39. Thirty-nine
Thirty-nine
It’s hard to believe on such a perfect October day—clear blue sky, bright yellow leaves, crisp blowing air—I become a total basket case.
I’ve cleaned three times, labeled and relabeled everything, and printed out every possible document the social worker might ask for.
Financial statements.
College transcripts.
Letters of recommendation.
Medical records stapled to my updated will listing Bo as a willing and able custodian.
Bo’s financial statements.
And, after convincing Bo it was absolutely necessary for my sanity, his own medical records and college transcripts.
We’re on my porch—me shaking, Bo telling me to relax too many times to be helpful, and George Strait whimpering and thumping his tail against the wooden boards. A familiar car parks in the driveway.
Sharon.
The same social worker I chased down the road with obscenities in hysterics.
Bo recognizes her, waves as she gets out of the car, and whispers, “Relax,” before taking my hand in his and walking toward her.
“Birdie,” she says, with a curt nod when we meet in the middle of the yard. “Good to see you again.”
I force a weak smile with Bo’s hand squeezing mine. “Sharon.”
Inside, we sit in the living room where I have all the papers ready for her.
I rub my endlessly wet palms on my jeans. “I don’t know how these things usually go,” I admit as she sits across from me, clipboard on her lap, pinched with papers. “But I’ve prepared some material for you.”
I swallow, then offer her a stack of papers.
She takes it, adjusting the glasses on her face, thumbing through them. She pauses once to flick her eyes to Bo before continuing.
“Mr. Monroe,” she finally says, taking her glasses off. “Will you be residing in the same house as Huck?” she asks.
He clears his throat. “I don’t live here if that’s what you mean,” he responds, dropping his elbows to his knees as he looks at her.
“I see,” she says, pausing, studying us both. “But you are listed in the will to get custody of him should Ms. Hawkins pass. Which, I’ll be honest, I’ve never been given something quite so”—she clicks her tongue, eyes lingering on me—“ thorough . ”
Bo laughs softly beside me. “I am,” he says. “Birdie here likes to be thorough . I told her if it would make her more comfortable to adopt him knowing he had somewhere to go should something ever happen to her, I’d be happy to do it.”
“Ah,” she says, nodding, looking back at her papers. “And you have a child of your own?”
He nods. “I do. A daughter, Lucy. She’s seven.”
“And you’re not married to the mother?” she asks, looking at him over the lenses of her glasses and through the tops of her eyes.
My body stills.
Because yes, Bo is married.
“I am,” he responds, jaw clenching, not looking at me.
With palpable tension, I scoot a fraction of an inch away from him, Sharon watching the movement.
“I see,” she says, taking her glasses off, setting the packet of papers down.
“I have the brCA1 genetic mutation,” I blurt like a confession, not wanting her to see whatever it is she thinks she sees. “It’s more likely I’ll get cancer than most people. I didn’t want to put Huck in a situation, should I get cancer and die, where he would have to go back into foster care. I know I’m at a disadvantage because I’m not married, but I trust Bo to take care of him.” I swallow the panic that’s crawling up my throat, and then add, “He knows how to see people.”
Bo sears the side of my face with his gaze, but my eyes stay locked on Sharon .
She puts the stack of papers on the table, flipping through the ones on her clipboard instead.
Clearing her throat, glasses perched back on her nose, she says, “Everything on your application looked good, but at one question, you crossed out ‘Why do you want to adopt a child?’ and wrote, ‘Why do you want to adopt Huck?’ Care to explain? Not to be harsh, but with his…condition, we typically don’t see this kind of conviction.”
I smile, relieved it’s an easy question at least.
“I know what it’s like to want to do things a certain way and be ridiculed for it,” I say easily. “My hardwiring for cancer has made me cautious. Huck doesn’t like certain foods for how they make him feel, I don’t like certain foods because of what they might do to my body. Huck doesn’t like to ask questions a normal way, I like lists.” I shrug. “To most people these might not seem like anything, but to us—they matter. Finding someone who can see that is a monumentally difficult task. I don’t know how to be a mom—yet—but I know how to sit with him. Sometimes, I think that might be more important.”
Bo’s hand finds mine and squeezes tightly. A tethering.
Emotion drips through my body, but my shoulders stay square, voice strong, and eyes locked on Sharon.
She nods, taking her glasses off again. When she sighs, for the first time, she softens.
“Let’s see the house then,” she says, standing up.
As I lead the tour, I relax as I talk her through every room. The bedroom that will be Huck’s I’ve painted green and decorated with insect posters. There’s also an accurately scaled map of the house showing an emergency exit route in bright markers, laminated, hanging by the light switch.
I show her the three fire extinguishers I purchased—above and beyond the one that’s required—for different locations of the house, ignoring how Bo stifles a laugh at this revelation.
In the bathroom I show her the ingredients on the toothpaste, all non-toxic and free of artificial dyes.
I show her the non-slip mats I put under my rugs, so Huck won’t fall.
I explain that George Strait is hypoallergenic.
I point out the air purifier that keeps the air free of dust particles and mold spores.
In the kitchen I don’t have any medication, but I have my magnesium supplements in a locked container for safety.
Again, Bo poorly hides his amusement as Sharon—eyes wide—repeatedly says, “How thorough.”
Standing on the porch again, she looks at me for a long time. As desperately as I want to run inside and slam the door on her, I hold her gaze.
“I’m sorry for how I acted the first time we met,” I say. “When you took him from Miss Alice.”
For the first time, she smiles genuinely.
“Don’t be. He’s lucky to have someone like you willing to chase after him.” Her tone isn’t quite warm, yet it’s not frigidly cold either. “Any kid would be.”
Astonished, I nod as she starts walking away .
“Now what?” I call toward her retreating back.
She turns, smiles again, and says, “I’ll see you in court when you get your son.”
Then, as if she didn’t just announce that my life was changing, she’s in her car, driving away, and Bo picks me up with a joy-filled laugh.