by Kim Holden
And given that I consider each of my children a miracle, the question that keeps surfacing is so disturbing. Why did Miranda carry Kira?
As soon as the question sounds loud enough to demand my attention, I want to turn my back on it because it’s so ugly. I want to tell it to shut up and go away and never return. Kira exists, and that’s all that matters. Any question that involves a hypothetical answer that varies from reality is torturous. And even though I don’t want to know the answer, I want to hurl every question and accusation at Miranda and watch her grapple with her unearthed secrets. I want to watch her squirm. Her conscience wouldn’t make her squirm—she lacks one—but she prides herself in winning, right or wrong, because she thinks she deserves it. Entitlement is a sickness festering within her. It’s slowly transformed her into the devil she is.
I need to get my kids back. Time yields results, even against the defiant. It’s a subtle opponent. It partners up with other forces, like environment and people, and erodes.
My kids are eroding and changing. Miranda and the new elements at play in their new lives are affecting them all while they fight them.
I’ve started calling Miranda’s home several times per day. I know the housekeeper is annoyed with me because she usually answers, but I also feel like there’s a peculiar, resistant mutual respect for each other’s bullheadedness emerging, which seems to be working in my favor because I usually win and get to talk to my kids at least once per day. Miranda and her husband work late hours and aren’t home most nights, so I bet she figures it’s easier to let me talk to my kids and not tell Miranda, than to keep answering the phone. The kids all like her too, which eases my mind a bit, since they’re in her care most of the time.
I need to start making a case for myself. I’ve never believed in painting another party to be the bad guy to get what I want, but in the case of the custody of my kids, one of us is bad. I need to start documenting everything. So, I grab a notebook and I start writing down everything I can remember about Miranda and our relationship from the very beginning until now. It takes hours and when I’m done I’m exhausted, like I’ve physically exerted myself. I also start emailing lawyers, pleading my case and asking for their opinion and representation.
I need to get my kids back.
Batman angels
present
Last night, Claudette made me some chamomile tea and insisted I get some sleep. The sleep she tried to tempt me toward never came. And even though I felt safe in her home, I was restless. I was trying to put together a game plan, or trying to talk myself out of one. The pattern and path of my thoughts changed minute to minute.
I’m sitting in her small kitchen eating a bowl of Rice Krispies and watching her pour water into the coffee maker. My thoughts are cloudy and unfocused, as if the reality of what I’m about to do is blurring rationality.
“How’ve you been, Meg?” Claudette asks as she waits for the machine to brew her morning addiction.
“I go by Faith now. And I’ve been good.” It’s my trained response. I’m good. I’m always good.
She smiles, apparently practice makes perfect and she believes me. “Good. And I like Faith, it suits you. What brings you back to Kansas City, Faith?”
I sniffle against the runny nose that’s plaguing me this morning. It seems I picked up a cold along the way. I can’t imagine how, the bus was a cornucopia of germs, complete with hacking coughs and snotty noses. I’m trying to decide how much information I want to share with her. She knows more about me than anyone else. She knows my secrets. I need to be honest with her. “I’m looking for my birth mother. Or father. Either, really,” I answer vaguely.
She sits down in the chair across from me and stares unblinkingly with her discerning eyes. “The time has come?”
I nod and sniff again. “I need to figure out who I am. I don’t think I can do that until I have some answers, you know?”
She nods. She knows. “Did I ever tell you I grew up in foster care?”
“No, you never told me that. Is that why you do what you do?”
She smiles thoughtfully, but sadness tugs from deep inside trying to dissuade it. “Yes. I was nine when I went into the system. I remember my parents. I know who they were, and I wish I didn’t.” She takes a deep breath. “My foster parents were my salvation. They cared for me until I was eighteen. I believe there are superheroes walking amongst us. Or maybe they’re heavenly angels. I’m a Batman fan, so I tend to lean toward superheroes. They’re dressed in skin to look like you and me, but they have an exceptional ability. My foster parents had it.”
“What is it?”
“They had the ability to make someone who felt unseen, unwanted, and unloved feel special. They saw me. They wanted me. They loved me.”
My mind goes to Seamus. He’s the only person I’ve ever met, who made me feel that way.
“And I feel like it’s my responsibility to do my part in trying to make those connections for children in need: the unseen, the unwanted, the unloved. And it’s also the reason I take it so hard when I fail a child like I did you.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t your fault, Claudette.”
Tears are spilling quietly from her eyes as she shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. You have no idea how badly I feel about what happened. Still.”
I don’t want to talk about it, but I also don’t want her to feel in any way responsible for what happened. “Claudette, you know I don’t talk about that day, but I will say this, you’re a Batman angel. He was an evil bastard.”
She nods and switches topics. “Your birth parents’ names were undisclosed, even on your birth certificate. It was all part of the private adoption, which we know wasn’t on the up and up. The only information provided was that your mother was under the age of eighteen.”
“I know. I went to California hoping against hope that I’d find a needle in a haystack. I lived in the neighborhood near the hospital I was delivered in. It was a small beach community just up the coast from Los Angeles. A quiet place, lots of mom and pop businesses, and a nice stretch of boardwalk that attracted a kind crowd. It was laid-back and welcoming. I know it’s stupid, but I prayed that I’d run into her.” I huff. “My mom is probably long gone. She probably doesn’t even live there, but it was the most painless attempt I could make. And it offered escape from here. From hell.”
“So, what’s the next step?”
“I need to talk to Trenton Groves. He and his wife were the ones who adopted me at birth. Maybe he can give me details about my birth mother.”
She’s unblinking again. “Are you sure you’re ready for that? Are you sure you want to face that monster?”
I nod, more to myself than anything. “I need to. I have a gut feeling that he’s my only hope of finding my birth parents.”
“Where is he?” she asks hesitantly. She already knows I know or I wouldn’t be here.
“Prison. In Springfield, on drug charges. I’ve been keeping tabs on him. It’s been easy, he’s usually incarcerated.”
“Oh. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I wasn’t surprised either. He’s not exactly an upstanding citizen.” A few years ago I read the transcripts of the trial that convicted he and his wife of my abuse and neglect. Decent humans don’t do that to a little girl.
“You’ll need to get him to add you to his visitation list and make an appointment to set up a visitation time,” she coaches.
“Done. Tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
Her eyes dart to the side. She’s not looking at anything, she’s thinking. “I’ll drive you. I’ll go with you.”
I was praying she would. I don’t want to do this alone. “You’re sure?”
“This is how I begin to make amends,” she says solemnly.
I want to tear my pages out and run away with them like a thief
present
The building is cold. The concrete, the steel, even the fluorescence of the abundant overhead l
ighting is stark and house an inherent chill. I’m still wearing my coat, scarf, and gloves, and there are goosebumps covering every inch of my skin under all the layers of clothing.
Claudette is holding my hand with her left and fiddling with the clasp on her purse with her right. The fiddling is a passive attempt to speed this along, silently chiding the sluggishness of the process.
“Faith Hepburn,” a guard’s voice booms through the small holding room we’re seated in. It rattles me like two giant hands clutching my shoulders, a stiff jerk forward and back. I look around the room and feel heat light on my cheeks like a beacon exposing my whereabouts.
Claudette hesitates at my new-to-her legal name, but rises first, and I follow her lead.
We walk wordlessly behind the guard through a maze of secured doors before we’re seated in front of a reinforced window with an old school phone receiver on each side. The chair opposing ours is vacant, but only for a moment.
The orange jumpsuit-clad midsection of a body comes into view. He’s moving slowly, indicating physical ailment, stubbornness, or laziness; I guess when I meet his eyes they’ll tell me which. His wrists are cuffed, his fingers interlaced. His hands are rough, knuckles calloused, gnarled by years of mistreatment or hard use, and covered in poorly executed tattoos.
I don’t have the courage to look up at his face, but our eyes lock when he drops laboriously into the chair. And at once, all three become glaringly apparent: physical ailment, stubbornness, and laziness. He also looks like a first rate asshole.
He’s scowling at me with cold eyes. They’re dark like they died years ago. His head is shaved, and his skin is pale, except his cheeks. They’re ruddy but lined with broken capillaries that weave across each other like roads on a map.
We both pick up our phones.
He doesn’t talk.
I clear my throat.
“What do ya want?” His voice cuts like a file and makes me flinch.
I clear my throat again.
Claudette takes the receiver from me. “Mr. Groves, this is Meg Groves, the child you adopted twenty-two years ago. She’d like to ask you a few questions about her birth mother and her adoption.”
His eyes widen before they narrow back into their scowl. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you.” He glances at me before resting back on Claudette. “That little bitch put me in jail.”
Claudette squeezes my hand. It’s both reassurance for me and anger at his choice of words. “Mr. Groves, the circumstances behind your incarceration were no fault of a child. We don’t care to take up too much of your time. Do you remember any details regarding the adoption?”
He grunts, “Nope.”
“You don’t remember anything? Names? Places? Dates?” she presses.
“Nope.” He smiles at me when he says it. When he agreed to the visitation, he didn’t know who I was, but now that he does he’s enjoying denying me.
“What about your wife? Maybe her memory is better than yours?” Claudette asks. She’s trying to remain calm, but I hear impatience driving her questions.
“Doubtful. She ain’t real talkative these days,” he says.
“Why is that?” she asks.
“She’s dead. Died ten years ago,” he says it with no emotion like he’s talking about what he ate for dinner last night, instead of the death of his spouse.
The news is disturbing and quiets Claudette.
“We done here?” He’s done, that much is clear.
“Is there anyone else we can talk to who may have some information? Another family member, perhaps?” It’s Claudette’s last ditch effort to salvage this trip.
“Nope. The old lady did the deal. Ain’t nobody else involved but her and she took it to the grave.” He hangs up the receiver, stands, and lets the guard remove him from the room.
Just like that, I watch him walk away. With my secrets. Whether he remembers them or not, my secrets are there. People who aren’t capable of harboring our memories with integrity, shouldn’t be allowed them in the first place. I’ve never wanted to open up someone’s brain like a book and start reading—looking for answers in his memory bank—until now. I want to tear my pages out, run away with them like a thief, and greedily read them over and over until I memorize every word. Until every word becomes mine, instead of his. That’s what I want.
You don’t always get what you want.
Even if you want it more than anyone’s ever wanted anything.
The calendar is now sacred
present
I’ve contacted several lawyers. Most declined interest in representing me based on the current custody arrangement and accompanying incriminating documents calling it futile. Futile is a label I put on the passage of unproductive time and complacent existence. Futile is not my kids. Futile is not our situation. So, I kept searching until I found a lawyer who sees the potential in righting the wrongs and doing what’s best for my kids. Futile is not in his vocabulary. He’s building a case, putting together a solid fight, and hoping to initiate proceedings in mid-January, which is a month from now.
The calendar is now sacred. I mark off each day with newfound determination.
Fool me twice, fuck you
present
I’m supposed to have my kids for a week during Christmas holiday according to the current custody arrangement—pick them up Christmas Eve and drop them off New Year’s Day.
After Miranda’s Thanksgiving stunt, I don’t trust her to not run off with them again.
Which is why it’s December twenty-first and I’ve just pulled up to the gate in front of her house.
Fool me once, shame on me.
Fool me twice, fuck you, Miranda.
I smile as I think the thought and dial my phone.
The housekeeper answers on the third ring, out of breath like she’s run to the phone. “Buckingham residence.”
“May I please speak to Kai?”
“Hold,” she replies and sets the phone down on a hard surface.
Kai picks up the phone seconds later. “Dad?”
Everything inside me is smiling, because not only is his voice in my ear, but I know the rest of him is inside the house in front of me. “Hey, buddy. Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure,” he sounds confused. This isn’t how our typical conversations go.
“I want you to hang up the phone and get Rory and Kira and walk out to the mailbox together. I sent you all a surprise, and I’m sure it arrived this morning.”
“Can we just talk for a few minutes first?” Kai asks, he sounds hurt I’m rushing to end this call.
“I promise we’ll talk in a few minutes. I’ll call back after you check the mail.”
“Okay,” he says still sounding disappointed. Gifts, material things, have never meant much to Kai.
“Talk to you soon. Love you.”
“Love you, Dad.”
What’s most likely a minute at most, feels like an hour, before the front door opens and I see my kids.
My kids.
I’m standing in front of my car, one hand wrapped tightly around the decorative iron bars on the gate and one wrapped tightly around the grip of my cane, both steadying me. I want to scream their names, but my throat is closing in on itself with overwhelming emotion. I knew I would be happy to see them. I had no idea it would be so overpowering. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. It doesn’t. It’s more, so much more. This is like witnessing their birth all over again. I’m in awe. They’ve grown so much over the past few months. And while I want to mourn the time I’ve lost with them, I can’t bring myself to it. My happiness won’t allow it. It only allows the present, everything else is irrelevant.
They haven’t noticed me yet. Kai and Rory are arguing, or more accurately Rory is arguing with Kai, and Kai is ignoring him watching the ground pass beneath his feet. Kira is trailing behind. She’s still in her pajamas even though it’s almost noon. She looks tired. Until she sees me waving at them and then all hell breaks loose. I
t’s probably the most noise that’s filled the air on this street since I was here last. “Daddy!” she screams.
Kai and Rory stop walking at the sound of her scream, and she races past them. Their delay to process what’s happening is only a second or two before they’re running across the lawn after her.
Kai reaches the gate first and enters a code into a keypad to open it. The gate retracts slowly, and they all three try to push through, unsuccessfully, at the same time. Within seconds, they’re all bundled together in my arms. Kira’s arms are wrapped around my right leg, Rory’s arms are waist height, and Kai’s are chest height. I almost forgot what this felt like.
When I look up, the housekeeper is walking toward us like she’s on a mission, but she’s smiling. “You full of surprises, Mr. McIntyre.”
I decide now is a good time to attempt a truce, so I smile in return. “Hi, Rosa.” This is the first time I’ve ever called her by name. I only know it because the kids say it so often.