That same evening, he went up the overgrown sidewalk to her house. Reagan opened the door and walked straight into his arms. He hated himself as he held her uselessly, unable to say a word. He had no comfort to offer. He couldn’t admit that it was his fault. She needed him to be good. He had kept up the act long enough, and he could do it a bit longer.
He took her to the lake, and she huddled against him as the bracing November wind raked their faces. The light changed as they sat there, wordless. They had both spent the afternoon reading whatever they could find, hoping some generic article would offer a definitive answer to their impossible question. They had both attempted to divine portent from phrases like: can be misdiagnosed, 60% survival rate, every case varies.
He wondered if she could find solace in concluding that everything was up to chance. There was some comfort in believing the universe was indifferent and governed by accidents of mathematical probability. There was no absolute significance about anything, and selfishness did not necessarily warrant punishment.
But he knew she wouldn’t accept that. She would find some small negligence of hers, some peccadillo she had committed. She would somehow find peace in blaming herself, because it was less terrifying to live in a world dictated by punishment and reward, than to believe that a perfect baby could be ruined for nothing.
Maybe he could tell her everything, reveal the extent of his depravity, and soothe her conscience. He was, after all, far more familiar with categories like wickedness and righteousness than she was, and he could help explain to her how it all made sense, really. She would be delighted to learn that God was punishing the baby because of his sin, not hers.
He suddenly felt very hot. He stood and went to lean up against the split rail fence, his hands buried in his pockets. She joined him. The waves were dark blue, the sky pale amber.
“What if this means that we should keep him?” he said.
“Cass…” she breathed.
“Maybe we shouldn’t give him away like this. Maybe it’s not right.”
“Of course it’s not right. None of it is right, Casper. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“But maybe I do.” She shook her head and left the fence, stepping back on to the path. Casper followed her. “Ray, he wouldn’t even exist if not for me, and he certainly wouldn’t have been sick. It’s not right to foist him off on someone else so they can suffer.”
“But they want him,” she insisted. Then, a look of uncertainty flickered across her face and her gait slowed. “Or, maybe they won’t anymore.” No, they would still want him. He knew that sort of people.
“But I’m responsible for him, Ray. And I think we should keep him.”
“No.” He put a hand on her arm.
“Ray, we can do this.” She shook her head and kept walking. “But we can’t just give him away,” he said, taking longer strides as her pace increased. “He’s ours. And he needs us.”
“There’s not enough of me to go around as it is.”
“But I’ll help you. Just like I’ve been doing. We’ll be together.” Reagan whirled on him.
“With Charlotte? And my dad? A big, happy family,” she cried bitterly. Tears formed in her eyes. “I don’t want another baby, Casper. I told you that at the beginning. I’m sorry, all right?”
“Don’t cry,” he pleaded, taking her in his arms. “Please, Ray. I know it isn’t ideal, but—,”
She pushed away from him.
“It’s a disaster!” she sobbed. “I’m a disaster. And I don’t want to bring another kid into my mess. Not again. I told you that. I told you! It was supposed to be perfect. It was going to be perfect for him. Now, he—,”
“We’re going to see the specialist. We’re going to figure it out.”
“I should have ended it. Before he would have known anything or felt it. He never would have—”
“Ray—”
“He has a hole in his heart, Casper! Now he’s—” she sniffed and tried to take a breath. “He’s going to suffer,” she sobbed. “We were so stupid, Casper!” Her eyes were blurred with tears as she looked at him in agony. “We didn’t want him, and those people did, and now we’re giving him away half-dead!”
“He’s not dead!” Casper grabbed her arms and held her tight. “He’s not dead.”
“You heard Dr. Caruso!”
“We don’t know yet. She wasn’t sure.”
“I know it,” she said, jabbing a finger into her own chest. “I know it.” The tears coursed down her cheeks. “And we really thought we were going to get away with it.”
“Ray, I’ll do it with you. I promise.”
“And what happens when he lives longer and longer, and all that time I know it could end at any moment? After all of that, I’ll still lose him. No, Casper.” She sniffed and dabbed her nose with the cuff of her sleeve. “I won’t do it.” She crossed her arms and stalked away.
—
In the waiting room, they had been the only people without a child. Goobaloo Gully was on the TV, and there were toys, crayons, and coloring books, and several of those rattly wooden things with the beads and loopy wires. There were a few toddlers, several middle schoolers, one or two kids who looked to be in high school, and a baby.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was wearing footed pajamas with yellow ducks, and grinned at everyone in the room. He wanted to ask her mother what heart condition she had, and if she needed surgery. Perhaps she already had, and there was a scar running down her sternum. Perhaps she had spent weeks, or months in the hospital, yet here she was, bubbling and babbling like any child her age. Reagan sat with her arms folded, and didn’t look up from her phone.
Dr. Shakir was in his forties, with round glasses and a Looney Tunes tie. He conducted an ultrasound and explained why Dr. Caruso had been concerned. He indicated a minuscule grayish blotch on the screen and told them it was a hole between the chambers of the heart. He told them what he thought it could be, then he called the sonographer to run an echocardiogram to verify.
Casper kept an eye on Reagan’s face, white and artificially calm, as they watched the monitor and listened to the uneven, lurching heartbeat. It seemed to take an eternity, and the sonographer said little as she recorded measurements and made notes. When it was over, she turned off the machine and excused herself to find the doctor.
“We’ve been able to confirm the diagnosis,” said Dr. Shakir, as he sat down on his stool. “While we could see the septal defect on the ultrasound, the EKG confirmed it to be atrioventricular.” He drew a hasty diagram on a promotional Carver & Carver notepad. “The blood should flow in here and here, and out there and there,” he drew four arrows, “but the hole prevents any of this from happening effectively.” He drew an x in the center. “This puts a tremendous strain on the heart and lungs. He’ll certainly require surgery soon after birth.”
“But that’s it?” Casper asked. “He’ll be okay after that?”
“It’s likely he will also be on medication, or need future procedures.”
“But he won’t die. He’ll live.” Dr. Shakir pursed his lips and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
“The survival rate after the initial surgery is good. Extremely good. But,” he said, looking first to Reagan, whose head was down, then back to Casper, “it’s not possible to know with certainty how long. Every case is different. But,” he said, his tone brightening, “we never have guarantees in life. None of us do. And I have patients with this condition who are finishing up their first semester of college. A colleague of mine has—,”
“Dr. Shakir?” Reagan’s voice was small. “What caused this?” The doctor shook his head sadly.
“It’s genetic. There is no way to prevent a condition like this from occurring.” He looked gently at Reagan. “And there is nothing the mother can do to cause it or prevent it.” Casper saw her chin quivering. He took her hand and held it, as limp and white as a withered lily.
“Are you sure?” Her voice trembled. “Because I did drink a bit before.” She looked at Casper for help, or to confirm what she was saying. “But I stopped, didn’t I, Cass? As soon as I found out. But I may have had a drink or two before I found out. But I stopped when I found out. I promise.”
“That’s good,” Dr. Shakir assured her.
“And I’ll stop eating turkey and salami sandwiches. I know they say you’re not supposed to have deli meat, but I never bothered with that rule when I was pregnant with Charlotte because it was the only thing I could eat without gagging. And Casper can tell you, I was throwing up so much for the first few weeks I was practically starving. But I’ll stop.”
Reagan also swore off cookie dough and Brie by the time Dr. Shakir finished with them. He had them schedule their next appointment for next month, the 28-week mark, shook their hands, and left.
Reagan asked for extra copies of the after-visit summary, adding them to a blue three-ring binder she had been given by the adoption agency. Everything was unusually neat and impeccably ordered. She had even gotten some page protectors.
—
They met over Zoom. Destiny, the social worker, had set it up. The prospective parents lived three hours away, just across the Minnesota border. Andre was a software developer who worked from home, and Quinn was a speech pathologist who made house calls. They assured Casper and Reagan that they would be able to get ample time off for the birth, surgery, and recovery period. Their moms had also pledged limitless hours of free babysitting. Everyone chuckled pleasantly.
“What did you think?” Reagan asked, as she ended the call and closed his laptop. She curled up next to him on his couch and shivered. The world outside his window was inky black and peppered with city lights, as the daylight vanished into an early December night. He shrugged.
“They seem great.”
“They’re perfect,” she sighed. “I didn’t know people like that existed.”
“What, perfect people?” he muttered, standing and going to the sink to get a glass of water.
“Oh, don’t be grumpy,” she said, clambering off the couch. She waddled over to him, twenty-six weeks along, round and soft and radiant. She smiled, the left dimple even deeper in her full cheeks, and wrapped her arms around him. “Trust me. This is better for everyone. Didn’t you see how excited they were?” Yes. It made him sick. He wasn’t excited. Not at all. “Their dream comes true and he gets a perfect home.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “And we’ll get a chance to start over.”
“We don’t need to start over. We’ve already started.”
“Look, I know how you feel about all of this,” she said gently, stroking his arms. “But you heard Dr. Shakir. It’s not our fault. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”
“I don’t feel guilty,” he lied. “I feel responsible.” She sighed wearily and moved away, pacing the floor. “He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“Please stop saying that. I can’t stand hearing you talk like that. It makes it so much worse. Every time you say that, don’t you realize you’re implicating me, too? Like it’s my fault. Like I’m being punished.” He opened his mouth to deny it, but she continued. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe I should be punished. I was irresponsible enough to get knocked up once, then dumb enough to actually believe I could give Charlotte a decent life. Look how that turned out,” she muttered bitterly. “And then, I was dumb enough to let it happen again. But what if this is the way out? These people believe in God, too. What if this is supposed to be their baby? Did you ever think of that?”
He hadn’t. But he had heard stories like this before. It was part of the rhetoric. The fact that there existed such heroic, selfless people was another point in favor of the movement. Andre and Quinn were expected to ride in on their white chargers and rescue his son from his worthless arms. And they would be the ones whose faces brought comfort when the pain came, their brave, capable hands cleaning the sutures and changing the dressings. And they would be the ones bent in agony in a sterile hospital room.
“You’re right. They do deserve to have a baby. But they don’t deserve the pain.”
“What, and I do? Stop saying that! Please, stop saying that.” Her eyes were pink, gleaming with tears.
“I couldn’t live with myself, Ray. I couldn’t bear it, having you, having everything I want, knowing it’s only because I got rid of him. I’d never forgive myself.”
“You’re giving him to good people, Cass! People who want him. You’re giving them a gift, you’re giving him a gift! Have you considered that keeping him would be the selfish thing if it’s only to soothe your own conscience? When he could have her, and him, and—,”
“Those are your reasons, Ray. Not mine.” She stared at him, her brow furrowed quizzically. Her hand instinctively went to her belly. Protectively, he thought. He dropped his gaze and took a deep breath. He noticed that one of the laminate tiles on the floor was peeling. “You want those people to have him because you think it will help everybody. And you’re probably right. But I don’t care about those people, Ray. I only want them to take away my mistakes. So I won’t need to face them anymore. But if I let them take him away, there’s no hope for me.”
“Cass, we’ll start over,” she said quietly.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. There’s no starting over, Reagan. Not for me. I’ll only do the same thing again and again. I know it.” She shook her head, unable to deny it, unable to tell him he was wrong. Because she knew it was true. She knew him. As she looked at him, her green eyes bewildered with grief and pity, he knew she could finally see him as he was. Tears blurred his vision and tightened his throat. He took her hands and sank to his knees. “Marry me.” He swallowed and said it again. “Marry me.” He kissed her fingers, one at a time, then her palms, and clutched them against his heart. He looked into her eyes, realizing how much his world had narrowed till nothing else mattered to him but what was contained within the borders of her body. “Marry me.”
“What,” she whispered, her breath shaking.
“I love you, Reagan.” As he said the words, his voice broke, grieved and ashamed. Because only then was it finally true. It was finally true. All of his being surged toward her, sick with longing, tender to the point of breaking, yet zealous to do good to her, delighting in the hope of giving her everything he had.
She looked at him, her eyes glassy and still. Unblinking. He kissed her fingers and palms again. He stood and took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her chin, her lips. He said it again, and again, reveling in it, rejoicing in it.
“Why,” she breathed. Why. As if it were merely a matter of cause and effect, of input and output, of if and then. He could only look at her, his mind trying and failing to articulate an epistemic process for the sweet compulsion forcing him toward her. He smiled helplessly, his mind reduced to wordless joy. “Cass,” she took his hands away from her face, “why are you asking me to marry you?”
“Because I love you.” She nodded. He studied her face, attempting to search her thoughts.
“You said that already.” Reagan sniffled, then dabbed her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. She straightened herself and folded her arms. “You’ve said it many times. Why should I believe you now?” His skin prickled with panic. His stomach lurched. His face burned with shame, from his cheeks to his ears. A floodlight shone on him, and he was naked in its glare.
“Why don’t you believe me?” he asked, knowing the answer. Because I’ve used you. Because I’ve devoured you. Because I saw what I wanted and I took it.
“You’re only asking me because you feel guilty.” He denied it. He denied it again and again, shaking his head helplessly. “I know you feel guilty, Cass. But it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It just happened.” He shook his head.
“That’s not true.” His voice quivered. “It didn’t just happen.”
“Of course it did,” she insisted, her eyes piercing his own, and her own voice shaking. “It’s not our fault. It’s not. It’s not our fault!”
“Yes it is! It’s my fault! I did this. I knew better. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. And now I’ve done this to you and to him and to them. It never would have happened if I hadn’t—,”
“See?” There was a bleak smile on her face. “Being with me. That was your colossal mistake. And now God’s punishing us for it.”
“No, Ray,” he said quickly, taking her hands. “That’s not what I meant. I knew all along it wasn’t right for me to be with you like that, in that way.” She smirked bitterly.
“Foster said the same thing.”
“No,” he pleaded, gripping her hands tighter. “Reagan. Please. Try to understand. I’m saying I want to be with you. With him.”
“So you can make it right? Because maybe then it will all go away? Everything will get better if you make a sacrifice, won’t it? That’s how it works. I knew all that church stuff had to be getting to you. Is that why you left me that night? Why you wouldn’t—,” she gestured toward the bed. “You’re scared. All that nonsense about making the same mistakes. You’re just afraid to make yourself dirty again.”
“That’s not true, Reagan. I love you,” he pleaded. “Please understand. I love you.”
“I’m not good enough for you anymore because you’ve got religion again.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “But I don’t want to be another step on your way back into God’s good graces. Please find some other way to pay for your sins.”
“Don’t, please. You’re right. I didn’t mean it before, all those times I said it. I only wanted what I could get from you. Don’t you remember how fast I dumped you?”
“Of course I do! I’m not that deluded. But at least I thought you respected me.”
“Well, forgive me,” he snapped. “Forgive me for finally waking up and being sufficiently disgusted with myself to recognize what a—,”
“Disgusted with yourself for ‘sinning,’ right?” she sneered. “With me?”
“Yes!” he cried. “Are you satisfied? You want to hear me say it? It was a sin, all right? And I knew it. But I never cared. And I never cared about you, either.” She shoved past him toward the door, but he caught her arm. “But I do now! More than I’ve ever cared for anyone.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Reagan, please—,” He clutched her arm, but she tore away from him and slipped on her shoes.
“I have to go. The medical supply place closes at six and Dad needs some refills.”
“I meant it, Reagan. Please believe me. I love you and I want to make this right. For you and for him.” She squared her shoulders and looked at him.
“If those people are as saintly as you say, they’ll clean up our mess.”
“Ray—,” Her eyes were as green as he’d ever seen them.
“I don’t want this baby and I don’t want to marry you.”
—
He opened his eyes, then winced and immediately squeezed them shut. He flipped on to his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. His head was killing. Moments later, he realized he couldn’t breathe through his nose. He struggled to sit up, and wearily groped for his glasses on the nightstand. He blinked at his blurred vision. He was still wearing his contacts. He looked down. He was still wearing his work clothes. He checked his watch. 6:12 a.m.
He slumped back and lay down again, breathing through his mouth to relieve his congested sinuses. He was thirsty. He found his way to the bathroom and slammed a couple tablets of cold medicine with some lukewarm water.
The weight of everything from the day before immediately fell on him. I don’t want this baby and I don’t want to marry you.
You think I loved you then? I didn’t. I never cared about you. He shuddered and sank his leaden head in his hands.
He was shivering. The early winter morning was black through the frosted window. He struggled to thread his shaking arms through a sweatshirt, then pulled the covers up to his chest and stared at his phone. His thumb hovered over the browser.
is it wrong to keep your baby if the adoptive parents are categorically better people than you
There are 0 search results for your query.
is it wrong to give away your baby if you believe you should keep it but your reasons are not completely selfless
There are 0 search results for your query.
is it wrong to do the right thing
There are over 320,000,000 search results for your query.
is it possible to know you are doing the right thing
is it possible to ever do the right thing
When Nick answered the phone, Casper forced himself not to hang up again.
—
“You need to tell them.”
“I know. But what am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Mom and Dad. Sorry I haven’t spoken to you in months, but here’s a massive problem for you to fix.’”
“A hundred percent. Tell them that.”
“I’m serious, Nick.”
“So am I, Cass.”
—
He didn’t call them. He whittled away the day in bed, waking and sleeping in heady, drug-induced stints.
As he meandered between sleeping and waking, his dreams were confused and swirled into one another. Things he feared, things he hoped, streaming end to end and weaving over and under till he woke again, hot tears in his eyes, though whether of joy or grief he couldn’t tell.
But when his eyes opened again, and his fevered head pounded and his nose dripped, and every sinus in his face was swollen to capacity, there was one thing that pained him more.
He knew what he would find when he finally succumbed and opened the book in the box under his bed. It was inevitable. All of the good things would shine before his eyes, ringing like beloved music on his ears, in a way they hadn’t before. He had never treasured them and never desired them. His fingers in his ears, his eyes closed tight. Pearls before swine.
But now. It was inevitable. It was textbook. He had heard this story before. At last, he would appreciate it. Suddenly, it would all appear relevant to him.
He didn’t want to be a success story. He didn’t want his entire life to be swallowed up in an ethereal quest. He didn’t want to be absorbed into an unnumbered horde of automatons who had all been reprogrammed. He still wanted to be his own man, to cut his own path, to govern himself without external guidance. He wanted to get there on his own, through trial and error, through risk and payoff. The moment he got off that bed and opened that book, it would be over.
No. Instead, he would lie there forever, pinned to the bed, unwilling to yield, till his body decayed and his last breath withered on his lips. He would watch the light changing colors on the ceiling, days dissolving into years. Enduring the pain all over again every time he opened his eyes as the wounds festered, slowly poisoning him, till at last, he was gathered to the abyss where he belonged.
Forgetting his bed, he saw himself as he really was. Lying still on the ground. His foot was numb. It was clamped in the trap, purple at the heel, white at the toes, all stained brown with dried blood. His limbs were splayed listlessly on the ground. He was on his back, staring into the starless sky. His silent lips were cracked from screaming, his throat parched, his eyes spent and specked with grit.
He had been lying there for years, long past the hope of escaping. He had tried to pry the iron teeth apart until his fingers were sliced into worthless, bloody strips of skin. He had tried to chew off the dead part like an animal. He had longed to cut it off, but had no knife. Nobody who passed by had been able to free him. Voices from the past disturbed his mind. Pearls of light scattered in the silent darkness.
So he lingered, waiting to die. He knew what awaited him when death finally came — the hot, devouring maw of hell that had haunted his dreams. But he knew there would be no salvation, and even if there were, he could not accept it. It would be a blasphemy against justice to be pardoned for nothing, to be freed to go on the way he had before, with no penance, no penalty, no probation. Nothing could stop him from doing it all again, and worse. And it would only lead back here in the end. There was no escape. No rescue.
The light. Blinding. White. Vast in its unsearchable brightness, unapproachable in its deadly heat, swallowing up everything in its terrible beauty, piercing the soundless dark.
Do you want to be healed?
His mouth fell open in terror. It’s too late. If You take it out You’ll kill me. But it came closer and closer, the great expanse of white light narrowing till it was thin and bitter as a blade. It’s too late. If You take it out, You’ll kill me. He could not stop it. While he was still speaking, the singing edge sliced into his sternum. But he felt nothing. He glanced down at his chest in horror.
He was already dead. Cold and colorless. Bones jutted out from his lank, rotting skin. Gray spiders scuttled along his lifeless limbs. Every organ was black from sepsis, every cell dark and congealed.
His chest opened with a dull crack, and bits of his brittle ribcage broke away and fell into the cavity. He knew what the light sought within him. The mass of calcified rot, its veins and arteries which throbbed with infernal craving. It had entangled and choked every inch of him, pulsing with a life of its own which existed to consume without ever being satisfied. It’s too late. I’m sorry. His dry eyes, spent of tears, could only stare. It’s too late. Fingers of white light grasped the black, worthless thing. It’s too late. A clod of rock, cracked and bloodless. It’s too late. The fist of white light sank into it, crushing it into dust. The coiled black ropes which spawned off it suddenly seized. They hardened into brittle threads, and crumbled. A breath of wind came and stirred the dust into a weak swirl of black, and it vanished.
The white light shone on the empty space, as soft as sunlight on a leaf.
Twin strands appeared in the empty space, dancing in the benevolent silence. They came closer to each other until they were stitched into one. A primitive pulse began to throb. The strands swelled, and the pulse grew louder. As the strands expanded, they twisted together and formed chambers. Arteries branched out and found their way along the paths of his lungs and limbs, threading him through with living blood. He gazed at it, marveling.
Warmed into life by the white light, drummed by the wind into jubilant rhythm. Tender, so tender it could break. Small, fearful, grieving. Tender, so tender it could break. Small, fearful, rejoicing. Tender. So tender it could break.
Calm, mighty hands grasped his emaciated leg. The teeth of the trap fell open, releasing him. His head rushed and spun, the pain blinding him as his foot coursed with blood, coloring and bleeding all over again. He was sick with agony as the muscle was sewn back into place, and new skin, fragile and translucent, grew over the cruel tears. He gazed, marveling as the wounds closed, leaving only fresh white striations where the iron teeth had sank into him. Over his entire body, his saw his bones joining together, bound up with fresh fibers of red muscle, then wrapped over with new skin. He stared, unable to move.
Rise and walk.
He obeyed. He pulled his feet toward himself, and began to stand. But his foot, weak as an infant’s, buckled under him. He fell. He tried again. He put his weight on his good leg, and dragged the other behind it as he stood. He took a few steps, limping and slow. He continued, walking faster. As he moved, the pain eased, and strength grew in his foot. He leaped and fell. He ran, and fell. Tears blinded him. He slowed and panted, his lungs burning and glad. He glanced at the fine, white lines forever etched on his skin. He drew a ragged breath. Then he sank to his knees. The ground was soft from the warm light that surrounded him, and the wind was kind against his sweating brow. The calm, mighty hand was laid on his hair.
Follow Me.
End of Part 1
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Katie Bertola 