Expecting Adam

By Martha Beck This happened when Adam was about three years

old.

I was sitting in a small apartment with a woman I

I wonder a lot of things, since Adam came along. I
had barely met, talking to her about her life. I'll call her
wonder about all the strange and beautiful and terrible
Mrs. Ross, because it isn't her name. I had been doing
things that accompanied him into my life. This is the
similar interviews for months, collecting data for my
story of two driven Harvard academics who found out in
Ph.D. dissertation. Mrs. Ross was a scrawny forty-five-
mid-pregnancy that their unborn son would be retarded.
year-old with a master's degree in art history and a job
To their own surprise and the horrified dismay of the
as an elementary school janitor. I was taking notes,
university community, the couple ignored the abundant
considering what this woman's experience had to teach
means, motive, and opportunity to obtain a therapeutic
about the real-world value of the more refined academic
abortion. They decided to allow their baby to be born.
fields, when she suddenly stopped talking.
What they did not realize is that they themselves were
There was a moment of silence, and then I looked
the ones who would be `born,' infants in a new world
up and said, "Yes?" in a helpful voice, which was normally
where magic is commonplace, Harvard professors are
enough to keep an interview rolling. But Mrs. Ross wasn't
the slow learners, and retarded babies are the master
acting normal. She had been sitting on a straight-backed
teachers.
wooden chair, both feet set firmly on the floor and her

hands resting primly on her knees. Now she was curled

INTRODUCTION into an almost fetal position, forearms crushed between

Expecting Adam by Martha Beck

the tops of her thighs and her chest, her eyes tightly "You know who it is!" she said in a low, accusing

closed. voice. "You know who it is, but you're blocking!"

I became alarmed. "Are you all right?" I said, At this point my curiosity began to get the

trying to sound politely but not overly curious. better of me. "I know who?" I said.

Mrs. Ross waved a hand at me. "I can't ... quite ... "That's right!" Mrs. Ross uncurled a little. "You

make it out," she said. see, I have this ... well, it's a gift." She sounded as

I just stared at her. though she wasn't quite sure Santa had gotten her

"Usually," she gasped, her eyelids clamping down letters.

tighter, "usually I can tell which side of the veil it's "Gift?" I repeated.

coming from ... that's usually the first thing I can tell ... She nodded. "I get messages for people." She

but this time I ... can't." sighed and sat up. "There was a point in my life when I

"Uh-huh," I said cautiously, glancing toward the stopped talking about it, you know, because it's very

door, wondering if I could get to it before Mrs. Ross embarrassing."

leapt upon me like a mad dog. "Oh," I said.

"It's like ... he's not really on one side of the veil "And then, you know," Mrs. Ross continued, "I

or the other ... maybe he's on both." She shook her began to lose it. It was getting fainter, and sometimes

head, troubled. "At least I know it's a he." the spirits would be angry at me, because I wouldn't

"Uh, Mrs. Ross," I said, gathering my notes help them get through to people."

together for a quick exit. At this moment, I swear to God, a large green

At this point Mrs. Ross's eyes flew open wide, parrot walked out of Mrs. Ross's small kitchen and into

fixing me with a bloodshot stare. the living room. It paced slowly across the carpet,
peered at me suspiciously with one flinty eye, then "The messages are usually from the other side of

proceeded on foot up the leg of Mrs. Ross's chair and the veil—I mean, from the spirit world," she said.

onto her shoulder. She's a witch, I thought. I'm sitting "Sometimes they're from living people who are far away

here talking to a genuine witch. The parrot was obviously and need to get a message through immediately. But

a familiar. I would have been willing to bet it was her that's always the first thing I can tell—which side of

husband. the veil the message is coming from." Her brow

Mrs. Ross kept talking, stroking the bird furrowed. "And this time, I can't tell"

absentmindedly. "So I promised God that I would always By now, I admit it, I was hooked. I wanted my

deliver the messages as soon as I got them. No matter message.

what." "Just relax," I suggested helpfully.

"No kidding." I said this without any sarcasm. Mrs. Ross shot me a glance that would have

That's how much I had changed. Four years earlier I pierced steel, a glance designed to shove me off her

would have dismissed Mrs. Ross and her "gift" turf.

immediately. Back then I had known exactly how the "Or not," I said.

world worked. Back then I had been sure of my own "We should pray," whispered Mrs. Ross.

intellect, sure of the primacy of Reason, sure that, given "Uh, okeydokey," I responded. I mean, what would

enough time and training, I could control my destiny. you have done?

That was before Adam. But now it was four years later, So Mrs. Ross and I bowed our heads, and I drew

and Adam was at home with the baby-sitter, and I had a deep breath and relaxed for just a second, and then

learned a lot about how much I had to learn. So I sat her head snapped up like a Pez dispenser and she said,

still and waited for Mrs. Ross to go on. She did. "All right, you stopped blocking. It's your son."
 "My son?" Even after everything that had already to me over the past few years, yet it was always a

happened, this surprised me. I had been hoping the surprise. At least I kept my mouth shut.

message would be from my guardian angel, or perhaps a Mrs. Ross closed her eyes again, gently this time.

stray ancestor with an interest in my career. "He says that he's been watching you very closely from

"You have a son who's halfway between worlds," both sides of the veil."

stated Mrs. Ross. The veil again.

I felt the hair go up on my arms. You see, no "He says that you shouldn't be so worried. He

matter how much evidence you have, over time you tend says you'll never be hurt as much by being open as you

to block out the experiences that aren't "normal." Who have been hurt by remaining closed"

wants to turn into a Mrs. Ross, blurting out gibberish She opened her eyes, scratched the parrot's

about spirits and veils? How much of that sort of head, and smiled. She didn't look like a witch at all

conversation are you allowed before people stop inviting anymore.

you to parties, and you end up pushing a mop in an "That's it?" I said.

elementary school? Mrs. Ross nodded, smiling.

"Well" I said to Mrs. Ross, "maybe I do have a I didn't return the smile. "What the heck is that

son ... uh ... like that." supposed to mean?"

She gave me a withering look. "You do," she said She shrugged. "Beats me."

flatly. "And he wants me to give you a message." The "Oh, come on," I pleaded. "There's got to be

parrot nibbled tenderly on her ear. more. Ask him." This is not the way I was taught to

By now my whole body was bristling with a behave at Harvard.

strange electricity. The sensation had become familiar

 "I don't ask questions," she said. "I just deliver things that accompanied him into my life. My husband,

messages. Like Western Union. What the messages mean John, knows about my wondering—shares it, in fact,

is none of my business." since his life, too, was changed when we were expecting

And that was all she had to say. Adam. But when I wasn't talking to John, I learned to

After a pathetic attempt to pretend I was still keep it all to myself. I learned to ignore the miraculous

conducting an interview, I raced home to confront Adam. in my life, to pretend it didn't exist, to tell lies in order

He was in his crib, asleep. He was about half the size of to be believed. In short, I kept myself closed.

a normal three-year-old, had barely learned to walk, and This has not been easy. It is difficult not to tell

had never spoken an intelligible word. I reached down people when one of your interview subjects turns out to

and poked him in the tummy, and he woke up with his be Parrot Woman. The strangeness, the curiosity, the

usual jolly grin on his face. wonder keeps pushing outward, begging to be

I looked into his small, slanted eyes. "Adam," I communicated, needing air and company. On many

said seriously. "You've got to tell me. Are you sending me occasions, I have tried to talk about Adam without

messages through Mrs. Ross?" letting on that I actually believed in everything that

His smile broadened. That was all. And he hasn't happened to me. I have written this book twice already,

said a thing about it since. both times as a novel.   You see, by calling it a novel, I

So here I am, still wondering what the hell could tell the story without putting myself in danger

happened that day, wondering whether Mrs. Ross was from skeptics, scientists, and intellectuals. "Fiction!" I

really channeling my three-year-old, wondering what he would assure them. "Made it all up! Not a word of truth

meant. I wonder a lot of things, since Adam came along. in it!" Then they would all go away and leave me alone,

I wonder about all the strange and beautiful and terrible

and perhaps a few sturdy souls would be willing to the right-to-lifers, not to mention every New Age

believe me, and I could open up in safety to them. crystal kisser who ever claimed to see an angel in the

It hasn't worked out that way. The editors and clouds over Sedona. I am reluctant to wave good-bye to

agents and writers I respect most have always come my rationalist credibility. Nevertheless, the story will

back, after reading my "novel," with the same question: not stop unfolding, and it will not stop asking me to tell

"Excuse me, but how much of this is fiction?" And I it. I have resisted it for what feels like a very long time,

would hem and haw a bit before admitting that aside hoping it would back off and disappear. But it hasn't.

from making John and myself sound much better-looking So, Mrs. Ross, wherever you are, thank you for

than we are, I didn't fictionalize anything. It's all true, delivering my son's message. After all these years, I've

I would say. Then I would sink into my chair five or six finally decided to listen.

inches and wait for them to call security.

So far, that hasn't happened. It has been five SOURCE INFORMATION

years since Mrs. Ross reared back against her parrot
Author: Martha Beck
and delivered Adam's message, and in all that time my ISBN: 978-0425174487
Publisher: Berkley Publishing Group
favorite people have continually repeated his advice. Date (Month/Year): Aug 2000
Open up, they say. It will feel better than remaining
AWARD HISTORY
closed.

I am none too sure about this. I am very much 2004 National Qualifier
2006 National Qualifier
afraid of being caught in the firestorms of controversy 2010 National Qualifier
over abortion, genetic engineering, medical ethics. It

worries me to think that I will be lumped together with