easily through the bars of the crib, I turn and tell the hotel employee that we won’t be needing the crib after all. I also make a mental note to write a scathing letter to the head of the chain when we return home about exactly what happens when babies’ heads get stuck through the bars of cribs.

It takes us forty-five minutes to figure out how to assemble the Pack ’n Play. You’re supposed to straighten
both the long sides first—or both the short ones—but if you don’t do it in exactly the right order, the fourth won’t lock. When it collapses on Eva’s legs for the sixth time, she bursts into giggles and so does Jeremy.