Fat Girl (13 page)

“Ms. Chase, allow me to point out the pertinent facts. My clients’ twenty-year-old daughter—a very troubled girl, owing to drugs and not to any absence of love from her parents—disappeared with their only grandson when he was four. Determined to find him, they spent a small fortune on private investigators. As you can well appreciate, locating a woman and child on the streets of Kentucky or any other state would be akin to trying to find a needle in the proverbial haystack.

“The picture in the paper was their lucky break. Waiting eight long years, only to have their requests denied—twice—would test the patience of a saint. Surely you can understand that they are eager to see the young man.”

“I sympathize with their plight, Mr. Jackson, and might I suggest they sympathize with their grandson’s. Dwayde is not a young man. He’s a child who at the age of nine ran away from his physically abusive and emotionally neglectful mother—your clients’ daughter—a junkie turning tricks to support her habit. After miraculously surviving on the streets alone for more than six months, it was Detective Torres who found Dwayde spray-painting an abandoned warehouse he’d been sleeping in. It was Victor and Isabelle Torres who tackled the system to become his legal guardians and loved away the years of neglect and mistreatment.

“Naturally, he is scared and confused by the sudden appearance of grandparents he says he doesn’t remember, and what’s more, their pursuit of custody.
Surely
, after reading the psychological reports and statements from his social worker and teachers about how he is thriving, your clients can appreciate the harm they would cause by attempting to remove Dwayde from the security he’s known for the past three years. It would be win-win for everyone involved to drop the case and any thought of court-ordered visitation. We’ll work out terms—”

“Eloquent argument, Ms. Chase,” he says, cutting me off. “But no dice. My clients will neither consider dropping the case nor waiting any longer to see their grandson.”
Tap! Tap!
“If Dwayde Franklin is not delivered to them at the Waldorf Hotel tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. sharp, they will carry forward with—”

“Save your threats.” I interrupt this time. “Either your clients are insensitive or your advice to them is misguided. Whichever, I will only have Dwayde there tomorrow if it’s in his best interests. And that, Mr. Jackson, remains to be seen.”

I’m still miffed by the conversation and the time pressure for Dwayde when my new client and Isabelle arrive. Without Victor. I hadn’t expected him to come. Typical. He can’t separate the girl who left from the lawyer who can help his foster son. If he’s still anything like the boy I knew, he doesn’t see the world in shades of gray. There are only two sides: black and white, good and bad, right and wrong.

And yet he chucked those very values for his best friend. I believed in Victor’s character, in his integrity, in his brotherly loyalty. It was for that reason that I felt—still feel—his betrayal almost as acutely as I feel Mick’s.

Not for the first time do I consider the emotional fortitude that this case is going to require in order for me to help Dwayde move through the maze of his past while trying to maneuver through my own.

“Your four o’clock appointment is here,” Lena announces at the door.

“Thanks.” I make the effort to smile. “I’ll be right there.”

I stand and find that I’m shaking. With nervous hands, I smooth my suit jacket over the plus-size body I’ve battled since childhood. I shouldn’t care what Isabelle will think. But that insecure fat girl still lives inside me. I hush her up as much as I can. Then, calling upon the professional composure I’ve mastered over the years, I take a deep breath and walk out to meet Victor’s wife and foster son.

Lena’s already gotten Isabelle a coffee and Dwayde a soda pop. They’re standing in the reception area talking. Dwayde, fascinated by her piercings, asks, “Did they hurt?”

Lena points to her bottom lip. “This one, for sure. The others, not so much.”

“Cool. My teammate Joel has a hoop in his eyebrow.”

Isabelle affectionately bumps his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it, kiddo. After ears, I draw the line until you’re eighteen.”

“Ms. Torres,” I say, stepping forward with my hand extended. “I’m Deeana Chase.”

Isabelle turns to me. Her straight brown hair is pulled back with a headband from her wholesomely pretty face, and her smile is warm and genuine. I assume she knows about the way I left Springvale, as told by Mick and Victor. But I didn’t sense any animosity during our call yesterday nor do I now. She’s a woman who makes up her own mind.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” she says. “And please call me Isabelle.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Isabelle.” I take an instant liking to her. “This must be Dwayde.” I indicate the boy I recognize from the Internet photo. He’s dressed in hip-hop style baggy jeans and a red Chicago Bulls hoodie. Small black studs adorn both earlobes.

“Yes, this is my son. Sweetie, this is Ms. Chase.”

He nods his head, covered from crown to nape in wide cornrows, and eyes me warily, but he doesn’t speak.

“Hi, Dwayde. We’re not too formal around here, so you can call me Ms. C, as most of my clients do.”

That earns me an apprehensive shrug.

“I’ll just explain how the next hour will work. There are some things that we need to talk about. Just the two of us. Lena’s going to keep Isabelle company while you and I meet in my office. Isabelle can join us later to hear where we land.”

The boy slouched across from me stares past my shoulder to the brick wall, tracing an invisible pattern on the lip of my desk. Tall for twelve, he’s thin and all gangly limbs. So far, small talk hasn’t broken the ice. The most I’ve gotten for my efforts are disinterested shrugs.

I try again, this time going to business.
“Do you understand my role, Dwayde?”

His shoulders hitch again.

“I’m a lawyer. Specifically, I’m a children’s advocate, which means I don’t work for your grandparents or your foster parents.”

“So who pays you then?” he asks astutely.

“To keep things fair, the courts require that both sides share in the cost. But even so, my only concern is you and what you want. It would help if you told me what that is.”

His eyes meet mine. They’re large and almond brown, and have seen more than any child’s should. “I want to stay with Victor and Isabelle. Victor promised that he’d keep me. He said I was theirs now and that nothing could ever change that.”

Regardless of my personal feelings toward my former foster brother, I admire him for giving Dwayde a loving home. It’s evident that Victor has his mother’s tenderheartedness for the lost and wounded and his father’s staunch commitment to family.

“I’m going to do my best to make that happen for you, Dwayde. But first I need to understand some things.”

“Like what?”

“Like why you don’t want to see your grandparents.”

“I already have grandparents,” he says emphatically.

My heart aches to ask about Mama and Papa T, but I don’t. Just as I hadn’t asked Isabelle. If I do, I fear my emotions will break apart on me.

“The Franklins are your grandparents, too, and they want to see you.”

“I don’t wanna see them.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, alert to the hostility in his tone.

“I don’t know them.”

“You lived with them until you were four.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No.”

“You lived on a ranch. There were horses. Any of that sound familiar?”

“No.”

“Did your mother ever talk about them after you left?”

“My only mother is Isabelle.”

“Did Joyce ever talk about her life back in Kentucky?”

“Dunno.” He adds another finger to his original finger and continues tracing the edge of my desk. “She talked about a lot of stuff when she was high and running at the mouth, but I didn’t pay no attention to it.”

“What kind of stuff did she talk about?”

“I told you, I wasn’t paying attention.”

I take his responses for what they are—lies wrapped in a blanket of self-protection. “I don’t understand, Dwayde. If you don’t remember anything about Kentucky, why are you so opposed to seeing your grandparents?”

“Stop calling them that!” he says, raising his voice.

“Why are you so against seeing Mr. and Mrs. Franklin?” I amend.

When he just glares at me, I say, “We’ll skip the reasons for now and talk about the legalities, then.” I lean forward, holding his belligerent gaze. “You’re aware that Mr. and Mrs. Franklin will likely get a court order if you don’t see them tomorrow.”

“Whatever. I won’t show.”

“That’s not going to be an option if a judge makes that ruling.”

“You said you only cared about what I wanted. But you’re a liar…you don’t give a shit about me.” Through the shine of angry tears, I glimpse the vulnerable, scared little boy behind the defiant facade.

“That’s not true, Dwayde. I’m trying to gather all the facts in order to help you. And right now, you’re not giving me much to work with. Did the Franklins ever hurt you?”

He averts his eyes and remains tight-lipped.

“Dwayde, give me something.”

I sigh when he still doesn’t budge, knowing all about protecting secrets. Just as I know there isn’t anything I can say to ferret out whatever Dwayde’s hiding until he’s ready to give it up.

“Working with what we’ve got, you have two choices. One, you can refuse the visit for tomorrow. If you do that, the Franklins will seek a court order. And if they’re successful, which is highly likely, a judge will decide on the conditions and frequency of those visits. Or two, you can agree to this one visit for now, and we can use that as leverage to control the terms.”

“What does ‘leverage’ mean?” he asks, still scowling.

“It means we will have the upper hand to make some reasonable requests.”

“Like what?”

“Like a short visit to start and me being there with you, so you don’t have to meet them alone. Then we’ll take it from there, depending on how that first meeting goes. As your lawyer, that’s what I’m suggesting you do.”

Despair washes over his face.
I wish I had magical words that would make it all better. But there are none. And I don’t ever give my clients platitudes. I remember the many social workers who told me it was going to be all right, when it wasn’t. Being in ten different foster homes in fourteen years was not
all right
. Having my overwhelmed mother send me away time and time again was not
all right
. And when she died, that wasn’t
all right
either. I made a promise to myself when I became an advocate that I would never tell a child whose life had just come unraveled that it was
all right
. Because it wasn’t. It was crappy and shitty and totally unfair.

I wait him out in silence until he finally says, “I guess I’ll go,” evincing all the trepidation he clearly feels.

“It’s a brave choice, Dwayde.”

He shrugs off my praise. “It sucks.”

I can’t argue with that. Instead, I invite Isabelle to join us and fill her in. “I’ll call Mr. Jackson and see what I can negotiate for tomorrow.”

“We will not agree to a visit without you there,” Isabelle states. “They may be very good people and for Dwayde’s sake I hope they are, but until we know—”

“I completely understand,” I assure her. “Assuming they are agreeable, I’ll pick Dwayde up at nine thirty.”

“I have basketball practice until eleven,” Dwayde reminds Isabelle.

“Is it a problem to miss this one?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says in earnest. “There’s only two practices left before our big game. I can’t let my team and my coach down.”

“They’ve been working very hard for this,” Isabelle explains.

“Of course.” My gaze sweeps over the flowers sent by his
coach
, and my stomach knots with dread. “I’ll change the meeting time to noon and pick up Dwayde at the gym after practice.”

Looks as though Dwayde won’t be the only one facing his demons tomorrow.