Fugitive Mom. Lynn Erickson
not far away, summer sun spilling through, the security guards on duty.
“Come on, Grace, let’s get out of here,” Natalie was saying, but Grace felt so weak for a moment she slid down onto one of the long benches against the stark white wall.
“Ms. Bennett,” she heard, and looked up. A young woman was standing in front of her. Vaguely familiar. A little heavy, a worried frown between her eyebrows. Wearing a rumpled gray suit that showed her dimpled knees.
“Yes?” Grace said faintly.
“My name is Susan Moore. I’m with Child Protective Services. I…I know about you. I heard the decision.”
Grace adjusted her glasses and gazed at Susan Moore.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I’m so so sorry.”
“Thank you,” Grace whispered.
“Here,” Susan said, pushing something into Grace’s hand. A scrap of paper.
Grace stared at her hand stupidly. “What is this?” she asked.
“Help,” Susan said. “A phone number. Call it.”
Grace raised her eyes. “I…” But Susan was walking away through the crowd.
“Who was that?” Natalie asked.
“Oh, an acquaintance. Telling me how sorry she was.” Instinctively, Grace lied. She had to think, go home and pay the baby-sitter and hug Charley and think. What did Susan Moore mean? Help. What kind of help? Who…?
“Do you want me to drive you back?” Natalie was asking.
“No, no, I’m okay. Honestly. I’ll make it.” Grace tried to smile.
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Thanks, Natalie. I know you did your best.”
“I’m afraid,” her lawyer said, “the courts are prejudiced in favor of the biological parents these days. We knew that going in.”
“Even when the parents are drug addicts or abusive…yes, I know. You warned me.”
“We made a good try,” Natalie said, squeezing Grace’s hand.
“Not good enough,” Grace said sadly.
“I’ll file an appeal,” Natalie said.
“Yes, an appeal.”
“We can try again. If Kerry does something outrageous, if she puts Charley in danger, well, we can bring it to the court’s attention. The judge might review his ruling in that case.” Her voice held little conviction.
Grace stopped short and put her hand on Natalie’s arm. “She will, you know. She’ll do something terrible. You know it and I know it and the judge should have known it. Think of Kerry’s history. Drugs, rehab, more drugs. You think she’s really rehabilitated? For God’s sake, Natalie, she’s going to slip again. She was abused as a child, and you know what that means. You know…” Her voice clicked off.
“Take it easy, Grace. Social Services will send someone to check on her.”
“Oh, please, don’t patronize me.” It was the first flare of anger she’d felt, and it was satisfying. Better than hopelessness.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
Grace ran her hand through her dark-blond hair; it was held back by a clip, causing her bangs to stand up in spikes, but she didn’t care. Glamour was not one of her strong points. “No, I know you didn’t, but you can’t expect me to trust the system, not after what the court just decided was in the best interests of a minor.”
“Calm down, Grace.”
“I’ve always been calm. I’ve always done the right thing. Look where it got me. And Charley.”
“Listen, I’ll go back to the office and work on the appeal. I have all those psychological studies you gave me.”
“The ones they didn’t allow into evidence,” Grace said bitterly.
“I’ll send them to the judge.”
“And maybe he’ll read them. Maybe.” She’d worked so hard, looking up studies on drug addicts with a history of child abuse, recidivism. She was a psychology professor, after all. She knew about addicts. She knew about Kerry Pope. She’d had many therapy sessions with Kerry four years before as a volunteer at the women’s shelter where Kerry was staying while she had her baby.
That was how it had all started. She’d only been trying to help the women in the shelter, the beatendown ones, the hurt and lost and abused ones. Kerry had been one of those refugees, a nice young kid, still a teenager at the time. Kind of innocent, pregnant by a boyfriend turned violent, sort of pretty in a washed-out way. Blue eyes, stringy blond hair. Skinny with an incongruously big belly. In those days Kerry cried a lot and was terribly frightened about caring for a baby. She was just out of high school, for God’s sake. Grace felt sorry for her, and she had broken the therapist’s first rule of thumb; she had become emotionally involved with her patient.
When Kerry had given birth, Grace had visited her in the hospital, brought a present, held the infant.
“Charles Leon Pope,” Kerry had said. “I like that name.”
Grace had stared down at Charley, his waving arms and tiny clenched hands, his pale, vein-etched eyelids, the blond fuzz on his head, and although she hadn’t realized it at the time, she’d fallen in love.
“You okay, Grace?” Natalie was asking.
“No. But I’ll manage. I better go home.” She smiled grimly. “The baby-sitter.”
She drove back carefully, aware that she was distracted. Pulling up in front of the half of the duplex she owned, she turned the car off and sat for a moment, her head resting on the steering wheel. Then she straightened, got out of the car and walked up the path to her front door. Familiar, comforting. Geraniums in pots, Charley’s plastic fat bike on its side on the grass, his old fire truck there, too, a muddy spoon and bowl from the kitchen sitting on the front stoop. What had he been doing with that?
Inside, the television was on—afternoon cartoons. Grace didn’t like Charley watching too much TV, but Ellen had probably been happy to let him. She was a sweet kid, lived down the street, and Charley loved her.
“Hi, Mrs. Bennett,” Ellen said, popping up from the couch. Mrs. Bennett. No matter how many times Grace had told Ellen there was no Mr. Bennett, the girl called her Mrs. She’d given up correcting her.
“Hi, Mommy,” she heard, and Charley appeared over the back of the couch, jumping up and down. “Hi, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! We’re watching cartoons!”
Mommy. Charley knew no other mother. He didn’t remember his first three months with Kerry’s post-partum depression, her inability to nurse him or hold him or provide him with more than perfunctory care. The word tore her heart out. Mommy. The court had negated four years of motherhood and declared an utter stranger his mother.
She paid Ellen and watched her walk out, then down the street to her house. She was trying hard not to show her inner turmoil, but she doubted her own acting ability. She was a straightforward person, a plain, ordinary, law-abiding woman. Her talents were few but enough for her own fulfillment. She was a good mother. No. Better. She was a terrific mother. And she was a darn good teacher. Her classes at the University of Colorado always had a waiting list: Psychology 101, Abnormal Psychology and a graduate course in Behavior and Therapy.
“Come here, Charley,” she said, sitting on the couch and holding her arms out.
He ran to her. His eyes were blue like Kerry’s, but he had darker hair. A dirty, healthy four-year-old. He was going to have a substantial nose when he matured. His father must have…
“Mommy.” His grubby fingers played with the collar