Just Breathe. Honey Perkel
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remained one drawback in this process of adoption. If and when an agency decided to do a home study on Bob and me, we would have to remove our names from all other agency lists.
Children’s Services Division was that agency. Karen Davis came to our house. She looked at our home and examined it for cleanliness, safety, and backyard space to play. She asked to see what would be the baby’s nursery, etc. I was nervous as she made her search; I hoped we’d pass. We checked out clean. There didn’t seem to be any problems.
After the home study, Karen instructed me to routinely telephone her office for any placement news. Adoptions had slowed up considerably, she admitted. She didn’t expect a baby to become available anytime soon, but we should remain in touch just the same.
Chapter 4
During the summer of 1980 Bob and I spent most of our time working in the yard: trimming, cutting, weeding, and replanting. We’d lived in our home for nearly two years now, and there was still so much to do. Changes we wanted to make ... inside and outside of our house. It was good to have projects.
The summer wore on. One afternoon we received a phone call from Bob’s sister, Arlene. She and her husband were visiting their daughter in Florida. Arlene was frantic. Her teenage son had been in an accident. An elderly driver had hit Mike on his bike as he crossed an intersection. Could we go to the hospital? she asked. Could Mike stay with us for a few days until she and Dave returned home?
So Mike lived with us for a little while. It was a look into our future, I thought. I took him to the dentist, shopping, played “mom” to him until his own mom and dad got back. It wasn’t really a look into our future, I later realized. It was much too normal for that.
I staged the nursery with a bentwood rocker, a small table, and a lamp. At least I felt like I was doing something to move the process of adoption along. Keep planning. Keep setting things up. Do something! Two years was a long time to wait.
Chapter 5
I was one who counted days. I could have done it for a living. As a child I counted the days until we left for summer vacation on the Oregon coast or a day of shopping and lunch with my mom. Later, I counted the days until Bob and I got married. Until the closing of our house. I even found myself counting the days to things I dreaded. Visits to the dentist. Days before a term paper was due. It was just something I did. It showed the passage of time. Now, however, counting the days wasn’t realistic as no one knew how many we’d have to wait. So, I did the next best thing. I planned a dinner party.
I loved to entertain and to do so on a large scale, it was best to plan outdoor parties during the summers. Though we had nearly twenty-six hundred square feet of house, the footage was dispersed on three different floors. The rooms were small, though many. There wasn’t a lot of space in any one room to accommodate many guests.
With the yard now a perfect oasis, I decided on a barbecue with a Hawaiian theme for the first weekend in August. Hawaii had always held a special place in our hearts; it was where Bob and I spent our honeymoon and thought about retiring one day.
I invited eighteen of our closest friends and told them to wear Hawaiian garb. We would provide the leis, food, and drinks. With a tropical and lengthy menu, I’d be in the kitchen for days. It was what I loved to do.
Of course, I invited our neighbors Laura and David. Days before, they’d had a huge garage sale. Bob and I had put in hours to help them. Laura was selling all of Kari’s baby things — toys, crib, changing table, high chair, baby bottles, and piles and piles of baby clothes. I wanted to purchase the entire load; however, I didn’t even know if we’d use them. What if a baby couldn’t be placed with us? Karen had made no guarantees. And to have a house filled with baby things we couldn’t use would only make matters worse. Though it pained me, I thought better not to buy anything until Bob and I received the go-ahead sign.
The week of the barbecue arrived and I was excited at the prospect of being with our friends — of cooking up a storm. I’d already done most of my grocery shopping as well as buying Hawaiian decorations from a local party store.
The Monday prior I’d telephoned CSD and spoke to our caseworker. Karen informed me to call again in three to four months. I promised I would. Now I delved into party planning. I spent most of my time in the kitchen, our dog Pumin staying close beside me in case I dropped any morsel on the floor. The menu included: Polynesian Shrimp Dip. Tahitian Fruit Cups. Teriyaki Chicken with Mandarin-Parsley Rice and Almond Green Beans. Dessert would be simple — ice cream sundaes. I was so happy, in my element, but that party never materialized.
Thursday morning as I sat browsing through a party book trying to decide if I should make place cards or not, the telephone rang. Punim ran circles around my feet, wagging her tail as I made my way to answer it. It was Karen Davis.
Chapter 6
“Are you sitting down, Harriet?” she asked.
“Yes,” I responded. I really wasn’t sitting, but I didn’t see what difference it would make. Why was she calling me? Hadn’t I just spoken to her days before?
“I just got word there’s a six-week-old baby in perfect health, who needs a home. Are you interested?”
Maybe I did need a chair, I suddenly thought. My legs grew weak and shaky. A baby.
“A boy or a girl?” It didn’t make a difference.
“A boy.” Her voice was smiling.
A son. A baby named Brian. Bob and I had chosen the names years before. Elizabeth Ann, for my grandmother and mother, if we had a girl. Brian William for my Uncle Bernie and Bob’s father, if we had a boy.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. With no morning sickness and no labor pains, I was becoming a mother! I’d paid the price in the past few years with all of that. I’d done the work. And the prize was now in sight.
Of course, we had absolutely nothing ready for the nursery. Not even a crib or diapers. My mind began to spin as a myriad of thoughts raced through my head: the Hawaiian barbecue and all its preparations just two days away, the young couple who’d turned away a newborn baby because he had red hair, all my miscarriages and dreams. They had brought me to this moment.
“Of course, we’re interested!” I exclaimed.
Karen laughed. “Nicholas is in foster care. You and Bob will need to drive to Eugene to see him. A caseworker will meet you tomorrow afternoon at one.”
I made scratchy notes on a pad, willing myself to take a deep breath. Breathe, baby, I told myself. My heart raced and my chest pounded as I tried to control my feelings.
I felt a rush of happiness as I replaced the telephone receiver. First I called Bob, then my mom, and finally, I made a mad dash to Laura’s house to tell her the incredible news.
It was a hot afternoon as I hurried across the thick, green lawn and made my way to the back door. As friendly neighbors often do, Laura and I sometimes joked about cutting a hole in the hedge our two properties shared. It would’ve been greatly appreciated at a time like this.
I called out to Laura.
“I’m downstairs!” she yelled back.
I descended the steps into the cool basement below. Laura was sorting remnants of baby items, which hadn’t sold at her recent sale. I told her about the baby, well, screamed it in fact, and we stood there hugging each other. Laughing and crying. Then Laura and I began the busy task of piling up things I’d need. An assortment of clothes. Baby bottles. Even a changing table. And the crib! It was still leaning up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, just waiting for Brian.
Chapter 7
Friday morning Bob and I drove to Eugene, Oregon, a two hour trip south on Interstate 5. I was nervous and excited at the same time. It was a beautiful day. A day when dreams came true, I told myself.
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