Chapter 1 - The Baby Who Reached for Me
I still tell myself I didn't know, not really, when I crossed the dining room toward table nine.
The man sat on the left with a baby girl on his lap, his head bowed toward her, his black hair combed back from a hard, careful face.
The tattoo down the left side of his neck showed above his open collar when he looked up.
I slowed my steps, the way we're trained to do with important tables, and stopped beside them with my notepad ready.
"Good evening, can I get you something to drink?"
He didn't answer right away.
The baby turned toward me instead.
She had pale blonde hair and blue eyes, and her mouth opened a little as she stared up at me.
Then one small arm stretched in my direction.
His tattooed hand stayed under her, holding her steady.
"She never lets strangers touch her, only her mother," he said.
I smiled and lowered my hand.
I've had a hundred babies grab at a pen, at a sleeve, at a ring, but this was different.
Her fingers closed around mine and held on.
The warmth of her palm hit me like a current.
I looked down, and my smile stopped where it was.
Those blue eyes.
That small, serious face.
I had seen that face before, in a hospital room, while nurses wrapped a cream-colored blanket around her and placed her on my chest for exactly ninety seconds.
A year ago, I had given birth to her.
I had signed away every right I had to her, and I had believed that was the end of the story.
Now she was sitting across from me in a white tablecloth restaurant in Chicago, gripping my finger like I had come back for her.
"Then why is she looking at you like that?" the man asked.
I couldn't answer.
My eyes were burning, and my lower lip was doing something I couldn't control.
I looked down at the baby, and the whole room went quiet around the two of us.
Her smile was gone.
Mine was too.
I stood there with her hand in mine, close to crying in front of the one person in that room I could not afford to upset.
I eased my fingers free, mumbled something about the drink menu, and walked away before I lost my voice entirely.
The swinging door to the kitchen hit my shoulder, and the noise of tickets and cookware swallowed me for a second.
I braced both hands on the stainless counter and tried to breathe like a normal person.
That was when Luis, the manager, came over with his notebook tucked under his arm.
"Nora," he said, "the man at table nine asked for your name."
I didn't look up.
"He said to tell him when you're ready to come back."
Luis waited, probably expecting an explanation.
I gave him none.
I only wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and thought about the baby who never touched strangers, holding on to mine.
