Your whole body, it feels this rush, this tingling sensation, followed by an airiness that you can't explain. Brittany is looking at you, those universe eyes, full, so full, with that same feeling, you can tell. Dina's name keeps flashing, flashing on your phone, and you know, you know, you can't answer it while you're driving. If you do, you're likely to get both you and Brittany killed, and that's not something you're willing to risk. So you nod. You nod slowly, and Brittany understands, without words. She understands your cautiousness, and she looks ahead of you, pointing out the sign for a rest stop three miles up. It's the longest three-mile drive of your life, you're certain of that, and your knee, it bounces uncontrollably, even with the weight of Brittany's hand bearing down upon it.
You pull into a spot outside one of those places, Little Americas, you think they're called, though you've never heard anyone actually say that out loud. You've just seen it written in books, and- oh, it doesn't matter. Except that maybe it does. Because this highway rest area off the Jersey Turnpike, with a McDonald's, a Starbucks, a gift shop selling who knows what, it might be important in your story. Yours and Brittany's. Yours, Brittany's, and… but you won't know that. You won't know, until you calm yourself, and you pick up the phone to listen to Dina's voicemail. But calming yourself, that's easier said than done. Brittany, she's looking at you. Brittany, she takes one hand, and she presses it to your cheek. She draws you in, she kisses you, she kisses you in this way you rarely kiss outside of the privacy of your home. It's intimate, more intimate than you can possibly describe. Her lips, they move against yours, her tongue, it slides between your lips, and it traces the space of your mouth that it knows so well. You hear her squeak a little, while she kisses, and you wind your fingers through her hair, pulling her closer to you. This is what you needed to calm you. She knows, she always knows. And when you part, there's this soft, dreamy smile on her face, a smile you can't help but brush over with your thumb.
"Call her." She rasps, her voice, heady and light. "Please."
"Hold my hand?" You reach out, and she takes it, a vise grip, rubbing the inside of your wrist with her thumb.
You listen to the voicemail first. You remember it exists, and all it says is to call her. Well, you didn't really think it would say anything else, but, you'd figured you should at least hear it, just in case. Brittany is still holding tight, her eyes trained on your face, when you hit the button to connect the call. You're sucking in all the air that you can, you're trying to keep your hopes from carrying you up, up, up, and the wait time while the phone rings, it's painful. That sixteen seconds, longer, even, than the three-mile drive. When you hear Dina's chipper greeting, your eyes, they pinch shut. And when you open them again, Brittany's still there, Brittany's universe eyes, they're still full of every hope that's ever existed.
"Hi." You hope you sound normal, but you're sure you don't. "This is Santana, Santana Lopez."
"Hi, Santana. How are you tonight?"
"I'm good, we're good. Brittany and I are just driving back down from New York right now. We're pulled over at a rest stop," you add quickly, making sure she knows, you're not doing something unsafe, or really, entirely illegal.
"Did you have a nice time?" Dina asks, and you swallow your impatience, squeezing Brittany's hand.
"My mom had a minor surgery, but she's recovering well."
"Glad to hear that." Dina takes a breath, and you hear the shuffle of papers. "So, I'm calling, because there was a baby born late last night, at Thomas Jefferson."
"Okay." You nod, cautious. Your eyes are wide, and Brittany's might be wider, trying to interpret everything in your expression.
"A baby girl. She was six pounds, three ounces, twenty inches long. Beautiful little thing." She tells you, and you manage to finger-spell the word newborn, with your free hand, though you don't think you need to. You think Brittany feels it. "I can't give you too many details about it, for confidentiality reasons, but the prospective parents decided not to follow through with the adoption."
"Okay." You say it again, your heart racing, racing. Because this, it might be it. This moment, in your car, surrounded by southbound tourists in the middle of New Jersey, it might be the moment you were waiting for. You look at your wife, you don't even know the words to sign, because Dina hasn't said what you need to hear yet, but—
"The birth mother and I had a long conversation this morning, and while she's devastated that the people she's been expecting to take her daughter have changed their minds, we agree that you and Brittany might be the best fit for this little girl." You feel like you're going to throw up. You think of all the things you read about how adoption isn't final until it's final, but that's sort of a blur in your mind. The nervous sick feeling, that's the only thing you can process, as a million emotions rush through your body, all at once. You're nodding, you're nodding vigorously, tears in your eyes, as you look at Brittany, who's brought her other hand up to cover her mouth, to keep in the noises that she's making. Because she knows, she knows, and it's a lot. It's so much. "Santana, the baby was born deaf."
All of the air that you'd been holding inside, it leaves your lungs. You've heard that expression dozens of times, you've used it just as many, but this, this moment, you can say, without a doubt, that it's the first time it's truly happened to you. A baby. A tiny little six pound baby girl. Who can't hear, like your wife. She's been born, and Dina's words ring through you. We agree that you and Brittany might be the best fit. There's nothing that's been confirmed yet, you've forgotten every single thing you've learned about adoption, because emotions have replaced all rational thought, but you feel, you feel like you've just been told that your daughter was born, and you use everything in your power to make the sign for deaf to Brittany, moving your finger from your ear to the corner of your mouth, and to avoid allowing the squeal that bubbles up in your throat to escape.
"Okay. Okay." You manage, butterflies finding their way out of your insides, and fluttering just below the surface of your skin. "When can we meet her?"
"How far are you from the city?"
"About forty minutes." You try and calculate in your head how fast you can safely cover the distance, and that seems like your best answer.
"Well then, I'd say you can meet her in less than an hour. I'll bring you up to see her, and then, we'll discuss where we go from there."
"Okay." You say it again, your vocabulary, seriously deficient.
She gives you instructions. You don't know how, but you manage to process them inside of your head, even as the words a baby girl, a beautiful little thing, she was born deaf play over and over in the background. You refuse to let yourself wonder why the original adoption fell through, or how it's even right that someone could look at a child they'd planned for and waited for, and change their mind, because— It pains you, really, especially when you look at your wife's face. The beautiful, amazing woman, who you're so, so lucky to share your life with. Instead, you think of this baby, this baby who might be yours, who was maybe meant to be yours all along, even before you knew it, and tears pool in your eyes. You're anxious, anxious to get off the phone, to talk to Brittany, to drive, drive to the hospital and meet this newborn life, and finally, you have all the information you need from Dina, and you hang up, promising you'll be there soon.
"There's a baby." Brittany says, as soon as you end the call. Her eyes, those universe eyes, they're filling with tears, and she reaches to grip your other hand too. "And she's deaf?"
"There is. She was born last night, and Dina says she's beautiful. Her and the birth mother, they think that we're a good fit. A baby, Britt! A baby girl. A baby who might be ours!"
"Oh, God." She brings your joined hands up to wipe at her eyes with her wrist, and you're not sure which of you is doing the trembling. "Can we? When can we?"
"Now. We can meet her right now. We have to go, and oh my God, we don't have anything for a baby yet. Is our house even clean?" You start to ramble, and you're not entirely sure she can read your lips. But your thoughts, they can't slow down. Not until Brittany seizes the opportunity, and she kisses you again. She calms you, surprisingly calm herself. She centers you, because there's a baby. There's a baby who you need to get to, and if you're panicking like this, you'll never be able to get there. "There's a baby."
"And she might be our baby. Santana. Santana." The wonder in her voice, it brings more tears to your eyes, tears she gently wipes away, kissing each of your cheeks. "Let's go. Let's go and. And meet her."
Brittany's fingers, they stay laced with yours for the rest of the drive back. You think, you've probably never been so thankful in your life for a ride without traffic, and you take the first parking spot you can find, as soon as you arrive at the hospital. Brittany wraps her arm around your waist, pulling you close, close, close to her, once she has Otis' leash clipped back up to his harness, and you're out of the car. It's so much, but you want to remember every single emotion, every line in your wife's smile, the smile she doesn't even try to keep hidden, as you walk through the automatic doors of Thomas Jefferson University Hospital.
Dina is waiting for you there, when you get in, and she jumps to her feet, greeting you both warmly. All the thoughts about logistics, they just seem to melt away, the moment you're enclosed in the four walls of the hospital, and Brittany, she still holds you close, when you're in the elevator, making your way up to the fifth floor. You resist the urge to press your face to the glass, when you reach the nursery, and you feel Brittany, and the way she itches for it, just the same as you do. Dina, she's speaking to someone at the nurse's station, and your eyes wander over each and every baby girl behind the thick paned glass. One of them, one of them, is the girl you're here to see. One of them, one of them, will hopefully find a home in your arms, in Brittany's arms, in the life you've built together. One of them, you'll hope to know, more than you'll ever know another human child. But right now, she's a total and complete stranger to you.
"There's a visiting room I'm going to take you to now." Dina's voice breaks you from the trance you've fallen under, and you loosen the grip you have on Brittany's hand in order to sign it for her. "The nurse will bring her in to us."
Brittany pulls Otis a little closer to her, though she doesn't need to, he's trained to her side. You don't say anything, not as you're led down a long hallway, not as you enter a room, much like any other hospital waiting room, but among the chairs, a rocker. It's real, it's real. You're going to meet this baby girl. Once you're seated side by side, you pull Brittany to you, you give her a firm kiss on the temple, because you can't make the words to convey the emotions that rush through you. You can't convey the surge of love you feel for your wife, silent, steady, sure, more sure than you've ever seen her before.
The door behind you creaks open, and simultaneously, you and Otis alert Brittany to the sound. You turn your heads, and a very tall nurse with a stern-seeming disposition is wheeling in a plastic bassinet. On instinct, you think, Brittany stands, and you're only milliseconds behind her. You're compelled, really, by the longing to see the being that inhabits that temporary cradle, and you stand on your tiptoes like a kid at the counter of a candy store. That little girl, the one you'd been, so many years ago, all grown up, and seeking out a new kind of rare, long awaited surprise. The best of all you've ever known.
"She doesn't have a name yet." The nurse lifts the bundle up from where she lies. "We've just been calling her sugar baby around here, because she looks sweet as it, doesn't she?"
The woman, she turns the newborn toward you and Brittany, and you feel your wife's breath hitch, as if it's happening in your own body. You feel her grip tighten on yours, or maybe your grip is tightening on hers, holding yourself up, you're unsure. The baby, swaddled in a soft green blanket, has her eyes closed. Not scrunched shut, just, closed, peacefully in slumber, dark, dark eyelashes occasionally fluttering at some unknown disturbance. You can't see much of her, not between the white hat that covers her head and the blanket that engulfs the rest of her. But you don't need to see more, not in this moment, not to feel this unexplainable surge of love that swells up in your heart, bubbling over, until it meanders into every crevice of your being. You don't need to see more of her to know that she's yours. She has to be yours. Yours and Brittany's.
You turn to your wife then, seeing if she's feeling what you are— though you don't have to. Not for an instant. Her love for this person you haven't even met yet, it's pouring off of her in waves. She wipes quickly at her eyes, moisture, having gathered there in the intensity of the moment, and she takes several certain steps forward. You loosen your grip on her hand as she does, you know what she's doing, and you won't hold her back. Because this moment, it's the one you've been waiting for most of all. This moment, you're about to burn it in your brain so you never forget it.
"Can I hold her?"
"You won't meet her properly, if you don't." You're not sure Brittany fully reads the words on the nurse's lips, but she readies her right arm, and when the baby is pressed there, safe and sound in the crook of it, you see her whole body soften and sigh.
Feet, your feet, they're moving before you know it, back to Brittany's side, and as you press your chin into your wife's shoulder, Otis' snout planted in your thigh, you're not sure at all which girl to look at, Brittany, or the little sleeper she holds close to her chest. She's crying. Brittany, not the baby. She's crying, silently, two tears landing on the little girl's forehead, and making her scrunch her forehead at the foreign intrusion. She's crying, because it's what you've both been waiting for, and here she is, so much sooner than you expected. Here she is. You hope, you hope. You hope harder than you've ever hoped in all of your life.
Dina, the nurse, the whole room, melts away around you, as you find yourself leading Brittany back to the couch you'd been sitting on. She sinks down, and you sink beside her, pressing your hand between her shoulder blades. Still watching, watching, and she meets this little girl. She doesn't speak, and you realize, she doesn't have to. You realize, if this all works out, you'll have another girl in your life that you learn to communicate with in the silence, another girl, who can't hear the world around her, but who feels it, big, so big, within her. Almost as if she's reading your thoughts, Brittany's pinky traces over the shell of the newborn's ear. Unmarred, perfectly shaped, but without sound inside of it.
"Look at her." Brittany speaks, though you're not sure she knows that she is. You're not sure, until she says it again. "Santana, look at her. She's perfect."
"She is." You nod, your tears, falling on Brittany's sweater, and you wait, you wait until she tears her eyes from the baby, just for a moment, to see your words. "She's so perfect."
"I'm. I'm hogging her. I'm sorry. You haven't-"
"It's okay. I'll get to hold her soon, right now, she should stay with you. She's comfortable there, in your arms, Sweetheart. Like, she knows, I think, that you're going to be a great mom."
A sob rips through Brittany's chest at your words, and though you'd thought you were holding it together pretty well, it sets you off. It sends you into full-fledged crying, while you try to silence yourself. But the thing is, you can't. You can't, you can't, because there's a big difference between someone being told something time and again, and actually feeling it, deep within their very soul. And in that moment, with a swaddled baby tucked against her chest, with you, pressed against her shoulder, with Otis, lying beneath her feet, eyes up, looking curiously at this new person, Brittany, she truly feels it. Brittany, with all her reservations, all the insecurities that were hammered into her as she grew, she knows, she knows. She's going to be a great mom, the best mom, and she knows, it'll be this baby who she does it for. That thought alone, blooming within you, at a glimpse of true confidence in the woman you love beyond measure, it's enough to make you believe you might never stop crying.
You get your chance to hold her too. Brittany slips her into your arms when you're hardly expecting it. It's a motion that feels so practiced, so right, though you're not sure you've ever actually held a baby before in your life. But somehow, as Brittany places her there, kissing a tiny, wrinkled forehead, it all makes sense. Another swell of love hits you hard in the chest, and it's Brittany's turn to nuzzle into you, watching as you learn every inch of this tiny person's face. When she begins to cry, a while later, you feel your heart squeeze. It's a painful noise, and it fills you with panic. Because you have to ignore your natural inclination, as a hearing person, to soothe her with your voice. You have to press her to your chest instead. You hope she can feel your heartbeat. You rock her, you stroke her velvet soft cheeks, you hum, low and heavy, so maybe, like Brittany, she can feel the vibrations of it beneath your skin. And when she settles, your whole body does too. Your whole body does, and Brittany, with her universe eyes, looks at you like you're everything. You and this baby, brand new to the world.
You have to give her back. It's late, and there are all kinds of things to discuss. You have to give her back. And it's physically agonizing. Like a tiny piece of you is being torn away. You want to stay with her all night. You and Brittany, trading her back and forth. You and Brittany, kissing her little face, changing her little diapers, feeding her, loving her. She's yours, she has to be. You feel it down to the very marrow of your bones, and when she's back in her bassinet, being wheeled to the nursery, you have to tuck yourself into Brittany's arms, just for a brief moment, to keep yourself from crying. The rapid rise and fall of her chest tell you she's struggling just as much, but you pull yourselves together. She's just going to sleep. You'll (hopefully) see her again in the morning.
"I know it's late." Dina's voice cuts through your moment, and you wipe your face, you wipe Brittany's face, and you turn to her, keeping your arm securely around your wife's waist. "And I know you had a long drive before you got here, but do you think we can sit for a bit and talk?"
"Yeah, yeah, of course." You bob your head up and down, watching Brittany do the same. "Anything you need."
With Brittany at your side, you sit down. Dina has an array of paperwork spread out on the table before you, and you watch as she shuffles through it. You listen, as she tells you some information about the birth mother, signing it all for Brittany, too. You smile, as you hear how healthy that baby girl is (your baby girl, you hope, you hope) and you see Brittany press her fingers to her lips, holding all of her emotions inside of her, for fear she might burst. A feeling you understand, entirely. Before anything else, Dina tells you more about the baby. That she's healthy, so healthy, other than the hearing impairment. That she'd tested well. That she'd already seen an audiologist. That she's eating what she needs to eat. There's so, so much that's happened in her less than twenty-four hours of life, and you soak it in, memorizing every detail, before Dina turns even more serious.
"This is the thing. Before the— before the original family changed their minds, we'd made no plans to place the child in an interim home. The birth mother chose to place her directly with her forever family, and we've seen no indications that she's likely to change her mind about the adoption. The biological father has already terminated his rights, and though the state of Pennsylvania gives the mother thirty days to change her mind, we'd like to have the baby placed before she's discharged from the hospital."
"Okay." You purse your lips. Hoping, hoping, hoping.
"The birth mother wants to meet you both. She has the final say, or things could get really tied up." You feel Brittany stiffen a little, when you sign that to her, but she tries not to show her anxiety show to Dina. "But, in my professional opinion, I don't think it'll be a problem."
"When. When can we meet her?"
"She's sleeping now, it's been a rough thirty six hours for her. The baby was born at eleven forty-six last night, so she was up very late, and then this morning, well… but first thing in the morning would be the best."
"We can make that happen." You nod.
"Brittany. Santana." Dina looks at you, very seriously, and you snap to attention. "If this goes well, the baby girl could end up in your care tomorrow. Are you both ready for that?"
"We will be." Brittany tells her, the certainty you hear in her words, undeniable. "We. We'll absolutely be. By tomorrow morning."
"Okay, then you should get in touch with your lawyer first thing, and we'll go from there."
On your way out, you peer in through the nursery glass once more. You see her, sleeping soundly in her plastic cradle. You see her, and you send a prayer to any higher being out there who will listen to you. In less than an hour, this tiny creature burrowed her way into your heart, and for all the months you'd waited, you didn't feel more like a mother than you do right now. You didn't feel more like a mother than you do, knowing, knowing that you might already be. When you turn to Brittany, her fingers are pressed to her lips. Blowing a kiss, you think, without making it known to the world. You seek out her other hand, Otis' leash around the wrist. You seek it out, and you fit your fingers in the spaces between hers. And hand in hand, you make your way out of the hospital.
"I love her." She finally lets what she's been holding in burst free, once you get into the parking lot, and you see the tears gather in her eyes again. "Santana. Santana. She's. She's perfect. She's so perfect."
"I know she is." You have to kiss her lips then. You have to kiss them, because you love her more. Always more. "I know she is, and I love her too."
"She's like me, Santana. I don't. I don't even mean because she can't hear. They— they didn't want her. The people who were supposed to adopt her. They just. They changed their minds."
"Sweetheart." Your heart aches at the way her voice cracks. Because you, you've been thinking it, since the moment you got on the phone with Dina, but, the way the anguish at the thought ripples through Brittany's body, it physically pains you. You don't know the truth in the circumstances, but, the assumptions, they worm their way into your mind. And her mind too. Her mind probably even more. "Sweetheart."
"She's beautiful. She's so beautiful. And— and she's healthy. You saw! Everything but her ears. She's just—"
"Perfect." You repeat.
"I don't. I know she's not ours, not yet. I know it's not even my business. But, I don't. I don't want someone to have her, who won't see that. Even if it's not us. I just…"
"I know. I know. Neither do I, Brittany. She deserves the love of her family. Just like you did. Brittany, sweetheart. It's going to work out. If that's the reason they didn't take her, she's so much better off. And it looks really good, sweetheart. It looks like she could be coming home with us, and we'll love her, we'll teach her, and we'll protect her, you and me, forever." You open your arms for her, and she falls into your embrace. She buries her face in your hair, and she just, lets herself be held, if only for a moment, before she pulls herself back to look at you.
"Target closes at midnight." She tells you, and it takes you a minute to piece that together, piece together that she's springing from the intensity of her emotions into immediate action. "We should— we'll return things if we have to, but—"
"Yeah, yeah, we should. We need to. It she comes home with us tomorrow, we said we would be ready."
So you go. You go to Target, and you shop, like you're frenzied. The things you'll need right away, they're all you're buying, mostly, but you couldn't be more glad for your wife's preparedness. You couldn't be more glad that you've already done your research together. You already know the safest and the best of what you'll need. With Brittany, holding her phone, where the list is stored, and Otis, tilting his head curiously at everything this day has been, you fill two carts. A car seat, a bassinet, that you'll need to put together, if, if. Formula and a box of diapers. Bottles, wipes, and special baby detergent. Swaddling blankets. A wrap, so you can carry her close to your chests, so you can soothe her with your heartbeats. A turtle that projects stars on the ceiling, because you remember, somewhere in your reading, that light is good for soothing newborns who can't hear. They fill your cart, and you start to feel lightheaded and dizzy again at the thought of who they might be for.
You're almost to the register, twenty-three minutes until midnight, when you realize, you realize, there are no baby clothes in the carts, there's nothing for this little person to wear, if she comes to live with you. Not a single outfit. You realize it, and you and Brittany both, you laugh. You dissolve, entirely, into giggles, in the middle of Target. And then, you kiss her, you kiss your wife, and you laugh some more. You're tired, you're emotionally overwhelmed, and all you can think to do is laugh and kiss. Because this, this thing that's happening, or, may be happening, it's not how you planned it at all. You knew it would be fast, but, late night Target shopping for everything you need to take a baby home, you didn't think it would happen that fast. But somehow, somehow, as Brittany stands in front of you, lifting onesies and sleepers and socks and little tiny pants, you think, this might be the greatest night of your life. And you couldn't imagine it any other way.