The Yellow Sock: An Adoption Story Read online

  Megan crinkled her nose in speculation. After working with so many canine breeds, her thoughts routinely wandered toward questions about bloodlines and heredity. If she had a nickel for every time someone brought in a pound pup and asked, “What do you think he is?” she could have retired two years ago. She’d grown adept at looking for the dark tongue of a Chow, the pushed-in faces of Pugs and Pekes, and soft, snubbed Labrador noses . . .

  She looked again at the unlikely pair near the sandbox. Could the boy be adopted?

  The memory of last night’s conversation with Dave pricked at her nerves. He had been eager to embrace the idea of adoption, but he was thinking of adorable children like Daniella who needed homes. And she knew he didn’t care for doctors and hospitals. It had taken nearly two years for him to agree to fertility testing.

  But he shouldn’t be so quick . . . because he didn’t understand what he’d indirectly asked Megan to give up. For a man, the experience of pregnancy and childbirth was practically a moot point. But he would never have to sit in a circle of women and remain silent as they swapped stories of back pains and labor and lactation . . . all the things that bound women together in a sorority of motherhood. He would never have to congratulate his friends on their impending arrivals when his own arms ached to protectively enclose a burgeoning belly; in a department store he would never walk the long way around in an effort to avoid the infant department.

  Was she being selfish? Megan bit her lip. She didn’t want to feel like a martyr, but she couldn’t help it. In the past few months she had silently endured more hope and pain and agony than her friends and family would ever understand. Just last week her friend Shelia had stopped her in the church vestibule. With one hand on her own pregnant belly, Shelia had looked at Megan with sharp brown eyes and said, “No luck yet, honey? Maybe you and Dave just need to get away. You know—so you can relax.”

  Megan clenched her teeth at the memory. Relax? Shelia’s comment had only wound her emotions tighter. She’d left church ready to scream, and things didn’t get any easier when in the parking lot the pastor called out, “Good to see you, Dave and Megan.” He then looked down at his wife, and, his voice booming, said, “Remember when we were young and not saddled with kids? Those two don’t know how lucky they are!”

  Megan felt about as lucky as a black cat.

  The woman and baby were leaving now, piling a bucket and plastic shovel into a denim bag that overflowed with books and toys. Megan smoothed her features and took another bite of her sandwich, deliberately looking away, but a moment later she found herself staring straight into the boy’s bright blue eyes.

  “Excuse us for interrupting your lunch,” the woman said, an apologetic smile on her face. She spoke with a slight trace of an accent, reinforcing Megan’s belief that the pair could not be related. “But Andre wanted to give you something.”

  Surprised, Megan looked again at the boy, who wordlessly held up a dandelion between chubby little fingers.

  “For me?” The words caught in Megan’s throat.

  The woman nodded. “He likes to give presents. And if I don’t let him give it to you, he’ll fight me all the way back to the car.”

  Megan leaned closer and held out her hands. “I would love a flower.”

  The wide blue eyes blinked once, then the boy edged forward and dropped the dandelion into Megan’s cupped hands.

  Megan couldn’t stop a smile from stealing over her face. “Thank you, Andre.”

  The boy beamed for an instant, then tugged on the woman’s hand and pointed to the dandelion-studded field beyond, eager to repeat his performance.

  The woman sighed and released him. “All right, but just one more,” she called as the boy toddled away.

  Megan sat silently, watching him zigzag toward another dandelion.

  “He’s such a handful,” the woman said, crossing her arms. “But I wouldn’t trade him for anything.”

  “Your son?” Megan asked.

  “Yes.” The woman’s voice softened. “Thank heaven.”

  Megan glanced up. A hint of wetness shone in the lady’s eyes.

  “Forgive my curiosity,” Megan said, shifting her gaze to the boy again. “But I was wondering if his father is blonde and blue-eyed.”

  The woman let out a laugh. “He’s Nigerian.”

  Shock flew through Megan. “African?”

  The lady laughed again. “We are an international family. I am from Spain, my husband from Nigeria, and Andre is from Romania.”

  “Then—“ Megan sat back, amazed. “You adopted him.”

  The woman held her head up in the hard light of the summer sun and for the first time Megan realized that she was speaking to a woman well past prime childbearing years. “Obviously,” she said, her voice soaked in politeness.

  Megan bit her lip as a hundred questions bubbled to her lips. Could she ask? Or would she be prying personal information from a perfect stranger?

  “My husband and I,” she began, looking at her hands, “are thinking about adoption. But I’m not sure I’m ready to give up the idea of having a baby of my own.”

  “Your own?” A thread of reproach filled the woman’s voice. “I hate to tell you this, dear, but no child is truly your own. Children may come from the wombs of women, but all of them spring from the hand of God. They are only placed in our safekeeping for a little while.”

  Megan nodded, reluctantly agreeing. “But you know what I mean—I wanted a natural child.”

  “Look at that boy there.” The woman waited until Megan lifted her gaze. “Do you see anything unnatural about him?”

  Again Megan felt the sting of rebuke. “That’s not what I meant,” she whispered, feeling as awkward as a baby taking his first tottering steps. “I wanted to be pregnant. To experience everything.”

  “Dear lady,” the woman answered, her eyes darkening with emotion, “adoption is a life experience, just like childbirth. You’ll have a time of waiting and a time of hard labor. You’ll feel every pain and every joy. And when the child finally comes home, you’ll call yourself blessed.”

  Andre came toddling forward now, his mouth spread in a gummy smile and a long-necked dandelion clenched in his fist. This flower he gave to his mother, who knelt and accepted it with a kiss, then drew him into a tight embrace.

  As the woman made cooing sounds in the boy’s ear, Megan lifted her head.

  “May I ask what motivated you to adopt?”

  The woman stopped cooing as the little boy laughed, then she released him and stood. Before leaving, she paused by Megan’s bench and looked at her with eyes filled with compassion.

  “Why did we adopt? Partly because of selfish reasons—my husband and I wanted a child to love. Partly because we knew there are children who need homes, and partly because we believe people ought to do more than talk about the ideals of racial reconciliation.”

  Her eyes softened. “But mostly because I realized that if I am faithful to teach and train, my children are the only earthly things I can take to heaven with me.”

  Those words remained with Megan long after the last of the dandelion fuzz blew away.

  The house was dense with silence when Megan came home from work. Knowing that Dave must have stayed late to help a student, she moved into the kitchen, pulled a frozen dinner from the freezer, and put it in the microwave. After punching in the numbers, she leaned against the counter and stared at the cozy room—a space that should have been cluttered by a high chair, with baby bottles in the dish drainer and a bib hanging over the edge of the sink.

  She had a choice—she could whimper and moan and mourn her losses for another week or month or year, or she could move forward with her husband. After her encounter at the park, the former option seemed petty and selfish. Andre’s mother was right—life was a cafeteria of rich experiences. Her tray would simply be filled with different choices than the average woman’s.

  She ran her hand over the spotless counter, then caught sight of Dave’s photograph
. He had snapped the picture as Daniella sat on Megan’s lap at the child-sized book table. Their heads were a study in contrasts, one blonde, one brunette, but the same joy lit their smiles.

  After pulling a marker from the junk drawer, Megan wrote the date on the back. Then she rummaged for the tape dispenser, found it, and pulled off a piece. Carefully wrapping the tape into a sticky circle, she applied it to the back of the picture, then pressed the photograph to the refrigerator.

  She was standing before the fridge when Dave came in and wrapped her in a bear hug. “Something smells good.”

  “Something looks good,” she answered.

  “Whaddya mean? You can’t see me.”

  She pulled her arm free and pointed to the refrigerator. “I’m looking at that.”

  She felt his arms tighten around her when he realized the significance of her words. “Does this mean . . .” he let his voice fade away.

  “Let’s adopt one or two just like her.” Turning, Megan slid her arms around his neck. “And if that goes well, we can try for three or four. Let’s take as many as we can handle.”

  Dave looked at her, his eyes wide and questioning, then his mouth relaxed into a surprised smile. “Let’s do it,” he whispered, pushing a lock of hair away from her cheek. “I’m with you, Meg.”

  “And I’m with you, honey, no matter what.” She waited until a sudden rise of emotion died down and she could control her wavering voice. “For as long as it takes, no matter what it takes. Let’s wait on the Lord and see what He has in mind for this family.”

  Then she stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to her husband’s, hope and promise and acceptance all mingled in her kiss.

  Chapter Three

  Two months later, on an unseasonably warm afternoon in September, Megan clung to Dave’s hand as they followed a winding sidewalk to a small brick building. A painted sign hung on the wall beside the glass door: Central Virginia Social Services.

  A confusing rush of anticipation and dread whirled inside her as Dave opened the door. She’d made this appointment only a few days after their decision to pursue adoption, and during the intervening weeks she had read every book she could find on the process. She consoled her impatient heart with the knowledge that they were moving forward, and her reading had armed her with at least a cursory knowledge of what to expect in the process known as a home study. The Alta Vista social worker, Belinda Bishop, would investigate to determine whether she and Dave would be fit parents. And if she approved them, after completing her report she would place their names into a state database of waiting parents. When a child in Virginia became available, the database would be scanned for a possible match.

  The process was simple and straightforward . . . and might possibly prove to be the most dreadful experience of her life.

  The plain tile floor in the social services building was worn and dull, but clean. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead and shone upon glossy beige walls in the narrow corridor. Dave paused beside a door bearing a nameplate: Belinda Bishop. The door to the office stood open, and at the sound of his hesitant rap, the woman at the desk inside lifted her head.

  Without being told, Megan might have guessed this woman was a social worker. Belinda Bishop had shoulder-length brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and wore a long skirt with long-sleeved, full-cut blouse. The only trace of makeup upon her smooth face was a hint of lip gloss. The eyes that shone from behind the glasses were friendly and open.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wingfield?” she asked, standing. She stepped out from behind the desk and offered her hand first to Megan, then to Dave. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  As Megan and Dave murmured brief “pleased-to-meet yous,” Belinda picked up a folder, then gestured toward the hallway. “My office is really too cramped for meetings like this. There’s a conference room down the hall.”

  They followed her to another room, still small, but unencumbered with heavy furniture. A sofa sat against the far wall, a faded wing chair faced it. A toy box sat off to the side, and above it, a bulletin board featured several black and white pictures of smiling children—all school age, Megan thought, noticing how many were missing their front teeth. First grade and up, from the looks of them.

  Belinda gestured toward the sofa, and Megan and Dave sat down. Dave immediately reached for Megan’s hand, and she didn’t resist. Any physical display of marital harmony had to help their cause . . . or would Belinda think they were pretending in an attempt to aid their case?

  “Well, now.” Belinda sat in the wing chair, placed her hands together, and leaned forward in a position of earnestness. “I’m delighted you’re interested in adoption. As I explained on the phone, this meeting will officially begin our home study process. I’ll take six weeks to get to know you, I’ll inspect your home, and we’ll collect the necessary documents for your case file.”

  Dave’s forehead creased. “What sort of paperwork is required?”

  Megan felt a twinge of conscience. Knowing that Dave was preoccupied with the administrative details of a new school year, she hadn’t shared everything she’d learned in her telephone conversation with Ms. Bishop. Would his question make this woman think they didn’t communicate in their marriage?

  The social worker smiled. “We’ll need a complete financial statement from you,” she said, her charm bracelet jingling as she clasped her hands. “You don’t have to be wealthy to adopt, but we do have to be sure you can support a child. We’ll also need a statement from your medical doctor to show that you are in good health and physically able to care for a child. We’ll also ask for several letters of reference from your family and friends. We’re not trying to pry, but we do try to make every effort to be sure our children are going to families who can provide healthy, stable homes.”

  “We understand, Ms. Bishop,” Megan said.

  “Please, call me Belinda.” The warmth of the woman’s smile echoed in her voice, and Megan felt warmed by the sound of it. “We’re going to know each other well by the time this is finished, so we might as well be on a first name basis.”

  Dave nodded. “After the home study—what then? How long will the adoption take?”

  Belinda sighed heavily, as if she’d answered the question many times before.

  “I can’t give you a definite answer, Dave. Once your home study is complete, you’ll be waiting with many other couples in the state of Virginia. When a child is entered into the system and cleared for adoption, every couple is evaluated as to suitability. Sometimes a match is made quickly. Other couples wait longer, some for several years. It all depends upon the children’s needs.”

  Her head lifted as she met Megan’s gaze. “Please understand this—we’re not here to find children for parents, though that is one happy byproduct of our work. We’re here primarily to find homes for children. The kids are our first priority and concern. I’ll be honest—most of our children come to us from families who either could not or would not take care of them. We don’t often encounter pregnant girls who make adoption plans for their babies. Most of those young women make arrangements with private adoption agencies . . . if they carry their babies to term. With abortion these days--” She shrugged. “Well, there are fewer babies available for adoption than ever.”

  Dave tapped his thigh. “We understand—Megan’s been reading a lot. We’ve investigated private adoption and international adoption, but we simply can’t afford the fees. And we know about the kind of children you place. Megan has also read a lot about the adoption of an older child, and the adoption of a sibling group.”

  Megan winced inwardly. He said she was reading—would Belinda think Dave didn’t care? Or that this was all Megan’s idea? It wouldn’t be good if the social worker thought their marriage was one-sided, or that Megan wanted the adoption more than Dave did . . .

  Unruffled, Belinda smiled again. “It’s good that you’ve thought about your options. The more open you are, the more likely we are to match you with a child. But we don’t handle in
ternational adoption. Because we are a state government agency, most of our children come from Virginia. We can cooperate with other agencies, of course, but we don’t have access to their children.”

  She paused a moment and searched their faces. “If you don’t have any other questions, let me explain how the home study works. We’ll meet five more times—once a week, ideally, but I never know what my schedule is going to permit. In our next meeting we’ll talk about your history as a couple. The next week, I’ll meet with you, Dave, and the next week I’ll want to meet with Megan alone. The fifth week we’ll talk about the type of child you feel capable of parenting, and the sixth and final visit will take place in your home.”

  She pulled a sheaf of papers from her folder and extended them to Megan. “In the mean time, I’d like you to take this application with you. You can bring it back next week or mail it in, which ever you prefer. But I’ll need the names and addresses of your references as soon as possible so I can send out a letter of inquiry. The sooner we get the paperwork started, the sooner we’ll be finished.”

  Megan accepted the papers and gave them a quick glance. The application seemed fairly straightforward, followed by medical forms, a blank financial statement, and a page requesting the names and addresses of relatives and close friends.

  Her fingers burned to reach for her pen. If given ten minutes, she could have most of these pages filled out . . . but she didn’t want to appear overeager. Social workers probably frowned on prospective parents with no self-control.

  “Thank you, Belinda,” she said, folding the pages and slipping them into her purse. “I’m sure I’ll be mailing them in. They don’t look too complicated.”

  “That’s good.” Belinda clasped her hands together again, charms jangling on her wrist. “Any questions before you go?”

  Megan looked at Dave, who merely shrugged.