Three Little Words

by Ashley Rhodes-Courter

  Gay’s father—he liked it when I called him “Grampy”—coughed. He was signaling Josh to get a shot of one of the Weiners’ daughters, who was making a monkey face, but Josh remained focused on the judge as she turned to speak directly to me.

  “Nothing in life comes easy,” Judge Foster began. “If it does, you should be suspicious.”

  Now I realize that the judge was trying to connect with me by understanding that I had overcome many hardships, but—at that moment—I believed she sensed that my new family was too good to be true. Gay could morph into a Mrs. Moss as soon as nobody was checking on us, and I had glimpsed how furious Phil could become during the episode in the Washington subway. What would he do if he got angry with me again? It was only a matter of time before this happy-family farce would be over. I looked anywhere but at the judge, hoping there was some way to leave the room without causing a scene.

  I tuned back in as the judge was complimenting the Courters on their willingness to take me. Then the judge asked me, “Do you want me to sign the papers and make it official, Ashley?”

  Because of my age, I had to consent to the adoption. There was a long silence. I could hear Gay’s short little breaths. Grampy coughed again.

  I muttered, “I guess so.” Three little words and it was done.

  Gay blotted her eyes, reached over, and tried to kiss my cheek. I arched away and rubbed my grazed cheek as though it were tainted.

  I headed to the door, but Phil nudged me toward the judge. We took a few stilted photos with the judge. Mary Miller presented me with a bouquet, which required more photos, and then it was back out into the pounding sunlight. I wished I could melt into the pavement rather than have to get into the Courters’ van and pretend that this was a happily-ever-after occasion.

  We stopped at The Children’s Home for the dessert celebration. I had been to these productions for other kids—kids who were sent back—so what was the point? My old friends stood around awkwardly and left the room as soon as they had finished their cake. Luke, who was normally a total terror, sat docilely and sipped a soda.

  For the last time, Mary Fernandez asked me how I felt. I said, “This is horrible for Luke.”

  “Today’s your day, Ashley,” she said, but my feeling of doom did not recede.

  Not long after the adoption, the strangest thing happened: I started tasting new foods. While we were in Tampa shopping, the Courters decided to have sushi.

  “Do you want to have a burger before or after?” Phil asked.

  “I’m not hungry yet,” I said, sulking.

  At the sushi bar the young, handsome chef automatically served me a piece of yellowtail. Wanting to impress him with my sophistication, I popped it in my mouth. It tasted both sweet and tangy, and the texture was silky. “It’s really good!”

  I saw Gay and Phil exchange a shocked glance. I dared myself to try a piece of tuna roll from Phil’s plate. “May I taste your soup?” I asked. He pushed it in front of me, and I ate it—seaweed and all.

  “Still want a burger?” Phil asked when we were in the car.

  “Nope.” A few miles down the road I blurted, “I can’t believe I ate raw fish!”

  As the adoption made me feel more secure, the tautness in my stomach relaxed, and I found that I was interested in new foods. I realized that I could find something I liked at almost any restaurant, whereas before I had often left hungry.

  School started again in a few weeks, which was a relief because my quarrels with Gay had intensified. She hassled me about everything, and sometimes I enjoyed provoking her.

  On the Halloween just before my thirteenth birthday, Tess came over. We fashioned low-cut, tight costumes and elaborately made up our faces. “What are you going as?” Gay asked.

  I strutted on high heels and placed my hand on my hip in a provocative pose. “A hooker.”

  “You can’t go out like that!” Gay shrieked.

  “What about Tess?” I felt humiliated in front of my friend.

  “I’ll take her home and see what her mother thinks of her choice. But if you don’t modify that outfit, the only trick you are getting is to stay here.”

  I gave her the silent treatment. “Those blank stares may work on other people, but I’ve lived with you long enough to know what you’re up to,” she said.

  “You’re an unreasonable—” My voice became shrill, but I censored myself. I had never cussed at Gay to her face and did not know what would happen if I did.

  “And you’re acting like your mother!”

  I recoiled as if I had been punched and gasped for breath. Gay looked like she wished she could suck the words back in. As soon as I caught my breath, I found beads and scarves to make the outfits more discreet, and we went out as gypsies.

  I did not know then that the Courters had withheld something that Gay had found along with my pictures in the files: letters from my mother, Aunt Leanne, and Dusty. Gay waited until after the adoption to contact Leanne. My aunt was thrilled to hear about me and told Gay how she and Lorraine had tried hard to parent me when I was a baby. Leanne was married with two sons. My uncle Sammie was also married and had been eager to find Luke and me. Gay asked her whether she should contact my mother. Aunt Leanne explained that my mother had a steady job and a new boyfriend. “She would love to hear how Ashley’s doing.”

  “I’ll write her,” Gay replied.

  “Well, you be careful,” Leanne warned. “My sister can’t always be trusted.”

  Mary Fernandez and Mary Miller also urged caution. The therapist told Gay that it was important for me to have integrated more of the Courter family’s values before I identified with my mother again; and my guardian, who had dealt with my mother for several years, distrusted her. Phil was also negative and insisted she use our attorney’s return address. Gay kept the correspondence secret from me for quite some time.

  Every time I visited Luke at The Children’s Home, I was haunted by the thought of where I would be without my new family. I used to think of the campus as a haven, but now I saw it as a holding pen where my brother would stay until he turned eighteen or could find another family. But still I couldn’t get along with Gay.

  My friend Brooke agreed that Gay had no sense of what girls our age were wearing and had terrible taste in clothes. She never got manicures and did not own a single pair of heels or jeans! Then Tabitha pointed out that her family’s rules were far stricter than mine were. Sure, I had to set the table, but her mother used dainty china every night and she had to hand-dry the plates. She reminded me to be grateful, and reluctantly, I sometimes agreed with her.

  Gay’s father, Grampy Weisman, lived only a few miles away. I loved driving up to his house because his front door was guarded by gigantic lion sculptures—exactly like the ones I had fantasized would protect me. Grampy sometimes noticed how cranky I was with Gay. At first I thought he would take his daughter’s side. “You come to me if she’s too tough on you,” he said. “I’ll calm her down.” His lips crinkled into a smile. “Now, where’s your latest report card?” He gave it the once-over. “Okay, Ash, here’s the cash.” He handed me a hundred dollars for being on the honor roll.

  “There’s an honor roll breakfast, and Gay and Phil can’t make it. Would you like to come with me?” Grampy beamed.

  In January, Gay picked me up at school. “We’re going to have to go to Washington again.” She sighed as though it was going to be a drag.

  “What are you filming?”

  “Actually, the invitation is for you.” She handed me a fax from the director of the Dave Thomas Foundation, who had arranged for me to attend a White House event.

  “Will I meet President Clinton?”

  “I’m not sure, but the First Lady will be there.”

  Gay and I flew to Washington together. She seemed to know everyone in the line that snaked through the security checkpoints. Once inside, we stopped at the women’s restroom in the East Wing. A sitting area featured portraits of previous First Ladies. Gay snap
ped photos of me in front of many of them. Even the paper towels were imprinted with the White House logo, and I took a few for my friends.

  As I walked up a marble stairway, a trio of musicians was playing classical music. “Are you okay?” Gay asked, noticing my face blushing from excitement.

  “Just hot,” I said to avoid having to explain that it was as if my childish fantasies about accidentally being lost in foster care, while I was really meant for another, grander life, had come true.

  The occasion was an announcement of a program for children who were aging out of foster care. One girl described how she slept on gurneys in hospital emergency rooms at night while attending college during the day. I wondered if Luke would end up that way.

  On the way out Gay introduced me to Michael Piraino, the CEO of the National Court Appointed Special Advocates Association. Guardian ad Litem volunteers like Mary Miller are often called CASAs for short in many parts of the country. “I see you’re representing the Dave Thomas Foundation here,” he said. “Awesome!”

  “That’s my kiddo,” Gay bragged.

  “What did you think of Mrs. Clinton’s announcement?” Mr. Piraino asked me.

  I probably should have given him a polite reply, but I was thinking about Luke and the other Children’s Home kids who might never be adopted. “Children need families, not programs,” I said.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Thirteen,” I mumbled, thinking I might have offended him.

  “We’re going to be hearing a lot more from you,” he said, smiling gently.

  Gay added, “Ashley was in foster care for nine years, and she wouldn’t have been adopted if it wasn’t for her child advocate, Mary Miller.”

  “It only takes one caring person, right?” He winked at me.

  I did not know that Gay had been in touch with my mother until she handed me an envelope toward the end of March, during my seventh-grade year. “I found out how to contact Leanne,” Gay explained, “and then I wrote to Lorraine.” I was furious when I found out that Gay and my mother had been writing letters behind my back. I felt that Gay had horned her way into my most private relationship without my permission. “What did you tell her?”

  “How well you are doing in school, that you have braces—that sort of thing.”

  “Did you say that you’re a bestselling writer and Phil makes films for television?”

  “Not exactly. I didn’t want her to be intimidated. It was more general—like how many other children we have. I enclosed recent photos of you and offered to send regular updates. I promised that we would always love you and treat you as our own child.” Gay swallowed hard. “I said that we would allow you to contact her—or any of your biological family—when you asked to.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wasn’t sure if she would even reply.” I noticed that my mother had addressed the envelope to The Parents of Ashley, in Care of Neil Spector.

  “Doesn’t she know where we live?”

  “No, Phil didn’t think that was wise.”

  The envelope contained a card picturing a redheaded girl on the front. Inside, my mother wrote that she had remarried on Valentine’s Day. She also mentioned that she played softball for a team called the Pride, which seemed like a meaningful coincidence because my Little League team’s name was also the Pride! She signed the letter, All my love, Lorraine.

  I felt as if I had gulped down five Cokes in a row. I hurried to write back. My new “parents” are nice people, I began. I could not resist boasting about all the traveling I had done and my visit to the White House. I told her that I thought the coincidence of our teams’ names was bizarre. As a P.S., I wrote, I love you always and I call my “parents” by their first names. No one can take your place.

  My mother’s next letter included photos of her wedding. Aunt Leanne had been her maid of honor, and Uncle Sammie had given her away. She told me that she wanted to see me and that I would always be the most important person in her life.

  A series of letters, photos, and packages went back and forth through April. I started daydreaming about being with my mother again. I kept these feelings secret from the Courters, and I did not dare tell Luke that I had two mothers—while he had none.

  Gay and Phil read all my mother’s letters and checked the outgoing replies to make certain I did not reveal any private information, which I would not have done anyway. On one level, I had never stopped loving my mother; on another, I still distrusted her. Her first letters had made me feel elated; some subsequent ones made me squirm. She wrote that her husband, Art, desired a child, yet she did not want anything to alter the relationship we had begun to rebuild.

  I thrust that letter at Gay. “I don’t think she should have another baby! I’ll be fourteen years older than the kid!” I huffed. “What makes her think she won’t screw it up the next time?”

  “My guess is that she’s asking for your forgiveness, not your permission.”

  Gay and I stared at each other without speaking. We were thinking the same thing: My mother was already pregnant. Gay handed the letter back. I crumpled it and tossed it toward the wastebasket, but I missed.

  “I’m not sure I did the right thing by contacting your mother,” Gay said.

  “Are you going to forbid me from writing?”

  “No, Ash, we would never do that. But every time you get a letter, you go on a little high, then you crash, like too much sugar at a birthday party.” She paced her office and stared out at the water. The dusk sky looked molten, as if it might explode in the west. “Let’s talk it over with your therapist.”

  At my next therapy session we showed the March and April letters to Dr. Susan Reeder. I watched as the therapist reread the closing of the most recent letter: I love you. I love you. Please find comfort in that. I miss you. Please write soon. All my love, Lorraine. P.S. How’s Luke? Tell him hello and I love him, too.

  The doctor turned to me. “How do you feel about this?”

  I was quiet for a few seconds. How many times had I heard those three little words from my mother? In her way, she meant them, but they still felt hollow. Even so, they were precious to me.

  “It’s tough keeping the secret from Luke.”

  “Do the letters upset you?” the therapist asked Gay.

  “Yes. Every time a letter arrives, Ashley is off-kilter for a few days. Her mother has been writing for less than two months, and look what tension it has caused.” Gay paused, and the office filled with the constant low drone of the air conditioner. “Also, her mother wants to meet with her.”

  “Do you want to do that?” Dr. Reeder asked me.

  “Not now.” I could not imagine my mother and Gay in the same space.

  “How would you feel about limiting the letters?”

  Gay jumped on this. “Why not center them on holidays, like birthdays, Easter, Christmas, even … Mother’s Day. There’s probably something every month.”

  “Is that okay with you?” the therapist asked me.

  “Sure,” I agreed, and Gay left the room.

  Before Gay sent my mother the letter outlining the new plan, she gave it to me to edit. “Promise you’ll tell me if something happens,” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  “With my mother, you never know.”

  Just before Mother’s Day, Gay asked me if I wanted to send my mother a card. “Why? I never think of her that way.”

  “Well, I’m thinking of her, and I’m grateful that she had you,” Gay said.

  In June, I went to stay with my godparents, the Weiners, in South Carolina and attend an arts camp where they taught. One night I called home and said, “I’m sick.”

  “What’s wrong?” Gay asked.

  “Homesick,” I admitted. “I never felt this way before, maybe because I never had a home to be sick for.”

  Gay laughed, but I was not joking. I missed my room, my bed, Phil’s scrambled eggs, and even Gay’s chicken nuggets.

 
A few weeks after I started eighth grade, Gay was making notes in her date book when she looked up. “Oh, today’s Lorraine’s birthday.”

  “I know,” I replied. I had never forgotten the date.

  “Even though she hasn’t written you very much, I’ve called her a few times. She always sounds grateful for the news,” Gay said, “but she keeps asking when she can talk to you.” She studied my reaction. “Are you ready to call her?”

  “I guess.” I nibbled at the corner of a hangnail while Gay dialed and asked Lorraine if this was a good time. She handed me the phone and went to the far side of the room.

  My mother’s voice was smoky, like a jazz singer’s. “Hey,” she said. I imagined her in tight jeans and high-heeled sandals. “How are you?”

  “Great! I made All-Stars in softball this summer.” I paced around Gay’s office as I chattered on. “I’m in the program for gifted students.” I continued to describe some of our recent trips. “Oh, and I got a lot of clothes in L.A.”

  “My, you’ve changed,” she replied. “You sound like a stuck-up Valley girl.”

  I leaned against the back of the couch to steady myself. Gay sensed something was wrong and walked over to me. I held the phone so she could hear, but it was my turn to speak and I had nothing more to say. Without another word to my mother, I handed the phone back to Gay and stomped out of the room. Gay hung up and followed me.