Neighborly(20)

“What do you call that?” I ask, pointing upward. I suddenly feel the weight of Sadie in my arms. I’m startled to realize I’d forgotten her. I don’t even usually care about architecture.

“It’s a coffered ceiling, made of reclaimed wood,” Andie says. “The dining room is my favorite room, but that ceiling is my favorite thing in the whole house.” She smiles at me, and I smile back, like we’re kindred spirits. I haven’t felt that way about a friend since Ellen, and I was six years old when Ellen and I met. Sometimes I think I would have deeply loved anyone I met at that period of my life, before anything bad had happened to me, when I was so open to the world that I would have imprinted on any child just like ducklings do.

Andie pours the Perrier for me, and she, Doug, and Nolan share the bottle of Napa Pinot. We all settle down at the table. Andie puts a high chair for Fisher at one end and a guest high chair for Sadie at the other.

Never one to hold back, Doug makes it clear that he has just been served the greatest wine that man or nature has ever created. I try not to feel resentful as I sip my water. Sadie is banging her fists on the tray of the high chair with glee, while Fisher sits solemnly in his.

“What was the adoption process like?” Somehow, from Doug, the question doesn’t seem invasive.

“Stressful, and then exhilarating,” Andie says.

“We flew around the country and got grilled and waited to be chosen.” Nolan sounds affable enough on the surface, but I sense an undertone. He isn’t used to waiting for anything; he’s typically the one asking the questions.

“We got close three different times,” Andie says. “We were the runners-up. It makes you wonder, ‘What did we do wrong? Why not us?’ And then you try to change that the next time, and sometimes you overcorrect. You overcompensate.” She looks at Nolan. “Am I saying too much?”

Nolan says to Doug and me, “She tends to talk a lot when she meets new people.”

Doug nods with complete understanding. “Kat clams up.”

My face ignites. Now I have to speak up and prove him wrong. “You were telling us about the adoption?”

“Oh, right,” Andie says, like she’s grateful that I kept her on track. “So, it was getting discouraging and tiring, all that flying around the country, trying to impress, and then we met Fisher’s parents when we just didn’t have it in us to put on a show.”

“And that won them over,” I say. Now I’m overcorrecting, talking too much. Doug is, as usual, being the consummate listener—leaning in just enough, making Andie feel like she’s the most fascinating woman he’s ever encountered.

“No,” Andie answers. “The other couple fell through, and we got a call from the adoption worker months later, while Fisher’s mother was in labor—”

“I pick up the phone,” Nolan interjects, “and there’s Danielle from New Connections: ‘You’re about to be a father.’ Andie and I had three hours to kiss our old lives goodbye before we got on the plane.”

“Wow,” Doug says. “If it were me, those three hours would include a lot of sex and alcohol and dancing naked and eating Cheetos.” Laughs all around.

“Were you spying on us?” Andie asks. Everyone laughs again.

It occurs to me that we’re all just waiting to be chosen for something, all wanting to find out that we’re good enough. It’s comforting to know that even with all their resources, the King Spuds aren’t immune. And then Andie says, “Nine months of that roller coaster. I guess we can’t complain. It’s the normal gestation period, isn’t it?”

It’s not the normal gestation period for a domestic adoption, I know that. I’ve heard people wait years for a white newborn. I think of all those people languishing on the adoption rolls while Nolan and Andie just slid through. But then, it probably wasn’t just a rough nine months for them. It was most likely years of trying and maybe infertility treatments. You never know other people’s struggles. They can’t tell mine, looking at me. At least, I hope they can’t.

“Are you a stay-at-home mom, Katrina?” Andie asks.

“Please, call me Kat. And not exactly. I’m still on maternity leave.” I look at Sadie, feeling the anticipatory pang of leaving her. I’m grateful that she’s so content with her banging, that she’s not on the verge of one of her inconsolable outbursts, though it occurs to me that I haven’t had anything to eat yet myself. I’ve been too nervous about how I’m coming off.

I overcorrect again, filling the gold-rimmed plate with far too much of everything.

“What work do you do?” Nolan says.

“I’m an assistant provost.”

“What exactly is a provost?” He’s smiling at me, and my stomach curdles, though he’s being perfectly nice. There’s nothing inappropriate in the question or in his manner.

I detail my duties overseeing the admissions process, trying to capture how stimulating it actually can be. There’s something about that stage of young people’s lives, when they’re so full of promise and the thirst of competition—I love it. Well, I used to love it. I don’t know how that version of myself will jibe with whoever it is I’ve become.

Nolan is nodding politely. I’m not getting it across. I was a communicator in my other life, pre-Sadie. In work, I was always so sure of myself. Lately, I falter. But that’s why I need to get out more. Nights like this are important before I go back to the office.