Ties That Bind (10 page)

Walking across the snowy street, I feel wet on my cheeks and know that I am crying, that my body is responding to the grief that I won't let myself feel.

I want to see my sister. I want to bring her back, to see her one more time, to ask her what to think, how to feel, how to do the one thing I have never been able to do—fight—to ask her if she is sure, really sure, that this fight is worth it.

If Mari is not here to raise Olivia herself, is it really so important which damaged and dysfunctional member of the family fails to fill her shoes? Now that she is far from this world, removed from the wounds and recriminations of the past, able to see life, not just as it is now but as it will be in time to come, past walls that separate what seems to be and into the substance of what is, perhaps she has changed her mind.

I want to ask her so many things, and so on the dark and deserted Green, with icy flakes of snow hitting my face, mixing and melting as they meet the warmth of my tears, I do what Mari and I used to do when we were little and built snowpeople in the park, in those days when my left hand was always cold because Mari was forever losing her mittens and I always gave her one of mine, back when we were young enough to believe that snowmen could come to life and too young to imagine unhappy endings: I pretend.

“Are you sure?” I ask the snowman, my absent sister's stand-in. “I know you're angry with them and I don't blame you, but if this is just about getting back at Mom and Dad …”

The black pebble eyes stare at me accusingly.

Do you really think I'd let my personal grievances get in the way of what's best for Olivia? This isn't about me and you know it. It's about him. About them.

“I know ….”

And I do know, in a way I never did before. My father has done and said some awful things, but I've always excused him because I believed that the good in him outweighed the bad and because, if I am honest, the worst of it was never directed at me. Mari bore the brunt of his anger, and I let her. I never said anything because I was afraid of rocking the boat and violating the complicated set of rules that are the cost of keeping the peace and my father's favor.

Just like Mom.

Is that where I learned it? I suppose so. Mom never sat me down and explained the rules, but her example spoke louder than words. Beyond a shocked exclamation of his name when he said something careless and hurtful, she never confronted Dad, never called him out, never stopped him or stood up for us. Was it because she, too, was afraid of losing his love? Or because she had some misplaced idea that love and loyalty to a husband meant supporting even his most incendiary impulses? Or just because she didn't know how?

My father had hired a lawyer. He was taking me to court to nullify my sister's dying wish. And Mom was letting him, or at least not stopping him. How could they?

For a moment, the moon peeped out from behind a cloud, illuminating the frozen-featured snowman and the crescent of orange rind that looked like a wry smile.

Are you really surprised?

I was. Maybe I shouldn't have been, but I was. Was the prospect of me parenting Olivia so unthinkable that they were willing to tear apart what was left of our family to prevent it? Was it worth it? Was it?

The clouds moved in again and it was harder to see. I moved closer to the white figure and whispered urgently, “Are you sure this is a good idea? At least they've had some experience raising children. What makes you think I'll be a good mother?”

My nose was running. I swiped at it with the back of my gloved hand and accidentally knocked the snowman's carrot nose to the ground, where it rolled off into the shadows.

I bent down, searching for a knob of orange on the field of white, but I couldn't see it. Instead, about two feet away and just behind the snowman, I discovered a child's lost mitten, knitted, red with a little band of white snowflakes around the cuff.

Clutching the mitten to my chest, I sank down to the ground, leaned back against the cold pillar of the snowman's body, and sobbed, crying and keening for all we'd lost, pent-up grief pouring from me like floodwaters breaching a dam, leaving me drained, exposed, and able to feel again.

T
his is probably a minority opinion, but I like junior high kids.

Sure, they're loud, awkward, overly dramatic, and they think they're far wiser than the evidence would suggest, but aren't we all? The thing I like about kids this age is that they are less jaded than older teens, more vulnerable, more willing to believe. For good or for bad, junior high kids take things to heart.

That's why I willingly opened my house to eighteen loud, goofy young teens on New Year's Eve, because it's important to support them during these impressionable years—to accept them for who they are, to make them feel part of the church, to listen without lecturing, all while pointing them toward God's highest and best. And if you can do all that while playing really silly games and eating endless numbers of cheese and pepperoni pizzas … well, you've got yourself a youth group.

It was nearly midnight. So far the kids had consumed nine large bottles of soda and seven extra-large pizzas, though one pizza was consumed by Clementine, who snatched it off a table and snarfed it down while we were playing the snow boot relay.

Now, their boots were back on their feet and the whole gang was outside, greeting the New Year amid a silvery gold shower of sparklers and a barrage of snowballs. When they came inside, they'd be hungry again. Bottomless pits, these kids. Especially the boys. And so cute.

But I couldn't say that I would be sorry when their parents came to collect them at twelve-thirty. I'd never been so exhausted.

I stood at the living room window, yawning, watching the kids leap and slide and dance around in the snow with their sparklers like a bunch of arctic fireflies. They were all having a wonderful time. Almost all of them.

Cheeks still red with the cold, James Collier came in and sat down in a chair near the fireplace. Clementine, who had been sleeping off the pizza, lumbered slowly to her feet and laid her head in his lap.

“She likes you.”

He smiled. He's a nice-looking boy with brown eyes and dark hair. I noticed a couple of the girls whispering and giggling about him earlier. It was pretty much the same reaction his father elicited among the women at the new members class. Girls are always interested in the new guy. I wonder if any of us ever progress much beyond junior high?

“She's nice,” James said. “Biggest dog I ever saw.”

I walked to the fireplace and put another log on the fire, then sat down in the chair opposite James. “You should see her father. Male mastiffs can weigh over two hundred pounds. Clemmie's petite. Only one hundred and twenty.”

James looked impressed. “How much dog food do you go through?”

“About a bag a week, plus snacks. And as much pizza as she can steal.”

“Wow!” James put a hand on each side of Clementine's head, scratching both her ears at once. Clemmie sighed and made a groaning noise to signal her pleasure. “She must poop a Volkswagen! Sorry,” he said, turning a little red.

I smiled. “Actually, that's a pretty accurate description. I am the proud owner of a special-order, extra-large pooper-scooper.”

“Gross!” James looked down at Clemmie's huge head, his expression a blend of disgust and delight.

“So, James, why aren't you outside with the others? Don't you like sparklers?”

He shrugged. “I don't really know anybody.”

“You must miss your friends in Chicago,” I said. He nodded.

“I'm new in town too. But I'm getting to know people. It takes a while.”

James kept his head down, staring at Clemmie. “I don't know why we had to move,” he mumbled. “This town is so boring. There's not even a movie theater.”

“Well, there's the Red Rooster.”

James glanced up and rolled his eyes. “
Two
screens. And the movies are all in French.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. “I don't think they're
all
in French. But, yes, I heard it was an art movie house. They probably have some foreign films. There's a multiplex in Torrington, though. I hear there's a laser tag place there too. We might go there on a field trip sometime. What do you think?”

He shrugged again. “Yeah.”

“I know New Bern isn't Chicago,” I said. “It isn't Boston either. But if you give it a little time, I bet you'll get to see and do things in New Bern that you never would have in Chicago.”

He looked up with a doubtful expression. “Like what?”

“Well … like making friends with a dog that's nearly the size of a horse. You never did that before, did you?”

“No,” he admitted, his smile returning.

“And,” I said, shifting to the edge of my chair, “I bet you never played Cream Puff Toss before either.” Clementine's ears perked up, as if she somehow understood what I was saying.

“Cream Puff Toss?”

Trying to stifle a yawn, I heaved myself from my seat, glad that this would be our last activity of the night. Clementine rose too, ready to follow me. “It's like an egg toss, but with cream puffs. It's a game and dessert all at the same time. And it makes a great big mess. I've put down a bunch of plastic sheets in the sunroom.

“Can you run and tell everybody to come inside? I've got to get the cream puffs and find my camera.”

And a roll of paper towels, I reminded myself. No matter how much the kids enjoyed the game, I doubted their parents would be excited having a bunch of hyped-up, sticky kids jumping all over their clean car upholstery. Definitely not a formula for endearing myself to New Bern's adult population.

“Why the camera?” James asked, getting up from his chair.

“So we can take pictures, of course.” I've played this game with kids before. It inevitably ends in a food fight, cream puffs being lobbed like fat, frosted grenades, and kids getting hit in the face. It's a great photo op. “Hey, you want me to get a picture of you and one of the girls?” I asked, teasing. “I saw a bunch of them looking you over.”

James didn't answer, just grinned and headed toward the back door.

A
s we passed through the arched doorway of the courthouse, Arnie stopped to smooth his tie and revisit the conversation we'd had when I asked him to represent me.

“Margot,” he said, and then paused to clear his throat. “I don't want to belabor the point, but I want to be clear. Our relationship in this matter is strictly professional. You're the client and I'm the attorney and …”

“For heaven's sake, Arnie! Are you seriously suggesting that I'd hire you in some pathetic attempt to rekindle our relationship? What do you take me for?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes darting around the courthouse to see if anyone was listening to our exchange. “But, given our history, I thought it was important to say it. I believe in being up front about these things.”

“Good!” I snapped. “Then let me be as up front as possible. I'm not interested in love, romance, or marriage—particularly to you. The only thing I care about right now is Olivia's welfare. And to guard it, I wanted the best attorney in town. Unfortunately for me, Franklin Spaulding is in Bermuda with Abigail, so I had to settle for
you
, the
second
-best attorney in New Bern. Is that up front enough for you?”

I'm not often given to angry outbursts, but honestly! Arnie is cute and yes, there was a time when I would have cut off my right hand to wear his ring on my left, but he isn't exactly Johnny Depp, is he?

Arnie, looking as if he didn't quite know me, fumbled with the top button of his blue pinstripe suit jacket, unbuttoning and rebuttoning it, and clearing his throat again. “Right. Sorry. I just … well, I didn't want things to be awkward between us.”

“No,” I said. “We wouldn't want
that,
would we?” Sarcasm is not my style either, but I'd had just enough of Arnie and his ego for one day.

Arnie stared at me. “Margot, are you all right?”

I threw up my hands. “Of course I'm not all right! My sister is dead, my niece is in the hospital, and I'm going up against my parents in court! I suppose things could be worse, but I don't even want to imagine how.”

Arnie pulled the white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and held it out to me. I waved it away.

“I don't need it,” I said and swiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “All I need from you right now is to go in that courtroom and fix this mess. Got it?”

Arnie nodded. “Got it.”

 

I've fallen down the rabbit hole, into a strange, upside-down place where people you've known all your life suddenly go missing and those who are left start saying things and doing things you could never have imagined in your wildest dreams or your worst nightmares. But it wasn't a dream. It was much too real.

My parents were already in the courtroom when we entered, sitting at a table next to their lawyer. Mom glanced at me briefly with an awkward smile, but my father wouldn't acknowledge me. He looked right through me, the way he used to look through Mari when he was angry with her. Why? I wasn't the one who'd called in the lawyers.

The bailiff announced the entrance of the judge, the Honorable Homer W. Treadlaw. No kidding, that was his actual name. With a moniker like that, I suppose he just had to grow up to be a judge. But from the scowl on his face and the growl in his voice, my first impression was that Homer W. Treadlaw didn't like his chosen profession. He seemed irritable and impatient and anxious to be anywhere but where he was.

When the judge entered, we got to our feet, just like people do on television. He squinted at us through the lenses of his thick glasses, as if wondering which of us had called this meeting and why in the world he had to attend.

“What's all this about?” Judge Treadlaw rumbled, glancing down at a file on his desk. “Custody battle? Isn't this something you could work out among yourselves? You're all family, aren't you? Can't see why you people need to come in here and waste my time.”

My parents' attorney, Cynthia Hoffman, a pretty red-haired woman about my age, rose to her feet. “That's the last thing my clients wish to do, Your Honor. This won't take long, I assure you. This isn't a complicated case.” She smiled.

“It better not be,” the judge said, his expression unchanged.

“It isn't,” she repeated. “The question of custody has already been established.”

It had?

I looked a question at Arnie, who shifted his weight forward, preparing to spring from his seat and object as soon as he knew what there was to object to.

“My clients,” Ms. Hoffman continued, gesturing toward my parents, “are the grandparents of Olivia Matthews, age six, whose mother was tragically killed in a single-vehicle accident on Christmas Day.”

The judge nodded along with Ms. Hoffman, indicating his familiarity with the situation. “Yes, read about it in the paper. Very sorry for your loss,” he said.

“The child's father is unknown,” Ms. Hoffman continued. “Since Mr. and Mrs. Matthews are her closest living relatives, and since both the Matthews and the minor child are residents of the state of New York, and since the minor child is still in a precarious position medically, someone responsible must make decisions regarding her treatment and rehabilitation.

“Mr. and Mrs. Matthews recently made an appearance before the family court in Buffalo, requesting custody of Olivia Matthews, which was granted. All the Matthews are asking is that you register the New York judgment, giving the order full faith and credit in Connecticut. The question of custody has already been settled. Mr. and Mrs. Matthews are the rightful and legal guardians of their granddaughter, Olivia Matthews.”

Arnie was quick to rise, but I was quicker, leaping to my feet and spinning sideways to face my parents.

“You went to court without telling me? Are you serious? While I was at the hospital, missing my sister's funeral because the last words she wrote asked me to take care of Olivia, you two were sneaking behind my back and telling a judge that—”

Judge Treadlaw smacked his desk with his gavel, just once, and frowned more deeply than ever. “Mr. Kinsella? Control your client.”

I felt the weight of Arnie's hand on my shoulder as he pressed me down to my chair. “Let me handle this.”

“I'm very sorry, Your Honor,” Arnie said in a serious tone. “It won't happen again. But, as you can see, my client was shocked by the news that her parents had gone behind her back and yours, by applying for custody in a New York court without her knowledge and without informing the court in either state of the full facts of the case.”

“And those are?” the judge asked.

“That Mr. and Mrs. Matthews are not Olivia Matthews's closest living relatives. My client, Margot Matthews, sister to the deceased and aunt to the minor child, has as much claim on that title as her parents, particularly since the deceased, Mariposa Matthews, wrote a note, presumably after the accident but before help arrived, stating her wish that, in the event of her death, Olivia Matthews should be raised by my client.”

Arnie glanced in my direction. The judge leaned down and squinted at me, as if sizing me up. “Do you have the note? Let me see it.”

Arnie stepped out from behind the table and carried the crumpled scrap of paper, dotted with four brown bloodstains, to the bench, placing it in the judge's outstretched hand. The judge read it.

“Ms. Hoffman,” he said, lifting his head and glowering at the other attorney. “You promised me this would not be a complicated matter. That means you're either ignorant of the law or a liar. I am not impressed, young woman. And I am not pleased.”

Ms. Hoffman got to her feet, a bit red in the face. “I am sorry to have displeased Your Honor. However, I respectfully suggest that the judgment of the New York court should stand. It's a question of jurisdiction. Both Mr. and Mrs. Matthews and their granddaughter are residents of New York—”

“But the accident took place in the state of Connecticut,” Judge Treadlaw rejoined, cutting her off. “And the child is hospitalized here in Connecticut. And the child's aunt, whom, it would appear, the mother expressed a dying wish to see as guardian, is likewise a resident of the state of Connecticut—where I happen to be a judge!

“Do not presume to instruct me in questions of jurisdiction, Counselor. I've been sitting on this bench since you were in grade school. I know the law, far better than you do, it would seem. Tell me,” he said, holding up the letter, “were you aware of the existence of this note?”

Ms. Hoffman straightened her shoulders. “I was only recently engaged to represent the Matthews. I was out of town for the holidays ….”

“So was I,” Treadlaw grumbled. “In Miami. Wish I'd stayed there.”

“I was unable to meet with my clients until this morning. And … I'm afraid I may not have had time to make myself fully aware of the facts of the case.” Ms. Hoffman coughed and turned a bit redder.

“So you're pleading ignorance? Well, I'm still not impressed, Ms. Hoffman, but it's better to be ignorant than to be a liar.”

The judge turned his head sharply toward my parents. “And you,” he said, addressing my father, “did you tell the New York judge about this letter?”

Dad shook his head. “No, Your Honor. That letter was written when Mari was in terrible pain and under the influence of drugs. She didn't know what she was doing. Our other daughter, Margot,” he said, turning his head toward me but still not making eye contact, “has no experience as a parent. She's unmarried and works in retail. How can she hope to support a child on her salary? And who would take care of Olivia while Margot was working? My wife and I already raised two children. We can provide our granddaughter with the love and material support she needs. I think that we would be much more suitable—”

Judge Treadlaw held up his hand, indicating he'd heard enough. “What
you
think carries no weight here, sir. The only thing that matters in my courtroom is the law. Mr. Matthews, you came very close to running afoul of it by concealing everything you know from the court in New York. Very close indeed. However, because I assume that your recent loss has muddled your thinking, I am going to overlook it … this time. But from here on out you had better be completely truthful with your attorney and this court.

“And you,” he said, glaring at Ms. Hoffman, “had better do a more thorough job of interviewing and prepping your clients. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge got to his feet. Without being told, the rest of us did the same.

“I am going into my chambers to call Judge Morrisaney in New York. When he hears the whole truth of this case, he will certainly rescind his ruling. This matter will be decided in
my
courtroom, under
my
jurisdiction.”

Treadwell leaned forward, placing both of his big hands on his desk and glowering. “I am not pleased. Not with any of you. If, however, when I return from my chambers, I learn that everyone has come to their senses and reached some reasonable compromise regarding the custody of this child, my opinion may change.

“Family members, especially those who have already undergone such a terrible loss, should not be quarreling among themselves. While I'm gone, I hope you come to your senses. Work this out, people.”