So Much More(50)

She nods and turns to walk toward her apartment. “Have a good night.”

After Mrs. Lipokowski leaves, my mind goes back to Justine’s letter. It’s a presence in the apartment, like another person occupying the space. I don’t pick it up. I don’t read it again.

I don’t need to. I have it memorized word for word.

Heartbreak floods in again with a brand new intensity. I’ve been heartbroken for months. First, by the divorce, which I thought monumental and that nothing would ever top it in the heart wrecking department. And then she took my kids. That took the storm I was besieged by and ratcheted it up from a tropical storm to a hurricane. This latest news was like adding a tsunami wave, one giant destructive swell, within the eye of the relentless storm.

How could she have made a decision so important to both of us without consulting me? Without including me?

I’ve always thought of each of my children as a miracle. Because in essence, they are. Every child is a miracle. I understand the whole process of conception and a baby growing within a womb is scientific and physiological, not a rare occurrence. But I can’t wrap my head around the fact that one day there’s no baby, no separate life existing within another, and then nine months later a tiny human being is delivered to the world. A human being that is unique in make-up and perspective. A human being unlike any who’s lived before. That is miraculous. And the fact that these tiny human beings have the ability to own your heart even before you meet them, touch them, feel them, and then when you meet them, touch them, feel them for the very first time, that love you already felt explodes into something so strong and protective and nurturing. The English language should have a word for it. Though the new word would lack weight and defining presence. Because that love you feel the instant you lay eyes on your brand new tiny human being is indescribable. It’s a love so instantaneous and so intense that it defies logic. Just like babies do. It’s all miraculous.

And given that I consider each of my children a miracle, the question that keeps surfacing is so disturbing. Why did Miranda carry Kira?

As soon as the question sounds loud enough to demand my attention, I want to turn my back on it because it’s so ugly. I want to tell it to shut up and go away and never return. Kira exists, and that’s all that matters. Any question that involves a hypothetical answer that varies from reality is torturous. And even though I don’t want to know the answer, I want to hurl every question and accusation at Miranda and watch her grapple with her unearthed secrets. I want to watch her squirm. Her conscience wouldn’t make her squirm—she lacks one—but she prides herself in winning, right or wrong, because she thinks she deserves it. Entitlement is a sickness festering within her. It’s slowly transformed her into the devil she is.

I need to get my kids back. Time yields results, even against the defiant. It’s a subtle opponent. It partners up with other forces, like environment and people, and erodes.

My kids are eroding and changing. Miranda and the new elements at play in their new lives are affecting them all while they fight them.

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.