“Please press one to be transferred to an after-hours on-call counselor.”
I press one and set the phone down on my bathroom counter so that I can use two hands to unscrew the cap from my prescription bottle. I shake out a progesterone tablet and swallow it. The tinny hold music cuts out mid-bar, and I reattach the phone to my ear.
“Thank you for calling our advice hotline. This is Deidre. Can you please confirm your name and date of birth?”
“Sarai Miller, March 31,” I say, my feet wandering towards the front door. I glance in the nursery to make sure everything is in its place. Of course, it always is: crib clean and empty, colorful books and toys on display as if in department store windows, diaper station stocked, clothes folded away in drawers. I ensure the three pictures on the wall are level: a white flower progressing from bud to bloom beneath a full moon. I check the wall thermostat to ensure it’s 70 degrees–a newer habit formed from the past few months of home-study meetings.
“And the year?” Deidre insists, forcing me to admit yet again that I am in my forties.
“Great,” Deidre chirps. “I don’t think we’ve spoken before, Sarai. How can I help you this evening?”
“Another birth mother rejected me today. The phrase ‘runner-up’ was used.”
“That’s tough news to receive,” Deidre says.
“Yeah, well, it’s becoming a pattern. I’m up for consideration, but then...”
I rifle through my bags instead of finishing the sentence. It’s all there: blanket, pillow, slippers, burp cloths, coconut oil, pumping kit, snacks, phone charger. I keep my bags packed, so there’s no need to check them every evening.
“I’ve pulled up your file,” Deidre says. “In this case, the birth mother decided to go with a family that had existing children.”
I fall into stunned silence.
After half a minute, Deidre adds, “I can imagine that’s frustrating to hear as you wait to build your family.”
I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Is there something I can do to improve my profile?”
“Let me take a look,” Deidre says.
I open the front door and walk down the few steps to the sidewalk. I pop the trunk of my car and nestle my bags beside the gallon jugs of water, box of protein bars, and first aid kit. During last month’s inspection, my social worker chided me for having emergency rations only inside the house–not in the vehicle as well. I doubt the average parent has two gallons of water in their trunk at all times. Biological parents cavalierly drive their easily-come-by-children around town without red tape.
“You highlight your infant care background,” Deidre is saying. “The way you describe your own mother’s support is concise yet moving. Your photos are...unique.” I know I’m an outlier. I’ve scrolled through countless sample adoption profiles and social media videos of beautiful, youthful couples meeting their babies for the first time.
“Rejection is a part of the process. All you can do is be yourself,” Deidre says.
I turn on the headlights, plug in the GPS, and pull away. My phone chimes with a missed voicemail. It’s as good an excuse as any to get off the line with Deidre.
A minute later, a man’s voice comes through the car’s speakers. “Hi Sarai. This is Mike Collins. Sorry to have missed you. My wife and I are interested in your night nanny services this summer. If you’re available, can we arrange a meeting?”
The question makes my muscles tighten under the lines of the seatbelt. I hope I won’t be available this summer, but I have to plan as if I will be. The bougie adoption agency does not come cheap, and even the foster-to-adopt people need to see financial stability. I can make the most money by working nights. I usually reassure families that as a single, childless adult, I am endlessly flexible, an excellent nanny candidate.
“I’m free at five p.m. any day this week,” Mike Collins says. “You came highly recommended to me by a colleague, Faisal. Give me a call back.”
Men are initiating contact more and more these days. Mike Collins is trying to support his partner, to anticipate and organize himself around her needs. Intellectually, I understand this is a good thing. But the referral gives me pause.
It was early in my private practice. Faisal was from Saudi Arabia. I arrived at a mansion and was led by a maid to a spotless childcare wing, complete with a nanny bedroom and ensuite bathroom. Faisal was sitting alone in the nursery. He seemed surprised when I asked about his wife; she was in her own wing of the house. He was also surprised when I asked why he didn’t use the existing staff for overnight baby care; apparently, they were not qualified to work with the child. At the beginning of my shifts, the grandparents would stop by and wave from the nursery doorway, making exaggerated smiles at baby Mohammad before moving on with their evening. At the end of my shifts, the father would stand too close to me, asking for advice about how to integrate his son into American society until I made an excuse to leave.
I never met the mother. Her absence allowed me to get too close to the baby. By 11 weeks, Mohammad’s vision was stronger; his eyes would find mine and he would smile. At 12 weeks, he would fold his fingers together with pinkies sticking out, and we would have an imaginary tea party, me asking, “One lump or two?” and Mo cawing back. After 13 weeks, he could roll to his side; I was waiting for the moment he’d roll to his back. When Faisal paid me in full and did not schedule a future shift, I mourned. Since then, I keep a healthy detachment from the infant. I prefer to focus on the birth parent, to listen to her needs without obscuring filters.
In ten minutes, I am at my current clients’ door. The golden doorknob gleams, reflecting the street lamp behind me. I knock once as a warning, take a deep breath to set my face into professional mode, and let myself in.
A new family photograph greets me from the wall opposite the door. The parents wear immaculate white robes that betray neither labor nor delivery. They snuggle their white-swaddled newborn on a featureless tan couch. The standard hospital window behind them lets in an implausibly ethereal light. It has been fewer than three weeks since the birth, but someone has prioritized getting this memory printed and framed.
Short, sharp wails fill the air.
“I’m here!” I call out, switching from sneakers to slippers.
“Hiiiiiiiiiii?” Lea’s voice always goes up at the end, searching.
My feet follow the cries into the kitchen.
“Hi Mister Fussypants,” I exhale, reaching for the baby. Lea quickly hands him over, and I resettle him in my arms, rocking, rocking, rocking. “Are you giving Mama a hard time?” I ask him quietly. “We’ll have to see what we can do about that tonight.” His wails diminish into whimpers. He blinks once, twice, staring into the overhead light.
I refocus my attention from Mister onto Lea. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she wears a less photogenic bathrobe than the silky white one from the photograph–this one thin, pale pink, and stuffed with nursing pads.
“How have things been?” I ask.
“About the same? He cries most of the time and won’t sleep except for in the stroller. I try everything you showed me, but it doesn’t work as well when I do it.” She is staring at Mister and massaging her left wrist with her right hand.
“How are you? Does your arm still hurt from the IV insertion?” I ask.
“It’s fine.” She lets her left hand drop to her side. “Maybe he’s not getting enough milk or the swaddle is too loose?”
I look down. The swaddle is too loose. “We can work on those things tonight. Do you want to start with the sponge bath again to tire him out?”
Lea nods. With Mister over my shoulder, I run the kitchen tap and set the bath supplies on the white marble counter. Lea has chosen a baby soap so expensive it’s unbranded. The washcloths are monogrammed in serif lettering.
“Feel free to take a break–take a shower if you want. It’s why I’m here,” I say.
Lea shakes her head and lowers herself gingerly onto a stool. She props her elbow on the counter and puts her chin in her hand.
“Honestly, Sarai, he cried so much today, I thought about returning him to the hospital!” An attempt at dark humor, not quite pulled off. She’d be within her rights to do so. There is a 14-day period to surrender your infant without criminal penalty under the city’s Infant Safe Harbor Act. No infants have been surrendered in this way in several years, though. I checked.
I turn on some meditation music. All three of us could use it. I test the water temperature with the back of my hand. I begin wiping Mister down with a fuzzy pink cloth, beginning with his eyes and ending with his bottom. He protests vehemently at first, but by the time I am lathering his hair, he relaxes enough to hear the steady shush of the water. He closes his eyes. I mould his hair into a mohawk, stretching out the peaceful moment.
“You’re such a natural. I’m never going to master all of this.” Lea runs her hands around the edges of her face, pulling her skin taut. “You’re sure you don’t have any of your own?” She smiles weakly.
I turn the water off and swallow hard. “It’s just lots and lots of practice. I told you in the interview–my mom is a pediatric nurse, my grandmother was an informal midwife. I’ve been discussing latching and plugged ducts since birth. You’ll get there.”
Mister opens his eyes and lets out a zebra bray. I lay him on the changing pad and massage coconut oil into his dry ankles.
“Once his cord falls off, we can try tummy time and back massage,” I say.
We sit on the too-deep couch, a couch made for lounging, not breastfeeding. I arrange the nursing cushion around Lea’s soft stomach so that she and Mister can feed more comfortably. I give her clinical tips from textbooks, passed-down wisdom from my mother and grandmother and the many mothers I have worked for. When Mister finishes eating, I rest him on the crack between sofa cushions on top of the swaddle. I show her how to pull it tightly around his wiggly limbs before handing the baby back to Lea for a final snack.
“I think he’s almost asleep!” she whispers excitedly. It’s nice to see the triumph in her eyes, her relaxed position on the couch. You have a gift, Sarai.
“That’s great, Lea. I’ll take him.” I gently scrape the baby out of her arms and place him against the burp cloth on my shoulder. “Time for bed, Mister. Let’s try to get Mama four hours in a row tonight.” I take a few slow steps toward the living room’s bassinet.
The door blasts open and a loud voice echoes through the entryway. “…like I said, those who can’t do, teach. Rick has no business trying to set this up on his own. I gotta go.” The husband (Craig? Greg?) walks in, pocketing his cell phone and beelining for Lea. “Work dinner ran late and I had to tie up loose–” he begins.
Lea’s eyes widen in panic, and a nervous shush escapes between her teeth. Mister stirs.
The husband glances over at me and the baby. “Sorry, honey!” He gives Lea a mollifying peck on the cheek and switches to a performative whisper. “What have you two been up to?”
“Sarai’s been helping me calm the baby. He fell asleep. Or he was about to.”
“Sarai, you’re putting yourself out of a job, teaching Lea so much!” he whisper-booms. “Soon she won’t need you anymore! What kind of business model is this?”
Parenting is not a business. My jaw clenches and my ears get hot, but I say calmly, “I’m going to set him down now. Lea, get right to sleep.”
I lay Mister in the living room’s bassinet as the couple ascend the stairs. The husband’s voice rumbles overhead. I let out a soft “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” spreading my blankets over the sofa and plumping my pillows. I always bring my own bedding. You can never rely on a newborn’s home to have clean couches and guest rooms. Spit up and pee are on every surface. And you never know when a client will have a “don’t touch” policy. They trust you with their newborn, but if you could please not use their bathroom and contain yourself to only the bonus room, that would be amazing.
When Lea’s house falls into a deep quiet, I hook up my pump and press start. The motor whirs rhythmically. For a year, I have been inducing lactation in the hopes that I will be able to nurse a newborn if one is placed with me. Ideally, I’d take hormones for at least six months and pump for two months before receiving a newborn, but I can’t count on a specific timeline. I have to be ready whenever, which means a lot of time in the dark hooked up to the machine while my clients sleep. I try to keep the pumping under the radar to avoid raised eyebrows–or freshly installed nanny cams.
About five years back, I made the mistake of sharing too much too soon with Valerie and Michelle. I remember the initial video call, when Valerie explained that Michelle was seven months pregnant after four rounds of IVF between them. As she told their story, Valerie’s hand never left Michelle’s knee. I had given up on dating by then, but I longed for a caring touch.
“We’re completely spent, financially, physically, emotionally,” Valerie said. “We don’t have the energy to talk about our ‘fertility journey’ anymore. We wanna leave it all behind.”
“I understand,” I said. My face was lined and grey in the small box in the corner of my screen. “I’ve been through the process twice myself.” I meant to be empathetic, but I must not have controlled my voice well.
Valerie’s hand shifted to Michelle’s lower back and her tone changed from businesslike to pitying. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
I didn’t hear from them again. Even if I didn’t steal their child, I’d be a reminder of their alternate reality, the lonely childless one.
I soundlessly chew dried fruit mix as I pump, careful not to crinkle the plastic bag when I reach for a new piece. My phone lights up; it’s my mom. Our mutual tendency to be up at night must be genetic.
“Hi, did you get your scan results?” I murmur into the phone. She had a mammogram recently, and we have a family history.
“Not yet, baby. I have news about the twins.”
Nine-month-old twins with multiple injuries had been admitted to my mother’s hospital last week. Mom hunted down the case worker and suggested me for a possible foster placement. It’s taking some willpower to resist looking into a second crib.
“I emailed her your CLC and ICCE certifications, but they were already placed with a relative,” Mom is saying.
I turn the pump’s intensity up. The chugs slow and deepen. “Well, it was a long shot.”
“I’m so sorry, baby. How about enrolling in my infant massage course in May? Could be beneficial for connecting with new clients, not to mention your adoption profile.”
I have a gap in clients in mid-May, and while my mom is correct about the benefits of her course, I feel sick to my stomach.
“I don’t think so, Mom. I might travel instead.” The idea pops out of my mouth from nowhere. I suddenly imagine myself going somewhere warm, waking up early and lying in the sun all day. I could set price alerts for refundable flights.
Mom goes quiet. I brace myself for one of her classic lines: But you have such a gift, Sarai. Our family has been doing birth work for generations. It’s the best job in the world, Sarai.
“I understand,” Mom says, and I am relieved, but then she adds, “You should find one of those group trips. Meet someone new.”
I close my eyes. “Mom, it’s a vacation. A break from all that.”
Mister starts crying in the next room, and I love him for it.
“I need to go. Please text me when you get your results.” I turn off the pump and store the precious few ounces of blue-white milk in my thermos.
“Okay, baby, I just don’t want...” She ends the call before she finishes her thought.
It has been two and a half hours–typical for Mister Fussypants. I vow to hold him off for another 30 minutes so that Lea can sleep a full cycle. I scoop him up and start rocking and walking and shushing.
A seed of guilt sprouts in my stomach. What had Mom wanted to say? Okay, baby, I just don’t want...you to end up alone. If something does happen to her, I will be alone. You need backup childcare on your applications, a selfish voice inside my head admits. You’re unlikely to be selected without a robust support network. My guilt reaches full bloom, but an acid blame is rising up my throat as well. Mom is the reason I am in this life.
Mister is still fussing. He turns his face to the side repeatedly, nuzzling into my breast. I should wake Lea up to feed him. As I walk and shush my way down the hallway, I notice the framed portrait. Lea’s frozen eyes beg for a few more moments of sleep. I think of her sore wrist and loud husband and questioning voice. I rolodex through my rejections: the twins, the “runner up” adoption profile, the meetings with fertility doctors, the unanswered messages from dating sites, the clients dissolving into the next and next and next.
I return to the living room and put Mister against my shoulder. I grab my blanket, and one-handedly drape it around my head and shoulders like a madonna. At the door, I slip out of my slippers and into my shoes. I step out onto the small porch and nearly close the door when I remember my keys. I pick them up, then close the door without a sound. Mister and I walk out into the night.
The air is cool, and I pull the blanket tightly around us. I pause in front of my car. Car rides always soothe newborns. But I don’t keep a car seat installed. That would be crazy.
What you’re doing is crazy. Never leave the home, Sarai. Assume they have cameras.
I turn left and walk down the block. Mister’s cries escalate to screams. He won’t wake up Lea out here, but the change of scenery does nothing for his hunger. It’s awkward to hold him, clutch the blanket, and walk at the same time. When I see a bench, I sit. I lower Mister into a cradle position, and he calms. He recognizes the position in which he eats.
I give myself permission to focus on him. He is a tiny baby, a mere six pounds. I stare into his red wrinkled face. In a few months, it will fill out, an adorable baby face that grocery store customers will try to squeeze. His light eyes will darken into a deep brown. Once he starts walking, he will get even skinnier from the effort–spindle arms and legs. He will be on the thin side through elementary school, quiet in class, with one good friend. They will share the dump truck at recess. Lea will give him hummus and carrot sticks after school, asking, How was school today, honey? Middle school will hit hard and awkward. He will be neither popular nor bullied. Lea will worry about him but not press too much. He will notice one day that she’s reading a parenting book about letting go of your teen, and he’ll make an effort to be chatty at home. Neither of them will think of me.
My right hand unbuttons my shirt. It unclasps my pumping bra. It grasps my right breast and positions the nipple towards Mister’s nose. My left arm shakes beneath his body. You’re risking the best job in the world, Sarai. My heartbeat is unnaturally slow compared to his racing pulse. His mouth searches for the nipple but doesn’t quite find it. You can’t uncross this line, Sarai. I press his chin into my breast and flick my nipple into his mouth with my right thumb, the way I’ve demonstrated for so many women. We’ve been doing this work for generations, Sarai. His lips close over my skin for a moment, warm and soft.
But then he pulls off, howling.
I don’t smell like Mama.
Mister’s eyes are pinched shut and his mouth is gaping. His arms punch to get out of the swaddle. There is only one way you can help him, Sarai. I blink tears from my eyes, button up, and walk back to the house.
In the hallway photograph, Lea’s eyes condemn me, but Mister’s shrieks demand all of my attention. I set him back in the bassinet and go upstairs. I creep into the darkened bedroom and over to the far side of the bed. I shake her shoulder gently. “Lea, it’s time.”
She gasps and shoots upright, ready to snatch her baby away from a wolf.
“Take your time, don’t get up too fast,” I soothe. The baby is safe.
Craig-Greg snores.
Downstairs, I hand her Mister and watch him latch on. Creamy white milk dribbles over his chin and onto her nightgown as he suckles. Jealousy sears through my mind, and I have to hold my breath until it subsides into the usual dull throb, the ubiquitous background envy.
“Lea, you’re getting better with that.” My voice sounds strangled, and I make an effort to smooth it out. “How is the pain?”
“It’s not as bad. A few seconds of pinching. I’m just so tired.”
She can’t tell. She doesn’t know.
“I’ll get you some water. Are you warm enough?” I walk to the sink. As I pass, the smart thermostat on the wall glows a bold white 65. Too cold for a foster child.
“Yeah, I’m sweating through my nightgown in bed,” Lea says.
I walk back and hand her a glass of water, which she takes without moving her torso. I listen to them drink–Lea’s quiet sips and Mister’s cartoonish gulp gulp gulping.
Lea yawns. “I don’t know how you do it, Sarai. I’d hate to be up when everyone else is asleep. You must be descended from vampires!”
Really, I’m more like a ghost.
“What are you thinking in terms of support next week?” I ask even though there is no way I can come back to this house.
“What do you recommend?” She sounds tentative, but she unlatches the baby with skill. She’s truly improved. I try to take a deep breath, but my chest is tight with pride and grief. Because of me, in spite of me, Lea is ready.
I gather the satiated Mister into my arms to avoid meeting her gaze. “Honestly, you don’t need me anymore.”
“Hmmm. I’ll need to check with Craig...” She trails off.
“Let me know,” I whisper, already drifting away from Lea, towards the bassinet. “Get to bed as quickly as you can.”
I settle the baby back to sleep, and when I turn around, Lea is gone. I exhale. I scan the ground floor for dark spheres, blinking lights, any signs of nanny cams. Nothing is visible. I consider leaving, but Mister will wake up again soon; it will be suspicious if I’m not here. I need to finish this shift. I can still get a positive review or referral from Lea.
Thinking of another gig makes my bones tired. I collapse onto my makeshift bed and stare out the window. I can see the gibbous moon at this angle–whether it’s waxing or waning, I have no clue. I drift into a nap, not long enough to dream. When I wake up, a line of white along the horizon erases the dark blue sky. My shift is coming to an end. In an hour, I’ll get up off this couch, set the monitor to on, and drive away. The indentation I leave on the couch will inflate back to normal. I will no longer work with this family, I will not see this baby grow up, I will not see this mother become a mother.
I pack up my belongings–blanket, pillow, burp cloths, coconut oil, pumping kit, snacks, phone charger–and leave them by the door. I spend the rest of the hour researching a trip to the Caribbean. I choose Nassau–direct flights. Tickets are cheap in the search engine, but when I select the refundable option, the price soars. My eyes are dry and my body is hollow. I put the cheap, no-ticket-change option in my cart and hit check out. I am entering my credit card number when a white bubble appears at the top of the screen: “Call from Tanya (DCF).”
I label all my social workers with their accompanying agency; they change often. Tanya has been working with me for under a year. On the spectrum of warm to no-nonsense, she is on the no-nonsense end. She has repeated “babies and toddlers are not ordinarily available for foster-to-adopt” and “50% of children return to their biological family” three times.
And yet she is calling me. At 7:02 a.m.
I leap from the couch and hurry down the hallway to get some space from Mister. In the entryway, I press down and drag along the phone screen to accept the call. “Hello?” I whisper.
“Sarai, this is Tanya over at DCF. We are calling about a child needing immediate placement. Do you have a minute to review the details or should I call back at a better time?”
“No! I mean, yes. One second,” I say at full volume.
Mister Fussypants yowls from the living room. My feet automatically turn towards his cries. My eyes meet Lea’s in the family portrait on the wall. The love in her eyes is infinite in depth but suspended in time.
Your shift is over, Sarai.
Ignoring Mister, I change into my street shoes, tug my bags over my shoulders, and open the door. I step out into the muted sunlight, blinking my eyes to readjust from the darkened home. I close the door behind me.
“I’m ready.” I press the phone hard against my ear.
“I have a five-month-old female in need of a foster home,” Tanya says.
I walk to the car, open the trunk, and toss in my tote bags next to the water jugs, which have fallen over.
“The child has been in the system since birth. Placements with family members haven’t worked out.” Tanya continues speaking for several minutes.
I try to picture the child, to sketch an outline and shade her in as Tanya describes her situation. But instead I picture Tanya, sitting in her office, reading the case to me from her computer monitor, the details concealed from onlookers by one of those privacy filter stickers. She put me on speaker phone, I imagine, leaving both hands free to type. She calls up my profile from the many foster parents stored in the database. She opens the notes from our prior meetings, where she has captured my age, my singleness, my desperation. She knows I have two bedrooms, two bathrooms, lead-free paint, and lead-free pipes. She has my certifications, my client references, my resume of attachments and detachments.
“…extensive medical needs, for which your training will come in handy,” Tanya says.
I climb into the driver’s seat. The sun has risen high enough to blare into my eyes. I shield my face with a hand, a temporary if imperfect fix.
“The goal will be reunification with the birth mother within the next six months.”
I can’t blame Tanya for her bluntness. We both work in short-term care, training parents to be parents. I understand what it is to maintain professionalism in the face of raw emotion, to cope with a career of scrolling through people’s most vulnerable moments.
“We can arrange a meeting. If you’re available.”
Emily Culp is an English teacher based in Washington, DC. She recently had the opportunity to study writing at Yale with R. F. Kuang and at Harvard with Steve Almond, Neel Mukherjee, and Laura van den Berg. She reads for West Trade Review. This is her first literary publication.