Finding Noel (9 page)

“We are here because the Hummel family would like to adopt you into their family. Do you know what ‘adoption' means?”

It means you have to go someplace you don't want to
, Macy thought. Again she nodded. The ambient sounds of the room grew loud and drowned out everything else—the brass, glass-domed clock on the shelf, the growling of Mrs. Hummel's stomach—the judge was speaking and she heard words here and there like the tuning of a radio.

“Do you know …change your last name?…no longer …Macy Wood …Hummel?”

Then Macy didn't hear him anymore at all. The voice became a drone of authority that pinned her down like gravity. Her eyes opened wider, and the largeness of the moment swallowed her in, and she clutched her chair. Then abruptly everything stopped. Everyone was looking at her.

“Is this okay?” the judge asked gently. He nodded as he spoke and Macy, wide-eyed and trembling, imitated his motion. Didn't he know she was afraid? Couldn't he see the Hummels were bad people?

As quickly as it began, it was over. There were congratulations and smiles. Everyone seemed happy. As Macy walked
out, she saw her sister. She was eating a sucker and facing away from the door.

“Sissy.”

Noel turned, and Mrs. Thorup quickly put her arm around her to restrain her. Noel began to cry again. “Don't go 'way.”

Macy's lip quivered. “Where's your heart, Sissy?”

“Macy,” Noel cried. She strained against Mrs. Thorup's grasp. “Let me go!”

“Sissy,” Macy repeated. “Where's your heart?”

Noel stopped struggling and put her hand over her chest.

“Keep me there,” Macy said.

Noel's soon-to-be father lifted her and carried her into the room and Macy shuffled out with the rest of the Hummels. Macy knew she would never see her Sissy again.

The six Hummels went out for ice cream to celebrate. Macy had a single scoop of mint chocolate chip.

There is no amount of compassion or common sense that can't be extinguished by government bureaucracy.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

It had been more than five years since Macy had talked to anyone from the state. The last caseworker she had seen had retired two years earlier, and the woman at the DCFS office referred her to the woman who had taken most of her cases, a middle-aged woman named Andrea Bellamy.

Macy had dressed up for the meeting. She wore an outfit she had borrowed from her roommate, a matching pink silk skirt and jacket with a white pleated blouse. She wanted the caseworker to know that where the state had failed she'd succeeded. She even carried a purse—for her, a symbol of respectability and stability.

The caseworker was a heavyset woman with frosted hair, heavy makeup and bright eyes. She greeted Macy in the lobby. “Hi, I'm Andrea.”

“I'm Macy. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said. “Please follow me.”

Andrea led her back past a jungle of fabric-padded cubicles to a small conference room. She directed Macy to a
chair, then sat down across from her, setting a large folder on the table between them. In the overcrowded schedule of a caseworker there was seldom time for formalities, and Andrea Bellamy quickly launched into the business at hand. “I looked up your file yesterday. I had a little trouble finding it with your name change.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“According to your record, you were adopted at the age of eight by Dick and Irene Hummel. Your little sister was adopted by another family on the same day.”

“That's right. I just need to know where she is.”

The woman looked at her stoically. “I'd like to help you with that but unfortunately her file was ordered sealed by the judge.”

Macy looked at her quizzically. “Sealed?”

“It means I can't give you any information about her without a court order.”

“How do I get one of those?”

“In a case like this you probably can't.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the seven years I've been here, I've never seen it happen.”

“But don't I have a right to see my sister?”

“That right is negated by her and her adopted parents' right to privacy.”

“Why would my sister want privacy from me?”

The woman didn't answer.

“Could you tell me her name?”

“You don't remember her name?”

Macy shook her head. “I've forgotten.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't tell you anything.”

Macy rested her head in the palm of her hand. “Is there any way around this?”

“Only if your sister decides that she wants to see you and makes a formal request. I now have your phone number and address, so I'll contact you if that happens.”

“But she might not even remember me. She was only four when we were separated.”

The woman looked at Macy sympathetically. “I'm really sorry. I wish I could be of more help, but it's the law.”

Macy's voice was sharp with anger. “But she's my sister. We had no choice…” Macy looked into the woman's eyes. “How can complete strangers make that decision for us?”

Again the woman didn't answer.

“Do you think it's fair?”

“No, I don't. But we're bound by the law, and sometimes the law and
‘fair
' are two different things.”

After a moment Macy pointed to the folder between them. “Can I see my file?”

“I can't show it to you either.”

“I can't see my own file?”

“I'm afraid not. There's information in here about your biological parents and it's been sealed as well.”

“Then I have no place to go.”

“I'm afraid not.”

Macy wavered between crying and raging. “What if someone told you that you couldn't ever see your family again?”

“I didn't say it was fair, Macy. Just that it's the law.”

“It's a bad law. Can't you give me any help? This is
my
life—she's my
sister.
”

The woman just looked at her. “I wish I could help you. I really do.”

Macy's eyes filled. Suddenly a page came over the office phone system. “Andrea Bellamy, you have a call on line five.”

“I need to get that,” Andrea said apologetically. She glanced over at the phone in the corner of the room, then back at Macy. Her expression became thoughtful. “I think I'll take that call back in my office.” Her eyes fell on the folder between them. Macy looked at the folder, then up into her eyes and understood.

“I'll probably be five minutes.”

“You wouldn't have a pen and paper, would you?”

Andrea pulled a plastic pen from her valise and handed it to her. “There's a note pad by the phone. She walked to the door, leaving Macy staring at the folder on the desk. She turned back once more. “Five minutes.”

“Thank you,” Macy said.

“For what?” Andrea Bellamy replied. “Like I said, I can't help you.” She shut the door behind herself.

Macy grabbed the file and began thumbing through it. It was half an inch thick and contained a complete record of each of her placements. There was a psychological profile of her, which she didn't have time to read so she folded it and
put it in her purse. She found a report with her father's name and an address. She retrieved the notepad and copied down her father's information.

By the time Andrea returned, Macy was on her way out of the building.

I have puzzled over the phrase “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Does that mean people intend well but never actually do it? Or that they do good things with bad results? I suppose it doesn't matter much. Either way the right thing doesn't get done.

MARK SMART'S DIARY