Sisters in the Wind(84)
How long had the family been accepting foster kids? It was a centennial farm, operated by the Hoppys for at least one hundred years. How many teens like Diego had been reported as runaways in that amount of time?
What if the hammock grove, my favorite place at Hoppy Farm, was actually a cemetery?
* * *
By the time 2007 became 2008, the nursery—as the renovated space was called—was filled with three pregnant newcomers. Jennifer’s prenatal yoga and low-impact aerobics classes used the entire living room. The daily walks were noisy, not only from the chatter but from the sound of our deeply treaded winter boots crunching on snow. As long as there was no ice, it was safe to walk—or waddle.
In February, I didn’t understand how the pregnancy could continue well into March. My belly was hard and sometimes molded into a lopsided bump. Jennifer sat next to me on a living-room sofa one night as I awkwardly reclined. I was as warm as a potbellied woodstove and removed my flannel shirt. My T-shirt rose above my belly, exposing a tan beach ball that suddenly moved as if experiencing a rolling earthquake beneath the surface.
Jennifer cried out in wonder. “That’s a baby butt tossing and turning.”
“Really?” I knew the baby was moving around, but I hadn’t pictured specific parts like its butt or foot.
I avoided thinking about the baby as an actual human person with a brain capable of thinking and dreaming. A child who would reach for a parent who wasn’t me.
My due date was March 24. Mr. Scully screened applicants for me to interview. Missus went through the motions as if I actually had a choice in the matter.
I met three couples and two individuals. One married couple seemed sketchy. Another reminded me of the Sterlings with the way the woman acted subservient to the man. One of the single women, who was a bit on the older side, ruined her chances with repeated comments about “the urbans.” I liked the other single woman, who worked for the county health department in Marquette and was an avid hiker and skier. But up close she smelled like cigarettes, which seemed odd given her active lifestyle. I also liked the two guys from Royal Oak. I didn’t have any issue with a same-sex marriage.
After the interviews, I did online searches on each person. The man who gave Mr. Sterling vibes was a cop suspended without pay for assaulting another officer who responded when the wife called 911 to report domestic violence. One of the men in the same-sex relationship had no online presence at all, not even voter-registration data—which made me uneasy.
Mr. Scully said he would screen another group of potential adoptive parents.
Meanwhile, I tried to find a way out of my blackmail situation. It all came down to proof of a crime, something that would give me leverage over Missus. I was surprised she hadn’t reassigned the apartment cleaning to one of the other four pregnant teens. But since they now had their own jetted bathtub, the allure of cleaning the Hoppys’ apartment wasn’t what it had been.
Plus, Missus greatly appreciated and could not dispute the excellence of my cleaning skills.
I spent enough time in the apartment to know where they kept their routine paperwork. Farm and household papers were kept in an unlocked file cabinet. There was a locked drawer labeled: FOSTER FILES. It didn’t take much time for me to find the spare key. I started with my own file. Missus had included documentation about my pregnancy. I went through the other files for girls who had been pregnant. Nothing was out of the ordinary that I could tell.
Each cleaning day, I took ten minutes to check other locations where they might hide secret documents. Over the course of a month, I was positive I had explored every inch of the apartment. Every drawer, cupboard, and closet shelf. The underside of drawers, tables, seating, and mattresses. The tops of tall furniture. I checked for false bottoms and hollow floorboards.
As my due date approached and my blood pressure started to increase, I worried about not collecting any proof about the illegal transactions at the baby farm. Time was running out. Without leverage, Missus could force me into an illegal adoption agreement. Not for a monetary bonus, but to keep me from a murder charge.
One Friday, I took my usual bath after my cleaning chores were completed. A long soak in medium-temperature water with the massage jets on—it did wonders for my blood pressure. The baby liked it as well. I hadn’t wanted to know the sex, so I thought of the baby as a “they.” They tucked and rolled like a breakdancer or a mermaid. The thought made me giggle and then get sad. I didn’t know Diego’s background.
The lack of information about a biological parent was a mystery I knew all about. My dad had chosen to keep secret any health issues, even serious genetic conditions. Would I make that same indefensible choice for my baby? Diego’s child deserved to know any pertinent information. I thanked God that the baby’s father was Diego, a good person, instead of Boyd. The only good thing he’d ever done was his freebie contribution that resulted in Baby Allen.
Christina.
Boyd had gotten a bonus for Christina. It was possible she received another bonus, as well. If I contacted her and explained the situation, maybe she would share the evidence with me. If her evidence uncovered an illegal baby-selling operation, a decent attorney could negotiate immunity.
I ended my bath and dressed quickly. When I put my watch on, it was my usual quitting time. I used the hidden key to unlock the individual files. There was a Chris Lancer, who was male; a Kristi Malcolm, whose file didn’t mention any pregnancy; a Christine Richards, who was pregnant in 1998; and Christina Turner, who was pregnant in 2005. Bingo!