Three Little Words

by Ashley Rhodes-Courter

  When we had a break, Phil asked what I would like to do.

  “How about going to the White House to meet the president?”

  He grinned. “Okay, we’ll arrange that for next time.”

  I decided on the Holocaust Memorial Museum. At the entrance I picked up a card with a young woman’s picture and followed her story. Her life became worse and worse, and I wondered if she had learned to turn off her feelings the way I had. She was separated from all her family members too. At the end of the tour I learned that she perished at Auschwitz. Afterward I wandered around the lobby in a daze.

  “Where were you?” Phil asked in annoyance when they finally found me.

  “We’re going to have to hustle for our next appointment,” Gay said.

  As we hurried toward the Metro, I lagged behind. Phil paid our fares just as a train was coming into the station. The Courters leaped on the train. Since I had never seen a subway before this trip, I feared that the doors were going to squash me. Feeling overwhelmed for a moment, the doors closed while I was still standing on the platform. Phil yelled, “Take the next train to Union Station.” His eyes were wide and Gay looked frantic.

  I took the next train and was relieved to get to Union Station. I climbed the stairs, and went directly to the officer at the information booth and said I was looking for my parents. He called the other station and said my parents were at the other end of the platform.

  Phil and Gay came panting toward me.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “Where the hell were you?” Phil bellowed.

  “I was here the whole time.”

  “We were covering both ends of the platform. How did you slip away from us?” he shouted, as if I had done it to defy him.

  I pushed through the turnstile to get away from them. Phil was right behind me and grabbed the collar of my jacket. “Don’t you ever, ever pull a stunt like that again!” His face was mottled with red patches. “We thought we had lost you!”

  Gay was shaking. “Why didn’t you get on the train with us?”

  “The door closed.” I shrugged Phil’s arm off. “You’re hurting me!”

  “You hurt me, Ashley,” he growled. “Anything could have happened to you!”

  We trudged up Capitol Hill in silence. We were staying with some business associates of the Courters, so they could not continue to berate me. After dinner I hurried to get ready for bed and turned out the light hoping I could fall asleep and wake up with one of Gay’s fresh starts. I heard creaking on the stairs in the old house and feared someone was coming to have a little talk with me.

  I heard my door’s handle turning slowly. I rolled over to face the wall, which was illuminated with a plank of light from the hallway.

  Gay sat on the end of the bed. “This hasn’t been the best day, but it’s something we went through together. Now it’s woven into the fabric of our family story.”

  “Threads break,” I mumbled.

  “Not if you use tough fibers. If you were not made of resilient material, you would not have come this far. Just remember, you aren’t alone anymore—we’re here to back you up.” She started to close the door behind her. The latch clicked closed, but I did not hear her footsteps moving away. The door snapped open again. “Ashley,” Gay whispered through the gap, “I love you, sweetie. Night-night.”

  I pretended I had not heard her.

  Even if Gay really thought she loved me, I felt nothing. The Hudsons had said they loved Luke, but that didn’t stop them from sending him back. My mother swore that she loved me, and she abandoned me in the end. Adele, Aunt Leanne, even some of my foster moms had used the L word, then disappeared. I liked the Courters’ large house, my school, and my friends. I just had to figure out how not to blow it.

  In April we went to Colorado to film foster children who were placed for adoption with military families and remained a few extra days so I could try skiing. Driving up the mountain, it began to snow. “Please stop!” I called out. Phil parked at an overlook. I jumped from the car and thrust out my tongue. Finally, after more than seven years, I tasted the icy tang of snow again! As it tickled my upturned face, I remembered what Adele had said about taking me to Colorado. Now I was there, but with another family. A few years earlier I might have felt guilty that I was having the experience without Luke or any of my other relatives, but I was beginning to accept that I was meant to go on with my life—even a good life—without them. Still, I wondered whether Adele—or my mother—ever thought about me.

  Our next trip was a cruise in the Caribbean. I remembered Mrs. Chavez telling me about her mother moving from one island to another and how she had later come to the United States. I started to count all the places I had lived over the past nine years and ran out of fingers. For the first time, I sensed this might be my last move.

  On one island we hiked up a steep hill after swimming under a waterfall. Gay panted, “I think I can, I think I can.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “It’s what the Little Engine That Could said. Didn’t anyone ever read it to you?” I shook my head. “Did you ever hear any bedtime stories?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  After we returned home, Gay started reading me children’s books like Pat the Bunny, Goodnight Moon, and Where the Wild Things Are at bedtime. I liked being babied more than I dared to admit. One evening I started babbling in baby talk.

  Gay played along. “Baby want her ba-ba?” She handed me an invisible bottle.

  “I’ve always wanted a bottle!” I announced in a regular voice. “My mother took mine away too soon.”

  The next day she actually bought me a bottle. I filled it with juice, relaxed on the couch, and drank it. “This is great!” I tossed it in the air. “And it doesn’t spill.”

  After Gay read Horton Hatches the Egg, we both were quiet as we contemplated how the mother bird left the elephant to sit on her egg.

  “Do you still wish your mother would come back for you?” Gay asked.

  I said, “No,” although I was not certain I meant it.

  “If you want, you can still see her,” Gay said as she switched off my table lamp. I turned my cheek for the usual kiss. Gay said, “Someday maybe you’ll kiss me back.”

  I sat up and stared just past her. “I told you I would never kiss you!” She looked as startled as if I had slapped her. I gazed at my ceiling that twinkled with glow-in-the-dark stars. Somewhere my mother was still out there. I would keep my promise to her even if she had not kept any of hers to me, and I would never love anyone else.

  A few days later the official adoption papers arrived. We had been expecting them for several months, but my caseworkers had changed many times, creating further delays.

  “Doesn’t matter to us,” Phil had reassured me. “We’re not letting anyone take you away from us.”

  Because I was twelve, I had to sign consent to the adoption and select my name. “I’ve been a Rhodes all my life,” I told the Courters, “and I don’t want to lose that.”

  “We’d like everyone to know you are our daughter,” Phil said, “but we won’t force it.” He left the paper in my room. “We’ll never change our minds about adopting you, but you can change yours. Let us know when you have made your decisions.”

  For the most part, we were getting along better and better. Phil was easy, but Gay was always on my case when it came to food. Usually, I was starving by four o’clock, so on the way home from school I would beg Gay to stop for a burger. She relented when she was cooking something like curry or a casserole, because she knew I would not even taste foods when she combined them in some disgusting way. I would eat vegetables only if they were canned, and I hated the bright green crunchy ones she steamed and claimed were healthier. At least Gay did not spice my portions and stopped wincing when I dumped steak sauce over every meat. I knew she was trying; and yet—for some reason—that irked me too.

  “I’m preparing all of your favorite recipes,�
� Gay called out as I headed for the portable phone. “Roasted chicken, cauliflower with cheese sauce, pickled cucumbers, and freshly baked blueberry muffins.” I did not respond. “Want to lick the bowl?” she asked after she poured the batter into the muffin tin.

  “I’m on the phone,” I said, even though I had not yet dialed. I dragged out the call and came to the table reluctantly. The food smelled delicious, yet I did not want to give Gay the satisfaction of winning—although I did not know why I felt that way. I sat down as though I suspected there was a tack on my chair.

  Phil lifted a slice of white meat. “Hand me your plate,” he said to me.

  “I’m not hungry.” I stared Gay down. A little thrill went through me as I saw her twitch. I knew she was thinking about how to respond to my rejection of her menu.

  Gay’s jaw tightened. “No alternate dinners,” Gay said to me, then turned toward Phil. “She likes everything that’s being served.”

  “Fine,” I retorted in relief. “May I please be excused?” I went to my room and did not emerge for the rest of the night, even though my stomach rumbled and my mind churned, trying to understand why I would rather annoy Gay than eat her food.

  The next day Gay picked me up from school. “Want to stop at Wendy’s?”

  “Are you going out or something?” I asked.

  “Nope. You won’t like what I’m cooking tonight.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sweetbreads.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “It’s a cow’s pancreas gland.”

  I figured she was grossing me out as revenge for not eating her chicken dinner. While we were ordering at the drive-through, Gay said, “I called Beth Reese today.”

  “About the adoption?”

  “Nope.”

  Her cheerfulness was troubling. If she was sending me back, she would have spoken to Beth Reese. “Ashley, I’ve been bending over backward trying to cook for you, but from now on, I am serving the sorts of meals that Phil and I prefer. I will try to make a plain version for you, but I won’t care if you eat it. You may have all the alternate dinners you want.”

  Once we were home, I unpacked my sandwich while Gay started her preparations. She peeled carrots as if she was enjoying skinning their flesh. “Are you mad at me?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “What did you talk to Ms. Beth about?”

  “Why you didn’t eat any of your favorite foods last night.” Gay put down the peeler. “I love feeding my family, yet you resist my nurturing because all those other mothers—especially your birth mother—failed to care for you. I cannot force you to accept my love through food, kisses, or any of the ways I know.” She melted butter in a sautÉ pan, then tossed in pieces of the gnarly meat. “So I won’t frustrate myself trying.”

  I reached for my burger. It was cold. I ate it anyway and tried to decide once again whether I had won or lost.

  Did I really want to stay with the Courters? Some days I felt as if I had been born into their family; other times I felt like a guest who had stayed too long. Yet I was more afraid of an unknown place. This could be the best deal anyone would ever offer me.

  Finally, I decided on a name: Ashley Marie Rhodes-Courter. Gay’s cousin, Neil Spector, was going to be our attorney for the finalization. We went to Tampa to sign the consent forms at his office.

  “Will Neil also be my attorney after the adoption?” I asked.

  Phil raised his eyebrows. “Why? Are you planning to sue us?”

  “No, but I want to sue the Mosses for what they did to me—and Luke.”

  “It will be their word against yours,” Phil said.

  “They should pay for what they did to us!” I seethed.

  “Cutie-pie, let it go,” he added.

  Gay whispered, “Why don’t you talk about that with your therapist?”

  Neil ushered us into a conference area to review the paperwork with us. He glanced from the Courters to me and was probably wondering why we did not seem happier about the occasion.

  Gay told me she was going to Tampa to review my whole file. “I want to fill in the blanks in your life before they store your files.”

  “We’ve got the kid, what else matters?” Phil asked.

  “Ashley has had so many questions about her past. Maybe I’ll find some answers in those boxes.”

  That evening she came home waving a thick manila envelope. “Your new worker dragged out three file storage boxes. I found all sorts of information on your birth family, foster homes, schools….” She grinned mischievously. “When I lifted out the last section of files in one case, I noticed this!”

  She handed me the envelope. I gasped when I opened it and found my hospital newborn photo, family snapshots, even professional baby portraits. “I didn’t know that I had any baby pictures!”

  “I’d recognize those dimples anywhere,” Phil said like a proud papa.

  He made copies, and soon my framed baby pictures sprouted up next to those of Blake and Josh.

  Before going to school one morning, I came in to ask Gay something while she was sipping tea in bed. She pointed to the photo of me as abaldbaby in a sky blue dress. “Sometimes I pretend you were my baby,” she said.

  I looked at the picture, then at Gay. “Gotta run.” I started out the door, turned around, bent over, gave Gay a peck on the cheek, and rushed from the room.

  The Courters bustled about with legal preparations and plans for three adoption parties. To honor the people who had helped make my adoption possible, they were hosting a luncheon near the courthouse. Mary Miller and the Guardian ad Litem Program staff headed the guest list, which also included Martha Cook, who had been my pro bono Attorney ad Litem. Next, we were going to The Children’s Home for a smaller dessert party, which only served to remind me that I could get sent back there anytime. The Courters also planned a gathering in their home for friends and family over the weekend.

  When Gay asked what sort of cake I wanted, I said, “I don’t care.” And I really did not. I did not want them to make a big deal because I expected that all the celebrations would just add to future bad memories.

  “From now on, you’ll have two birthdays: your adoption day and your regular one,” Gay announced. Then she asked, “What would you like for your adoption day gift?”

  “I want to have my ear cartilage pierced like Ms. Sandnes.”

  “I’m not mutilating you the minute I get you,” she snapped.

  “Tess’s mother let her have her belly button pierced!”

  “Lucky Tess,” she said in a snide voice.

  The closer the fateful day came, the grumpier I felt. That morning I did not dress until the last possible minute. Gay was annoyed that everyone—including my godparents, Adam and Lesley Weiner, and their three young daughters—was waiting on me. Josh carried the professional video camera to capture every “precious” moment. At the luncheon I could barely swallow more than a soda. Gay had told me to write a poem to thank everyone. She had my poem printed and waiting on every place setting.

  Phil stood up and welcomed the guests, and then Gay made a few remarks. She concluded, “Thanks, everyone, for giving us our daughter! Now here’s Ashley.”

  I stayed in my seat. Gay flapped her copy of my poem in my face. “You’re supposed to read it,” she hissed.

  I looked out and saw the expectant faces of the Merritts and Ms. Sandnes, Mary Miller and Martha Cook, The Children’s Home staff, the Weiners and other Courter friends and family. I was more furious at Gay’s prompting than nervous. Snatching the paper, I spoke in a monotone:

  You have helped me so much over these past few years,

  I just can’t thank you enough, you wonderful dears.

  You came through for me even when I was blue.

  You even found me a great family!

  Who knew?

  You’ve gone to great lengths to please little ol’ me

  You really cared, and that I now see,

  Words canno
t express my deep gratitude.

  You’ve made me one happy little dude

  What I say is true, I hope you don’t mind

  But you guys are definitely one of a kind!

  I was trembling as I spit out the last forced sentence. Thinking I was overwhelmed with emotion, Phil stood and put his arm around me protectively. “We’d better not keep the judge waiting.”

  I squirmed away and went to the restroom to avoid saying good-bye to those who were not coming to the adoption proceedings. Gay followed me into the bathroom. “Ashley, are you all right?”

  I flushed and came out. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m nervous too,” Gay said.

  I pushed in front of her without responding. The car was hotter than a sauna, and it didn’t have time to cool off before we found a parking lot near the courthouse. The downtown buildings radiated heat like giant toasters in the midday July sun, making my dress stick to my legs. At first the frigid courthouse felt as refreshing as an icy bath, but by the time we took the escalator upstairs, I could not stop shaking. Soon we were called into Judge Florence Foster’s chambers. I could not wait for it to be over, but there was a delay. Clayton Hooper—the same caseworker I’d had at the Hagens and now my most recent adoption worker—was late. I stared into the distance while everyone chatted as if this were a cocktail party. I sucked in my cheek and chewed on the side of my lip.

  “Hey, everyone, sorry I’m late,” called Mr. Hooper as he breezed in without explaining where he had been. He reached over and patted my head. “Where’s that sunshiny smile of yours, Ashley Marie? This is the happiest day of your life!”

  “The judge is waiting,” a bailiff said, and opened the door for us all to enter.

  I expected that we would go into a TV-style courtroom, but we went from a public hallway to a private one and then into a corporate-style conference room with a polished table in the middle. Judge Foster sat at one end. Neil Spector was in charge of the seating plan, and I was told to take the chair between my almost-parents. I stared across at Mary Miller, Mary Fernandez, and Beth Lord. I wanted to crawl under the table and sit on the other side because I felt that is where I really belonged. They had known me longer than the Courters, so in my mind, they were more like family. I glanced at Phil and Gay, who were listening to the legal gibberish. Mary Miller was smiling, and so were Beth Lord and Mary Fernandez. They wanted me to move on to another life, but I was ready to call the whole thing off.