The Life List (34 page)

“Ma’am, you need to leave now,” the guard tells her, “or I’ll have to call the police.”

“You ain’t gonna call no police on me. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. I come all the way from Detroit. I ain’t leaving till I see her, you hear me?”

Oh, God! I turn the corner, out of sight, and slump against the wall. Could this be Sanquita’s mother? Footsteps near and the shouts get louder. “Get your fucking hands off me! You wanna get sued, motherfucker?”

They round the corner and she’s so close I catch a whiff of lingering cigarette smoke. Her face is nearly colorless, like oatmeal, and wadded into an angry snarl. I spy black, rotting teeth, and my first thought is
meth addict
. Was she? Is she? Sanquita’s
words come back to me.
I know why she didn’t wake up when my brothers screamed. When I got home from school I flushed everything down the toilet
.

Gripping her arm, the guard nearly drags her toward the elevator, ignoring the obscenities being hurled at him. As she passes in front of me, she squints, as if to see me better. My breath catches and I step back. Does she know who I am? Does she know I’m going to be Austin’s mom? An instinctive ripple of fear passes through me.

The guard yanks her onward, but she cranes her neck and glares back at me with cold gray eyes.

“What you looking at, bitch?”

My sympathy vanishes. In its place, something primal kicks in, some protective maternal instinct, and I know I would die—or kill—for Austin’s life and safety. The thought leaves me horrified and astonished and strangely proud.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T
he neonatal unit is abuzz with chatter. LaDonna grabs my elbow when she sees me, and leads me into a private corner. “We’ve got a problem,” she whispers.

“Sanquita’s mother?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

She nods and looks around to make sure nobody’s within earshot. “Tia Robinson. She was so high or drunk or … who knows what … she could barely walk.”

Another wave of panic floods me.

“She’s come for her grandbaby.” She shakes her head, as if the idea is crazy.

I clutch my throat, trying to keep the bitter bile from rising. “Could she? Is it possible she could get the baby?”

She shrugs. “I’ve seen stranger things happen. If a relative steps up and is willing to take the child, more often than not they get him. Just one less case the state has to worry about.”

“No! Not her. I won’t let that happen. I’m taking Austin. I told you, it was Sanquita’s last wish.”

She scowls. “Look, I think that’s wonderful, but it’s not your decision to make. Have you talked to Kirsten Schertzing, the hospital’s social worker?”

“No,” I say, feeling suddenly foolish. Why did I assume adopting this homeless, motherless child would be a cinch? “I’ve been playing phone tag with a woman from Social Services. And I’ve been meaning to contact the social worker here, but I’ve been so busy with Austin.”

“I’ll call Kirsten now. If she’s available, maybe you can talk to her today.”

She disappears behind the nurses’ station, and returns a moment later with a Post-it note. “She’s about to step into a meeting. But she can see you tomorrow at four. She’s on the second floor, room two fourteen.” She hands me the note. “I’ve written it down for you.”

My head spins and I stare at the sticky note.

“You may have a fight on your hands. Ms. Robinson is determined this child is hers.”

“Why?” I ask. “She didn’t even want to raise her own daughter.”

LaDonna gives a little huff. “That’s a no-brainer. She wants the death benefits. Austin will receive about a thousand dollars a month in SSI for the next eighteen years.”

A dark, atavistic fear mounts within me. This woman is hell-bent on getting my baby, with a motive as old and sinister as time. And she’s Austin’s maternal grandmother. I’m just Sanquita’s teacher, someone she knew a scant five months.

I
spend the next two hours behind the privacy screen with Austin at my chest, singing along with today’s gift from Herbert—an
iPod he’s loaded with perfectly fitting songs for a new mother, like “I Hope You Dance,” and “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman.” I’m touched. It must have taken him hours to compile. But will I ever be a new mother? My chest clenches. I peer down at Austin and try to sing along with Alison Krauss.

“It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart.”

Her tiny fist pokes through the blanket, and she yawns and closes her eyes again. I laugh through tears and pat her back. Suddenly a hand on my own back startles me. “You have a visitor, Brett. He’s waiting in the reception area.”

I’m surprised when I see my brother just outside the NICU. He’s wearing a suit and tie, clearly having come straight from work.

“Joad,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

“You’ve been pretty hard to get ahold of the last couple of weeks.” He leans in and pecks my cheek. “I hear you’ve got a new little friend. Catherine’s gaga over those pictures you sent.”

“Something horrible just happened. Sanquita’s mom showed up today. She thinks she’s going to take my baby.” Hysteria mounts anew as I recall the horrible scene. “It’s not happening, Joad! I won’t let her.”

He cocks his head, his forehead creased with worry lines. “Just how do you plan to stop her?”

“I’m adopting her.”

“C’mon. Let’s get a cup of coffee.” He gives me a once-over. “Or better yet, dinner. When’s the last time you ate?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He shakes his head. “Let’s go. You’re going to eat, and then you’re going to tell me what’s going on.” He tugs my arm, but I slip from his grasp.

“No! I can’t leave her. That woman might come back and take her.”

He stares at me, his eyes wide with alarm. “Get ahold of yourself.

You look like hell. Have you slept in the last two weeks? This baby’s not going anywhere.” He gestures to Nurse Kathy at the reception desk. “We’ll be back in a few.”

“Tell LaDonna not to let Austin out of her sight,” I call as Joad pulls me toward the elevator.

S
itting in a molded plastic booth in the back of the hospital cafeteria, Joad lifts a plate of spaghetti from an orange tray and places it in front of me. “Eat,” he tells me. “And between bites, tell me what you mean to do with Sanquita’s baby.”

I don’t like the way he says
Sanquita’s baby
, as if Austin’s fate were still arbitrary. I pull the paper ring from the napkin and find the fork and knife within. The spaghetti makes my stomach roil, but I fill my fork and lift it to my mouth. It takes all my strength to chew and swallow. I dab my mouth with the paper napkin and set down my fork.

“She’s my baby. I’m adopting her.”

He listens as I tell him about Sanquita and her last wish, Ms. Robinson and the scene earlier. “Tomorrow I’m meeting with the social worker. I’m going to save this child. She needs me. And I promised Sanquita.”

He eyes me while he sips his coffee. When he sets down the cup, he shakes his head. “Mom really did a number on you with these goals, didn’t she?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t need this baby. You’ll have your own kid eventually. It might take you a little longer, but it’ll happen. You’ve just got to be patient.”

I shake my head. “I want
this
child, Joad. It has nothing to do with Mother’s goals. I need this baby, and she needs me.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me. “Look, you’ve got to be running low on cash about now. I’d be happy to loan—”

I stare at him, horrified. “You think I’m doing this to get my inheritance?” I lift my head to the ceiling. “Jesus, Joad! You must think I’m just as greedy as Sanquita’s mother!” I push away my plate and lean in. “I don’t give a damn about that inheritance. I’d give up every cent for this baby. Do you understand me? Every. Red. Fucking. Cent!”

He leans back, as if he’s frightened of me. “Okay, so money’s not the issue. I still think you’re being shortsighted. Mother planted this seed, and now you’re obsessed with it. That child doesn’t look like us, Brett. What is she? Hispanic? Middle Eastern?”

At this moment I don’t see my brother. I see his father, Charles Bohlinger, shaking his head, wondering why in hell I’d choose to go to the prom with Terrell Jones. My blood pressure soars. “Her mother was biracial. She was a poor, homeless girl from the Detroit projects. I don’t know what race the baby’s father is, because it was a one-night stand. There! Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, some gene pool. What does Herbert think about this?”

I lean in. “Screw you, Joad. I love this baby. I
adore
this baby. And she’s bonded with me now. You should see how she snuggles up to me when I hold her. And for your information, Herbert’s completely supportive, though I don’t know what difference that makes.”

He blinks several times. “Are you serious? The man’s in love with you. He’s definitely thinking long-term.”

I give him a dismissive wave. “That’s a bit premature, don’t you think? He’s known me all of two months.”

“When we were at Jay’s last week, he pulled me aside. I don’t know, maybe he figured since I was your oldest brother, I was like a surrogate father or something. Anyway, he told me he hopes to have a future with you. It was just short of asking for your hand.”

I scowl. “Well, that’ll be my decision, not yours, or Herbert’s, or anyone else’s.”

“He’s a great guy, Brett. Don’t fuck this up. If you do, you’ll regret it, mark my words.”

I look him square in the eyes. “Mark my words, I won’t.” I throw my napkin onto the table and rise, leaving him to guess whether I won’t fuck it up with Herbert, or whether I won’t regret it.

T
hat evening when I arrive home, I find a package gracing my porch, this one with a Wisconsin return address. Carrie. How sweet. I lug it up to my apartment and split the seam with a butter knife. Inside I find a menagerie of stuffed animals, hardback books, cotton sleepers, bibs, blankets, and booties. I hold each piece in front of me, imagining Austin when she’s big enough to wear these clothes that would swallow her today. But then I remember the vulgar woman with the rotting teeth, and her wish to destroy my child’s life. I pick up the phone and call Carrie.

“I just opened the fabulous package you sent,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “That was so thoughtful of you.”

“It’s our pleasure. When we first got the kids, Sammy was only a month old. We had no clue what we’d need. You’ll love that Moby Wrap, just wait and see. And the—”

“Sanquita’s mother wants Austin.”

There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the line. “Oh, Brett. I’m so sorry.”

“I’d have sympathy for the woman if she weren’t so horrible.” I tell the story of Deonte and Austin. “She was stoned when Deonte died, but she laid the blame on Austin.” My eyes flood with tears. “I’m terrified, Carrie. What if I don’t get her? Austin’s life will be hell.”

“Pray,” she tells me. “Just pray.”

And I do. Just the same way I prayed my mother would live. And Sanquita would get healthy.

——

T
he walls of Kirsten Schertzing’s modest office are garnished with snapshots of smiling kids and families, old people grinning up from their wheelchairs, amputees happily waving into the camera lens. The officious social worker with the all-knowing eyes clearly has a warm side, though so far I haven’t witnessed it.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, closing the door behind us. “Have a seat.”

Brad and I sit side by side on a love seat, and Kirsten sits in a wooden chair facing us, a plastic clipboard on her lap. She takes notes as I tell her about my relationship with Sanquita, and her dying wish that I keep the baby.

She lifts the page she’s writing on and scans her own personal notes beneath. “According to her medical chart, Sanquita lapsed into a coma following her C-section. For the next thirteen hours leading up to her death, nobody reported her conscious … except for you.”

Suddenly, this feels like an interrogation. “All I know is that evening, the same day she delivered the baby, she woke up.”

She notes this. “Just long enough to tell you she wanted you to keep the baby?”

My pulse races. “Yes, that’s right.”

She writes with raised eyebrows. “Did anyone else witness this?”

“At the hospital, no. But that morning, on her way to the hospital, she told Miss Jean, the director of her shelter.” I look away. “But I doubt she’d stand up for me in court.” I clasp my clammy hands together. “Sanquita spoke to me. I know it sounds crazy. But it’s true. She begged me to take her baby.”

She sets down her pen and finally looks up. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s gained consciousness just long enough to say good-bye, or express a last wish.”

“So you believe me?”

“What I believe is irrelevant. What matters is what the court believes.” She stands and moves to her desk. “This morning a very coherent, extremely well-behaved Ms. Robinson came to see me.”

I gasp. “What did she say?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you. But it’s important to note, in almost every case of child custody, the court rules in favor of the family. I’m not sure this is a fight you want to take on.”