Read Chapter One of The Baby Game
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	1       I SWEAR, SAMMY was going to pop.      "Will you stop looking at me and watch the damn road?" Coming from Sammy in the back seat, it was an order and not a question.      Normally, it's not the job of the adoption attorney to drive a birth mother to the hospital, but when she's selected your two best friends as the adoptive parents, and she's temporarily almost your next door neighbor, it seems natural.      My cell phone rang at a few minutes after two a.m.  Sammy. In labor. I had only done twenty-four adoptions prior to Sammy, my stumbled-into-specialty, but from what I've seen labor never seems to occur between nine to five. Since I'm basically a paper jockey, I usually visit the hospital the day after the birth, when the tough stuff is over. Flowers and a card and I'm out of there. "Wasn't it sweet of him to come by," echoing behind me.      "Son of a biiiiitch," Sammy moaned, which turned into a scream designed to reincarnate Satan. 1
	RANDALL HICKS      I adjusted my rearview mirror to see if her head was spinning around. Or maybe that monster from Alien had escaped Sigourney Weaver's womb and was now sticking its head out of Sammy.      "Call the hospital, Toby!" Tell them I want drugs. Lots of drugs."      "But you told me you wanted a completely natural birth. No epidural. No medication to affect the baby. They have the immersion tub ready and the whale sounds tape, and -"      Another scream direct from hell. "Screw the whale sounds!  Get... me... drugs!"      I would have preferred if she were in the front seat next to me so I could keep my eyes on her, but the Indian filled the seat. As a prank, my friend Brogan had bought me a life-sized wooden Indian when I graduated from law school. A year later, it was still there, unable to be wedged free, its feet hooked under the dashboard, and the passenger seat reclined to the max. This left only one seat in my two-tone, red over white '64 Ford Falcon convertible. Directly behind me.      I thought a reassuring pat was in order, so I reached behind me blindly to soothingly pat Sammy's leg. Given that she was nineteen to my thirty-two, I made sure it was fatherly, or at least big brotherish.      "Pervert!  Get your hands off me!"      I knew from movies how women sometimes act in the throes of labor. I should have expected this. But I'm not an expectant dad. I never took a birthing class or anything. I'm just a lawyer who talks a good game. My part is the legal stuff. Anything I know about birthing I learned from Redbook standing in the "ten items and under" line at Safeway. Still, this was a far cry from the Sammy I'd met ten days ago.      She'd walked into my office without an appointment. Waddled actually, given the fact she looked eight months and twenty-nine days pregnant. She was a cross between a Valley Girl and a Barbie doll, assuming Valley Barbie had been knocked up by Ken. 2
	THE BABY GAME      The first thing she did was show me her red underwear. Well, not the first thing. She had to sit down first. But before I even had her name written on my legal pad, she propped her heels up on the corners of my desk as if it had stirrups      I knew there was nothing flirtatious on her mind. She was just subconsciously assuming the birth position. My quick calculation of her pelvic angle confirmed a spontaneous birth would launch the baby across my desk and into my lap.      I slid my business card holder over to try to block the unintended view as I handed her my card. "Toby Dillon, Attorney at law." I'd tried to think of a little tag line to go beneath it, like my dad's firm which said "Established 1934," but I didn't think "Serving the community for almost a year" or "Established July" would inspire confidence.      I'd become an adoption attorney because I liked the law, but also liked to help people. I'd been in the Peace Corps for a couple of years and found it very fulfilling. Still, $264 a month and all the rice you can eat left something to be desired. So, I gave in to dad's dream - another lawyer in the family. Like the world needed one more.      Where most attorneys are hired to destroy, I'm hired to build. Families. I like my job. I like the people I work with, both the birth mothers and the adoptive parents. If the babies could talk instead of just slobber, I'm sure I'd like them too.      I'd explained to Sammy that adoption was a very open process. She could personally meet and select the adoptive parents - even stay in contact after birth if she wished. That way she could be confident in her decision, and proud of the family she created. I truly believe placing a child for adoption is one of the most loving and unselfish acts a woman facing an unplanned pregnancy can do.      And then there was Sammy. I'd asked her if she'd like a glass of water. Foolish me. This got her started on men she'd had sex 3
	RANDALL HICKS with in water. I tried to move her off the subject of water sex, and her belief that pregnancy could not occur from sex in a swimming pool. Evidently the little swimmers would be killed by the chlorine.      I'd been trying to direct the conversation back to the subject of birth fathers, and the fact they have rights too, so I fell back on one of my smooth-as-silk segues.      "So, speaking of chlorine, what can you tell me about the birth father?"      If she thought this was an odd transition, she kept it to herself. Of course, considering her fifteen minute water sex narrative in response to my offer of a glass of water, I shouldn't have worried.      "What do you want to know?" As she spoke, she started to pop her knees back and forth, keeping pace with her gum chewing. For a moment I thought she was sending Morse code with the flashes of red. The wind force from her flapping dress produced a wind volume sufficient for me to pose for a shampoo ad.      "Can you tell me his name? I have to give him notice of the adoption if we can find him."      "Hmm... Bob. Or Rob. Or Roy. No. Bob. Yeah, I think it was Bob. Or Roy. Maybe."      I thought about asking if Bob Roy Bob had a southern accent, but decided to keep that gem to myself. Even the California Supreme Court flashed a rare display of humor, dubbing these short-relationship birth fathers casual inseminators.      "It must not have been very long," I said.      "Oh, he was about average." She held her fingers six inches apart.      "No. I meant your relationship must have not been very long."      Nothing like telling me more than I want - or need - to know.      "Well, can you tell me what he looked like?"      "I don't really remember what he looked like exactly, but he was really, really good looking." 4
	THE BABY GAME      "How do you know he was good looking if you don't remember what he looked like?"      She looked at me like I didn't have a clue. "Because I only sleep with really good looking guys."      The consultation should have been over thirty minutes ago, but I was beginning to think unlocking her heels from my desk was going to take the Jaws of Life.      "I still don't see how I got pregnant."      I didn't want to go there. "Well, sometimes only once is enough if you don't have protection - like chlorine."      I stood up, which never failed to get hard-to-budge clients on their feet. Actually, doctors invented the move, but we attorneys know physical maneuvers are not copyrightable, so we stole it. All it accomplished for me was a higher angle of the red underwear. I could swear there was some sort of pattern on them.      Then it hit me. Eye balls.      The pattern on her underwear was little eyeballs, staring back at me, saying, "We see you looking."      I finally got her on her feet. In her hand was a stack of adoptive parent profiles. Each of the couples I work with waiting to adopt write a Dear Birth Mother letter, providing pictures of themselves and describing why they wanted to be parents and what a child's life would be like with them. Soon she'd choose one and I'd set up a meeting to be sure they hit it off. It was the first stage of the unique mating dance of adoption. Some called it the baby game.      Usually I had no idea which family she'd choose. This time I did. The deck was stacked in their favor. They'd just given me their resume letters a week ago and Sammy was the first birth mother to come in since then.      But now my only thought was to get her to the hospital. That, and wishing I'd put the top up before I picked her up. It wasn't cold in June in San Diego, even at two a.m., but California freeways are never empty, and by now we were attracting an audience, 5
	RANDALL HICKS judging from the cars boxed around us. Like they never saw someone driving a wooden Indian and a pregnant teenage girl screaming in the backseat. Judging from the cell phones held to their faces, each one was making a 911 call. Finally the exit for Palmorado Hospital came up. I drove like I was Gene Hackman in The French Connection. If I were in a better mood, I would have said like Elvis in Speedway, but there was no risk of me breaking into song tonight.      I pulled up to Emergency. A pond and waterfall, surrounded by lush vegetation, decorated the entry. For a second I wondered if I'd pulled up to Caesars Palace. All it was missing was people. Even in the middle of the night, I expected to be greeted by a team of white-coated, highly trained professionals leaping to Sammy's aid. Instead, there was no one. But the landscaping was lovely. Good to know hospitals know where to put their money. I spotted a security camera above the doors and waved frantically, hoping the camera was somehow related to patient care, and not monitoring against plant theft.      I hopped out of the car - actually catapulted was more like it - and looked down at Sammy. She'd given up screaming and was now curled in a fetal ball, like a child on a long trip in mom and dad's back seat. Either Linda Blair was in remission, or one of my two-wheeled turns banged her head against Woody, and she was knocked unconscious. Thanks for watching my backside, Kemo Sabe.      "Sammy... C'mon, Sammy. We're here!"      All lifting got was a groan from her, and a turned testicle for me. What law of physics makes a sleeping person weigh twice that of someone awake anyway? I gave up. How to get help? I could wade through the koi pond and start tearing leaves off the Boston ferns, which would likely have hospital personnel out here 6
	THE BABY GAME inside of ten seconds, or I could race inside and find whoever was supposed to be sitting at the counter visible through the glass doors.      Inside. No one.      "Hello! Help!"      Behind the counter was a hallway which ran the length of the hospital. Palmorado is small. It caters more to facelifts and dehydration on the golf course than medical emergencies. Still, it was the first place I thought of when Sammy's call woke me up. It wasn't until I was pulling into the lot that I remembered she was registered at North County Regional, fifteen miles away. That's where the adoptive parents were expecting us to go, and were now headed. But another twenty minutes to get to Regional wasn't an option.      I figured I could run all the way to the other side of the hospital and search for signs of life in less than one minute. One thing I am is fast. My best tennis shoes carried me down the hallway in no time, a squeaking blur. Halfway down a door blocked my way. I hit it running, turning to hit the open bar with my hip. The bar depressed but didn't open, and I crashed to the shiny linoleum.      Locked.      I got up to look through the door's tiny window. Yes! People. White-coated medical people. I banged on the door, but they were too far away. No buzzer.     What else could I do but head back? When I made it to the reception counter I saw what I missed before. A small placard sat on the counter: "12:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. - please use ambulance entry at back."      I ran outside. And stopped. There was still no one in sight. But now my car was gone. And so was Sammy. 7

Copyright 2005 by Randall Hicks

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