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.”