The Mind Is a Blank Slate

I love children, but I don't know if I'll ever have any of my own.

There, I've said it. My greatest fear: having children.

I'm still young. I've got a while to grow out of it, but sometimes I worry. I worry that I'll be... forced... into something I don't want. Certainly I want to find a man, but after that... then what?

I never was the child who dragged a baby doll everywhere I went; in fact, I was terrified of them. When my family stayed in hotels on vacation, I insisted that my sister get rid of her baby doll before she got in the bed we shared.

Growing up, my friends wanted to grow up, get married, and have twelve children, and they had already picked out names for each and every boy and girl they intended to produce. I never participated in such conversation. Actually, I found playing "superpowers" with the boys more enjoyable than associating with girls in any way.

I think that's kind of what helps me empathize with the character in the story you're about to read. It's a major work in progress, like all the short stories I start and never finish. This one's different, though. Something about it makes me want to write more...

The working title is "Blank Slate." Chapter 1.2 is still majorly in progress, as is chapter 2, and the preface needs work. Try not to be too critical.

Have you ever loved someone enough to kill them? I’m not asking about a sick pet or an ancient many-greats-grandmother who’s been confined to life support for the last few years, and I’m not speaking metaphorically. I really mean to ask: Have you ever cared about someone so much that you took it upon yourself to…

I think I’m starting this off in the wrong way, because already I’ve made myself sound like a—no.

I mean to say, you’re probably wondering why I haven’t—well, never mind.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that right now I’m very emotional, and the words I’m trying to say aren’t coming out right. But that’s the funny thing about writing from the heart: even though it hurts, I know I still have to do this. I still have to tell this story, and I have to tell it properly.

Today my son is dead. Carter did not die of natural causes, nor was it accidental, or suicidal, and it wasn’t murder. Carter died because of love, and the best way to explain that—well, there’s two ways, and I’ll tell you both.

The first way to explain it is that when you love something—or someone—very much, you have to let them go. That’s how I explained it to Carter when he lost his stuffed toy. I’m not sure that was something he could understand, but it made me feel better about leaving his toy at the doctor’s office. I’m sure some other kid is having a better life because of it.

The second way to explain it will take longer to tell, but hopefully it will help you make a little sense of what I’ve done.

1.2 
“Angie, have you ever thought about adopting?” She asked me.

“No,” I said automatically. That was my natural response, but in reality, adoption was the thought foremost on my mind. I just didn’t know how else to answer her question. She was obviously looking to educate me on the matter.

“Oh. Well, I’m working on the red tape for my third. He’s a little gem from Ethiopia.” She waved her lettuce-laden fork as though to emphasize this fact. “My husband and I have been working it out for five months, but the end result is worth it.”

She took a bite, then looked up at me curiously. “You’ve worked here for, what, five years? And you really haven’t tried out a kid? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but it’s a bit beyond me.”

Well, it would be for you, I wanted to say. Miss married-at-twenty, two-adopted-kids-and-another-on-the-way—it would seem strange that someone like me doesn’t want all that. But what I really said was, “That’s nice, Bree.” I sucked in my breath and glanced at my phone. “Ooh, sorry. My break’s over. Maybe we can talk later.” I feigned a smile and walked off, leaving her staring after me a little stunned.

I don’t know why I always let her get under my skin, but she was so... Naïve. The words came flying out of her mouth before she could wrap her brain around them, and she didn’t seem to notice the friction they caused. But despite her abrasive nature, she was one of my closest friends when I could stand to be around her.

She chatted about her “hubby” and kids ninety percent of the time she talked, which only reminded of the things I didn’t have. I wasn’t married. I didn’t have kids. Up until that point, I had never desired either, but I felt something growing inside me. I don’t know if it was my natural motherhood instinct suddenly kicking in or an errant rush of hormones, but I wanted all that: the husband, the kids, the sense of belonging.

My office seemed suddenly empty, devoid of life. Unlike all the others, I had no family pictures to deck the walls. In fact, the only photos I had were a baby picture, a picture of me with my parents, and the portrait from my senior prom. I don’t know why I kept that picture. I didn’t date the guy past prom night, and it was hardly a treasured memory of mine. I suppose it was just wishful thinking, or maybe a pathetic attempt at fitting in with the rest of the agency.


2.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” Alison, my supervisor, asked.

I flicked through the file in my hand, not sure how to answer her question. Could I handle this? Was this the right thing for me to be doing now, or would it pull me under?

Alison shifted in her seat across the table from me and cleared her throat. “Listen, Angie… I mean, I know this is a big dream of yours, but do you really think you can take care of a kid on your own? Especially this one!” She gestured to the manila folder in my hand. “Do you realize how much help he needs?”

I did. The boy had been bounced around a few foster homes before finally ending up back here, just three weeks after his arrival. The circumstances of his upbringing were… interesting, to say the least.

“Yes, of course I do. I’ve only read his file, what, a thousand times?” I placed the folder on the desk and let out a deep sigh before meeting Alison’s eyes. I could feel rebellious tears springing up in my eyes. “Alison, I just… I know he’s the right one for me. I can’t tell you how many children I’ve looked at, and none of them make me feel the way he does.”

Alison echoed my sigh. “I just don’t want you to go into this too quickly.” She picked up the boy’s file and replaced it in a stack on her desk. “Give it a week,” she said, standing up to leave. “If he’s not in another home by then, we’ll talk.”

“Yeah… yeah, all right,” I mumbled, swiping the tears away from my face.

I slipped into the ladies’ room to check my makeup. The blotchy, tear-stained face that stared back at me from the mirror didn’t seem like my own. There was a desperation behind those green eyes that I’d never seen before. Never had I wanted something so badly, and the thought that this boy might go to another family almost made me sick. I had to have him.

My mind was in a fog as I walked down the halls of the agency, and I was so deep in thought that I passed the door I wanted before I realized where I was.

I could almost feel a dark curtain lifting from my brain as I entered the playroom. There he was, sitting off to the right with his back to the door: my son. I couldn’t help myself; I ran over and scooped him into my lap.

“Hi, sweet boy,” I murmured into his ear, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “How are you today?”

As always, he made no response. His blue eyes looked anywhere but at me, his fingers twitched, and his only sound was quiet breathing. But for me, I could swear he smiled; that was why I was in love.

“I brought you a friend, Baby Brother,” I said. Baby Brother was his temporary name, as his father had never bothered to name him. In my mind I had already began to list the names I wanted for him: Ethan, Jackson, Cooper, Carter, Isaac. There were more, of course, but I had narrowed it down to those five then.

I reached into my purse and produced a stuffed lion, yellow with a brown yarn mane. Its eyes matched Baby Brother’s: empty.

“His name is Lionel.” I shook Lionel and the bell inside of him tinkled. “He’s very kind and brave, and he’ll always be a good friend.”

 Do you agree? Is this a worthy pursuit? And am I alone in my fears?