Entering Normal (27 page)

CHAPTER 42

OPAL

OPAL CAN'T SIT STILL. IF SHE BITES ANY MORE OF HER nails, she'll be chewing flesh. What she needs here is a sign. It's raining for the first time in weeks. But if that's a sign, how should she interpret it? Are the drops tears? Meaning what? Sorrow? Loss? Or does it mean a cleansing? Washing Billy out of her life. Or does it simply mean a change in the weather pattern? Her head aches from thinking about it. She needs something big, something she can't misread or fail to understand. Something huge, like skywriting. She's keeping her eyes open.

She's waiting for Vivian. Her mama and daddy, Billy, and their lawyers have already gone into the courtroom, Billy striding by her like she wasn't even sitting there, like she was a person he'd never seen, like he'd never chased her, held her, begged her to open her legs for him, given her a child. Before he went in, her daddy stopped to hug her and tell her he loved her, nearly breaking her heart. And her mama? Well, Melva looked straight at her with that look that said,
I'm
done cleaning up your messes, girl,
then walked through the double doors to the courtroom where the future will be decided. It's hard to remember all the things Aunt May told her about her mama's past. As far as her mama is concerned, it's hard for Opal to hold the least little bit of softness in her heart.

“I blame him,” a fat woman off to her left is saying. “I was doing everything. Everything. I was working and bringing in money while he sat around, watching Jerry Springer.” More soap opera.

Finally Vivian appears. “Sorry I'm late,” she says, pushing Opal through the double doors.

Their case is first on the docket.

Numbly, Opal follows as their case number is called; they move to the table and take their seats.

Over at Billy's table the blond lawyer, Carla Olsen, takes a bottle of imported water out of her briefcase and sets it on the table.

Opal wishes she'd thought to bring water. Her mouth is dry, her palms clammy. She should have brought something along for luck. Something to hold. Her amethyst crystal, or something of Zack's. She sneaks a look over at Billy. He looks cool, confident. She straightens up in her chair. She can pretend anyway.

The clerk hands a sheaf of papers to Judge Bowles. While he reads, Opal studies him, searching for kindness, understanding. She can't read a thing. She looks over at Sarah Rogers, the woman who is here to represent Zack's best interests. As if anyone on earth but his mama could represent his best interests. Opal doesn't trust the judge or the guardian. She certainly doesn't trust anyone sitting at the other table. Not even her daddy. Who can she trust? Vivian? Vivian with her shabby office and nicotine habit and cheap clothes? She gives a sideways glance at her lawyer.
Over my bloody body.
Vivian for sure.

While Judge Bowles reads, the room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioner. Several times he raises his gaze from the documents, once to look at Opal, once to where Billy sits. At last he sets the papers down. He takes off his glasses and rubs his temples, then readjusts his glasses. He takes a deep breath and looks out at them. Opal can't read a thing in his expression.

“The last thing this court wants to do is decide the fate of Zackery until you both have tried reaching a compromise. Do I understand that both parties have exhausted all attempts at arriving at an agreement?”

“They have, Your Honor,” Vivian says.

“That's right, Your Honor.” Again it is Carla Olsen who speaks for that side. Opal tries to imagine her fighting for Billy until her body is bloodied, but can't picture it. Not this woman. Surface scratches, a broken fingernail or two perhaps, but not bloodied. She feels immeasurably better.

“It's perfectly clear,” Carla Olsen begins, “because of the geographic separation caused by Miss Gates' relocation to this state, Mr. Steele is being denied his rights as a father. While Miss Gates has agreed to grant brief visitation rights to Mr. Steele, having Zackery for a few weeks a year is not acceptable.”

A few weeks? She had agreed to every school vacation, six weeks in the summer, holidays. That's a few weeks? She nudges Vivian, but the attorney motions her to be still.

“As long as Miss Gates insists on living out of state,” Carla Olsen continues, “Mr. Steele has no alternative but to seek full custody. He wants his son returned to North Carolina where the child can have daily contact with not only Mr. Steele but his extended family as well. Both sets of grandparents.”

“Am I to take it that if Miss Gates agrees to relocate, to return to North Carolina, Mr. Steele would be flexible on the issue of custody?”

Relocate? Return to New Zion? No way. Fuck, she'd rather eat sand, rather eat bat shit, than return to New Zion.

“Not necessarily, Your Honor. My client has other concerns, serious concerns, that lead him to believe his son's best interests are not served by his remaining in his mother's care. In fact, it is not putting it too strongly to say that Mr. Steele has grave concerns about Zackery's welfare.”

“That's bullshit.” Opal hops up, shaking off Vivian's hand. “Billy didn't even want him. Don't you get it? He wanted me to have an abortion.” Why can't these people understand?

“Miss Gates, please sit down. This is very inappropriate. And it is not in your best interests. Miss Cummings, please remind your client of the rules of the courtroom.”

“I'm sorry, Your Honor,” Opal says. “But how can he say he wants him when he didn't, not from the get-go?”

The judge rubs his fingers along his jaw, as if checking for five o'clock shadow, and peers down at her. “Miss Gates, that fact is not pertinent to this hearing. Mr. Steele has demonstrated to the court's satisfaction that however he may have felt in the past about having a son, he is currently most definitely interested in playing a primary role in his son's life. That is, in fact, why we are here.”

“Your Honor, may I continue?” Carla Olsen lifts a sheaf of papers. “Miss Gates likes to depict herself as a loving mother, but we have a list of serious concerns. Our documentation, backed up by depositions”— she shakes the papers—“paints a far different portrait.” She ticks off her accusations, flicking a fingernail against the papers with each charge. “A good mother is not repeatedly late picking her child up from school. A good mother sees that her child gets routine medical and dental care. A good mother has a solid plan of child care in place. A good mother is not a run away, lacking any kind of financial security.” She pauses, takes a sip of water.

It's no one thing. It's a pile of a lot of things.
Opal is afraid to look at the judge.

“Excuse me, Your Honor.” Vivian rises. “It is an unfortunate but true commentary that what my colleague is describing is not unrepresentational of seventy percent of single mothers in the Commonwealth, mothers coping with the stress of single parenthood. It isn't grounds for the child's removal.”

“I will be happy to address that issue in a minute, Your Honor,” Carla Olsen says, resuming her litany.

“A good mother attends to the nutritional needs of her son.” She lowers her voice theatrically. “Judge Bowles, we have depositions here showing that not a half hour after her son's broken arm was set, at ten o'clock in the morning, Miss Gates took Zackery out for ice cream, causing him to vomit and indicating, at the very least, a remarkable lack of common sense. And on the subject of ordinary good sense, what kind of mother becomes involved with a drug dealer, spends the night with the dealer while her son sleeps in a room not twelve feet away? What kind of mother leaves her five-year-old son alone? We believe Miss Gates is a negligent mother. At best.”

Vivian leaps up before Opal can move. “Your Honor—”

Judge Bowles waves her down. “You'll have your opportunity.”

“We agree with Miss Cummings that Miss Gates is operating under stress,” Carla Olsen continues. Opal hates her.
Hates
her. She would like to see
her
bloody. She would like to see her dead.

“Clearly the financial and physical, not to mention emotional stress, is too much for her. If Mr. Steele is awarded custody of his son, he has a support system in place. He has a job. He's financially secure.” She pauses to place a hand on Billy's shoulder. “My client has the full support of not only his own parents, but the boy's maternal grandparents as well, Miss Gates' own parents. In effect four other people will help in raising the boy and seeing to his daily care. Mr. Steele will provide a stable and safe home environment, something Miss Gates clearly cannot do.” She pauses. What? Waiting for applause? Then she sits. Death would be too good for her.

Opal's clenches her hands into fists. She will not cry. She absolutely will not give them the satisfaction.

“Mr. Steele? Do you have anything you would like to say to the court?”

Billy rises, like he's getting a prize or something. “No, Your Honor.” Asshole.

“Well, then. Miss Cummings?”

“Your Honor, before I say anything, my client would like to address the court.” She nods at Opal. “You're on,” she whispers.

Opal swallows, stands, locks her knees, which helps but doesn't totally stop the trembling.

“Sir.” She could really use a glass of water, something to relieve the dryness in her throat. Vivian whispers for her to go on. “Sir, I love Zack. He's my life. I may not be a perfect mother. Fu— Heck, I'm definitely not a perfect mother. I don't know if there is such a thing. Maybe some days I'm only passably good. But I love Zack. I love him so much, I didn't think it was possible to love something like I love him.” She swallows. There is no one else in the room. Just her and the judge. She
has
to make him understand. “Zack and me, we're a team. Since he was born it's only been him and me. Really, since he was born. No one else was there. Not my mama or my daddy. Not Billy.” She stops herself from bringing up the abortion thing. “Since that day, I've been the only one caring for him. I know I've made some mistakes, but Zack's happy with me. We're happy together. I read to him. He's smart. It would kill Zack to be taken from me. And it would kill me, Your Honor. It surely would kill me.”

Judge Bowles stares at her, unblinking. Opal sits. One of the court officers coughs. The judge flips through the pile of documents, slips out a page, studies it.

“I'm trying to understand,” he says. “Now according to Mrs. Rogers' report you told her that you moved to Normal because you rolled a three on a die?” His voice is incredulous. “Is that right? You left your home and drove to Massachusetts because of a three-spot on a die?”

“It was a sign, Your Honor.”

“A sign?”

From the other table, Opal hears a snort. Her mama.

“Your Honor.” Vivian stands. “Sometimes a well-intentioned person does the right things for the wrong reasons. Three tankfuls of gas may be the wrong reason for Opal to move from North Carolina to Massachusetts, but searching for independence from an overprotective—some might even say overbearing—family was a positive move, a step toward independence. If you check with the deposition taken from Dr. Emily Jackman, you will see that it is her opinion that Opal's move was a healthy choice. She was looking for a new start—a place where no one knew her history. Her family and friends all live in her hometown, and Miss Gates had no connection to any other place. In that context, rolling dice might be seen as a creative, if unusual, solution.”

Opal could just hug Vivian.

The judge shuffles through the papers, chooses another. “According to the admitting doctor, Miss Gates brought her son to the emergency room with a broken arm and suspicious bruises.”

“Bruise,” Opal says. “There was only one.” Jesus, they make it sound like Zack was covered with belt marks.

“Your Honor, Zackery Gates is an active, lively child. I would bet that you could walk into his nursery school and choose any of fifteen children and find a bruise or Band-Aid or two. In Zack's case the admitting doctor was satisfied there was absolutely no abuse involved. Children's services was not even contacted.”

“According to Mrs. Rogers' report, Miss Gates lied at the hospital.”

“Your Honor, if I may. Miss Gates was traumatized by her son's injury. When the boy got hurt—he fell in his bedroom—Miss Gates had left him alone, just long enough for her to run to the store. The boy was sound asleep when she left. Naturally, she knew what this would sound like if she admitted it to the doctor. She was being accused of abuse. She was terrified.”

“With the court's permission, at this time we would like to call a witness, someone who was with Opal at the hospital.”

“Go ahead.”

One of the bailiffs opens the side door.

“Rose?” Opal whispers.

Rose moves slowly toward the front of the room. Her face is calm, stong. Opal is suddenly reminded of the first time she saw Rose, the day Dorothy Barnes told her about Todd's death and then she'd seen Rose pinning clothes on the line. She had reminded her of a figurehead. A square-shouldered pioneer woman. Someone solid. Someone who could help her.

“Please state your name?”

“Rose Nelson.” Rose's face is red. She is wearing the macaroni necklace. A sweat-smudged line of green stains her neck.

“Your relationship to Miss Gates?”

“I'm Opal's neighbor.” Her face turns ever brighter, a flush that creeps from her collar to her hairline. “I want to tell the court something. It wasn't Opal who lied at the hospital. It was me. It was me who told the doctor I was there when Zack broke his arm.”

“Well, Mrs. Nelson, I'm curious. Why would you lie for Miss Gates?”

“I had to.”

“You
had
to? You've lost me, Mrs. Nelson.”

“I could see what he was thinking. Anyone could see it. It was in his voice, the way he was talking to her. I'm not blaming him. He probably sees more than his share. But he was mistaken about Opal. She would never hurt that boy.”