Nobody's Child

by Austin Boyd

  “It’s not important how I know, Laura Ann. But I do.” His tone changed, more official than before. “I understand that the child may be released from neonatal ICU in a few days, and after some time in the preemie ward, James will be allowed to go home.”

  Where is home?

  Laura Ann considered that thought for a long moment. Home is where love is. Where Daddy was. Where Ian is.

  “What you said about James is correct,” she replied, not sure what more she should say.

  “I presume that you know Sophia had no family.” His voice sank again. “I appreciate what you did to find her a resting place, by the way.” He let that comment stand for a moment. “You were her only support during dark days. Thank you.”

  “I wish I’d known her longer.”

  “Me too.”

  Mr. Brewer paused, clearing his throat. “Sophia gave me some very specific directions about her child, should she not survive to care for him,” he said. “She understood the risks and took all the proper legal precautions in the event of her death.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry. This is quite hard for me. She was a valued colleague. And my boss.”

  “I understand.”

  “Nevertheless, Laura Ann, her direction was that — in the untimely event of her death — you be named the guardian of the boy.”

  He hesitated, as if waiting for her response, then added, “She set aside most of her estate to create a monthly stipend to support the child. We intend to probate the will after the baby leaves the hospital. I’ll be in touch with you on the details of the guardianship — presuming you agree, of course — and I’ll share information about the stipend. Sophia was adamant that you not suffer any financial hardship caring for her son.”

  Mr. Brewer wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief, shaking his head a bit. “I’m sorry. As soon as Sophia called me to the hospital four weeks ago, I’ve been dreading this day. But — but I’m happy for James. And for you.” He put the handkerchief away and reached into his briefcase for some papers.

  “Sophia made one more stipulation in the will. It’s a wish, not directive in nature, but one she wanted me to convey if she was unable to share it with you personally.” He took a deep breath.

  “She asked that, if you and your fiancé are willing, you adopt the child as your own. She hoped he might grow up with your name, and as part of your family. With you as his mom.”

  At nearly nine o’clock, the night shift settled into their routine at the neonatal ICU. Laura Ann stood at the window looking into the care area. Ian stood by her side, his warmth palpable in the cool of the hospital. They watched a nurse check on James, one of three children still under a critical watch. Soon, perhaps, he would leave for the preemie ward, and then, home.

  Laura Ann crossed her arms against the chill, willing her heart to slow its tortuous beat. Forming the words that must come out, determined to never hide secrets again, she took a long breath, ready to speak the desire of her heart — one that might destroy her relationship with Ian.

  “A lawyer came to see me today,” she began. “Mr. Brewer. A friend … an employee of Sophia.”

  “And?”

  “He came to tell me that he’s probating her will.” She paused, facing Ian at the window. “Sophia named me as legal guardian for James.” She watched his face for a reaction, but he seemed strangely calm. “He said there would be a monthly stipend to help with the care.”

  Ian raised a hand, leaning into the cold glass. “You figured that was coming, right? The guardian part, at least.” He watched something inside the care area for a long time, then added, “I’ve been wondering when we’d learn about her wishes. Officially, that is.”

  “I never wanted it to turn out this way, Ian. But yes — if Sophia’s gone, I want to care for this baby.” She swallowed some words, and then added, “I don’t want to simply be his guardian.”

  He turned and looked down at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m his biological mother. I want to be more than his caretaker.” She took a deep breath. “I want to be his mom.”

  “Laura Ann?” Ian asked, lowering his hand to tug at her elbow.

  Her chin quivered while she watched him, hopeful he’d share the words she dreamed of.

  He took her hands, unfolding her crossed arms. “We’ll get through this. I’ll be there right by you, and — “

  Laura Ann couldn’t hold back anymore, throwing her arms around him, her face planted into that strong place below his shoulder, the beat of his heart strong against her cheek. “Do you mean that?” she asked, sniffling. “You’re okay with an instant family?”

  “Yes, but I’m not finished,” he said with a laugh, adding, “You interrupt a lot.” He hugged her, lifting her off the floor. “It’s all happening pretty fast, you know? But I’ve always wanted a son.”

  “Really?” she exclaimed, sort of a half-cry, half-laugh. “Mr.

  Brewer said that Sophia asked us to adopt him. Both of us. And the lactation nurse said I could learn to breast feed with the help of some simple exercises and medication. And Granny Apple has lots of baby clothes she could loan us, and—”

  Ian lowered her to the floor and reached up to cup her face in his hands, a thumb across her lips, another thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. “I think those are all great ideas, Miss McGehee. But that means we’d better hurry up and get married, right?” He winked. “After all, what’s holding us up?”

  “Yes, soon,” she said, her smile so wide her that cheeks cramped. “I’d like that.” She reached up to touch the long hands that cradled her. The gentle touch of a man who’d always been there for her, long before she’d noticed that he cared. Ian glanced back through the window, and she followed his gaze.

  “Gotta tie the knot, Laura Ann. ‘Cause pretty soon that boy’s gonna need a dad.”

  CHAPTER 24

  AUGUST 27

  Heat shimmered in translucent waves where it rose off the baked clay of August corn fields, mature stalks browning for a September harvest. Tired leaves drooped from towering poplars, faint streaks of yellow the first hint of the approaching fall. Dog days wrapped the mountains in their sweltering embrace. Under the relative cool of a shaded porch, Laura Ann rocked into the late afternoon of a summer Friday.

  James’s eyes stared up at Laura Ann, cradled in her arms. A month old today, the child gripped her finger with his tiny hand while he nursed. Laura Ann’s gaze never left the infant, in wonder at this gift of life. She marveled how, each time James latched on to her, she felt a strange tingling, a warm, relaxed feeling she’d never experienced before.

  “Your mother was beautiful,” Laura Ann said in a quiet voice. A metal air chime tinkled at the edge of the porch, the wind carrying the hot smell of dry pastures and damp whiffs of the muddy creek bottom. “She loved it here,” Laura Ann continued. “There’s so much to tell you.”

  James blinked as though perhaps he knew something of his mother, knew of the struggle she endured to bring him into the world. His hand closed on Laura Ann’s finger, the lines of his tiny palm etched into soft pink flesh. Satin black hair drifted weightless when he moved in her arms, seeking a new position as he drank. Her milk artificially induced with drugs and stimulation regimens, induced like the fertile eggs she’d shed months ago, Laura Ann wet-nursed her son. An adoptive single mother, and a bride-to-be.

  James’s eyes fell closed, pulling at Laura Ann for the last of his fourth feeding that day. A few minutes later, his mouth relaxed and he let go, his lips moist and curled in a slight smile. She watched him, her sole focus, asleep in her arms. Her toes pushed against porch boards to move the rocker in synch with the chirp of cicadas that sang in the sweltering heat.

  Granny Apple stepped out of the house, a glass of ice water in hand. “Drink up, child.”

  Laura Ann took the glass, resting it on the broad wooden arm of the chair. Granny Apple settled into a rocker next to her. In silence, they watched the farm
evaporate into cloudless skies. Oak rockers rumbled back and forth over uneven boards, a gentle percussion accompaniment to the perpetual buzz of insects.

  “The state plans to repair the low water crossing ‘round the end of this month. To get ready for hunting season.”

  “That’s a relief,” Laura Ann said, looking up at the vehicles in the drive. Since June, with no way to leave the farm by automobile, she’d been wading back and forth across the Middle Island Creek, a tiresome chore. Albeit, there were some advantages; drunks didn’t choose the forest above the farm for their late-night hangouts.

  “You two need to set a date.” Granny Apple threw the comment out like a challenge. “The way people talk, and all.”

  “We have,” she said. “It will be soon.” Laura Ann knew they couldn’t wait much longer for the wedding, nor did they plan to. No shotgun wedding, and no long engagement. Something in between. Since Ian’s proposal at the top of the ridge, she’d been reminded each day how much he cared for her. His daily trips to see her these past weeks affirmed what she already knew — that he wanted to be with her all the time, not just wading across the Middle Island to spend every evening working the farm while she mothered a new infant.

  Granny Apple stood up out of the rocker and approached, her arms extended. “I’ll put James down. You can take a walk.”

  Laura Ann nodded and raised James into Granny Apple’s waiting arms. As the screen door shut behind her adopted grandma, she looked up to see two men and a woman walking down the road toward the farmhouse. A flash of light reflected gold off the chest of one man dressed in khaki, his head topped with a frame cap.

  The police?

  “Are you Laura Ann McGehee?” Deputy Rodale asked a few minutes later, staring at some folded papers in his hand. Sweat poured off the man where he stood at the foot of the porch, a line of white chalking an arc under his armpits.

  “What? You’ve known me since middle school, Brian.”

  He never looked up but studied the papers in front of him, then turned to the man at his right, scanning his face for some clue how to proceed.

  “Brian Rodale!” Granny Apple exclaimed through the screen door, moving onto the porch to join Laura Ann. “Who’s this with you and what in the dickens are you doing out here on a day like this?” She laughed and extended a hand to the stranger.

  Black-haired and brown as Sophia, the man ignored her proffered hand, never taking his eye off Laura Ann. He neither smiled nor frowned, the expression of a bored observer ready to move on to the next activity. Not breaking his gaze at Laura Ann, he reached left and forced the papers into Deputy Rodale’s soggy chest. “Get it over with,” he said, clipping his words, his accent nothing like that of a mountain person. He crossed his arms, looked left at the deputy, then back at Laura Ann.

  Deputy Rodale shrugged and turned to a thin woman who hid behind his girth.

  “Phyllis?” Granny Apple exclaimed. “What’s this all about?”

  “Child Protective Services sent us out to see you,” Phyllis said. A short greying woman of about fifty, and thin as a willow, she’d easily disappeared behind the officer. She held forth a second folded set of papers, bound in blue. “Brian is here to escort us on some difficult business. May we come in?”

  “No.” Laura Ann backed up in front of Granny Apple. “We can talk on the porch.”

  “Suit yourself,” the stranger said, his accent a touch Hispanic. “Let’s get this over with.” He motioned to the woman.

  Phyllis stepped up on the porch and handed forth the package of folded papers. “This is difficult for all of us, so please — let’s do this the easy way. May we sit down?”

  Laura Ann’s pulse quickened, something in Phyllis’s tone a reminder of her uncle Jack. “If this is an official visit,” Laura Ann said, “I’d prefer to stand.”

  “It’s official,” Deputy Rodale replied, holding his set of papers forward like he couldn’t wait to get rid of them. Granny Apple’s hand snagged the package.

  Laura Ann never took her eyes off the officer. “What do you want, Brian?”

  The deputy bit his lip, looking left and right for support but finding none. He blurted out his words. “We’re here to serve notice about the child.”

  Laura Ann clenched her fists, backing up a step, she and Granny guarding the door.

  Granny Apple snapped, “Phyllis Macintosh. What do you think you’re doing?” She threw the papers back at the grey-haired woman. “You will not take James from this house.”

  “What?” Laura Ann exclaimed, her eyes following the ruffled papers to the floor, then to the stranger at Deputy Rodale’s right. The Hispanic man stepped forward, headed straight for her.

  “Get this over with,” he said. “Where’s my son?”

  “No!” Laura Ann screamed as the stranger stepped forward. She stuck out her arm.

  Deputy Rodale put a hand to the man’s shoulder, moving up the steps to restrain him. “Please, Mr. Mendoza. Not here. Not yet.”

  “Not ever!” Laura Ann quipped, her heart pounding double-time. She stood side by side with Granny Apple, her chin quivering, palms sweaty.

  “Laura Ann,” Phyllis said, stepping up on the porch with her companions. “I’m here representing the state. Mr. Mendoza filed suit for custody of Sophia McQuistion’s child on the basis that he is the biological father and has parental rights to the child.”

  “No!” Laura Ann shot back. “Sophia named me as his guardian. We probated the will, and I have proof. He’s my son. And the adoption papers have been filed.”

  “That’s partially true. But he’s not your son unless you adopt him in accordance with all of the laws of the state.” Phyllis looked to the right for support from Deputy Rodale. He offered none. “The problem, Laura Ann, is that when Ms. McQuistion named you as guardian, the state was unaware of a biological father who made claim to the child. Mr. Mendoza has documentation to prove that he is the father.” She moved closer, picking up the papers off the porch. “Her will has been contested.”

  “Not possible!” Laura Ann said. “Sophia used a sperm donor.”

  “I was the donor,” the stranger replied, a mean smile breaking where boredom showed before. “That kid is mine, and she came to Cincinnati to thank me for it.” He licked his lips. “She found me right after I got her pregnant.”

  “Is this true?” Granny Apple asked Phyllis. Her hand sought Laura Ann’s forearm as if to say “let me lead.”

  Phyllis nodded, refolding the papers. “He filed these documents in county court, Granny. They’re yours while we sort out this mess. He can prove that the clinic Ms. McQuistion visited used his sperm for the in vitro fertilization. She did in fact look him up and thank him for his role in the process. All the evidence shows that he’s the biological father. Until we can determine which person has legal rights to raise the child — the biological parent or the named guardian — then the baby becomes a ward of the state of West Virginia.” She paused, her eyes showing the first sign of empathy that day. “That’s why I’m here, Laura Ann. James will go to a foster home while we work this through the courts.”

  “No!” Laura Ann yelled. “Not a chance. I’ve been there for this child every day since before he was born. You don’t just waltz up here with some court papers and expect me to send my baby off to live with strangers.”

  “Yes, we do,” the Hispanic man said. “Bring the kid out here. Now.”

  Deputy Rodale put a hand on the man’s shoulder again, holding him back.

  Granny Apple put an arm in front of Laura Ann, her voice its most severe. “Phyllis, you waded across a creek and walked a mile to get here. Just how do you intend to take the infant home?”

  “She’s not taking James —,” Laura Ann said.

  “Shhh. Phyllis? I asked you a question.”

  “Same way we walked in, Granny. I guess we’d carry him out.”

  “You’re going to wade across that creek with a baby?”

  “Not right now,” Deputy
Rodale said. “We’re simply serving papers related to the suit. Laura Ann is responsible for bringing the child in. Unless — “

  “Unless?”

  “Unless the sheriff deems her to be a flight risk,” Phyllis said, “or I observe some endangerment of the child.”

  “Endangerment? Really, Phyllis. Who put you up to this?”

  “These are official papers, ma’am, and they’ve been properly filed in a court of law,” Deputy Rodale said, taking the package from Phyllis’s hands. “But we didn’t come to see you. So please stand aside.”

  “I will not,” Granny said, linking an arm with Laura Ann. “And you know my name, boy.”

  The Hispanic man pushed forward toward Laura Ann, swearing aloud as he swept Deputy Rodale’s hand from his shoulder. “No more talk.”

  Daddy steadied her and faced Laura Ann, his hand on her shoulder. “Put your knee here,” he said, pointing down with his other hand. “Then bring your fist up like this.” He bent over and pulled her clenched fist into his face. “Use all the strength you’ve got.”

  He stood straight up. “If that fails, use those fingers. Claw his eyes out. Whatever it takes, go down fighting. You won’t get a second chance.”

  Laura Ann watched Daddy a moment in the silence of the kitchen, then asked, “Why would someone want to hurt me?”

  Mr. Mendoza threw his hand up, trying to sweep Laura Ann out of the way.

  “No!” Phyllis commanded. “Stop him, Brian.” Mendoza broke away from the deputy before Phyllis’s words died in her mouth.

  Laura Ann stood her ground. When his left arm connected with her, thrown across her as though he expected her to topple like a pile of apples, Laura Ann grabbed him above his left elbow, her squeeze iron-tight from years of milking. She wrenched his arm backward with a sharp twist meant to tear it from his shoulder. Wide-eyed, he bent toward her, and she turned Daddy’s lesson into action. Lifting his arm high with the wrenching motion, she jerked her left knee in a powerful upward thrust into his crotch. Mendoza screamed, his arm rent backwards, and any future as a sperm donor put in jeopardy.