Somewhere Out There(5)

“I don’t have to work,” I said. “Michael will take care of me.”

“Like your father took care of us?” she shot back. “Trust me, you’ll regret this. Even under the best of circumstances, being a mother is harder than it looks.”

I hadn’t cried then, the moment she told me if I left, I wouldn’t be welcome back. I was so sure of myself, positive I was making the best choice for me and my baby. But now, sitting in the police station in a small room with Gina, I cried harder than I had in years. I cried because I’d been alone for so long. I cried because Michael had kicked us out when Brooke was only nine months old, telling me he never wanted to see either of us again. I cried because even knowing how hard it was raising Brooke on my own, I let myself get pregnant with Natalie. I cried because no matter how much I adored my babies, I was doing a shitty job taking care of them.

Mostly, though, I cried because my mother had been right.

“I know it’s hard, honey,” Gina said. She stood up and came around the table to put an arm around my shoulders. “It’s the hardest job in the world.”

I let her hug me and smooth my hair and rub circles on my back. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had held me like that. It was always me, holding Brooke or Natalie. Or both of them at once. They were constantly on me, clinging to me, using my body for food or comfort, as though it was their property and not mine. And even though I was worried about them, even though I knew Brooke must be in full-on panic mode by now, surrounded by strangers, wondering why her mommy never came back like she’d promised she would, part of me was grateful to have a few hours where I wasn’t responsible for feeding, washing, clothing, and entertaining them. I felt—right along with my guilt, terror, and shame—a tiny sliver of relief.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said, sniffling as I pulled away from Gina’s touch. I looked up at her, distressed. “I just want what’s best for them.”

Gina squatted down next to me, staring me straight in the eye. “I believe you, Jennifer. I really do. I can hear how much you love them in your voice.”

“Thank you,” I whispered as I wiped both my cheeks with the bend of my wrist.

When Gina spoke again, it was with such tenderness, such compassion, it made me want to cry all over again. “I might be wrong,” she began, “but it sounds like you might be saying that you’re not sure if you can raise the girls on your own. That you’re thinking of relinquishing custody.” She paused, giving me a moment to digest what she’d said. “Is that right?”

“I don’t know . . .” I said, the words stuttering out of me. Could I do that? Just hand my babies over to Gina and let her find them a good home? I remembered the vehemence with which I’d fought my mother against having an abortion or giving Brooke up for adoption. I remember believing in my bones that no one could do a better job of mothering my baby than me.

But that was before Michael kicked us out. Before I begged for money on a street corner; before I left Brooke alone in the car while I let a motel manager bend me over his dirty desk and use my body in exchange for two weeks’ free rent in a dingy room. Before I threw up right after he finished; before the moment four months later when I finally realized I’d missed my period and was pregnant again. Before I stumbled into an ER, about to give birth to Natalie, already imagining what lies I’d have to tell her about who her father had been.

If I gave my girls up, could I forget all of this ever happened? Could I forget that that wasn’t the last man I’d let use me so I could give my girls a warm room for the night? During the cold winter months, when I ran out of money, having sex with a stranger was often the only way I could find us a place to stay. Could I erase everything, move on, and start a brand-new kind of life? Was signing away my rights the best thing for the girls, or just the easiest thing for me?

I looked at Gina through glassy, swollen eyes. “I don’t know,” I said again, with an edge of desperation. There was nothing easy about any of this. A battle raged inside of me, an agonizing tug-of-war between what I wanted and what I knew was right.

And then it dawned on me—this wasn’t about me. It was about my babies. About giving them a good home, the kind of life I just couldn’t provide. I’d done my best, and it wasn’t good enough.

“I love them so much.” I kept repeating these words as though they might somehow erase the damage I’d already done. As though they might make everything okay.

Gina was silent, waiting for me to say something different. Something more.

I sighed and glanced at my reflection in the window of the room. I had lost so much weight, I’d had to punch two extra holes in my worn leather belt so my jeans wouldn’t fall down. My dark hair was thin, greasy, and matted; my face was puffy and red. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt pretty, the last time I’d looked in the mirror and actually liked what I saw. Instead, I saw a failure—a stupid girl who kept making one bad choice after another. I saw a girl who could never do anything right.

Looking at Gina, I took in a deep breath and held it a moment before finally exhaling, then uttered the single most difficult sentence I’d ever said. “Maybe they’d be better off without me.”

And the real tears came—hard, body-racking sobs that should have released my sorrow, but instead made me feel like I had only just begun to fall apart.