In those early days, most of our discretionary funds went toward primate research in rescue centers and wild areas around the globe. Although it made me sad to set aside the desire for children, I knew by then that Lance and I were a good fit, and I would be left freer in my research without small encumbrances to check with my luggage at the airport.
Never, not once in the intervening years, had it occurred to me that when Lance said he didn’t want kids, he meant he didn’t want to add to the gene pool. I had not known how volatile his mother is, and I hadn’t realized how adamantly he feared bringing a child into the world to struggle with the same insurmountable obstacles she faced.
Maybe if I had known, I would have argued the point more heavily. I might have pointed out the leaps in which mental healthcare has grown in the decades since we were children ourselves, never mind when she was young. It’s impossible to say.
Instead, I contented myself with science and the delight we both took in hosting my nieces and nephew for portions of every summer. But the kids came less and less as they grew up. Rachel had graduated high school the previous spring. She was getting ready to head west to a college in Arizona that would put her about as far away from her mother as she could get. (I understood the sentiment. My sister can be overbearing, to put it lightly.) Brenda had aged into summer sports camps, and Poppy had outgrown month-long stays away from her own friends. And the primate center had never fascinated Bryce the way it did his sisters, so he spent most of his time with us bored, and he had quietly turned down our offer to stay after the wedding with a mumble and a blush.
Sometimes, watching Lance play with them, I wondered about his attitude. But I also knew when he said a thing in a certain way while looking at me eye to eye, which wasn’t easy considering our height difference, he meant it completely. I set aside my hopeful “maybes” as impossible “what-ifs.”
But when we sat on our couch with Sara sleeping beside us, when he said we needed to talk and completed for me the picture of his childhood, I finally understood what he meant. It was not at all shocking when he had finished his story by telling me this was why he didn’t feel right about fostering the twins.
But I was rendered speechless when he added, “I’ve always wanted to be a daddy. Would you consider adopting them?” There were other things, how he thought we could handle their special needs and why he felt so connected to them. He hadn’t needed to tell me those things at all, because I felt them myself.
Clutching William’s hand in the Marine’s parking lot, holding Sara while she was screaming in our yard, and lifting her off the bathroom rug had reawakened the same primal urge in me. And this time, it wasn’t some vague desire to have children triggered by playing with somebody else’s babies. This time, it was something utterly different, alien. I didn’t merely want to be a parent to some child, I wanted to be a parent to this child, to these children.
I admired their tenacity. Whatever propelled William into the Marine’s back lot in the first place, he had exhibited the sense to crawl under the Dumpster, a safe, confined area that was nonetheless sure to be visited by human feet sooner or later. And Sara’s bravery in looking up an address and printing directions bespoke the kind of kindred soul who would study and analyze a situation, then take appropriate action. Her method needed some ironing out. For instance, she needed to add a step where she told an adult before she acted, not after. But this was a girl who wouldn’t be bored growing up with a pair of researchers.
I’d finally had to interrupt Lance to say, “Yes!” so we could go talk to the pair drinking coffee in our kitchen.
I could understand my parents’ reactions. Everyone, including ourselves, accepted Lance and me for the perpetual aunt and uncle, always available to pick up the slack in summer and help out in a crisis. Nonetheless, I didn’t want Mama and Daddy to weasel out of the conversation with their astonishment. “Aren’t you going to congratulate us?”
Every one of Marguerite’s pregnancies had been greeted with joy so overwhelming that my sister had never once gotten to tell me herself she was expecting. It was always Mom calling to breathlessly proclaim, “Noel, I’m going to be a grammy!” as if each child was the first.
“Yes, dear, of course we’re happy for you,” Mama said. But she added, “If you’re sure that’s what you want. It’s an awful lot for me to digest at once.”
“I hope you know what you’re getting yourselves into,” Daddy said, and he stomped on by to the garden.
We didn’t manage to communicate our own enthusiasm to anyone until the next day, when we took Natasha to see her grandparents in Columbus. “You are?” Stan demanded from his hospital bed. “Hot-diggety, you finally did it. Art’s going to be so damned proud.” There was a long silence while Stan remembered Art, his best friend and our mentor, had been dead since June. “Art would have been proud,” he said more softly. “He’d have been so happy for you two. Now tell me everything. Lay it all out for me. I want to know all the details.”
It was gratifying to find someone finally willing to listen. We told him the whole story, ending with my parents’ barely unspoken disapproval.
“They’ll get over it,” said Stan. “You gotta remember, your Nana raised your mom alone back when girls who got themselves in the family way were shipped off to homes. If your Nana didn’t have a spine tougher than the rod they’ve got jammed down my back and her own mother wasn’t exactly the same way, your mama might have been somebody else’s baby. And your dad . . . when did he ever take sudden news well?”
“Never,” I had to admit. He had greeted Mama’s ghastly new hair color by practically moving into the garden shed for a month.
“There you go. Now listen, this social worker sounds like a real number. There’s bad ones, and there’s good ones, and she sounds like she’s a category all her own. Even the foster dad says this won’t be easy.”
In fact, while we helped Adam buckle Sara into her car seat, he had told us, “You’re going to need an advocate. It’s a free service, but you have to go down to Columbus. Merry’s liable to squirrel everything around. If you’re serious about this, you’ll have to keep setting her straight.”
“True enough,” I told Stan.
“Here’s what you do,” he began, “this is our lawyer from when that son-of-a-bitch . . . what was his name, sweetie?”
“Terry.” Natasha stared out the window as she spoke. “Terry Dalton.”
“Yes. That Terry fellow tried to claim he was Tasha’s father, and we had to get DNA tests before we could prove he didn’t even have the legal right to be visiting her. It was my man Jacob Alston got everything taken care of quick. You go down and see Jacob, and tell him I sent you. Have him send all his bills to me . . .”
“This is getting out of hand, Stan,” said Lance. “We shouldn’t need a lawyer. You bought us a house, and we’re still trying to figure out how to pay you for it. You can’t go around and buy—”
“Yes I can, and I will!” It was as close to heated as Stan had become for the entire visit. “Art set so much stock by the two of you. You have got no idea . . . no idea what it means to Gert and me to know Tasha’s with you all when she’s not with us. This little baby is all we’ve got left, and knowing she’s safe, completely safe, when Gert and I can’t even get to see each other . . . that’s what I can’t buy. I know you didn’t take her in expecting things out of me, and I know it because I know how much Art loved you.
“The first thing I said . . . tried to say . . . when I came around in the hospital with my jaw wired shut, the first thing I wanted to know was, ‘Did Tasha get away? Did I at least buy her time enough to pick the padlock?’ And when the nurse told me she was with you, I said, ‘Thank God, because they’re the only people on the planet Art would have trusted right now.’ Of course, I didn’t make any sense to her because she didn’t know Art at all, and I was all woozy and muddleheaded, and I couldn’t open my mouth to talk, so she didn’t give it much stock anyway. It was the next day
when I actually saw you all three together before I realized if she was with you, something must have happened to my Gertie.
“Art always wanted you to have babies. He wouldn’t have cared a whit how you got them. He’s up in heaven right now dancing with the angels and throwing you a big old shower. Your folks will come around, Noel. Not everybody in our generation is as adaptable to change as this old geezer.” He swung a finger toward his bed stand to indicate the host of electronic devices technically prohibited by hospital policy, but overlooked by the staff because about the only people Stan couldn’t bully into giving him his own way were his doctors.
“And I’m telling you,” he went on, “a bad social worker can throw the whole thing off if she wants to.”
“But she’s so eager to get these kids a home,” Lance protested. “Surely she wouldn’t do anything to impact it.”
“Not on purpose,” said Natasha. “But she’s awful. Aw. Ful. Granddad’s right. She’ll mess everything up by accident and make it out to be your fault.”
“There’s my girl!” said Stan.
CHAPTER 8
Dear Nora:
I can’t stop lying. It’s compulsive. What should I do?
Dishonest in the Big City
Dear Dishonest:
Tell me the truth.
Nora
Stan and Adam were both right. Merry did cause problems simply by being herself. But we didn’t need a lawyer. With guidance from a state advocate, we were soon cleared to formally meet the twins.
We all agreed that their unique circumstances required a slow transition. But even Ann, our advocate, was disappointed in us for setting our hearts on these particular kids when there was no way to be sure they would come to us.
“This isn’t how it works, folks,” she said. “You’re supposed to evaluate possibilities while the state determines appropriate placements.”
“I think we’ve already gotten to do more evaluating than most parents, and rumor has it that these two will be hard to place.”
“You’re right. Please don’t mistake me. I’m elated to have a pair of parents willing to adopt two special needs children. But I need to evaluate their specific needs and your ability to meet them.”
“We’ll learn,” he said. “We aren’t expecting easy.”
“You have absolutely no idea how hard it’s going to get.”
“Please,” I told her. “We’re willing. Let us try.”
“The first meeting date is set,” she said. “We can see how things go and move forward from there.”
It was a nonsensical sham of a meeting, held in the artificial setting of the social services office. Natasha was also with us, and all the twins had been told was that she was worried about their adventures and wanted to spend some time with them to make sure they were all right.
“This is stupid,” said Sara, as soon as we came together in the playroom chosen for the gathering. Lance and I had seated ourselves in child-sized chairs around a child-sized table. Natalie Forrester sat on the floor with Natasha. Merry and Ann stood by the door, apparently guarding it should one of the children attempt to bolt.
“Sara,” said Natalie. “Be polite.”
“I’d love to know why it’s stupid,” Merry said. The door was outfitted with Plexi-glass on top, and the sun shone in the windows of the corridor beyond. Our advocate’s summer tan looked deep and golden in this light. Merry, in contrast, looked more sallow and put-upon than usual.
Sara, don’t give her ammunition. This was supposed to be a casual get-together between them and Natasha where we adults merely happened to be present. We were not, in Merry’s words, “to raise their hopes unnecessarily.” Like Ann, she still feared we would back out.
Sara sighed loudly. She and William had retreated as far from the adults as they could get, but we were still all crowded together. The room was not large. “Fourth of all,” she said, “Playdates happen in houses. Ninth, we come here to get ditched. Every time. And seventh, we all . . . all know Natty and Adam are trying to get rid of us. Who knows where we’ll go? We probably won’t ever see Tasha again, so we’re here to say goodbye.”
A babble of adult voices rose in protestation, but none of them even began to answer the challenge Sara had issued. She didn’t speak in the monotone her folder would have led me to expect, and her cross-armed posture showed body language wasn’t totally alien to her. Obviously, her folder wasn’t fully descriptive. I decided to take its contents with a grain of salt. Aside from its recitation of obvious facts, such as the twins being biracial and Sara being talkative, it seemed to be made largely of Merry’s random observations anyhow. The parts from Natalie Forrester were much more likely to be helpful.
We adults dribbled into silence as quickly as we had started talking. It was Natasha who finally took up Sara’s gauntlet. “You’ve got it wrong,” she said.
“But they are getting rid of us, Tasha,” Sara wailed. Suddenly, she was only six again, six and scared. “And so are you!”
“I know they are.” Natasha looked only at Sara, or she would have seen Natalie blushing. But Sara was right. Whatever else happened, Sara and William would be leaving Natalie and Adam’s house soon. And the child deserved the truth. “But I’m not. I’ve missed you for too long. I’ll always find you from now until forever. Pinkie swear.” Warily, Sara met Natasha’s outstretched pinkie with her own. “I also know,” Natasha went on, “that you’re right about this being the weirdest playdate ever. You know I’ll always tell you the truth, right? And I absolutely promise you we’re here to play, and you’ll see me again soon.”
“How soon?”
“Later this month.” Natasha stared at Sara. “Maybe even at Natty and Adam’s house. I was worried about you the other day, and so were Lance and Noel here. It’s upsetting when a child is missing . . .”
“Yes, because I know all about stranger-danger, and I didn’t talk to anybody at all when I—”
Sara would have gone on longer in this vein, but Natasha cut her off. The folder had this right, then. It said she was easily distracted and would hone in on unexpected portions of a conversation as if those things were central to the discussion. Natasha repeated the first part of her statement. “I was worried about you,” she said, “and so were Lance and Noel here. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Sara’s nose started twitching like a rabbit’s, and she creased her brow and poked her tongue out of her mouth, deep in thought. “Maybe you’ll see us at Natty and Adam’s, and maybe . . . somewhere else?” she guessed.
“Right,” said Tasha, before the adults could shush her.
Suddenly, Sara’s expression lifted, the furrowed brow smoothed, and the eyes grew wide. “Oh!” she said, looking straight at Natasha now. “Okay. Got it. Let’s play.”
The folder warned she struggled to understand cause-and-effect relationships, had trouble connecting the dots between points A and B in any given conversation. But I thought I had seen quite a few dots light up on her face right then. She wasn’t all the way to point C yet. She hadn’t figured out we wanted to adopt them, but she knew we planned to foster them if this meeting went well. And that was enough.
Sara grabbed her brother’s shoulders. “Do you got it?” she asked.
“You got trucks,” William said. His folder had identified him as practically nonverbal. It sounded like he had a few more words than Meredith Frasier was letting on. Also, he was stating a fact. While the rest of us had been so focused on Sara, he had emptied two small backpacks onto the floor. He and Sara both had cars and trucks he had stretched end to end in a small line of traffic between the table and a wall. The vehicles were arranged largest to smallest, with like colors together. Each time he picked up a new one from the pile, he adjusted the line to place the newcomer in the right spot.
“Noel,” Lance breathed. “Look. He’s classifying.” His tone said, See? Our little scientist, as if he and I had somehow had a hand in William’s skill with putting trucks in
a row. “Hey, buddy, I love the way you’ve got these organized.” Lance sat down beside William. “Can I maybe try a few?”
William went on picking up and placing. He did not answer.
Natalie warned, “Nobody is allowed to touch William’s trucks.”
Before the sentence was half out of her mouth, though, Lance had plucked a car out of the pile William was drawing from. William looked up sharply and watched Lance, but he didn’t say anything or take the vehicle back.
“Let’s see. This one is yellow, and it’s kind of little. I’m going to put it here.” Lance moved two other cars to place his in the line.
“No!” William flicked Lance’s out to the side, then sat back and watched.
“Okay, sorry.”
“He does them by number of doors, too,” Sara explained. “That one’s got four and the rest of those have two. It should have gone all the way in back of the yellows.”
“Ah.” Slowly Lance picked the rejected car up again and scooted it to a different place in line.
“Yes,” said William.
“Can I try another?”
William didn’t answer, but he allowed Lance to choose and place again, and when it had been scooted to his satisfaction, he nodded and said, “Yes.”
“Now there’s something,” said Natalie. “He’s never let Adam and me play with them. But then, I don’t think either of us figured out his method.”
“Duh.” Sara hadn’t moved. “Half those are mine,” she told her brother.
“Be polite,” Natalie reminded her again.
“What do you want to play?” Natasha indicated the other toys in the room, which seemed designed for younger children.
Sara was evading even her friend’s eyes now. She didn’t say anything.
“Sara, would you like to play trucks?” Natalie asked.
“Yeah, trucks,” she mumbled. She seized half of William’s pile. He ignored her. Where William’s game consisted entirely of lining the cars up, Sara handed Natasha and I each a car, deliberately walked past Natalie and Merry, then offered a car to Ann. “Now,” she told us, “they go in a big circle.” Her play was repetitive. While she seemed to enjoy it tremendously, I couldn’t help feeling a bit bored.
The Case of the Red-Handed Rhesus (A Rue and Lakeland Mystery) Page 8