Three Little Words (25 page)

We stopped at The Children’s Home for the dessert celebration. I had been to these productions for other kids—kids who were sent back—so what was the point? My old friends stood around awkwardly and left the room as soon as they had finished their cake. Luke, who was normally a total terror, sat docilely and sipped a soda.

For the last time, Mary Fernandez asked me how I felt. I said, “This is horrible for Luke.”

“Today’s your day, Ashley,” she said, but my feeling of doom did not recede.

Not long after the adoption, the strangest thing happened: I started tasting new foods. While we were in Tampa shopping, the Courters decided to have sushi.

“Do you want to have a burger before or after?” Phil asked.

“I’m not hungry yet,” I said, sulking.

At the sushi bar the young, handsome chef automatically served me a piece of yellowtail. Wanting to impress him with my sophistication, I popped it in my mouth. It tasted both sweet and tangy, and the texture was silky. “It’s really good!”

I saw Gay and Phil exchange a shocked glance. I dared myself to try a piece of tuna roll from Phil’s plate. “May I taste your soup?” I asked. He pushed it in front of me, and I ate it—seaweed and all.

“Still want a burger?” Phil asked when we were in the car.

“Nope.” A few miles down the road I blurted, “I can’t believe I ate raw fish!”

As the adoption made me feel more secure, the tautness in my stomach relaxed, and I found that I was interested in new foods. I realized that I could find something I liked at almost any restaurant, whereas before I had often left hungry.

School started again in a few weeks, which was a relief because my quarrels with Gay had intensified. She hassled me about everything, and sometimes I enjoyed provoking her.

On the Halloween just before my thirteenth birthday, Tess came over. We fashioned low-cut, tight costumes and elaborately made up our faces. “What are you going as?” Gay asked.

I strutted on high heels and placed my hand on my hip in a provocative pose. “A hooker.”

“You can’t go out like that!” Gay shrieked.

“What about Tess?” I felt humiliated in front of my friend.

“I’ll take her home and see what her mother thinks of her choice. But if you don’t modify that outfit, the only trick you are getting is to stay here.”

I gave her the silent treatment. “Those blank stares may work on other people, but I’ve lived with you long enough to know what you’re up to,” she said.

“You’re an unreasonable—” My voice became shrill, but I censored myself. I had never cussed at Gay to her face and did not know what would happen if I did.

“And you’re acting like your mother!”

I recoiled as if I had been punched and gasped for breath. Gay looked like she wished she could suck the words back in. As soon as I caught my breath, I found beads and scarves to make the outfits more discreet, and we went out as gypsies.

I did not know then that the Courters had withheld something that Gay had found along with my pictures in the files: letters from my mother, Aunt Leanne, and Dusty. Gay waited until after the adoption to contact Leanne. My aunt was thrilled to hear about me and told Gay how she and Lorraine had tried hard to parent me when I was a baby. Leanne was married with two sons. My uncle Sammie was also married and had been eager to find Luke and me. Gay asked her whether she should contact my mother. Aunt Leanne explained that my mother had a steady job and a new boyfriend. “She would love to hear how Ashley’s doing.”

“I’ll write her,” Gay replied.

“Well, you be careful,” Leanne warned. “My sister can’t always be trusted.”

Mary Fernandez and Mary Miller also urged caution. The therapist told Gay that it was important for me to have integrated more of the Courter family’s values before I identified with my mother again; and my guardian, who had dealt with my mother for several years, distrusted her. Phil was also negative and insisted she use our attorney’s return address. Gay kept the correspondence secret from me for quite some time.

Every time I visited Luke at The Children’s Home, I was haunted by the thought of where I would be without my new family. I used to think of the campus as a haven, but now I saw it as a holding pen where my brother would stay until he turned eighteen or could find another family. But still I couldn’t get along with Gay.

My friend Brooke agreed that Gay had no sense of what girls our age were wearing and had terrible taste in clothes. She never got manicures and did not own a single pair of heels or jeans! Then Tabitha pointed out that her family’s rules were far stricter than mine were. Sure, I had to set the table, but her mother used dainty china every night and she had to hand-dry the plates. She reminded me to be grateful, and reluctantly, I sometimes agreed with her.

Gay’s father, Grampy Weisman, lived only a few miles away. I loved driving up to his house because his front door was guarded by gigantic lion sculptures—exactly like the ones I had fantasized would protect me. Grampy sometimes noticed how cranky I was with Gay. At first I thought he would take his daughter’s side. “You come to me if she’s too tough on you,” he said. “I’ll calm her down.” His lips crinkled into a smile. “Now, where’s your latest report card?” He gave it the once-over. “Okay, Ash, here’s the cash.” He handed me a hundred dollars for being on the honor roll.

“There’s an honor roll breakfast, and Gay and Phil can’t make it. Would you like to come with me?” Grampy beamed.

In January, Gay picked me up at school. “We’re going to have to go to Washington again.” She sighed as though it was going to be a drag.

“What are you filming?”

“Actually, the invitation is for you.” She handed me a fax from the director of the Dave Thomas Foundation, who had arranged for me to attend a White House event.

“Will I meet President Clinton?”

“I’m not sure, but the First Lady will be there.”

Gay and I flew to Washington together. She seemed to know everyone in the line that snaked through the security checkpoints. Once inside, we stopped at the women’s restroom in the East Wing. A sitting area featured portraits of previous First Ladies. Gay snapped photos of me in front of many of them. Even the paper towels were imprinted with the White House logo, and I took a few for my friends.

As I walked up a marble stairway, a trio of musicians was playing classical music. “Are you okay?” Gay asked, noticing my face blushing from excitement.

“Just hot,” I said to avoid having to explain that it was as if my childish fantasies about accidentally being lost in foster care, while I was really meant for another, grander life, had come true.

The occasion was an announcement of a program for children who were aging out of foster care. One girl described how she slept on gurneys in hospital emergency rooms at night while attending college during the day. I wondered if Luke would end up that way.

On the way out Gay introduced me to Michael Piraino, the CEO of the National Court Appointed Special Advocates Association. Guardian ad Litem volunteers like Mary Miller are often called CASAs for short in many parts of the country. “I see you’re representing the Dave Thomas Foundation here,” he said. “Awesome!”

“That’s my kiddo,” Gay bragged.

“What did you think of Mrs. Clinton’s announcement?” Mr. Piraino asked me.

I probably should have given him a polite reply, but I was thinking about Luke and the other Children’s Home kids who might never be adopted. “Children need families, not programs,” I said.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Thirteen,” I mumbled, thinking I might have offended him.

“We’re going to be hearing a lot more from you,” he said, smiling gently.

Gay added, “Ashley was in foster care for nine years, and she wouldn’t have been adopted if it wasn’t for her child advocate, Mary Miller.”

“It only takes one caring person, right?” He winked at me.

I did not know that Gay had been in touch with my mother until she handed me an envelope toward the end of March, during my seventh-grade year. “I found out how to contact Leanne,” Gay explained, “and then I wrote to Lorraine.” I was furious when I found out that Gay and my mother had been writing letters behind my back. I felt that Gay had horned her way into my most private relationship without my permission. “What did you tell her?”

“How well you are doing in school, that you have braces—that sort of thing.”

“Did you say that you’re a bestselling writer and Phil makes films for television?”

“Not exactly. I didn’t want her to be intimidated. It was more general—like how many other children we have. I enclosed recent photos of you and offered to send regular updates. I promised that we would always love you and treat you as our own child.” Gay swallowed hard. “I said that we would allow you to contact her—or any of your biological family—when you asked to.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure if she would even reply.” I noticed that my mother had addressed the envelope to
The Parents of Ashley, in Care of Neil Spector.

“Doesn’t she know where we live?”

“No, Phil didn’t think that was wise.”

The envelope contained a card picturing a redheaded girl on the front. Inside, my mother wrote that she had remarried on Valentine’s Day. She also mentioned that she played softball for a team called the Pride, which seemed like a meaningful coincidence because my Little League team’s name was also the Pride! She signed the letter,
All my love, Lorraine.