Chapter 15
The day of my first appointment with Miss Berry, the nurse who drove me to her office parked, left the engine running, and pointed through the windshield to a double-door entrance.
“You go in there. Take the elevator to the third floor, first door on the right. I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour. ”
I hesitated. It was cold out, and snow was coming down in small, fast-moving pellets. But my real concern was that there were a lot of people bundled up and walking on the sidewalk. I hadn’t left Shaded Acres at all since I’d arrived.
“You need help?” the nurse asked. I could tell she meant I should get a move on.
It turned out I was fine. Out on the sidewalk, no one paid me any attention.
But when I walked in through the double doors and saw a little huddle of people waiting for the elevator, I turned around and took the stairs.
It seemed likely that some of the people waiting for the elevator worked in the building, and given my condition, they’d be able to guess who I was going to see, and why.
I didn’t exactly hop up the steps, though.
Not at eight months pregnant, and wearing a heavy coat.
When I knocked on the door that read Miss G.
Berry, Licensed Social Worker, Adoption Services, I was still out of breath.
But the pretty woman who opened the door looked at me like she couldn’t believe her good fortune.
“Nora?” She put her hand to her chest. Manicured nails, clear polish. “Is it really you?”
I nodded. I’d picked up from the nurses that in this part of the country, younger women didn’t always like being called ma’am.
And honestly, the woman before me didn’t look much older than Carol.
She had high, rounded eyebrows that gave her a cheerful look, and apricot-colored hair that fell in smooth waves to her shoulders.
She wore a teal jacket that matched her skirt, and pink lipstick.
So nothing like Mrs. Kilgore, which seemed a promising sign.
But I did not relish being gazed upon by such a put-together person with my nose running and shoulders heaving from the stairs, not to mention I was wearing the mothball coat that I could barely button.
“Come in, come in, you poor thing. I’m Miss Berry, and pleased as punch to meet you. It’s dreadful out today, positively. I’m counting the days until spring.”
Her office was spacious, with two floor-to-ceiling windows, both shrouded in steam from the radiator. She had a typewriter and her own telephone. A crystal vase at the edge of her desk held roses, red and long-stemmed.
“Have a seat, sweetie. Either one is fine.” She moved behind her desk, gesturing to the two soft chairs that faced it.
“Would you like a cookie? I made them just yesterday. They’re oatmeal.
Some with raisins, some without. That’s me all over, anyone will tell you.
” She smoothed the lapels of her jacket.
“I just want everyone to be happy. Oh, sorry. Where is my head? Let me take your coat.”
I was glad to relieve myself of the coat. But once I did, I felt even more self-conscious. I was wearing a purple wool cardigan over the dress Lucy had given me, along with a pair of knee-high wool socks that Mae sent in the mail.
“I bet you can’t wait to get home to sunny Florida.” She hung the coat on a hook by the door. Her gaze moved to my belly, then back to my face. “Won’t be long now!”
I let myself drop into one of the soft chairs. She asked again which kind of cookie I’d prefer. Carol had told me about these cookies—warning me they’d be dry. But I told Miss Berry I liked raisins, thank you, and she opened one of the drawers of her desk.
“I’ve heard such good things about you.” She was prying off the lid of the cookie tin. “The nurses tell me that you’re a lovely young lady, with excellent manners. And your grades from home are impressive. Are you thinking about college?”
I found myself unable to answer. I felt generally addled, unable to focus. I just wanted to go home.
“Oh goodness!” Her eyes widened. “I’m not at all implying you won’t get married.
I of course attended college, and I certainly plan to marry before I’m twenty-five.
” She leaned across her desk. “I’ll be a little older than the average bride, but I know I’ll be a better wife and mother for my schooling and work experience.
I tell every girl who comes in here: forget all that bluestocking nonsense.
If you get a degree in something practical, you’ll certainly use that knowledge as a wife.
And believe me”—she glanced at the roses—“a better class of man knows it.”
I was close enough to the roses that it seemed like I should be able to smell them, especially as there were so many. But even when I leaned forward, breathing in the room’s steamy air, I smelled nothing. From this new angle, I could see that the top folder had my initials written on the tab.
“In the meantime…” She leaned back into her chair.
“I don’t mind making my own money for a few years.
I’m able to buy pretty things when I want them.
” She smiled, and a dimple appeared in her right cheek.
“But the real reason I’m here, of course, is that I love helping people.
Especially girls like you. Oh goodness. The cookies. Honestly! Where is my head?”
She put two cookies on a tissue and slid the tissue toward me. I thanked her, and she said I was most absolutely welcome, then lifted my folder from the stack.
“By girls like you, I mean that you’re not just smart, you’re obviously caring and mature, doing what’s best for the baby.”
I was silent, mostly because I’d bitten into a cookie. Carol was right. Even with the raisins, it was like having to swallow flour. Miss Berry waited politely. I covered my mouth with my hand.
“Do some girls decide to keep them?” I asked. “Excuse me. Girls from the home?” I was only thinking of Carol, trying to ask without giving her away. Miss Berry’s rounded brows moved low.
“Goodness. Why do you ask?”
I could see by her face I shouldn’t have. I worried she somehow knew I meant Carol, though I’d never said her name. “I was just wondering. Some of the other girls are older, and I just thought…”
“Even if they’re older, what kind of life could they offer a child?”
She stared as if waiting for an answer. I used my tongue to dislodge a raisin from my back molar.
“You know…” She laced her fingers over my folder.
“I like to remind you girls that Joan Crawford adopted her children. Think about that. Those children might have grown up in poverty, scraping by and humiliated, teased at school. But the girls who birthed them put them first. Now I’m not saying this baby”—she gestured across the desk to the porcupine—“will be adopted by a movie star. But I promise you we’ll place it with a couple with the resources and stability a child needs. ”
I nodded, encouraged. I’d seen a picture of Joan Crawford and two of her children in a magazine. Both were towheaded, and looked nothing like Joan, but they appeared happy enough, sitting with her on a beach. The little boy wore a sailor suit, and the little girl had flowers in her hair.
“But she wasn’t married,” I said. “Joan Crawford.”
Miss Berry continued smiling, but she tilted her head. “I’m sure it was a very particular circumstance. Nora, I have to ask. You’re still committed to letting this baby get adopted to a stable and loving home, correct? Mrs. Kilgore assured me that you were.”
“Yes,” I said. On that subject, Mrs. Kilgore and I agreed from the start. “I mean, I don’t see how I’d keep it.”
She nodded, but she didn’t say anything.
The porcupine shifted, and I shifted, too, relieving the pressure on my tailbone.
I could hear a police car’s siren, or an ambulance’s, getting louder.
I thought that was why Miss Berry had stopped talking.
I thought that she was waiting to let the siren pass.
But even after it did, she stayed quiet. She seemed to want me to say something.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I really was just asking. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
She put her hand to her chest. “That’s a relief.
I’m thinking of all you have ahead of you, all you can have.
I would love to see you go home with your past behind you, and an untainted future ahead of you.
That’s my job. We can talk about college, or beauty school, or secretarial school, or finding a nice young man, or whatever it is you want.
” She again leaned across her desk. “So tell me. What is it you truly want? More than anything?”
I considered the question. No one else had asked me any such thing, not even Mae.
“I want to hear from Leonard,” I said. “I want to hear for myself that he knows this is happening.”
The friendliness drained from her face. She straightened, gazing down at my folder as if a small, poorly behaved version of Leonard were hiding inside.
“He does know.” She looked back up at me. “Your stepmother said his parents confirmed they were still receiving his letters. He’s choosing not to write back to you.” She slid the tissue box to the edge of the desk. “Ask yourself. What excuse could he possibly have?”
“Somebody else might not be telling the truth,” I said.
“Who?” she asked. “Who might not be?”
“Maybe my stepmother.” I grabbed a tissue. “I don’t know. I want to hear it from him.”
She tilted her head again. “You think your stepmother might be lying?”
I shrugged. I sometimes felt suspicious of Mae. If not for Janet, she might have thrown Leonard’s letter from Kentucky away without even telling me, thinking she knew what was good for me.
“Nora. May I be honest with you?”
She waited for me to nod.
“I find it interesting,” she said, “that you feel comfortable accusing other people of lying, even your stepmother, who clearly loves you. But you refuse to believe that this Leonard is capable of anything except walking on water.”