Of Ginger & Spice

R&N: Tory, or Victoria

24: R&N: Tory, or Victoria

7 am, New York Luxury Apartment

It was finally Saturday, and Mel, for once, felt like venturing outside to Central Park for a morning walk before the scorching urban heat of summer took hold. It would be another three hours before Abigael returned from her latest adventure, rescuing albino tiger cubs in the Czech Republic from an unscrupulous gargoyle situated atop the South Moravian Lednice Palace. Enough time to visit Balto, she decided.

7:10 am, Manhattan City Corners

Mel ambled past the Tory Burch storefront, pausing for a moment to examine the stylish plum-colored dress worn by the mannequin on display, and its long, clunky silver-and-onyx-studded chain that served as part of the dressy ensemble. Her current line of work at a local female-led publishing company required a casual chic dress code (whatever on earth that meant) and she was forever finding herself stopping in front of store windows to size up the merchandise. The pay was decent, but the hours were quite long. She admired the storefront's frosted paisley glasswork, then proceeded the rest of the way to the park.

7:20 am, Central Park, Balto Statue

She always forgot just how large the bronze statue was; Mel recognized the familiar lolling tongue from a considerable distance away, its carved, observant eyes alert and cheerful, its ears at attention. She always liked to pass by the figure whenever she had a free morning—somehow, the story of this dog ferrying life-saving medicine to children made her less anxious about her day-to-day routines, her frenetic schedules, and oddly enough, put things into perspective. That no matter how difficult life could be, whether you were at death's door or whatnot, everything would, somehow or other, work itself out.

She noticed a few exhausted fathers and their preschool-aged children approach the statue, disposable paper coffee containers in hand. Is this what being a parent is like? Mel wondered to herself, watching two of the young children pose to the left of Balto. It seemed as though they were giving their partners and spouses a break, letting them sleep in just awhile longer while the kids ran around the park to exercise the pent-up energy they had.

Mel recalled the conversation she'd had with her partner the night before. Abigael had left her phone on the Ashford table, proceeding to the oven to check on the chili stew-stuffed baked potatoes. Curious, Mel glanced over to what Abigael had been reading for the past few minutes. Several tabs were open; how interesting, Mel thought, given Abigael's typical one-track mind. The first tab was set to a search tab, with the typed-in question: "Can an unmarried lesbian couple legally adopt?" The answer, according to the information generated, was a resounding "yes." Intrigued, Mel read the second and third tabs, which held search terms "New York Foundling" and "adoption" respectively. The fourth tab had the search phrase "what happens if I can't obtain a single character reference" and the fifth tab began with "nobody trusts me around their children—"

"Ahem—" Mel whirled around to face a red-aproned Abigael, large barbecue pitchfork in hand from testing the baked potatoes from the oven. "Invasion of privacy, much?"

"Oh—" stammered Mel. "I was—I just—I mean—" She took a deep breath and spoke once more. "I just saw something pop up on your screen, and...well...yeah. I guess we can adopt if we really want to, but why didn't you tell me you were interested?"

"I thought I'd research on my own, see the lay of the land, I suppose," responded Abigael in her familiar British drawl. "Unfortunately, I doubt anyone would let me near a child, given the strict requirements."

"Like what?" Mel asked, genuinely curious.

"Home inspections—I have an arsenal (a secured one, I suppose) of weaponized jewelry. It would be an attractive nuisance to a little girl, who could one day decide she wanted to wear mummy's pearls—" Abigael began.

"We'd just be firm and state they were weapons though, wouldn't we?" Mel responded.

"But what if she went to school the next day, and told all her friends that mum had a set of pearl earrings that could inflict disease?" Abigael began pacing across the Siberian oak entryway, nervously biting a stray hangnail. "All the social workers would descend, and the magical realm could be exposed!"

"...Or," posited Mel, trying not to smile, "her teacher would chalk it up to an overactive imagination? Or maybe we would homeschool the child, or send the child to a magical school? Really, I think we're overthinking things. We haven't even started reaching out to the Foundling Agency yet."

"I've seen their website, Mel, and it has two women on its leadership who share the last names of a couple of late Elders. That can't be a coincidence. And character references? Everyone I've interacted with in the past year in my line of work has ended up turned to stone, imprisoned, or dead," Abigael's voice was rising higher and higher.

She certainly wasn't wrong about the last bit, thought Mel. The odds of someone in the state of New York letting Abigael near a child was just as likely as a unicorn and a hammerhead shark going for a pleasant frolic in the local aquarium. Then an idea struck her, and she placed her hands on Abigael's shoulders, halting her pacing. "What if we had our own child?"

Abigael laughed sardonically. "That's not biologically possible..."

"—According to this article," Mel pulled her own phone from her pocket and googled for a minute, before pulling up the website, "the first three-parent embryo successfully led to the birth of a baby, four years ago." Abigael snatched the phone out of Mel's hands, skimming the article to the very end.

"It's probably too costly—oh, and it's not approved for use in America," Abigael stated. Just then, she began sniffing the air. Bollocks, the potatoes. How could she have forgotten? She rushed over to the kitchen and opened the oven door, coughing and fanning away the billowing clouds of smoke.

"Do you want to order takeout?" Mel gently laid a hand on Abigael's shoulder. She nodded quietly as Mel kissed her on the cheek.

7:30 am, Central Park, Balto Statue

Mel was jolted out of her thoughts when she felt a small hand clasp hers. "Mum?"

She laughed, turning her gaze downward toward a small girl, no older than five, whose hair was neatly braided with fancy marble stone-like barrettes. The color and pattern seemed oddly familiar.

"Mummy," the girl tugged on Mel's hand again. "It's Tory, remember?" Mel shook her head, wishing with all her heart this child was her own. Funny, thought Mel, the girl has Abigael's eyes. And my olive skin tone. How is this possible? This can't be—right? Earth to Mel, earth to Mel. Children do not drop out of the sky. It's probably some cute lost kid whose dad walked away to check the latest Giants score.

"No, sweetie, I'm not your Mommy," Mel said wistfully, as the little girl let go of her hand and ran away, turning back once, with mischievous, impish eyes, as if she had a secret to behold, then vanished into thin air, to Mel's utter shock and amazement.