I sat down on a ratty yellow couch and sank farther back than I intended to. The room was poorly lit and everything seemed to be a varying shade of brown and in considerable disrepair. Actually, when I looked closer, the room revealed itself to be an odd mix of old, uncared-for things, and nicer, but not too nice, things. A broken vase served as an ashtray on the coffee table next to a black and white photograph in a wooden frame. A rocking chair hid under a pile of papers and envelopes. The room would have been an acceptable living room if not for all the trash strewn about, and if the curtains weren’t drawn over the windows.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said, hoping I didn’t look too uncomfortable.
Heather sat on the other side of the couch, her feet tucked up under her tiny body, biting her thumbnail. She appeared to be trying to take up as little space as possible. She wore an enormous t-shirt and shapeless sweat pants. Would she look as young if she were wearing a more flattering outfit?
“Nn,” she offered, not looking at me. Then she seemed to remember I was there and said, “Oh.”
I waited until I was sure she was done responding.
“Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?”
She nodded. She reminded me of a child.
“How long ago did you give birth to a baby boy?”
Chewing. “Not sure.”
“Can you remember anything about when it was? Weeks, months ago?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. Do you remember what you named him?”
“Stanley.” She took me by surprise with how quickly she answered, and how softly.
“Why did you name him Stanley?”
She shrugged. “My dad.”
“It was your dad’s name?”
“No.”
I struggled to relate the two.
“It reminds me of my dad.”
“Ah. Wow. Um, what did you do after you gave birth?”
Her eyes widened so I knew she was listening.
She shook her head.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay, we don’t have to. Can you tell me a little bit about Delia? What’s it like living with her?”
“Good.”
“Is she good to you?”
Heather nodded.
“I remember now,” she said.
“Remember what?”
“Stanley.”
“What about him?”
“It was seventy six days ago.”
“His birthday, you mean?”
She nodded.
“Where is he now?”
“At the hospital,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. He’s blind.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel about having given birth?”
She remained stoic for a minute and then I saw a tear form in her eye.
“Are you okay?”
She still wouldn’t look at me. Her whole face was concealed by her hand.
“Do you still think about it?”
She nodded.
“What do you think about?”
Silence.
“He probably hates me,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
Finally she looked at me.
“Wouldn’t you?”
I was stunned.
“No, Heather,” I said. “He’s just a baby. He doesn’t understand.”
“He will.”
“It’s not too late. Do you want to see him?”
She chewed on her thumbnail and drew her legs in even tighter.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mm.”
“Heather, I have to ask you something. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Fiercer chewing.
“Dunno.”
“Anything at all?”
Nothing.
“A mom.”
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