the things we do in the dark (+18)

22

August texts Iverem while at an adoption agency waiting room, as his wife is in the restroom next door. The text message is casual, in the same regard as a "What's up" or a "How are you doing." However, the implication of this text is resounding. A part of August feels like he's waving a white flag. He doesn't know why. August convinces himself that this sudden urge to contact Iverem is because of the upbeat pop music playing on the speakers, or the groups of happy couples entering and exiting the clinic. Who the fuck knows, maybe he's just bored.

Three dots appear on his phone. Before a response is sent, Devon emerges from the restroom. He puts his phone away and meets her warm gaze.

"Who was that?" she says.

"It was just Jonah."

She does some light stretches to relieve the tension in her muscles. "He's still annoying you about the books?"

August nods, indicating he is not interested in continuing this conversation. He can finally breathe easy when their social worker calls them into his office. The social worker's room resembles the waiting, clinically white and modern, abject of any homeliness. Sadly, there was no window in this room that August's mind could escape through.

"I looked over your files, and based on your income, temperament and background, you two would make great parents," the social worker says, opening their file and pulling out their papers.

Devon beams, looking back and forth from August and the social worker. "That's good news. So what's the next steps?"

"There are two means of adopting you can choose to go through. We can do private adoption or public adoption."

Devon gives up all pretenses of remaining politically correct. "We want our baby, and we're ready now."

The social worker doesn't seem surprised by Devon's bluntness. He begins typing on his desktop. "Then your best route would be private adoption. The cost range to adopt a baby through these means can range from $15,000 to $30,000."

This announcement garners August's attention. "And why is it so expensive?"

The social worker pauses the fast movement of his fingers on the keyboard and looks at August as if he just asked him if the sky was blue. "It depends on the fees incurred in the child's country, coverage for lawyer's services, the orphanage's costs incurred in caring for your child before placement, and fees to finalize the adoption."

"What about doing a public adoption? How much would that cost us?" August continues to ask questions despite the hole Devon attempts to sear into the side of his head.

Devon and the social worker share an exasperated glance. "Public adoptions are usually free and mostly done locally. However, very rarely do parents put newborns up for adoption. A lot of the children in the system are a bit older."

"That sounds great, but I think we'll be sticking to private adoption," Devon says, trying to veer this conversation back in her favour. August wants her to be happy, but at what cost? How would Devon feel about their adopted child when they were crying all night and she couldn't sleep for weeks on end? How would she feel if their kid grew up to be a disappointment or even hated them? Raising a child right wasn't easy, but fucking them up was inevitable.

"You're in luck then," the social worker says. The social worker flips their computer screen around, showing them a woman who looks a little too similar to August's mother. "We have a mother down in Mexico. She's expecting in six months."

"We need some time to think this over," August says.

Devon doesn't say anything. She's saying more than enough with the glare she's aiming at him. She maintains this quiet anger throughout their whole trip back home. Once August pulls into their garage, she storms out of the car.

Though August is excellent at remaining composed in situations of distress, he has never been good at handling conflict – especially when it comes to Devon being mad. He loiters around in the kitchen, pondering the best approach to calm Devon down. His rottweiler Ladybird paws him for some affection, yet August can't muster up the energy to entertain her.

A notification on his phone reminds him of Iverem. He reads her message. "I can't talk right now," it says. Great, that's just what I needed to hear.

In their bedroom, Devon is face down on their bed. Her feet hang off the edge of the mattress. Her blonde hair covers her face like a curtain, making it difficult for August to gauge her mood. She doesn't move when August enters the room and sits down next to her, even when he tries to soothe her by rubbing up and down her thigh.

"We need to think about this a bit more," he says.

Devon jerks her leg from August's grasp. "What is there to think about?"

"We need to think about how much money we will be spending. That's not even the half of it. Are we ready to be parents?"

Devon wipes her tears. Her eyes are glassy, but they still shine a brilliant blue. "I'm ready. I've been ready my whole life."

"I know," August says. But he's unsure. The whole trip to the adoption clinic was a blur. The building's walls were too white. The floors were too clean and polished. Everyone in the place was cold and built too much like mannequins instead of humans. What does a place like that know about children? It didn't dawn on how wrong the idea of paying for a child felt until he was in that room.

"I don't think I'm ready."

Devon springs to her feet, ready to unleash her fury. "I don't care what you want. I want a baby. You took me away from Maryland, my job, family and friends to this awful fucking state. And I have to be okay with that. But when I want something, you're 'not ready.' I don't care if you're not ready or even if you have to take out a fucking loan to pay for the fees; I want my fucking baby."

August rubs his eyes. There's no preventing this oncoming headache. "Devon, I just need some time."

"How much time?"

He'll never be ready. "I don't fucking know," he says.

Devon storms out of the room. August follows. "Can we please keep talking about this?"

She's at the front door now, car keys in her left hand, jacket in the other. "You can be so cruel sometimes."

"Devon, I'm sorry." August never apologizes. This is as close to a grovel as Devon's going to get.

"Aren't you tired of staying the same," she cries. "Don't you want to change? You're turning thirty-seven next week, and this is all your life has amounted to."

The lump in his throat returns, and he can no longer speak.

He evades her gaze. I'm good, he tells himself. I'm content with the way things are.

But as Devon pulls out of the driveway, August becomes more aware of the emptiness of their home, the silence maddening.