So Much More (23 page)

I dig her envelope out of the trash—it reeks with the days old decay taking place in the bottom of the dark, moist bin. I jot her address down and quickly discard it again. I transfer the address to an envelope and place my folded letter inside. I’ll mail it tomorrow on my way to work.

I glance at the time on my phone; it’s just after eleven. The deli is open, so I head down to see if Mrs. Lipokowski has any forwarding information on Faith.

The place is crowded with the early lunch rush. I buy a six-inch roast beef and ask her if she can stop by apartment three when she closes up this afternoon because I don’t want to take up any extra time while she’s swamped in paying customers. She agrees.

And at three o’clock she knocks on my door. “Hi there, Seamus.”

“Hi, Mrs. L. I won’t keep you, I know you’re on your way home to relax. Hope told me last night that Faith left.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Hope talked to you?”

That isn’t the information I want to focus on, but I answer to move along to the important stuff. “Yeah, I walked with her to the convenience store.”

“Huh.” She looks perplexed.

“Faith moved out?” I ask because I’m done with the Hope talk.

“Her rent is paid until the end of the month, but she didn’t know if she would be back.”

“I was wondering if she told you where she was going? Or if she left a forwarding address? You know, in case she doesn’t return?”

“She didn’t. She seemed preoccupied when she stopped by to talk to me; like in her mind she was already someplace else. I felt bad for her. She’s a determined young lady, but I have a feeling her decision was weighing on her heart.”

None of the words I’ve just heard make me feel any better about Faith leaving. I was hoping she would tell me Faith found her birth mother and moved closer to her. Or that she got a new job, in a new city that would complement and embrace her potential. Instead, I’m left with uncertainty tarnished with negativity. I hate that for Faith. “Okay. Please let me know if you hear from her.”

She smiles softly; it’s a gesture meant to comfort. “I will, Seamus.”

“Thank you.” The words don’t feel appreciative. They feel like I’m begging her to deliver good news to me. Sooner than later.

She nods and turns to walk toward her apartment. “Have a good night.”

After Mrs. Lipokowski leaves, my mind goes back to Justine’s letter. It’s a presence in the apartment, like another person occupying the space. I don’t pick it up. I don’t read it again.

I don’t need to. I have it memorized word for word.

Heartbreak floods in again with a brand new intensity. I’ve been heartbroken for months. First, by the divorce, which I thought monumental and that nothing would ever top it in the heart wrecking department. And then she took my kids. That took the storm I was besieged by and ratcheted it up from a tropical storm to a hurricane. This latest news was like adding a tsunami wave, one giant destructive swell, within the eye of the relentless storm.

How could she have made a decision so important to both of us without consulting me? Without including me?

I’ve always thought of each of my children as a miracle. Because in essence, they are. Every child is a miracle. I understand the whole process of conception and a baby growing within a womb is scientific and physiological, not a rare occurrence. But I can’t wrap my head around the fact that one day there’s no baby, no separate life existing within another, and then nine months later a tiny human being is delivered to the world. A human being that is unique in make-up and perspective. A human being unlike any who’s lived before. That is miraculous. And the fact that these tiny human beings have the ability to own your heart even before you meet them, touch them, feel them, and then when you meet them, touch them, feel them for the very first time, that love you already felt explodes into something so strong and protective and nurturing. The English language should have a word for it. Though the new word would lack weight and defining presence. Because that love you feel the instant you lay eyes on your brand new tiny human being is indescribable. It’s a love so instantaneous and so intense that it defies logic. Just like babies do. It’s all miraculous.

And given that I consider each of my children a miracle, the question that keeps surfacing is so disturbing. Why did Miranda carry Kira?

As soon as the question sounds loud enough to demand my attention, I want to turn my back on it because it’s so ugly. I want to tell it to shut up and go away and never return. Kira exists, and that’s all that matters. Any question that involves a hypothetical answer that varies from reality is torturous. And even though I don’t want to know the answer, I want to hurl every question and accusation at Miranda and watch her grapple with her unearthed secrets. I want to watch her squirm. Her conscience wouldn’t make her squirm—she lacks one—but she prides herself in winning, right or wrong, because she thinks she deserves it. Entitlement is a sickness festering within her. It’s slowly transformed her into the devil she is.

I need to get my kids back. Time yields results, even against the defiant. It’s a subtle opponent. It partners up with other forces, like environment and people, and erodes.

My kids are eroding and changing. Miranda and the new elements at play in their new lives are affecting them all while they fight them.

I’ve started calling Miranda’s home several times per day. I know the housekeeper is annoyed with me because she usually answers, but I also feel like there’s a peculiar, resistant mutual respect for each other’s bullheadedness emerging, which seems to be working in my favor because I usually win and get to talk to my kids at least once per day. Miranda and her husband work late hours and aren’t home most nights, so I bet she figures it’s easier to let me talk to my kids and not tell Miranda, than to keep answering the phone. The kids all like her too, which eases my mind a bit, since they’re in her care most of the time.

I need to start making a case for myself. I’ve never believed in painting another party to be the bad guy to get what I want, but in the case of the custody of my kids, one of us is bad. I need to start documenting everything. So, I grab a notebook and I start writing down everything I can remember about Miranda and our relationship from the very beginning until now. It takes hours and when I’m done I’m exhausted, like I’ve physically exerted myself. I also start emailing lawyers, pleading my case and asking for their opinion and representation.

I need to get my kids back.

Batman angels

present

Last night, Claudette made me some chamomile tea and insisted I get some sleep. The sleep she tried to tempt me toward never came. And even though I felt safe in her home, I was restless. I was trying to put together a game plan, or trying to talk myself out of one. The pattern and path of my thoughts changed minute to minute.

I’m sitting in her small kitchen eating a bowl of Rice Krispies and watching her pour water into the coffee maker. My thoughts are cloudy and unfocused, as if the reality of what I’m about to do is blurring rationality.

“How’ve you been, Meg?” Claudette asks as she waits for the machine to brew her morning addiction.

“I go by Faith now. And I’ve been good.” It’s my trained response.
I’m good. I’m always good.
 

She smiles, apparently practice makes perfect and she believes me. “Good. And I like Faith, it suits you. What brings you back to Kansas City, Faith?”

I sniffle against the runny nose that’s plaguing me this morning. It seems I picked up a cold along the way. I can’t imagine how, the bus was a cornucopia of germs, complete with hacking coughs and snotty noses. I’m trying to decide how much information I want to share with her. She knows more about me than anyone else. She knows my secrets. I need to be honest with her. “I’m looking for my birth mother. Or father. Either, really,” I answer vaguely.

She sits down in the chair across from me and stares unblinkingly with her discerning eyes. “The time has come?”

I nod and sniff again. “I need to figure out who I am. I don’t think I can do that until I have some answers, you know?”

She nods. She knows. “Did I ever tell you I grew up in foster care?”

“No, you never told me that. Is that why you do what you do?”

She smiles thoughtfully, but sadness tugs from deep inside trying to dissuade it. “Yes. I was nine when I went into the system. I remember my parents. I know who they were, and I wish I didn’t.” She takes a deep breath. “My foster parents were my salvation. They cared for me until I was eighteen. I believe there are superheroes walking amongst us. Or maybe they’re heavenly angels. I’m a Batman fan, so I tend to lean toward superheroes. They’re dressed in skin to look like you and me, but they have an exceptional ability. My foster parents had it.”

“What is it?”

“They had the ability to make someone who felt unseen, unwanted, and unloved feel special. They saw me. They wanted me. They loved me.”

My mind goes to Seamus. He’s the only person I’ve ever met, who made me feel that way.

“And I feel like it’s my responsibility to do my part in trying to make those connections for children in need: the unseen, the unwanted, the unloved. And it’s also the reason I take it so hard when I fail a child like I did you.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t your fault, Claudette.”

Tears are spilling quietly from her eyes as she shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. You have no idea how badly I feel about what happened. Still.”

I don’t want to talk about it, but I also don’t want her to feel in any way responsible for what happened. “Claudette, you know I don’t talk about that day, but I will say this, you’re a Batman angel. He was an evil bastard.”

She nods and switches topics. “Your birth parents’ names were undisclosed, even on your birth certificate. It was all part of the private adoption, which we know wasn’t on the up and up. The only information provided was that your mother was under the age of eighteen.”

“I know. I went to California hoping against hope that I’d find a needle in a haystack. I lived in the neighborhood near the hospital I was delivered in. It was a small beach community just up the coast from Los Angeles. A quiet place, lots of mom and pop businesses, and a nice stretch of boardwalk that attracted a kind crowd. It was laid-back and welcoming. I know it’s stupid, but I prayed that I’d run into her.” I huff. “My mom is probably long gone. She probably doesn’t even live there, but it was the most painless attempt I could make. And it offered escape from here. From hell.”

“So, what’s the next step?”

“I need to talk to Trenton Groves. He and his wife were the ones who adopted me at birth. Maybe he can give me details about my birth mother.”

She’s unblinking again. “Are you sure you’re ready for that? Are you sure you want to face that monster?”

I nod, more to myself than anything. “I need to. I have a gut feeling that he’s my only hope of finding my birth parents.”

“Where is he?” she asks hesitantly. She already knows I know or I wouldn’t be here.

“Prison. In Springfield, on drug charges. I’ve been keeping tabs on him. It’s been easy, he’s usually incarcerated.”

“Oh. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I wasn’t surprised either. He’s not exactly an upstanding citizen.” A few years ago I read the transcripts of the trial that convicted he and his wife of my abuse and neglect. Decent humans don’t do that to a little girl.

“You’ll need to get him to add you to his visitation list and make an appointment to set up a visitation time,” she coaches.

“Done. Tomorrow at ten in the morning.”

Her eyes dart to the side. She’s not looking at anything, she’s thinking. “I’ll drive you. I’ll go with you.”

I was praying she would. I don’t want to do this alone. “You’re sure?”

“This is how I begin to make amends,” she says solemnly.

I want to tear my pages out and run away with them like a thief

present

The building is cold. The concrete, the steel, even the fluorescence of the abundant overhead lighting is stark and house an inherent chill. I’m still wearing my coat, scarf, and gloves, and there are goosebumps covering every inch of my skin under all the layers of clothing.