All I wanted was the right to make my own decisions, to live where I wanted and with whomever I pleased. Having received my parents’ blessing, it should have been a slam-dunk, but my attorney warned me not to expect a favorable outcome. My climb to freedom was feeling more like a convict’s last mile to imprisonment. All that remained was for the judge to hand down his sentence.
Bob Phillips and I sat at the attorneys table. My hands were folded in my lap as Judge Higgins began to speak.
“This should have been an open-and-shut case,” he said. “Emancipation of a Minor, while rare, is not a complicated request. What has become an issue, in this case, is where Amy will live afterwards. She has voiced her vehement disapproval of being placed in foster care, and if so ordered, threatens to runaway. Such an action on her part may lead to dire consequences, of which she is fully aware. The burden now lies with the court to decide what is best for her.”
Here it comes, I thought. My hands were gripped so tightly together that I had cut off the blood flow to my fingertips.
“Therefore,” concluded the judge, “I am ordering that Amy be remanded to the Shankstonville Juvenile Correction Facility, where she will remain until alternative housing can be provided, or until she comes of legal age.”
I jumped to my feet. “You can’t do this!” I yelled.
“I’m sorry,” said the judge, “but you leave me no alternative.” Then he picked up a pen and started to seal my fate with his signature.
I turned to Bob. “Do something!” I shouted. “What kind of attorney are you?”
Bob rose to his feet. “If it pleases the court . . .”
There was a long pause. The judge held his pen in the air, waiting to hear Bob’s argument.
“I object!”
“On what grounds, Counselor,” asked the judge.
“On the grounds that this hearing is not yet concluded.” He pulled some papers from his briefcase. “New information has been brought to my attention that may impact your decision. I offer into evidence, these documents: Amy’s adoption papers and her original birth certificate.”
I had misjudged Bob. He was like the state governor in those old crime movies, who grants a stay of execution to a prisoner in his final hour. He was taking an awful risk, though. Those documents had been obtained illegally, and producing them could very well mean that he will never practice law again.
“These documents,” said Bob, handing them to the judge, “suggest that there may yet be a blood relative, very much alive, and willing to take custody of Amy.”
Judge Higgins examined the papers. “Yes, this does change things. But wait! This birth certificate only shows Amy as her first name. No last name was recorded.”
Now what? Things were just starting to go my way, and I wasn’t in the mood for another setback.
I marched up to the bench and ripped the paper from the judge’s hands. There it was: Amy, with my last name left blank, along with my weight, length, time of birth, and all that. Then I saw my birth mother’s name. It was Mary Ruth Phillips.
I shot a scathing look over at Bob. “What is this?” I said. “My mother’s last name is the same as yours.”
Bob reached into his briefcase and pulled out the photo I had seen on his desk—the vacation snapshot of him and a young woman.
“You once asked me who was in this picture with me,” he said. “It’s your mother.”
“How is that possible?” I said.
“Because your mother . . . was my daughter.”
My shock left me speechless while I pieced together all that I had just heard.
“Let me get this straight. If that woman is my mother, and my mother is your child, then that makes you . . .”
“Exactly. I’m your grandfather!”
Bob placed more documents before the judge.
“Here is my sworn statement, your honor,” said Bob. “I married in 1973, and shortly after, we were blessed with a beautiful, baby daughter. We named her Mary. At 25 she became pregnant. She was a single woman, and we never learned who the father was. In 1998, she gave birth to a healthy, baby girl. Tragically, complications developed during delivery, and Mary died giving life to her daughter.”
Bob paused to look at the framed photo, then continued:
“As Mary’s father, and her only living relative, I was awarded guardianship of my grandchild. I had been widowed some time earlier, and with my child-rearing days well behind me, I decided to put her up for adoption—with the stipulation that she keep the name her mother had chosen for her: Amy.”
Bob returned the photo to his briefcase. “And that’s not all.”
Then he began to sing a song, very faintly at first:
“Your love, like music . . .”
I gasped. “Where did you learn that song?”
“. . . Like sweet melodies . . .”
I slammed my fist on the table. “Your honor, I want a new attorney!”
“. . . Dancing on the keys of my piano.”
I walked up to Bob and was ready to fire him on the spot. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw something familiar behind them: the reflection of another time and place.
Then Bob smiled at me and said, “Hello, Amy. It’s me . . . Clifford.”
“More lies!” I shouted. “You can’t be Clifford. He died in 1963 trying to save President Kennedy.”
“I didn’t die like the papers said. It’s true, I did try to stop the assassination, and I did get shot. But I survived my injuries. Had I saved Kennedy, I would have been honored as a national hero, but my failure was sure to brand me as a national disgrace. The Media would have hounded me for the rest of my life. The doctors at the hospital were sympathetic, and forged a fake death certificate. I changed my name and went on to live a normal life.”
Bob reached into his coat pocket and produced an admission pass to Theme Farm.
“But I also had the benefit of 20/20 hindsight,” he continued. “I knew about Theme Farm and Used-to-Be TV. I waited by the attraction for days after it opened, knowing I’d see you at some point—and I did! Only then did I realize who you were. When I learned of your legal dispute with your parents, I knew I had to break my silence.”
Judge Higgins held up Bob’s documents. “It’s all here, Amy, including depositions signed by each doctor who treated him in the ‘60s, and there is no question as to their authenticity. It’s an incredible story, but Mr. Phillips’ family relationship to you is irrefutable. And given the circumstances, I have decided to reverse my own decision. I therefore award custody of Amy to—”
Just then the courtroom doors banged open!
“No you don’t!”
It was my dad, in a wheelchair, being pushed by my mom, followed by my brother and sister.
“No one’s going to take our Amy away from us!” shouted Dad, wheeling himself up to the judge.
“Your honor, this thing should never have happened. There are disagreements in any family. Battles break out and can go on forever, unless somebody bends a little. We talked it over, and realized that we haven’t been very fair to Amy. Although to be honest, she’s been no saint, either. But oddly, throughout all this, there was a spark—a kind of family connection that can never be broken. I for one would like to see a little more of that spark. I want it to burst into flames and warm our hearts the way it used to.”
I approached my dad and looked down on him in his wheelchair.
“Do I know you?” I said. “You look like the man I’m doing battle with in court, but you sound like a father I used to love and admire. What made you change your mind?”
“In the hospital. Call it a vision, or a near-death experience, but my mind was on another plain. I heard beautiful sounds, and saw colors so vivid I can’t describe them. Then I saw the light everyone talks about just before you die. I was drawn to its brilliance, and started to walk into it. Then I heard a voice. It said, ‘Go back!’ Someone was standing in the light, blocking my way. It was you, Amy. I reached out,
but you pushed me away. ‘You don’t belong here!’ you said. Next thing, I was staring up at the ceiling in my hospital room.”
Mom approached the bench. “I don’t know how or why, your honor, but somewhere along the way we went from ‘we can’t stand having Amy around’ to ‘we can’t live without her.’”
What a twist! There I was, not wanted by anyone, then suddenly wanted by everyone!
The judge scratched his head and looked at me.
“Well, Amy,” he said, “it seems that this is far from being an open-and-shut case. We can continue with it if you want, but I will need time to reconsider all these new developments.”
“That won’t be necessary, Judge,” said Bob. “I think Amy can settle this right now.”
I looked around the courtroom; at my adoptive parents and half-siblings, the only family I’d ever known; at Bob, my flesh-and-blood grandfather. Then I looked at the judge, who hadn’t once displayed an ounce of emotion, smiling at me.
“Your honor,” I said, “this is all happening so fast, I can hardly make sense of it. Someone very dear to me once said that you can’t choose where, when, or to whom you will enter this world. But I know that spark Dad is talking about. I felt it—strangely, while I was most angry with him. It was trying to get out, but I had buried it so deep inside me that I couldn’t find it. I have an affection for Clifford that will stay with me always, but that bond I have with my family can’t be ignored. The world is full of unwanted children. Mom and Dad wanted me, and were willing to make the sacrifices necessary to raise me. How can I dismiss that?”
I embraced my mom. “I’m sorry for everything,” I said.
“No sorrier than I am,” she replied. Then she slipped something into my hand: Dad’s bubble gum dispenser ring. “I’d like to finish that conversation we started.”
“Hot chocolate tonight?” I said.
“It’s a date!”
I hugged my dad, too.
“Guess what?” he said. “I’m starting a new novel. I’m calling it Amy vs. The Dworlocks.”
“Really?” I said. “Who wins?”
“Don’t know yet. I’m leaning toward the Dworlocks.”
“C’mon, Dad. Give Amy a break.”
“Well, okay. I’ll give her superpowers.”
I flung my arms around my sister.
“Eeeew!” she said, creeped out by my sudden intimacy.
“It gets worse,” I said. Then I kissed her on the cheek.
My brother was next. I was surprised to feel his arms clutching my shoulders.
“Ya know,” he said, “if you ever want to play video games with me . . .”
“Eeeew!” I said, revolted. “Tell you what. I’ll give it a try, but you’ll have to come out with me sometimes. You know? Outdoors? Sunlight?
Judge Higgins stood up. “Alright, Amy, we’re all warm and fuzzy now, but the court’s time is valuable. I need your decision.”
“Isn’t there something in the law called visitation rights?” I asked him.
“With child custody battles in a divorce, yes. What are you proposing?”
“I get to stay with Bob . . . Clifford . . . or whatever his name is, from time to time, if it’s okay with my parents, of course.”
Dad wheeled himself over to Clifford, shook his hand, and smiled.
“I think we can probably arrange that,” said Dad.
It was then time to give Clifford his hug—the biggest one of all.
“I gotta admit,” I said, “You’re a damn good attorney after all, but I have a bone to pick with one of your clients.”
“Who’s that?” asked Bob.
“Your zebra magician friend. He was wrong. You can touch the past.”
Chapter 19
Channel ‘89
The sender’s name on the special delivery envelope read Shankstonville Family Court. I was late coming home from school, and no one had yet checked the mailbox. I opened the envelope and found a cover letter that began RE: Joint Custody of a Minor Child. More papers inside confirmed what Clifford and my folks had already agreed to. I would live with my adoptive parents, and stay with Clifford on prearranged dates throughout the year. Judge Higgins had thrown out my emancipation case, and accepted my joint custody petition. Clifford had filed all the paperwork—pro bono, of course.
My family and I had prepared a separate agreement of our own. Though not legally binding in the eyes of the court, we would adopt a spirit of compromise. The family would be more considerate of my wishes, and I promised to do the same for them. A system was worked out that everyone could live with. Restrictions were imposed on how much TV my parents could watch—ironically, a rule usually reserved for teenagers. How many hours my brother and sister could spend in cyber activities was also limited. Family vacations were worked into the schedule as well. There was a bit of moaning at first, but once the system was tested, no one had any objections.
I opened our front door while examining the documents, but as I passed over the threshold, I thought I had gone into the wrong house. It was dead quiet, as if my family had vacated the premises. There were no sound effects blasting from the living room TV; no alien explosions from my brother’s video games; no loud gabbing on the phone from my sister. I glanced at the address on the door to be sure I hadn’t accidentally wandered into a neighbor’s house.
I crept toward the living room, then came upon a startling sight: my dad sitting quietly, reading a book! He looked perfectly relaxed in his recliner chair, under a reading lamp that hadn’t once been turned on. His doctor was trying to keep Dad’s stress levels in check, and it was decided that reading was the best medicine for him.
Dad’s health had improved significantly since his heart attack. He was even permitted to go on morning runs, so long as he promised to wear a heart rate monitor. I kept Dad honest by accompanying him on his Sunday outings.
“Got the mail, Dad,” I said.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, his eyes locked on his book. “Gotta finish this chapter.”
“What are you reading?”
He held up the cover without lifting his eyes off the page. He was reading To Kill a Mockingbird.
The stillness in the upstairs hallway was creepy. Not a grumble nor a groan came through the doors of my sibling’s bedrooms. Then I heard the sound of a motor out the window to the backyard. I looked outside and almost fainted. My brother was mowing the lawn, and my sister was pruning the rose bushes. Maybe I was in the wrong house after all!
I entered my attic bedroom to find the family photo album laying on my bed. A note was taped to the cover that read Welcome back! Love you, Mom. Thumbing through the album revealed that all my old photos were back where they belonged. My birth certificate was there, too—the unaltered one, showing my real birth mother’s name, Mary.
Something smelled great downstairs.
I went to the kitchen, and was shocked to find pots and pans on the stove. Sauces, fresh vegetables, and a beef stew simmered on its glowing burners. The light in the oven was on. I looked through its window. Oatmeal cookies!
Then my dad walked in and saw me. He jumped as if I had caught him committing a crime or something.
“Just checking on dinner,” he said, like he did this kind of thing all the time.
“And since when do you cook?” I asked.
“Some of the best chefs in the world are men. Did you know that? The days of chaining your wife to the stove went out with the ‘60s. Besides, I like cooking.”
Then mom entered, humming as she sauntered over to the stove. She sampled the savory stew with a wooden spoon. “Mmm,” she said, smacking her lips.
Then Mom turned to me. “Go wash up for dinner, dear,” she said.
“Wash up?” I said with a smirk. “What is this, the Cleaver household?”
Mom smirked back at me and pointed the way to the bathroom.
I had created a monster! My rants about the joys of living like a mid-century family had exploded in m
y face. All I was asking for was a little normalcy. What I got was Opie!
The kitchen was empty when I returned.
“In here, honey,” I heard my mom say. I walked into the dining room, an area that had never been used for which it was designed. There was my whole family, sitting up straight with napkins in their laps, around a beautiful table with the price tag still hanging from it. Long candles flickered above a flowery centerpiece.
They all smiled at me as I came through the door. It was like I had entered the Twilight Zone—trapped in a ‘60s family TV show.
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” I said. “Where’s Beaver? Washing up?”
“Beaver’s out on his paper route,” said my dad. “That leaves an empty chair. Care to join us?”
It was the perfect ending to an amazing adventure. I had altered history, traveled to legal hell and back, and discovered my true heritage—all to serve one wish: to get as far away from my family as I could. Now, there they were, as lovable as a Norman Rockwell painting, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else I would rather be.
I sat down between my brother and sister, with Mom and Dad beaming at me across a scrumptious, home-cooked meal. I didn’t know how long this Wally-and-Beaver world would last. Sooner or later, the 21st century would catch up with us, and the group dinners and paper routes would all come to an end. But for now, I was an orphan in wonderland. And as I dug my fork into my mash potatoes, I realized who I was truly dining with that evening:
The family I always wanted.
“Pass the gravy, please.”
The screams of a hundred teenage girls nearly knocked us over, as Hubert, Clifford, and I entered Theme Farm. An outdoor stage was set up just inside the main gate. Performing onstage was a Fritter version of a pop music boy band: 3PiG. They were playing their latest hit, and the newest song written by Clifford:
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