Bits and Pieces by Katrina Cassens

I wanted Tia to be the first one to hold him. After all, she was his real mom. I was just his vessel. I didn’t even hear him cry before the nurse placed his vernix-covered body on my chest. Seven pounds, ten fingers, and ten toes. His skin was a beautiful hue of blue. His lips, those were mine. Skinny elongated feet were the Cassens curse. If I hadn’t known these first moments were all I would have with our son Liam indefinitely, I would have felt guilty for taking them from the Websters. I wanted Dave to do the honors of cutting the cord. He was Liam’s dad, the only man who gave a damn about the details of his existence. Months before, Dave and Tia graciously asked me to help them choose a name. That’s just the kind of people they were. Allowing them to experience every moment of his birth was the least I could do when they had done so much for me.

My uncle’s girlfriend got me a balloon, but everyone else knew better. I didn’t want any more reminders of my selflessness. I wanted to ignore the foreshadowing of my forfeiture. My one request was a single night alone with Liam before we left the hospital. Even asking for that left me with a burning, selfish guilt. But I didn’t care. I needed those moments, fleeting or not.

A flawless product of a college one-night stand rested peacefully in my lap for what seemed like hours, but when the whimpering finally began, I took it as my cue to cry too. I held him close to my chest as I got up from the hospital bed. We paced around the room, and I breathed everything in fully.  I looked around at the abundance of supplies the birthing unit had provided me. I built a collection of doll-sized Pampers begging to be soiled, a soft bristled brush that needed a head to groom, and a little blue blanket that would forever be searching for a body to swaddle. I didn’t care about the regurgitated formula down the front of my hospital gown — I would have bathed in it. My fingers caressed the bridge of his button nose before gently pressing it to mine. His blue-gray eyes surveyed my face as if they were searching for answers, but all it had to offer were questions. I sobbed an apology that I immediately took back and followed with, “I love you so much. You’re going to be really happy.” My womb was crying. I was empty, but I couldn’t fall through with my decision now.

I glanced over at the car seat in the corner of the room, reminding myself that it would never see the backseat of my Mazda. I stroked the gold-coated wooden box that Tia left for me and pushed the gift cards to the side. A family photo album assured me that he would be surrounded by prestigious, hard-working people — doctors, lawyers, dentists, social workers. They were the kind of people who volunteered to feed the poor after working all day. They were the kind of people who never forgot to say a prayer before dinner. I opened a gold locket to find a folded up piece of paper with the quote by Desha Wood that said, “He is mine in a way that he will never be hers, and he is hers in a way that he will never be mine. So together, we are motherhood.” In that moment,

I knew that I would rather shatter my own heart a thousand times over than break theirs just once. Every ounce of doubt in my mind subsided. I knew the Websters would never make me regret my decision to give them my son. Our son. Their son.

The town I spent 20 years of my life in no longer felt familiar to me. I slept in solitude with a deflating balloon. I kept the newborn nightie soiled with vomit in the little gold box next to my bed, vowing to never wash it. I walked along the Columbia River and for weeks I envied the smiles on the faces that passed me. I wanted to remember what it felt like to be complete. Six weeks after the adoption, I went to Spokane to visit the Websters and we got family pictures taken in a field at sundown. That’s when I knew that no matter what happened, no matter how much time passed, they would always include me in their family story. So I eventually stopped trying to fill the void when I realized it didn’t exist. I quit asking the question why when I realized I had a box full of reasons and an annual Christmas card with a face that looks like mine.