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An Adoption (continued from preceding page) Mr. Lawson was not there.
without asking for a check and returned to my apartment to use my own bathroom. After I came out, I went to Jocelyn’s door and softly knocked. She opened it a crack. “What?”
“Who’s taking care of Mr. Lawson?” I said to Jocelyn. “I just saw the Yaegers leaving without him.” She looked at me quizzically. I said, “I have a right to ask.”
“If Mom wasn’t here anymore and I was left alone, would you...” My voice trailed off. I could not bring myself to ask. Rather, I retreated to the other room and stared out the window. Then, my right knee throbbing, I paced for a considerable time. Until
“You don’t know? He’s no more.” My chest caved thinking the worst, but it wasn’t that. “The Yaegers returned him,” she said. “It turns out you’re allowed to do that in the first 90 days. Can you believe it? It’s pretty fucked up.”
I could no longer fight it and called the adoption program. I got a Ms. Christopher and asked about Mr. Lawson. She informed me he had been brought to one of the program facilities. She could offer me nothing about the facility’s location or the old man’s state of mind. I wondered if I was even talking to a real person. Her voice seemed to lack human breath. Which was why I lost my temper and shouted, “Doesn’t anybody care?”
I wanted to tell her I was well aware of the 90-day trial and had been advocating the Yaegers use it. But
I balked. “The Yaegers weren’t qualified,” I said, but my daughter only glared. I was reminded of her little girl tantrums. Yanking assorted things from her closet and throwing them across the room when I dared to try to discipline her. Now she had the same intimidat- ing look in her eye that invariably backed me down. “He’s not a fucking German Shepherd,” she said. “They didn’t get him from the ASPCA.”
“I assure you,” she said before I had to hang up un- able to keep the phone to my ear.
“It’s the fault of the program. I’ve been against it from the start. You can’t entrust the elderly to just anyone. They’re fragile. They either need their families or pro- fessionals. You can’t put them in with strangers. Some maybe. But not the Yaegers. They’re the wrong types. They throw cocktail parties. But there’s no emotional support up there on their penthouse floor. Douglas Yaeger wearing Mr. Lawson like he’s a feather in his cap.” I could not go on with a lump in my throat.
For several days, every chance I got I found myself returning to the program literature. I stared at
the same pages of promotional material on my computer screen. Heavy on sentimental pictures: of the aging celebrities shilling for the program,
of numerous adoptees and their proud caretakers warmly posed. In each, regardless of age or condi- tion, always made to smile. Yellow teeth, crooked teeth, decaying teeth did not matter. I recalled the wretched deaths of my own parents, longing to see them smiling one more time.
“Todd, are you crying?”
I wiped my eyes gaping at my daughter. “At least he had you.”
Still hesitant, I called the program back again. I had to. I spoke to the same Ms. Christopher who recalled our first conversation in her robotic voice. The subsequent protocols were confusing. There were no in-person interviews. Qualifications did not seem to matter. The only application question that had
any merit asked why I wanted to volunteer. I consid- ered citing any number of the literature’s program platitudes...social cause, helping those in need. But I only managed, “Family matters.” Jocelyn’s eagerness warmed me. Ruth did not object. Mr. Lawson is to be dropped off Saturday. It may not be easy, but over my dead body, we’ll never give him back.
“Not anymore,” she said, turning toward her room. She went in and shut the door.
I was already going to be late for work but went to the coffee shop on the corner, my head drowning. I nibbled at a corn muffin. I wasn’t hungry. I drank cof- fee, then a refill. Time was running later. I got up to use the bathroom. It was occupied, and I had to wait in the hall. I stood there a couple of minutes squeez- ing my bladder. I tried the knob murmuring hurry up to whomever was inside. I pictured an elderly man on the toilet, doubled over, a life of miserable toil in his eyes. I looked out to the restaurant to see if a caretak- er might be in sight. Amidst all the diners and clatter, it could have been anyone. I stared again at the door growing angrier over what I imagined behind it. I could not bear the thought.
Berman was a newspaper reporter and national staff writer at Good Housekeeping. He has published short stories, essays and articles in literary journals and other magazines including Rutgers Review, Interiors and Centerstage. His novel, Seeing Someone, was pub- lished by Adelaide Books) His work has previously appeared in The Woven Tale Press.
I left the coffee shop dropping a $20 on my table 65