Kids by Christmas. Janice Johnson Kay
about them. What had happened to their parents, how traumatized they were, or whether they had special needs she couldn’t meet, not with the long hours she had to put in with a new business.
She was getting ahead of herself.
“When did you have in mind?” she asked.
“The sooner the better,” Ms. Stuart said. “I’d be free at three this afternoon if you can get away, or…” She paused. “Let me see. Eleven tomorrow morning.”
She couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning. Her afternoon beginner’s class ended at 2:50. If she could get someone to mind the store… Suzanne calculated quickly.
“I could make it to your office by about 3:15. Would that work?”
“Perfect! Shall I expect you, then?”
“I’ll be there,” she promised.
She pushed End, then stood for the longest time staring at the phone as if she had no idea what to do with it.
Not just a child, but children. Two of them. Children by Christmas.
She was in shock and knew it.
Two? Her preconceptions were dissolving and floating away before her eyes. Her sitting on the sofa with a little girl leaning against her as she read aloud. One small bike in the garage. Sewing and knitting lessons. Giggles. An incredible bond, with just the two of them.
A brother and sister already had a bond, with each other. They needed her more, in some ways, and less in others. Most boys wouldn’t want to learn to knit. She’d have to juggle two sets of activities, two parent-teacher conferences, two bikes and demands for sleepovers and struggles with math or reading.
She’d be doubling the grocery bill she’d anticipated, the after-school care bill, the back-to-school shopping bill.
She didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified. No, she did know. Terror was winning. What if these children didn’t like her? What if one or both had big emotional problems? What if they whispered with each other and shut her out? What if, what if, what if.
“You haven’t made a commitment,” she said aloud.
She hadn’t. She’d talk to this Melissa Stuart. Find out more about the children. Maybe she wasn’t right for them.
Ashamed of the trickle of relief she felt at the idea that she would have a justifiable reason for rejecting two children who needed a home, Suzanne finally hung up the phone, grabbed her bags and left.
Was she not as committed as she’d thought? Had she been enamoured with the idea of a fairy-tale adoption and not the hard reality of older children traumatized by dysfunctional parenting, loss and rejection?
Or did anyone in her situation feel these mixed emotions? This was a huge step, without the phasing in you got when you had a baby in the normal way. Maybe panic was natural and normal.
Call Rebecca, she decided. She’d know.
Suzanne was ten minutes late unlocking the door of her small business, but fortunately—or unfortunately—no customers stood on the sidewalk with their noses pressed to the glass. The first hour was usually slow, even in this pre-Christmas season. In fact, she’d already decided that, once she had a child, she’d change her hours. Nine to five-thirty was too much. She could open at ten, close at five. And close two days a week instead of just one. Sunday and Monday, she thought.
Two women wandered in shortly thereafter and wandered out again without buying anything, but with copies of Suzanne’s class schedule tucked in their tote bags. They might be back. They might pass on the schedules to friends or daughters who would sign up. She never knew, but she hoped each time.
After the bell tinkled and the door closed behind the two women, Suzanne grabbed the phone and dialed Gary’s number in Santa Fe.
Rebecca answered on the second ring. “Suzanne! How nice to hear from you. I’d been meaning to call to find out if Melissa has been in touch.”
“She called this morning.” Suzanne repeated what the caseworker had said. “I have an appointment to talk to her this afternoon, but I’m petrified. And that makes me wonder if I really want to do this, and I’m ashamed of even wondering, and…”
Rebecca laughed. “Well, of course you’re scared. This isn’t like adopting a newborn. And, believe me, even those couples are nervous as well as thrilled. They aren’t sure they’ll know what to do. What if the baby won’t quit crying? What if they don’t feel instant love?”
Her heart lurched. “Oh, God. I didn’t even think of that. What if I don’t?”
“Then it will take time,” Rebecca said practically. “It’s kind of like an arranged marriage. Plenty of those ended up blissfully happy, but I’ll bet virtually every bride and groom was scared to death when they said, ‘I do.’”
“I guess that’s true.”
“And remember, the adoption won’t be final for some time. If you’re really a poor match, a better one can be made, for the kids as well as you.”
“Will Melissa think poorly of me if I decide I can’t take these kids?”
“No, of course not! She’ll just look for the right single child for you.”
Her palms were still sweaty, but Suzanne said, “Okay. I feel a little better. You know, my first reaction was to be excited, but then this wave of panic just crashed into me! I tried to tell myself it was normal, but I was ashamed of myself for even hesitating.”
Rebecca soothed her for a couple more minutes, then said, “I was also meaning to call you to let you know that Gary and I are talking about getting married while we’re there over Christmas. Maybe the first week in January?”
Pure delight overcame Suzanne’s panic. “Really? Oh, Rebecca! That would be wonderful. Where? Have you made plans?”
The doorbell rang again as a group of four women entered. She smiled at them, then said into the phone, “I’d better call you this evening. Business is picking up.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear how your meeting with Melissa went.”
“Oh, what a darling sweater!” one of the women cried, as Suzanne hung up the phone. They’d all stopped in front of a mannequin that wore a cropped, electric-blue and hot-pink off-the-shoulder angora sweater that Suzanne had designed as part of her planned book of styles meant to appeal to women in their twenties.
“Hi,” she said, coming out from behind the counter. “Are you knitters?”
Two were, two weren’t, but one of those decided on the spot to sign up for the next session of the class for beginners. All helped one of the experienced knitters choose yarn for an afghan, and they left declaring, “You have an amazing selection. I’ll tell everyone I know who knits or crochets.”
Feeling gratified, Suzanne squeezed in a quick call to one of her customers who was happy to fill in for a day or a few hours now and again. An older woman, she liked earning a little extra income.
“I’ll be there by 2:45,” Rose promised. “No need for you to hurry back.”
Suzanne’s afternoon class, now in its fourth week, was her largest yet, with a number of the women determined to knit a Christmas present for someone in their family. They’d started out making scarves, then had moved on to projects of their choice. One was doing baby booties and a hat for her soon-to-be-born grandson, another a simple afghan, several others sweaters. One seemed to be a natural; the sweater she was knitting for a ten-year-old was nearly done, arms and body proportional. Another was struggling with constant dropped stitches. She made jokes about the name of Suzanne’s store.
“It’s all your fault,” she declared, laughing ruefully.
Suzanne helped her unravel and get started again, one eye surreptitiously on the clock. Rose came in quietly