Chapter 8 - What Evelyn Called A Chance
Evelyn came to my house that afternoon.
Ryan wasn't there.
I had gone home because I wanted clothes and because refusing to enter my own house felt like surrendering it to the lie.
The bassinet was still upstairs.
Empty.
That room made my stomach turn.
Evelyn stood just inside the front door.
“I can leave.”
“You can answer first.”
She nodded.
We sat in the living room.
I did not make coffee.
Petty.
Acceptable.
“When did you know Ryan lied about me?”
Her eyes lowered.
“The day Jenna went into labor.”
“Twelve days ago.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Ryan told me.”
I stared.
“He admitted it?”
“He said he had told Jenna you were open to helping.”
“That's not what he told her.”
“I know.”
“And you knew that?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you call me?”
Evelyn looked toward the stairs.
“Because I thought if you saw the baby—”
I laughed.
Of course.
Everybody had the same movie playing.
“You all know me so well.”
“Claire.”
“No. Continue.”
She swallowed.
“I didn't want Jenna to do something she couldn't reverse.”
“Adoption can be open.”
“I know.”
“She's had counseling.”
“I know.”
“She chose the Parkers months ago.”
“I know.”
“Then what exactly do you think she failed to understand?”
Evelyn's face tightened.
“She is my daughter.”
Not an answer.
“She carried my granddaughter.”
Still not one.
“I cannot understand handing her to people who are not us.”
Finally.
I nodded.
“That I believe.”
Evelyn looked relieved.
“Don't.”
Her face changed.
“I believe you don't understand it. That doesn't give you authority over it.”
“I know that now.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I looked upstairs.
“You set up that room.”
She hesitated.
“Ryan did most.”
“Did you bring the rocking chair?”
“Yes.”
“Diapers?”
“Yes.”
“Clothes?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been preparing?”
She rubbed her thumb over her wedding ring.
“Three weeks.”
Before the birth.
Before the temporary week.
“Were you preparing for babysitting?”
Silence.
“Evelyn.”
“No.”
My chest tightened.
“What were you preparing for?”
She looked at me.
“For the possibility that Jenna changed her mind.”
“And gave the baby to us.”
“To family.”
“Stop saying family when you mean your preferred people.”
That landed.
She looked away.
I continued.
“Did you think Ryan and I should adopt her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever ask me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You had wanted a baby for so long.”
“You keep saying that like desire never changes.”
Evelyn's eyes filled.
“I watched you lose one.”
I stood.
“Don't.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Then stop using my dead pregnancy to justify your choices.”
She covered her mouth.
Too late.
I walked toward the window.
She stayed seated.
After a while, she whispered:
“I told Jenna something I should not have.”
I turned.
“What?”
Evelyn looked genuinely ashamed.
“I said you couldn't have children.”
My skin went cold.
“You said what?”
“I said—”
“I can hear.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I said this might be the only chance for the baby to stay in the family and still have a mother who wanted her.”
I stared.
The cruelty of that sentence was almost elegant.
To Jenna:
Your daughter can have Claire.
To me:
You can have Jenna's daughter.
Two women reduced to missing pieces in Evelyn's ideal family.
I whispered:
“Get out.”
“Claire.”
“Leave.”
She stood.
“I am sorry.”
“Not today.”
She picked up her handbag.
At the door she stopped.
“I love that baby.”
I looked at her.
“I know.”
She flinched.
Maybe she'd expected love to defend her.
It didn't.
After she left, I went upstairs.
The bassinet stood beside the bed.
I folded it.
Not angrily.
Not symbolically.
I simply did not want a nursery waiting in my house for a decision no one had made.
Ryan came home while I was carrying it downstairs.
He stopped in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking this to the garage.”
His face tightened.
“Claire.”
“The baby is not coming back here unless Jenna asks and I agree.”
He looked at the folded bassinet.
“What if she needs us?”
“Then she can ask.”
“And if she can't?”
“Then we don't invent the question for her.”
Ryan stared.
I carried the bassinet past him.
He did not stop me.
Later, I found him in the guest room removing the diapers from the dresser.
He packed every item into boxes.
I did not thank him.
Then he said:
“I asked Jenna something I haven't told you.”
I closed my eyes.
“What?”
“I asked whether she would consider letting us adopt.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“Before she delivered.”
“Before you ever told her I knew.”
“Yes.”
“Did you use my name?”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
Another layer.
May you like
Same lie.
And for the first time, I wondered whether I had any idea what my husband had been promising in rooms where I wasn't present.
