The Newborn

“She’s got your dimples.”

“You think?” Marjory traced the tip of her pinky along the corner of her infant daughter’s lips, the mouth opening, searching. Milky breath. She slipped her finger in. A greedy suckle.

There, the cheeks cratered into the dimples Barbra had pointed out. Eyes the color of dark blue beach glass gazed up at her.

“Have you picked out a name?”

“No,” Marjory whispered and petted the silky dark hair on the small fist of a head, gazing in awe at the soft spot where her skull dipped in.

The infant sucked harder at her finger, then screwed up her face. A squawk of protest followed by a throaty cry. The two women smiled at each other and a warm breeze flowed into the bedroom through the open window, carrying the scent of orange blossoms.

Barbra reached for the baby bottle on the dresser and handed it to Marjory.

“You don’t want to breastfeed? They say breast milk’s better.”

“It’s a matter of opinion.”

Her daughter mouthed the nipple, making those little sounds she made when frustrated.

“Oh god, she’s so cute. I could just eat her,” Barbra said, leaning over mother and baby for a closer look, her long brown hair tickling Marjory’s arm.

“At least let her breastfeed for the first few days so she can get the colostrum. It’s supposed to be full of antibodies and stuff.”

“And stuff?” Marjory snorted, making a face.

Barbra sat back in her chair. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Marjory gave her a cursory glance. “There’s nothing wrong with formula. My mom gave me formula. I think most of us were bottle fed as infants and we’re all fine.”

“I guess one good thing about not nursing is your breasts won’t sag.”

Marjory rolled her eyes and planted a gentle kiss on her daughter’s forehead.

“You look good for having just given birth two days ago,” Barbra said.

“Thanks,” Marjory muttered into the fine down of baby hair.

The sound of footsteps had both women looking toward the door. It opened and Jim, Marjory’s husband, stood under the archway, staring back at them.

“Congratulations,” Barbra said.

He said nothing, face unreadable, and crossed the room, walking around to the other side of the bed, looking down at his wife and baby.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Marjory said.

He let his fingers dangle playfully over the baby’s pink blanket and then his hand came to rest on Marjory’s shoulder.

“Yeah. She’s lovely.” His eyes locked with his wife’s, jaw muscles working. “What do you want to name her?”

“You choose.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“You two don’t have names picked out yet?” Barbara asked.

“Of course we do. We’ve had a hard time agreeing. I want to name her Sylvia.”

Jim grimaced.

“After your mom,” Marjory said.

“I know my mom’s name,” Jim said dryly. “It’s just, I think she ought to have her own name.”

Marjory turned to Barbra. “You see? We never get anywhere. I suggest something, he doesn’t like it, then Jim makes a suggestion and I don’t like it.”

Barbara gazed at Marjory, a smile playing at her lips. “I can’t get over how well you look.”

Marjory frowned. A shadow fell over mother and child from a cloud moving across the sky. Jim sat on the bed and gently took his daughter into his arms.

Barbra got up to use the bathroom. Secretly, she felt irritated with Marjory. Ever since they were girls, Marjory always acted like she was better, smarter. Breast milk was better than formula. It was science, not a matter of opinion. Like the rest of Marjory’s house, the bathroom was nice and neat. A white ceramic dish with rose soap in the shape of a shell sat on the sink, a flowery bath mat by the bathtub. Ribbed white hand towels hung neatly folded over the metal rack.

Barbra pulled her jeans down and sat on the pink cushioned toilet seat, marveling at how Marjory stayed so organized, even with a newborn. Other moms she’d visited who had recently given birth had no time to keep up with house cleaning. Laundry often lay half folded in the middle of the living room, baby things scattered everywhere: swaddling blankets, diapers, rattles, brightly colored plastic toys. Dishes were left unwashed on the kitchen counter and in the sink. The new mom was usually still swollen looking, greasy haired, belly protruding, or wobbly and expansive like a waterbed.

Barbara’s eyes wandered to the towel hooks on the door. An odd foam bulbous thing hung there. What was that?

Finished, she washed and dried her hands and pulled the thing off the door, examining it. Finding the foam was a case, she opened it and pulled out a smooth, round protruding silicone belly.

The bathroom door flew open and Marjory fumbled to tie her robe closed. It fell open, revealing a tank top and bikini underwear, long slim legs strong from yoga. Barbara’s gaze rested on Marjory’s flat, childless belly and rose to meet her wide brown eyes. Jim came up behind her, cradling the baby.

“Don’t tell on me, Barbra Jane,” Marjory whispered.

***

“I don’t understand,” the girl said. “I heard her cry. I heard my baby cry.”

Dr. Jenson sat on the edge of her hospital bed and took her hand.

“Your baby was alive, Kimberly. For a few minutes. But sometimes when babies are premature, they can have all sorts of serious health issues. I’m so sorry.”

Dr. Jenson handed her a box of tissues as the tears came.

“Can I see her?”

“Better not. I’ve found that when this happens, it’s too upsetting for the mother and you’ll need to get your strength up. We’ll talk more later about funeral details, but right now––well… you try and get some rest.”

Kimberly leaned back against her pillow, staring up at the doctor with watery eyes. “In all the prenatals, you told me she was healthy.”

“These things happen sometimes. It’s unfortunate. But you’re young. Too young really, only fourteen,” he said with a gentle smile. “There will be plenty of time to have children. Just try and rest now. Get some sleep if you can. Would you like more water or something to eat?”

Kimberly shook her head and turned away from the doctor’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Alright then,” he said and stood. “I’ll let you have some time to yourself.”

Dr. Jenson left his patient’s room and went to his office.

It was a small country clinic in a small town. Population, 3,000. Often it was just the doctor, one nurse and a receptionist working.

Dr. Jenson opened a cabinet and pulled out the urn he would present to Kimberly in a few days. His eyes scanned the engraving, Emma Farrow, the name Kimberly wanted to give her daughter. It had the correct birthdate and inside were the mock ashes. All looked well.

Kimberly came from a foster home several hundred miles away. Midway through her pregnancy, arrangements were made for her to stay at Peggy Johnson’s house. Throughout the rest of Kimberly’s pregnancy, Peggy fussed and fawned over the young girl. The last of the ten payments from Jim and Marjory’s Bank would go to Peggy.

Next week, he’d present the pretty urn to a sedated Kimberly at the memorial service to be held at Peggy’s. Just the three of them. And the next day, they’d send Kimberly back to the foster home with the promise of a death certificate to arrive in the mail. It would never come.

He placed the urn back on the shelf and closed the cabinet door before sitting at his desk. Today was a good day. The sum total of 200 grand having been paid off, this last deposit was a clear mistake, but one Dr. Jenson didn’t mind. In the bottom drawer, behind a stack of files, he kept a little black book where he recorded information on all his young moms and the adoptee families. Turning to the right page, he carefully logged the day’s unexpected payment of $20,000, along with the date.

Dr. Jenson wrote down the details for his next patient, Tracy Brooks, due to arrive at Peggy’s in two months. Beautiful girl. She looked mixed, her features Asian. Tracy was going to have a boy and the Lius were coming all the way from Hong Kong to adopt him. They had agreed to $500,000. Dr. Jenson smiled and closed his book. He was looking forward to doing business.