Worth the Wait (McKinney_Walker #1)(17)

With a resigned sigh, she gathered her purse and went in through the attached door to the kitchen. A mass-produced oil painting hung on the main wall, and a fuzzy white rug lay under the coffee table. Bright-red throw pillows and a cream blanket graced the neutral couch. Her matching chair and ottoman made a cozy reading spot by the window. She saw it all as she dropped her purse and keys on the counter. But more, she saw what wasn’t there.

There was no basket of plastic stacking rings and board books. No jumpy seat rimmed with toys to keep a crawling baby out of trouble while she made dinner. And the smells…it just smelled like a house. A quiet, candle-scented house for one. The silence of it could be deafening.

She heated up what was left of her single-serve baked ziti from the night before. She went through the movements without thought like she was repeating an act in a play. She got out the frozen bread from the freezer, broke off a piece. Thirty seconds in the microwave then a minute in the oven on broil.

She punched the television remote on her way out of the room to kill the silence. Then she sped down the short hallway, knowing she had exactly enough time to strip out of her skirt, top, and bra and pull on yoga pants and a pajama shirt before the bread burned.

Like every other night, she ate with the plate in her lap, in front of the TV. She’d almost finished catching up on four seasons of another cable show. It didn’t take her long. She watched them one after the other, with her single servings of food in her otherwise-silent home.

Kind of pathetic really. She should get a dog. She would get a dog… she’d go to the shelter. She’d been about to get a dog just before she’d gotten the call that had changed her life.

“We have a baby for you. A newborn baby girl.”

In an instant, she’d forgotten all about getting a dog. The day Savannah had been placed in her arms had been the best day of her life. It had changed her, made her a mother, expanded her heart to love in ways she hadn’t even known. And then eight months later, she’d gotten another call that would change her.

“The biological mother is contesting the adoption.”

No. She hadn’t been able to get even that one word out, listening in horror, the sound of her pulse in her ears, her greatest fear coming true. She listened, asked questions, but the questions hadn’t mattered any more than the answers. Not the legalese or the explanations. Who’d signed or when or underage or coercion. None of it mattered.

She’d had nine months with her. How could you love someone so much in just nine months? But she’d loved Savannah beyond anything imaginable after one day.

She might have fought it, dragged it out, ripping Savannah back and forth, even though the lawyer for the adoption agency said the biological mother had a much stronger case. Still, she could have hung on a year, maybe two. But how much worse would it have been then? For her, but mostly for Savannah.

She hadn’t done any of the things she would advise her patients to do. Hadn’t given away any baby things, though she had moved them from the main room. She hadn’t taken down the crib or found a new use for the small second bedroom. She hadn’t let go. She couldn’t let go.

She understood grief, knew people dealing with grief moved at their own pace, so she was giving herself time. It wasn’t working even when she pretended it was. Her pain was growing like a cancer.

The memories were like still shots in her mind. First smile. First cereal. Rolling over. Sitting up.

And now there was just this terrible void. How was Savannah? How big was she? That’s what cut the deepest, what made her pulse race and her heart bleed. The not knowing.

She tried to picture her bigger, older, with more teeth. Tried to picture her being held and loved by another, but when it came to her child, picturing wasn’t knowing. Savannah’s biological mother had agreed to keep her updated through the adoption agency. She’d received exactly one photo—only one—with a note simply stating, She’s doing good.

That was seven months ago. Savannah, her baby, one day there, the next day gone, and to where? Was it hot? Cold? Was she warm enough? Even knowing she was driving herself crazy didn’t make her stop. Like sprinting in the wrong direction and still you couldn’t make yourself pull back, turn around.

She grabbed her cell and dialed the adoption agency’s lawyer. She’d been calling for weeks with no reply, but still, she waited for the option to leave another message.

“Hi, this is Mia James. I was calling to see if I could get information on an adoption. On a…” She struggled for wording. “On the child that I adopted.” She didn’t say “the one that was taken from me.” She didn’t trust her voice for that. “I’ve called three times this week, and I’d appreciate it if Mr. Stamper would call me back. Thank you.”