The Doctor's Little Secret

Her private emotions and goals remained an enigma. At roughly thirty-three, Janine had surely long since ceased to be the outgoing graduate student he’d met at a party shortly before beginning his internship. By contacting her now, he risked a messy entanglement of child support and recriminations. Diving into a pool to rescue Rachel had been easy by comparison.

Buoyed by her encouragement, Russ went into the kitchen, where the almost medicinal purity of the white walls and oak-accented counters soothed his mood. Sitting at the oak table, he pulled out a pad and pen to prepare for his conversation.

At the head of the list went a request for regular visitation, including the occasional weekend. In return, he’d offer financial aid and a college fund.

Russ set down the pen, disturbed by the legalistic harshness of the black-on-white agenda. This was neither a debate nor a negotiation. Mostly, he had to persuade Janine of how much a relationship with his daughter meant to him.

Initially, he’d experienced only relief about the adoption. That he might later regret the decision hadn’t crossed his mind.

He’d begun to think about her during his residency. Observing the development of babies, toddlers and preschoolers under his care had made him wonder about the well-being of his own child.

In a sense, Russ had watched her grow over the following months as he observed the changes in youngsters about the same age. Lauren became far more than an abstraction as he ticked off the months and the milestones, the first words that mothers reported, the humorous incidents that might parallel Lauren’s, the dawning self-awareness.

After age three, when overt signs of growth yielded to more-subtle mental and emotional gains, Russ had gradually ceased to keep track. But he continued to maintain an album of photographs sent him by appreciative parents.

Now he might finally meet Lauren and, perhaps, become her father for real. Yet their future together might well depend on a single conversation with a woman he hadn’t spoken to in five years.

When Russ fetched a glass of orange juice for his dry mouth, the glass felt damp in his hand. So much at stake. He wished Rachel had stuck around for moral support.

Close to 10:00 p.m. He’d better proceed.

After dialing the number, Russ listened to the rings. Two…three. Then a female voice said, “Yes?”

Although his voice threatened to stick in his throat, he plunged in resolutely. “Janine? Russ McKenzie. I just heard about your parents. I’m so sorry.”

A pause. Warily: “Thanks. What can I do for you?”

“I’m told your parents left you custody of Lauren. I’d like to help…financially, I mean. And to be part of her life.” He forced himself to stop rather than chatter on, and waited tensely.

“She’s five years old, not an infant. We can’t go back and rethink our decision.” A trace of irritation laced her tone.

He marshaled his powers of persuasion. “I’m aware this is unexpected. I have no desire to intervene in your life. Obviously you’ve moved on….”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Janine muttered. “Whatever you have in mind, drop it. You don’t factor into this picture, not one tiny little bit.”

Flat-out rejection. Russ refused to accept it. “I’m sure I’d react the same way if our roles were reversed. All I ask is a chance.”

“I make the decisions regarding Lauren. She’s my responsibility. You’ve been out of the picture for five years and that’s where you’re staying.”

He hung on to his temper. “I accept my share of guilt, if that’s the right word. And I’d have kept my nose out of this except for your parents’ deaths. Now I want to be part of planning her future. Until this happened, you weren’t planning on raising her, right? So it’s not as if I’m intruding into an established relationship.”

“I’m still not planning on raising her,” Janine replied testily.

The declaration caught him by surprise. “What do you mean?” Immediately and painfully, he recognized a possibility he’d overlooked: that another relative intended to step into the picture. An aunt or great-aunt, perhaps, who’d already grown close to Lauren.

“She can’t stay here. I’ve been like an older sister, nothing more. Even though my parents told her I was the birth mother, I’ve never—” Janine broke off to command, away from the phone, “Put that down! It isn’t a toy. Byron will have a fit if you break it!”

In reply, a little voice said, “I’m sorry, Janine.”

Lauren! Russ nearly stopped breathing. If he could, he’d rush to the other end of the line right now.

But who the hell was Byron?

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” his ex-girlfriend snapped.

“I got scared. Please come tell me a story.” The breathy uncertainty twisted his heart.

“In a minute. Go to bed.” Janine sounded angry, although he didn’t understand why. Perhaps the anger was intended for him rather than Lauren.

“Don’t forget.” A rustling noise faded as, Russ presumed, the little girl retreated.

Her distress vibrated through him. He ached to shout, Go comfort her! You’re her mother. Yet he was the last person with any right to criticize.

Janine spoke into the phone again. “Sorry about the interruption. You can see what it’s like here.”

“Who’s Byron?” He tried to pose the question casually.

“My fiancе. Our wedding’s in April,” she said tightly. “And if you think Byron’s thrilled about having a preschooler invade his house…He’s older than I am, by twelve years, to be exact. His kids are grown, and his plans—our plans—don’t include raising a child.”

Russ was so outraged he could hardly respond civilly. What kind of man simply cast out a child because of the inconvenience? But again, he was in no position to criticize. “Is she going to stay with another relative?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m an only child,” Janine answered. “My only cousins live on the East Coast. One’s a single mom with two kids, another cherishes his wild bachelorhood, and there’s a couple I wouldn’t trust with a goldfish.”

“What are the options?”

“I’ve been talking with a lawyer about arranging an adoption. The world’s full of people with empty arms and beautiful homes.” The statement rolled off her tongue as if she’d rehearsed it. Or as if she were quoting someone. Probably, he guessed, the absent Byron.

“She’s a five-year-old, not a newborn.” The prospect of losing his daughter forever tore at his heart. “You may not love her, but you represent continuity. Being handed over to strangers…I can’t help believing that will traumatize her.”