36. Rory
Rory
I’ve never seen Mandy like this. She looks tired, almost. Weary. Like she’s been carrying this for a long time.
I lean forward, ready to hear whatever she has to say. Wondering why she’s never brought this up before.
“My…friend,” she says finally. “The one who took the pregnancy test.”
“The one that was negative?”
She told me this story already. I remember every detail, at least what she’s told me.
Mandy looks off into the distance, almost like she’s looking to the past. For someone so grounded in the present, so sure of herself, it’s odd.
And for the first time, I wonder just how much she left out of that story.
When she finally meets my gaze, her eyes seem…different. I’d almost say haunted, but that doesn’t make any sense.
“The negative test was the false one,” she finally says. “It gave her a false sense of security, even though she knew something was off.”
“Kind of like when I got my period.” Not my period, it turned out, but at the time, I took it as the proof I was so desperately seeking.
Mandy nods. “Exactly. There are times that we only see what we want to see. And this was one of them. She needed that negative test to be real, so she ignored the other result.”
I can understand that, more than most. But I’m not entirely sure why Mandy is sharing all of this. It seems important in a way I can’t quite figure out, though, so I wait for her to say more.
“By the time she finally saw a doctor, it was too late to…do anything.” Mandy shrugs. “Even if it had been earlier, there weren’t a lot of options for someone in a small town. Especially a teenager.”
“So what did she do?” I ask.
I’m hanging on every detail. The emotion behind her words makes me feel like I’m right there with this friend of hers.
Even though my own experience was different in lots of ways, I relate to everything Mandy is saying. I can imagine exactly what this woman was going through.
Mandy tilts her head, studying me. “Maybe this is more than you need to know.”
“Nope.” I shake my head vigorously, in case my words aren’t enough. “I want to hear the whole story.”
I need to know. And I wonder if the story isn’t just something I need to hear, but also something Mandy needs to tell. For once, maybe it’s my turn to be there for her.
She smiles. The expression doesn’t reach her eyes. “Well, there’s not much of that to be had here, to be honest. By the time my…friend saw a doctor, she was close to twenty-six weeks.”
I can so easily imagine myself in exactly this situation. Being certain that what’s going on is anything other than the one thing you’re worried about. Having all that denial shattered in one instant.
In this case, though, so much is different.
She was further along than I was, with a baby growing in her uterus where it belonged instead of in her fallopian tube, like mine. Instead of needing emergency surgery, she found herself facing the reality of a baby who would be born in not too many weeks.
My heart beats faster, imagining the impossible scenario this woman found herself in.
Mandy said she was a teenager, too. Even younger than me.
I don’t think I’m ready to have a baby, but if I did, Nate and I would figure things out.
Teenagers don’t have that luxury.
Mandy waits patiently as I process. I’m not even sure what to ask at first as the parallels and differences swirl through my head. I imagine myself in one situation, then another.
Finally, I focus on what I really want to know.
“So what did she do?” My words come out on one long breath.
What could she have done in that scenario?
Mandy shrugs, a tiny, rueful smile on her face. “What do you think?”
“Did she have the baby?”
Mandy nods. “She did.”
“And?”
Mandy smiles, but there’s something in her expression that seems sad. “And…she was young. She wasn’t ready for a baby or to raise a child. So, yes. She gave him up for adoption.”
It’s an obvious answer, of course. Give the baby up for adoption. Let them have a better life than you think you could offer.
But something about Mandy’s tone makes me pause, and as I reflect, something occurs to me for the first time. What happens to the parents who are left behind when a baby is adopted?
One of my college friends—Trina, my freshman roommate—was adopted as an infant. She loved to share that fact, like it was a piece of trivia about herself that made her unique.
But that’s all it was to us—a fun anecdote. We never asked about how the situation affected her or her adoptive parents, and we certainly never asked about the people who gave her up.
But now I can’t think of anything else.
“So…” I lick my lips as I consider my next words. “Did your friend ever regret giving her baby up for adoption?”
Mandy shakes her head immediately. “No. It was the best decision for both of them. But even though it was a long time ago, I’m sure she still wonders about him. What he’s doing. If he’s happy.”
There’s a wistful note in her voice.
I’ve spent enough time around Mandy to know that not all her stories are one hundred percent true. Some are, of course, and some are inspired by friends or an acquaintance and tweaked to illustrate the point she’s trying to drive home. Some are just completely made up.
I’ve never been bothered by the edited versions of Mandy’s stories because they’re purposeful. With this story, though, there seems to be something more. Something she’s still not telling me.
I study Mandy’s face, noticing for the first time the wrinkles along her brow and around her eyes. They’re largely a product of working out in the sun for years, but maybe there’s something more. A piece of her past that’s made her who she is today.
I chew on my lip, debating what to say. The silence falls comfortably between us. Mandy and I have known one another a long time, and working together in the barn has brought us even closer. We don’t need to fill the space with chatter when there isn’t something to say.
I open my mouth, trying to decide how to dig more into the story, or even if I should, but a whinny from one of the stalls breaks the silence before I do.
Mandy laughs.
“Never keep mares from their dinner,” she says, her voice back to its usual brisk, no-nonsense tone.
I nod, grateful for the levity. It took a lot for Mandy to share the rest of that story, and while I don’t quite understand the reasons, maybe the horses are telling me something. That she’s not ready to answer a lot of questions right now, perhaps.
“True story.” I take a breath and then let it out slowly, debating whether to ask the one question I can’t let go, and finally deciding to put it out there. “Do you…do you think your friend ever considered reaching out to her child? There are ways to get in contact once adoptees are old enough.”
Thanks to Trina, I know a few things about the adoption system. In many cases, the adoption is open, and a birth parent can communicate with their child at any time.
Closed adoptions don’t allow that, but even then, once the adopted child turns eighteen, he or she can attempt to contact their birth parent and vice versa. In either case, both parties have to agree to the contact.
I’m not sure how long ago the baby Mandy is talking about was born, but if they’re close to adulthood, it would be an option.
Mandy shakes her head. “She tried once the baby turned eighteen. I don’t think he wants to be contacted.”
My heart sinks for this woman I’ve never met.
What must it be like, as a parent who’s given up custody of their child, to find out that their offspring doesn’t want to hear from them?
At the same time, as a potential adoptive parent, depending on how things work out, I can imagine the strain on the adoptive family as well. How would I take it if the child I’d raised from infancy found another family?
Not well, probably.
I swallow, too many thoughts swirling in my head.
“That’s tough,” I manage.
Mandy shrugs. “I suppose. But then, maybe everything happens for a reason, right? Maybe he’s better off not knowing about his birth mother.”
I’m shaking my head before she’s halfway through her sentence. “She gave him up out of love. There’s no way he’d be better off not knowing.”
Mandy laughs. “Trust me on this one.”
“Why?” I ask before I think better of it. “Your friend grew up in town, too, right? I can’t think of anyone around here who a kid wouldn’t want to get to know.”
She sighs. “Rory—”
“Who was it?”
Mandy doesn’t answer right away, and I’m about to apologize for being rude and pushing when a horse whinnies yet again from downstairs in their stall.
“The girls must be hungry.” Mandy slaps her palms on her knees and stands. “Can’t keep the mares waiting for dinner. You healed enough to help with grain?”
She turns and heads for the stairs that lead back down from the hayloft.
As I watch her walk away, I realize two things.
One, this is the only time I can remember when Mandy has ever refused to share something with me.
And two? As far as I know, Mandy has never lied to me.
But it seems like there might be a first time for everything.