Three Little Words (24 page)

Phil lifted a slice of white meat. “Hand me your plate,” he said to me.

“I’m not hungry.” I stared Gay down. A little thrill went through me as I saw her twitch. I knew she was thinking about how to respond to my rejection of her menu.

Gay’s jaw tightened. “No alternate dinners,” Gay said to me, then turned toward Phil. “She likes everything that’s being served.”

“Fine,” I retorted in relief. “May I please be excused?” I went to my room and did not emerge for the rest of the night, even though my stomach rumbled and my mind churned, trying to understand why I would rather annoy Gay than eat her food.

The next day Gay picked me up from school. “Want to stop at Wendy’s?”

“Are you going out or something?” I asked.

“Nope. You won’t like what I’m cooking tonight.”

“What is it?”

“Sweetbreads.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s a cow’s pancreas gland.”

I figured she was grossing me out as revenge for not eating her chicken dinner. While we were ordering at the drive-through, Gay said, “I called Beth Reese today.”

“About the adoption?”

“Nope.”

Her cheerfulness was troubling. If she was sending me back, she would have spoken to Beth Reese. “Ashley, I’ve been bending over backward trying to cook for you, but from now on, I am serving the sorts of meals that Phil and I prefer. I will try to make a plain version for you, but I won’t care if you eat it. You may have all the alternate dinners you want.”

Once we were home, I unpacked my sandwich while Gay started her preparations. She peeled carrots as if she was enjoying skinning their flesh. “Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“No.”

“What did you talk to Ms. Beth about?”

“Why you didn’t eat any of your favorite foods last night.” Gay put down the peeler. “I love feeding my family, yet you resist my nurturing because all those other mothers—especially your birth mother—failed to care for you. I cannot force you to accept my love through food, kisses, or any of the ways I know.” She melted butter in a sautÉ pan, then tossed in pieces of the gnarly meat. “So I won’t frustrate myself trying.”

I reached for my burger. It was cold. I ate it anyway and tried to decide once again whether I had won or lost.

Did I really want to stay with the Courters? Some days I felt as if I had been born into their family; other times I felt like a guest who had stayed too long. Yet I was more afraid of an unknown place. This could be the best deal anyone would ever offer me.

Finally, I decided on a name: Ashley Marie Rhodes-Courter. Gay’s cousin, Neil Spector, was going to be our attorney for the finalization. We went to Tampa to sign the consent forms at his office.

“Will Neil also be my attorney after the adoption?” I asked.

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Why? Are you planning to sue us?”

“No, but I want to sue the Mosses for what they did to me—and Luke.”

“It will be their word against yours,” Phil said.

“They should pay for what they did to us!” I seethed.

“Cutie-pie, let it go,” he added.

Gay whispered, “Why don’t you talk about that with your therapist?”

Neil ushered us into a conference area to review the paperwork with us. He glanced from the Courters to me and was probably wondering why we did not seem happier about the occasion.

Gay told me she was going to Tampa to review my whole file. “I want to fill in the blanks in your life before they store your files.”

“We’ve got the kid, what else matters?” Phil asked.

“Ashley has had so many questions about her past. Maybe I’ll find some answers in those boxes.”

That evening she came home waving a thick manila envelope. “Your new worker dragged out three file storage boxes. I found all sorts of information on your birth family, foster homes, schools….” She grinned mischievously. “When I lifted out the last section of files in one case, I noticed this!”

She handed me the envelope. I gasped when I opened it and found my hospital newborn photo, family snapshots, even professional baby portraits. “I didn’t know that I had any baby pictures!”

“I’d recognize those dimples anywhere,” Phil said like a proud papa.

He made copies, and soon my framed baby pictures sprouted up next to those of Blake and Josh.

Before going to school one morning, I came in to ask Gay something while she was sipping tea in bed. She pointed to the photo of me as abaldbaby in a sky blue dress. “Sometimes I pretend you were my baby,” she said.

I looked at the picture, then at Gay. “Gotta run.” I started out the door, turned around, bent over, gave Gay a peck on the cheek, and rushed from the room.

The Courters bustled about with legal preparations and plans for three adoption parties. To honor the people who had helped make my adoption possible, they were hosting a luncheon near the courthouse. Mary Miller and the Guardian ad Litem Program staff headed the guest list, which also included Martha Cook, who had been my pro bono Attorney ad Litem. Next, we were going to The Children’s Home for a smaller dessert party, which only served to remind me that I could get sent back there anytime. The Courters also planned a gathering in their home for friends and family over the weekend.

When Gay asked what sort of cake I wanted, I said, “I don’t care.” And I really did not. I did not want them to make a big deal because I expected that all the celebrations would just add to future bad memories.

“From now on, you’ll have two birthdays: your adoption day and your regular one,” Gay announced. Then she asked, “What would you like for your adoption day gift?”

“I want to have my ear cartilage pierced like Ms. Sandnes.”

“I’m not mutilating you the minute I get you,” she snapped.

“Tess’s mother let her have her belly button pierced!”

“Lucky Tess,” she said in a snide voice.

The closer the fateful day came, the grumpier I felt. That morning I did not dress until the last possible minute. Gay was annoyed that everyone—including my godparents, Adam and Lesley Weiner, and their three young daughters—was waiting on me. Josh carried the professional video camera to capture every “precious” moment. At the luncheon I could barely swallow more than a soda. Gay had told me to write a poem to thank everyone. She had my poem printed and waiting on every place setting.

Phil stood up and welcomed the guests, and then Gay made a few remarks. She concluded, “Thanks, everyone, for giving us our daughter! Now here’s Ashley.”

I stayed in my seat. Gay flapped her copy of my poem in my face. “You’re supposed to read it,” she hissed.

I looked out and saw the expectant faces of the Merritts and Ms. Sandnes, Mary Miller and Martha Cook, The Children’s Home staff, the Weiners and other Courter friends and family. I was more furious at Gay’s prompting than nervous. Snatching the paper, I spoke in a monotone:

I was trembling as I spit out the last forced sentence. Thinking I was overwhelmed with emotion, Phil stood and put his arm around me protectively. “We’d better not keep the judge waiting.”

I squirmed away and went to the restroom to avoid saying good-bye to those who were not coming to the adoption proceedings. Gay followed me into the bathroom. “Ashley, are you all right?”

I flushed and came out. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m nervous too,” Gay said.

I pushed in front of her without responding. The car was hotter than a sauna, and it didn’t have time to cool off before we found a parking lot near the courthouse. The downtown buildings radiated heat like giant toasters in the midday July sun, making my dress stick to my legs. At first the frigid courthouse felt as refreshing as an icy bath, but by the time we took the escalator upstairs, I could not stop shaking. Soon we were called into Judge Florence Foster’s chambers. I could not wait for it to be over, but there was a delay. Clayton Hooper—the same caseworker I’d had at the Hagens and now my most recent adoption worker—was late. I stared into the distance while everyone chatted as if this were a cocktail party. I sucked in my cheek and chewed on the side of my lip.

“Hey, everyone, sorry I’m late,” called Mr. Hooper as he breezed in without explaining where he had been. He reached over and patted my head. “Where’s that sunshiny smile of yours, Ashley Marie? This is the happiest day of your life!”

“The judge is waiting,” a bailiff said, and opened the door for us all to enter.

I expected that we would go into a TV-style courtroom, but we went from a public hallway to a private one and then into a corporate-style conference room with a polished table in the middle. Judge Foster sat at one end. Neil Spector was in charge of the seating plan, and I was told to take the chair between my almost-parents. I stared across at Mary Miller, Mary Fernandez, and Beth Lord. I wanted to crawl under the table and sit on the other side because I felt that is where I really belonged. They had known me longer than the Courters, so in my mind, they were more like family. I glanced at Phil and Gay, who were listening to the legal gibberish. Mary Miller was smiling, and so were Beth Lord and Mary Fernandez. They wanted me to move on to another life, but I was ready to call the whole thing off.

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.