There were a few feverish moments where Nola considered keeping it. But the thought of Royall . . . of putting another child under Royall’s care. No. She’d never do that.
Back in the hospital room, they gave Nola an adoption binder with family profiles and scrapbook pages. A Black social worker named Deeandra, who had a smile that was a hug, told her that in Pennsylvania, when you choose adoption, you control your journey, no matter your age. “Pick who you like.”
Sitting there in her hospital bed, staring up at a game show that she didn’t know how to turn off, Nola shook her head. She wanted no part of it.
Within hours, she tried sneaking out of the maternity ward, then begged the nurses to sign her out early. It was absolute torture to hear other babies crying in the nearby rooms.
The hardest part was when they cut off Nola’s Mother hospital bracelet.
“The new family—if you want to meet them, they’re coming today. Three p.m.,” Deeandra told Nola, though again, the only thing Nola cared about was when the discharge papers would be ready.
To Nola’s own surprise, however, a few minutes after three, she slipped out of her room and made her way down to the waiting room assigned to the adopting family.
Deeandra was already there, waiting in the hallway for Nola, a warm smile on her face.
Nola didn’t say thank you, or ask how Deeandra knew that Nola would come.
For a minute, the two of them stood there. Finally, Nola asked, “Are they nice?”
“Go look.”
Nola eyed the closed door like it was radioactive.
“You don’t have to go in. Just peek,” Deeandra added, motioning to the door’s tall rectangular window.
Nola took a deep breath and approached slowly, knowing she was making a mistake. “They’ll protect her, right?” she asked.
Deeandra grinned. “They’re a military family. That’s their specialty.”
With that, Nola pressed her nose toward the thin vertical window. Inside, a young couple was beaming, both of them hunched over the stainless steel rolling cart with its clear plastic bassinet. Nola couldn’t take her eyes off the mom. Short chestnut hair, perfect posture, eyes wide with the possibilities that only a new mother can see. She looked strong as she held their other child, a squirmy four-year-old boy with a long neck.
Since Mom’s hands were full, it was Dad who reached down and cradled the baby. He was built like a bulldozer, bursting through his polo shirt, with crisp blue eyes and buzzed blond hair. Like Captain America, Nola thought, tears leaking out from her eyes as she stared through the glass window, where young Archie Mint continued to kiss his newly adopted daughter over and over again.
“Wanna go in?” Deeandra asked.
Nola shook her head no, telling herself she was finally doing something right, that this was the greatest gift she could ever give: a life away from Royall. It would be this thought, of this baby girl, that would sit with Nola . . . a thought so beautiful that even Royall couldn’t jaundice it. Blooming over time, this thought would give Nola strength, would whisper to her, telling her to escape, and . . . eventually . . . would help her do just that—convincing her to run, to run as far as she could, on that night a year from now, when she’d finally fight back, leaving Royall unconscious, leaving him behind, running out of his life, and heading for her teacher’s house, a place of safety.
In the years that followed, Nola would google the girl’s name at least once a year, never quite sure what she was looking for. A few times, usually on birthdays, she’d be tempted to drive by her school, or even her home. Every birth mom wondered how her child was doing with their adoptive family. But when it came to Archie Mint, Nola wouldn’t see him again in person until that night of the “break-in” at Grandma’s Pantry.