Interstitial
Dear Penny,
It rained the day you were born. Outside the maternity ward, the sky was the color of liquid ash, and there was a sign that read: birthdays are our specialty. I focused on it as I labored, as the nurses and doctor clamored around me. You’re nearly there, a nurse exclaimed.
I trembled and bore down, wanting it to be over. A scream tore from my mouth. I pushed. The doctor pulled. And there you were. There. You. Were. Held aloft in a blistering cone of light.
Terrible silence ensued, one agonizing second stretching into eternity. As if you were deciding how your entrance into the world should be. Finally, you wailed, so high-pitched and piercing even the doctor commented on it. This one has a lot to say already, she said. Secretly, I was pleased by the fury in your voice. This boded well for you, I believed. You would not be easily silenced.
The doctor cut the cord, and I reached for you. For a moment, I forgot you were not mine to keep. She placed you in my arms. I marveled at your tiny hands, your sable hair, your bow-shaped mouth, your nose that resembled a bull’s when your nostrils flared. My body had a purpose, and it was you. In the span of a single breath, I was unmade and made again.
What followed was a blur of stitches, fresh bed linens, and binge eating. Hana was there. Had been there since the beginning. A nurse had taken one look at Hana and me, at our nineteen-year-old faces, at how terrifyingly young we were, and clucked her tongue. Babies having babies, she’d said. It was easy to translate her meaning—dumb girls, irresponsible girls, those girls. She saw Hana treating the room service menu like her own personal vending machine, saw her pilfering kidney-shaped dishes, saw her lining her pockets with pads. But she didn’t see Hana helping me shower after I’d grown dizzy trying to stand. Didn’t see me weeping in the bathroom, mumbling I’m sorry over and over as Hana soaped circles on my body, cleaned under my arms, and gently between my legs. And she didn’t see the way Hana smiled in response like it was no big deal.
Mrs. Pearson, my adoption agent, came around the time when my hair was still drying. She produced some paperwork from her bag. It had been prefilled. All I had to do was sign. Bells chimed, echoing down the hospital corridor. A song called “Breath of Life” that played every time a baby was born. Right as I reached for the pen, Hana squeezed my hand. Are you sure? she asked.
All I could do was nod. Breathe. Turning the pages, I scribbled my name. I ignored the tiny noises you made in your sleep. Ignored how the whole room smelled like antiseptic. Paid all my attention to the neon pink arrow marking where my final signature should go. Above it was a warning in bold letters. “Upon surrender, the original birth certificate will be sealed, and a new birth certificate will be issued”—one with your adoptive parents’ names.
I signed, erasing myself from your life. It was done.
Then I held you one last time. Unwrapping your swaddle, I kissed each of your ten fingers, your two cheeks, your one little nose. Finally, I pressed my palm to your chest. You were warm, and I felt you brand me. I’m sorry, I whispered, apologizing for what I wanted but could not keep. I held you close a minute longer. Then I let you go. I let Mrs. Pearson carry you away.
I couldn’t watch. Instead, I bowed my head and clung to the memory of the first time I saw you on an ultrasound—potbellied, hand waving around, umbilical cord floating—a little diver. I saw myself then as one of those calves that circle in shallow water and keep beaching themselves, failing over and over again. I didn’t want you to swim in vain. I wanted you to find open water, to dive deep—your life to be a single, straight, perfect line.
The door closed, and I remember the quiet snick, the sound of you slipping away from me. When you were gone, the hospital room felt so empty; I thought I might die from loneliness. Someone else would watch you sleep. Someone else would touch your chest and make sure you were breathing. I cried with such wild abandon Hana thought I’d torn my stitches.
That’s it. That’s all. All these moments live in me still. You live in me still. Half of my breaths, a quarter of each heartbeat, are yours. I guess that is what happens when you have children—they take a piece of you.
I didn’t think about the future that day. I didn’t think about the Calvins, your new mother and father, how white they were. Who would teach you to be a yellow body in America? I didn’t think about what I might tell you if you came to me and asked “Why, who are you, who am I?” Of course, I dreamed I might be a part of your life, but in the same way someone wishes upon a star or buys lottery tickets. I never believed it actually might happen. And I never believed we would be back in the same hospital—you sixteen years old, me thirty-five—or that you’d be in the bed this time, and I would be apologizing anew.
I’m sorry, Penny. I messed up. I hurt you.
I can’t promise I will never hurt you again. The truth is, there isn’t much I can promise you. Still, still. What little I have is yours. No matter what happens. If you forgive me or not. I want you to know I will always be around. Like any parent, I will be here, waiting for my child to come home.
Mika