The first detail I registered about the baby was the absent sock.
The second was the familiar birthmark on her cheek.
By the moment I spotted her mother’s name in the file, I already understood I would not leave the transitional care placement the same.
I encountered Greg at a diner off Route 9 for the first time in nine years.
He informed me he had been the 20th family to refuse a baby girl.
“Twentieth,” he said.
“They actually told us the number. Like it was supposed to make us feel better.”
I stared at him over my coffee.
“No to what?”
He rotated his cup twice before answering.
“She has Down syndrome. We got the call, we said yes, and then we read the file and we just… couldn’t.”
Greg had always gestured with his hands when we were kids.
That morning, they remained wrapped around his coffee cup.
I asked how long she had been waiting.
“Fourteen months. She’s in a transitional care placement in Colfax.”
He looked at the table.
“You’ve got money. You’re on your own. Maybe you could send something. Cover a few things for her.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Greg nodded.
For a while we discussed easier topics.
People we had known in school.
Businesses that had shut down.
How odd it felt that the old bowling alley was now a pharmacy.
Then I posed the question I had been avoiding since returning.
“Do you ever hear from Rachel?”
Greg stopped moving his cup.
