Pretending to Dance (17 page)

I felt strange being with Amalia and my father, just the three of us. I was keenly aware that I was sitting with my biological parents. If either of them felt the same strangeness, it didn't show in their faces. Amalia tipped her head back, eyes closed to catch the little bit of sun that found its way through the trees, and Daddy looked content to be hanging suspended above the platform. I held the walkie-talkie on my bare knee, staring at it as though I could hurry Russell up.

“When's the last time you rode this thing?” Daddy suddenly asked Amalia.

She lowered her head to look at him, brushing a thick strand of hair over her shoulder. “Just a few weeks ago, actually,” she said.

“What?”
I stared at her, wide-eyed. “I thought nobody'd used it since last year?”

“
You
haven't used it since last year,” she said. “But Trevor wanted to make sure there were no new branches or anything that could whack a rider in the face, so I volunteered to try it out. Russell helped us.”

Daddy laughed. “So what would you have done if there
had
been branches to whack a rider in the face?”

“I guess I might not be here to tell the tale.” She smiled.

“Molly?” The walkie-talkie suddenly squawked to life with Russell's staticky voice. I scrambled to my feet and held it to my mouth. “Ready down there?” I asked.

“All set,” he said through the static.

“Okay!” I said.

Amalia stood up and rested her hand on my father's shoulder. “You ready to go?” she asked.

“Bring it on,” Daddy said.

I leaned over to kiss his cheek. Then I pulled the clasp that held the gate in place, and Daddy let out a
whoop
as he sailed from the platform, suspended in the air by a few twisted threads of wire. I was totally surprised when my eyes filled with tears. I felt his sudden freedom. I watched him until I lost him in the trees, and I knew that in a second or two, he'd be over the best part of the course. The earth would fall away beneath him and, for a good quarter mile, he'd soar through space, Morrison Ridge spread out below him like a leafy green paradise. I hoped it made his day. I hoped it made him want to have thousands of other days just like this one.

I handed the walkie-talkie to Amalia, then began buckling myself into my own harness. I was nearly ready when Russell spoke again.

“The eagle has landed,” he said. It sounded like he was laughing, but with the static, I couldn't be sure.

“Do you want me to come down there to help get him out of the harness?” Amalia asked.

“No, we're good,” Russell said. “Send Molly on down.”

I was relieved by his answer. Amalia would have had a mile-long walk on the loop road to get to the end of the zip line, and while I knew the harness would feel like nothing to me in the air, it was binding and uncomfortable as I waited on the platform.

“I'm ready,” I said, once I'd attached the carabiner to the line.

Amalia moved in front of the clasp on the gate. “Have fun, baby!” she said, as she pulled the clasp. The gate fell open in front of me and I sailed into the air. I'd forgotten the hum of the line, the rush of wind against my face. I laughed out loud as my feet brushed over the treetops, sending a flock of birds squawking into the sky. And when I reached the place where the earth opened up beneath me, I stretched my arms out wide and soared. It was wonderful—maybe the best trip I'd ever had on the zip line—but it couldn't compare to the sense of freedom and joy I'd already imagined through my father's eyes.

 

22

San Diego

Aidan calls me from the road several times a day, wanting me to repeat over and over again everything Sienna said, which in retrospect was not all that much. He's distressed when I tell him she had us mixed up with another couple. “But I straightened it out,” I reassure him. “And then she talked about Kai and Oliver. She sounded really excited that her baby would have them as cousins.”

“How open does she want the adoption to be?” he asks.

“We didn't talk about that yet,” I say. “She wasn't very forthcoming. I think we were both nervous.” I'm
still
nervous. I can't believe this is happening. “We can talk more at lunch,” I say, “but I think we should just make it a ‘getting to know you' lunch without delving into a lot of heavy topics. I don't want to scare her off.”

“Agreed,” he says.

*   *   *

On Friday evening, Aidan has been home from his business trip for two hours when I call Sienna to firm up our plans for lunch tomorrow. He sits on a stool at our kitchen island, watching me as I dial. On Sienna's end of the line, the phone rings and rings and rings, and Aidan and I exchange a look.

“She's not there?” he asks.

Before I can say anything, a young male voice answers. “Hello?” he says.

“May I speak with Sienna, please?” I ask. Could he be the birth father? He sounds too young. I remember she has a younger brother.

“She's not here,” the boy says, but I can swear I hear Sienna's distinctive adult-sounding voice in the background.

“Can you tell me a good time to call back?” I ask.

He hesitates. “Maybe tomorrow?” He sounds uncertain. And then he hangs up without saying good-bye.

“What's going on?” Aidan asks anxiously.

I hang up slowly and look at him. “Something's not right,” I say. I tell him about the conversation and hearing Sienna's voice in the background.

“Call Zoe.” He gets to his feet and begins digging in his pants pocket for his wallet and her card.

“Now?” I say. “It's after hours.”

“She gave us her cell number for a reason,” he says, reaching into the wallet. He hands me Zoe's card and I dial the number.

“Oh no,” Zoe says, instead of hello. “I was hoping to catch you before you tried to call her tonight.”

“What's going on?” I ask, but I think I know: Sienna's baby will be going to that couple with the built-in older sister and the dog.

“She's decided to keep her baby,” Zoe says.

I'm astonished. “Really? She didn't sound at all ready to do that.”

“What?” Aidan asks. He's hovering over me, trying to listen in on the call. I hold up a hand to quiet him.

“Well, she may not be ready,” Zoe says, “but she's getting a lot of peer pressure. It happens sometimes.”

“I guess it's good she realized it now rather than later,” I say, but what I really want to do is cry.

“Exactly,” Zoe says. “Sorry this didn't work out, but there will be more opportunities. It's still early days for you and Aidan. Hang in there!”

I hang up the phone and look at Aidan. “She's keeping the baby,” I say.

He stares at me. His brown eyes are huge behind his glasses. “What did you say to her on the phone?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” I'm taken aback by his accusatory tone. “I told you our whole conversation,” I say, then add, “half a dozen times.”

“Did you talk about her keeping it?” he asks. He rests one hand on the island as though holding himself up. “Do you think you influenced her?”

“Aidan! No, of course not.”

“Maybe subconsciously?”

I lower myself to one of the chairs at our kitchen table and try to remember the awkward conversation with Sienna. I can't think of anything I said to encourage her to keep the baby. “Not consciously and not subconsciously,” I say, feeling defensive. “And really, Aidan, whether I did or didn't say something to her is immaterial. If she wants to keep the baby, then that's the right choice for her. It doesn't depend on some magical words from me.”

He shakes his head at me. Folding his arms across his chest, he looks out the window. I can see the pink of the sunset reflected in his glasses. “Molly,” he says quietly, turning to face me, “you need to tell me, are you in or out?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you've had mixed feelings about adoption from the start,” he says. “I know you wanted us to have our own … our biological baby, but we have to face the fact that that isn't in the cards for us. I just don't think you've ever really embraced the idea of adoption.”

I look up at him, incredulous. “How can you say that?” I ask, my voice rising. “I've done everything I'm supposed to do. That portfolio and the meetings and the home study and the birth mother letter. I was really excited to talk to her,” I add defensively. “I was very careful what I said.”

“Can you honestly tell me your heart's in this?”

“Yes.”

“I just hear about other women who are excited about adopting and they're so into it, it's all they can think about. You … sometimes I feel like you're dragging your feet.”

I feel tears very close to the surface. I hate it that Aidan's unhappy with me. But is he right? Am I into this with my whole heart?

“I don't think I'm dragging my feet,” I say, “but I
am
scared.” I'm nearly whispering. It feels liberating to say those words to him. “I can't help it. I am.”

Instantly, he softens. He stands up and reaches for my hand, pulling me up from the chair and into his arms. “What are you afraid of?” he asks gently, his lips against my ear, and I think,
He is the best man. He will make the most understanding father.
I wish I could pour it all out to him. But one admission would lead to another to another, and I can't go there.

“I'm not sure,” I say. “Maybe that I won't love him or her as much as I would our biological child,” I say.

“Oh, I don't buy that,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Look how much you love Kai and Oliver.”

“But they're related to you.”

“You're going to be fine,” he says.

“And I'm nervous about the whole open adoption thing,” I admit. “I know you want a more open relationship with the birth parents than I do.”

“We can work all that out,” he says. “Yes, I lean more toward a fully open adoption, but there's wiggle room. Don't get hung up on that, babe. There's time to figure it out.”

“Okay.” I press my forehead against his shoulder. “Just … I didn't do anything wrong in my conversation with Sienna,” I say. “Please don't accuse me of anything like that ever again.”

“I'm sorry.” He reaches past me to close the blind on the window next to us, shutting out our neighbors. Then he kisses me. “Sorry,” he whispers again. His hands are beneath my shirt, pressing against my back, unhooking my bra. We end up in our bedroom, where we make love and it's good the way it always is, but my heart is only halfway in it. I lie in his arms afterward. My past is in my way, I think. It feels like something physical, a roadblock, holding me back, keeping me from moving forward.

I have no idea how to make it go away.

 

23

Swannanoa

“Can you see the street numbers?” Russell asked as he drove the van slowly down Snapping Turtle Lane. Stacy's house was supposed to be number 28, but so far, we hadn't seen a single street number on any of the houses in the sad-looking neighborhood. The tiny houses butted up against one another, and parked cars and trucks made the narrow road even narrower. We'd been searching for ten minutes already, and if we didn't find the house soon, I'd have to go to Daddy's office with him and wait while he saw his patients.

“Does that say twenty-eight?” Daddy asked from his wheelchair in the middle row. “There. On the post by the carport?”

“Yes!” I said, relieved when I spotted the number. The eight was on its side, looking more like an infinity sign than an eight, but this had to be it.

Russell pulled the van into the driveway of the world's ugliest house. It had probably been blue at one time, but the paint had faded to a moldy-looking gray, and in some spots, it had been completely worn away. A gutter hung at a forty-five-degree angle from the roof above the front door and part of the ceiling of the carport had completely caved in and lay in chunks on the carport floor. An upstairs window was broken, a long crack through the glass, and the screen door flapped in the breeze.

“Someone's fallen on some hard times,” Daddy said from behind me.

“Maybe this isn't the right place, after all,” I said. I couldn't picture Stacy, with her shiny hair and perfectly applied makeup, living in a house that looked like this one. But even before I'd finished the sentence, Stacy appeared in the doorway. She caught hold of the flapping screen door and stepped onto the small front porch, waving to us.

“Guess it's the right place after all,” I said, grabbing my backpack from the floor of the van and opening the door.

“We'll pick you up after your dad's last patient,” Russell said.

“About four-thirty,” Daddy said. “Have fun.”

“I will.” I hopped out of the van and walked toward the house.

Stacy peered behind me at the van. “Is your dad with him?” she asked.

“Yeah, in the back,” I said. “He's going to his office in Asheville to see a few patients and they'll pick me up at four-thirty.”

“Awesome!” She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the house. “Wait till you hear my plan!”

We were in a small square living room that smelled of spaghetti sauce. Towels and clothes and VHS tapes and books were strewn on the furniture and the floor.

“Where's your mom?” I asked.

“At work!” She flung her arms joyfully out to her sides. “We have the house totally to ourselves and guess who's coming over?”

My hand slipped into my shorts pocket and wrapped around my palm stone, the movement involuntary. “Who?” I asked.

“Bryan and Chris! Chris is so hot to meet you.”

I wished I'd known she had this up her sleeve. I would have tried to do something with my hair, at the very least. Without thinking, I tried to smooth it down with my free hand. “When are they coming?” I asked.