Ties That Bind (11 page)

W
e didn't work it out. We tried. At least, I did.

When I was little and we questioned his judgment or rules, Dad would say, “Because I'm your father and I said so. It's my way or the highway.”

He meant it too; we knew that. I chose Dad's way. Mari chose the highway.

Given that, you might think I was happy to see my father taken down a peg in that courtroom, but you'd be wrong. My dad is strong, stubborn, and sometimes careless with his words, but I never doubted his love for me, even when I doubted his wisdom. And more often than not, time and a bit of reflection would help me see that Dad was right. And on the few occasions when he wasn't? I let it pass. That's just my nature. I've never liked confrontation. Most things aren't really worth arguing about.

But some things are. Olivia's future is one of them. While I would have been open to finding some sort of middle ground with my parents, I was not going to let Dad steamroll me. Not this time.

When Judge Treadlaw returned from his chambers and learned we had been unable to come to an agreement and were resolved to continue the custody battle, he was still displeased. He granted temporary custody of Olivia to a guardian ad litem, who we were scheduled to meet with the next day.

 

The snow was still mounded on the New Bern Green and icicles hung like crystal garlands from the eaves of every building in town, but the day was sunny and bright so Arnie and I walked from his offices to our meeting the next day. As we walked, Arnie explained that a guardian ad litem is someone appointed by the court to represent the interests of someone who cannot represent themselves in a legal matter. My parents and I would have input regarding Olivia's care, but her guardian ad litem would be the one making the decisions. Olivia's guardian was an attorney named Geoffrey Bench.

“I don't know him well,” Arnie said. “But we've met at a couple of Bar Association receptions. He seems like a decent guy—about fifty, a sportsman, likes to ski. As I recall, he has a little cabin in the Berkshires, on the river. He's into fly fishing.”

“Considering you only met him a couple of times, you seem to know a lot about him.”

Arnie shrugged. “Bench is chatty. He's actually pretty interesting. Most of the lawyers I know can't talk about anything besides work. The main thing is to get along with him, cooperate with his decisions. It's important that he like you. He is Olivia's temporary guardian, but he'll be making a recommendation to the judge about who should be named as permanent guardian—you, your parents, or someone else.”

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and grabbed Arnie's sleeve. “Someone else?”

“It's not going to happen. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“But you did! And now it's out there! Are you saying the judge could give someone else custody of Olivia? Someone besides me or my parents?”

Arnie sighed impatiently. “Look, it's an incredibly unlikely outcome. I mean, Olivia has two sets of caring, responsible family members vying for custody, so that is the natural choice. But if for some reason the judge decided that you and your parents weren't fit guardians, it's possible that he could grant custody to someone else or make Olivia a ward of the state.”

“A ward of the state? You mean he could put Olivia into foster care? Or up for adoption?”

The thought that Olivia, after all she'd been through and all she'd lost, could actually be forced to go and live with someone who didn't know the least thing about our family history and all that my sister had done and sacrificed for Olivia was terrible to me.

“Technically, yes. But that's not going to happen, Margot. I promise. Either you or your parents will get custody of Olivia. Hopefully you. Treadlaw might not be my favorite judge, but he's not crazy. Now, come on. I don't want to be late.”

Feeling a little better, I fell into step beside Arnie. “Why don't you like Judge Treadlaw?” I asked. “Because he's so cranky?”

Arnie shook his head and shoved his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. “Cranky judges are a dime a dozen. Treadlaw is lazy. He's got another two years before he retires, but if you ask me, he checked out a long time ago. He relies on other people to get into the meat of the case, instead of getting his hands dirty by sifting through the details personally. I'd say there's about a ninety percent chance that Judge Treadlaw will go with Geoff Bench's recommendation. That's why it is very important for Geoffrey Bench to like you. You've got to win him over, Margot.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” I asked nervously. I didn't like the idea that Olivia's welfare rested with this man whom none of us had met.

“Well, I don't know,” he said as I followed him up the gray granite steps to the courthouse. “Make him some cookies. Or a quilt. Develop a sudden interest in fly fishing. Do whatever it takes, just make him like you.”

He stopped on the top step and turned to face me. “It shouldn't be that hard, Margot. Everyone likes you.”

 

The meeting room was sparsely furnished with a long oak conference table and a dozen very uncomfortable wooden chairs. Arnie and I were on time. So were my parents, who arrived alone. I wasn't sure if they had fired Ms. Hoffman or if she'd fired them. When Arnie asked about her, Dad told Arnie he was perfectly capable of representing himself and that he had better things to spend his money on than lawyers.

“We've always been careful with our money. That's why Margot was able to go to college without taking out a single loan. And if Mari had wanted to continue her education, we'd have paid for that too,” he declared. “Children are expensive. You can't send a kid to college on what you make selling fabric and thread.”

My mother reached out and touched Dad's arm. “Werner,” she said quietly and tipped her head toward me, as if reminding him of my presence.

“I'm just saying,” he said. “A woman alone, working for minimum wage …”

“I don't work for minimum wage, Dad. And, financially, I'm very responsible. I learned that from you. I own my car and I don't carry a balance on my credit cards. The only debt I have is my mortgage. When I bought my house, I put fifty percent down.”

“Sure,” he said, actually looking at me for the first time in days, “back when you were working in New York and made a good salary, you could afford to do that. You had money in the bank. What about now?”

“Pardon me, Mr. Matthews,” Arnie said in a firm but cordial tone, “but I think we'd better talk about something else. Or, perhaps, we should all just sit here quietly and wait for Mr. Bench to arrive.”

Arnie's advice was sound, but I couldn't bear the idea of sitting in a room with my parents and saying nothing, as if we were combatants in some cold war, only able to communicate through negotiators. After an uncomfortable moment I said, “Have you been to the hospital recently?”

“Of course,” Dad responded irritably, taking my question as an accusation.

“We were there last night,” Mom said. “Trina said we'd just missed you.”

“I had to go to work. Evelyn, Virginia, and Ivy are at a quilt show in Vermont for the rest of the week. Evelyn offered to cancel, but she'd have forfeited the money she paid for the booth space if she did. I stayed late last night. I'm just so far behind ….”

“Think how much more behind you'd be if you had a child to add to the mix,” Dad said. “What are you going to do then? Leave Olivia in the care of some teenaged babysitter? Or fall behind on work? Which will you neglect, Olivia or your job?”

Arnie put his hands on the table as if to come to my defense, but my mother beat him to it, interrupting his protests.

“Werner!” she exclaimed.

“What?” Dad spread his hands innocently. “I'm just trying to tell her how things are. Olivia is a sick little girl. How is Margot going to have time to work and take her to doctor and therapy appointments? And how are you going to pay for it? Do you even have health insurance?”

I do, but I pay for it myself. It's costing me a fortune. Evelyn would like to offer health benefits to her employees and she's even had me get some quotes, but it's just not something the shop can afford right now.

“Maybe next year,” she'd said, after I handed her the most recent quote, which was 14 percent higher than it was the year before. Yes, maybe next year. But somehow I doubt it.

“I'm not trying to be mean,” Dad said, in a somewhat more modulated tone, “but these are things you have to think about. I care about you, honey. And I care about Olivia. I want the best for her. She deserves to be raised in a stable home with two parents who have the time and money to take care of her, just like you were.”

Arnie, whose eyes had been shifting between my father and me during this exchange, as if he were watching a tennis match, interrupted. “All due respect, Mr. Matthews, being raised in a two-parent home is no guarantee of a happy childhood. If she were here, I think Mari would agree.”

“Arnie!” I exclaimed in a voice that was curiously like my mother's and just as shocked as hers had been when Dad insulted me. I appreciated his willingness to stand up for me, but there's no point in challenging my father—I know. When Dad is challenged, he just digs in his heels.

Dad glared at Arnie, ready with an angry retort just as the door opened and Mr. Geoffrey Bench arrived on the scene. Excellent timing.

He was, as Arnie had said, about fifty, maybe a little older, and tall. His hair was graying, salt-and-pepper, but his eyes were blue and he had a fairly healthy tan, which was surprising considering it was January. I was also surprised by the width of his shoulders. There's no reason lawyers can't be muscular, I guess. But the only attorneys I've ever really known well are Arnie and Franklin. It's been a while since either of them lifted anything heavier than a book on case law.

Mr. Bench grinned as he came through the door and quickly shook everyone's hands, congratulating Arnie on a win in a malpractice case he'd tried recently. He was—I don't know how to put it—vigorous, I suppose, and charming. Purposely charming—like he was campaigning for office. His teeth were very big and very white. I wondered if he bleached them.

“Sorry to be late,” he said. “I was tied up on a call.” He pulled out the wooden chair at the head of the table. The legs made a scraping sound on the floor.

“Hope you'll excuse the accommodations,” he said, looking around the room, “but my office is being repainted. Usually, this room is used for jury deliberations. I think they made it as cold and uncomfortable as possible to encourage quick and unanimous verdicts.” He smiled at his joke—so did my father—and placed a battered brown briefcase on the table.

“Which, Judge Treadlaw informs me, is something the three of you have been unable to reach.” He looked up with a questioning expression. No one said anything. Dad crossed his arms over his chest.

“Right.” Mr. Bench took a seat and pulled some papers out of his briefcase, handing one set to me and the other to my parents.

“What's this?” Dad asked.

“Questionnaires. Just something I like to do so I can get to know you. I'd appreciate it if you could fill them out and give them back to me next time I see you.”

I glanced over the first page. The questions were pretty standard: name, birthday, place of birth, education, work history.

“I'll be conducting interviews and home visits with each of you before I make my report to the judge,” Mr. Bench continued. “But right now, I want to talk about Olivia. I dropped by the hospital first thing this morning and looked in on her.”

He had? I was impressed. He'd only been on the case a little more than twenty-four hours.

“I also talked to her doctor. She's got a long way to go, but certainly seems to be making a remarkable recovery. She must have a guardian angel by her side.”

“Oh, yes,” my mother said emphatically. “And a lot of prayer.”

Mr. Bench nodded deeply. “Best medicine there is. But now that Olivia is conscious, I understand from the nurses that she is starting to ask questions. She wants to see her mother. No one has told Olivia about her mother's death?”

I shook my head and looked at my folks. This was one of the things we had disagreed about.

“It's too soon,” Dad replied. “And Olivia is still weak. A shock like that could set her back. She's not ready to hear it. She's just a little girl. I'm not convinced she understands what is going on.”

“We've got to tell her something, Dad.”

“Later. When she's stronger. Right now, I think it would be best to tell Olivia that Mari was hurt in the accident and is too sick to see her.”

“But that's a lie!” I exclaimed and then, seeing the set of my father's jaw, backed off a little. “I know you're trying to protect her, but she has to hear the truth eventually. If she finds out later that you were … that we didn't tell her everything that happened, she might resent it. She might never trust us again. I know she's just a child, but she's a person. She has a right to know the truth.”

I turned to Geoff Bench. “Doesn't she?”

 

Mr. Bench walked us to the bottom of the stairwell and excused himself, saying he needed to stop by Judge Treadlaw's office.

“Very nice to meet you, Miss Matthews. I'm only sorry it had to be under such tragic circumstances.” He smiled a sad little smile, bobbing his head before turning and climbing the stairs.

As soon as we were outside, Dad turned sharply to the left and walked away without saying anything. Mom gave me a quick squeeze and went after him. Arnie and I turned to the right and hurried away. We both needed to get back to work.

“It doesn't seem like your mother is quite as adamant as your father,” Arnie said. “Do you think there's any chance that she'll be able to talk him down off the ledge? Get him to settle this reasonably?”