by Luanne Rice
“Are they going to put the hearing on TV?” I asked.
“No,” Marcela said. “Cameras and audio aren’t permitted in the courtroom. So, you’re safe there.” She gave me a wry smile. “If you hear clicking, it’s all of us live tweeting. That’s allowed.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said.
Casey put his arm around me, and we walked quickly toward his dad, avoiding the reporters. My parents were still talking intently to the woman in the red suit. Casey’s dad led us past the crowd into what at first looked like an empty courtroom.
But it wasn’t quite empty.
There, at a table in the front, sat Chloe. She looked so small in the vast room. I had thought she would be wearing an orange jumpsuit, like prisoners on TV shows, but she was dressed in regular clothes—green cords, a yellow sweater. A young brown-haired woman in a gray business suit sat beside her.
Chloe must have heard the heavy door open. She turned toward the sound, and when she saw me, I heard her gasp. I walked toward her, pulled, as if the courtroom had an undertow. She stood. The woman at the table put her hand on her wrist, tried to get her to sit down, but Chloe wouldn’t.
We stood facing each other, a thick waist-high mahogany rail between us. Her skin looked very pale. She had a bruise on one cheek that she’d attempted to cover with makeup. Her eyes filled with tears. I guess mine did, too, because I felt them rolling down my face.
“You’re here,” she said.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I said. I could have spent an hour explaining, but the way she was looking at me, I knew I didn’t have to. They say people who’ve been through a disaster together are bonded forever.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For everything.”
“I know that,” I said. “So don’t say it again. Ever.”
That made her smile. Nothing like a bossy older almost-sister to set things straight. Her eyes flicked up, looking over my shoulder. My parents and the woman in the red suit had entered the courtroom, clustered together, and now other people were filing in, too, including the reporters.
“Your parents are with my lawyer,” Chloe said.
“Jane Manwaring?” I asked. “Do you like her?”
“She’s okay. I’ve talked to a lot of lawyers since that last day. Jane’s my main one, Millicent is her associate.” Chloe gestured toward the young woman standing beside her.
“They’re going to help you get into the best possible place,” I said.
“A group home, I know,” she said.
“I wish you didn’t have to go to one,” I said.
“It’ll be better than jail,” Chloe said, her hand unconsciously drifting to her bruised cheek.
“I hope so,” I said.
“Do your parents hate me?” she asked, watching them.
“No.”
“Hate is such a weird word,” she said. “I’ve said it more in the last month than in my whole life. You know who I say it about?”
“Who?”
“My parents,” Chloe said, her voice breaking. “For what they did to you.” She threw herself into my arms, and we held each other, the mahogany rail between us, until two uniformed court officers came to pry us apart.
Then a gavel sounded, and a judge with long silver hair falling down the shoulders of her black robe came to take the bench. A brass nameplate said THE HONORABLE REBECCA STORRICK. Chloe turned away from me and sat down, and I hurried to sit between Casey and my mother.
From the minute the judge began speaking, I heard reporters’ pencils scribbling on their notepads, thumbs clicking on keyboards. I stared straight ahead, my jaw set tight. I didn’t want them to see any emotion when the judge assigned Chloe to somewhere in the Maine foster system.
“Couldn’t they at least send her somewhere in Connecticut?” I whispered to my mother. “So we could visit her?”
But my mother didn’t respond because Jane Manwaring had started to speak. She stood at the table, while Chloe remained sitting between her and Millicent.
“Your Honor, I’d like to be heard on the matter of Chloe Porter.”
“Go ahead, Ms. Manwaring,” Judge Storrick said.
“As you know, an order has been filed for the release of Ms. Porter from the Casco Bay Youth Development Center, and today’s hearing is to determine placement through Maine Child and Family Services.” She nodded across the aisle. “Ms. Ling is here to make sure that is carried out.”
A tall woman with shoulder-length black hair stood. She wore a tailored dark gray suit and black boots, a heavy silver necklace at her throat, and my first thought was that Lizzie would have loved her outfit. Chloe half turned, caught my eye. We held back smiles, and I knew she was thinking the same thing—Lizzie’s style.
“Yes, Your Honor,” the woman said. “Daria Ling for the State of Maine.”
“What do you propose, Ms. Ling?”
“Well, here is the release order for Chloe Porter,” she said, striding to the bench, heels ticking on the wood floor, to place a paper before the judge. She also gave a copy to Chloe’s lawyer.
“All right,” the judge said, reading the single page. She glanced up at Chloe. “Chloe, you’re officially free from custody of the Development Center, but our job to care for your welfare is not over. It’s up to this court—with the guidance of Ms. Ling and Ms. Manwaring—to determine where you will live. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Chloe said, standing.
“Because you are a minor.”
“And because my parents are in prison,” Chloe said.
“Yes, they are,” Judge Storrick said.
“I wish they were here right now,” Chloe said. “So they could hear me apologize for them, for what they did.” She turned toward me. “I know you told me not to say it again, Em, but I’m so sorry.”
I couldn’t help responding. “You didn’t do anything bad, Chloe,” I said. “You love them, they told you what to do.” I thought maybe the judge would stop me, say “Order in the court” like on TV, but she didn’t. “You helped me get to Casey’s. Without you I wouldn’t have gotten away.”
“Thank you, Emily,” Jane Manwaring said, giving me a smile. “Now, Your Honor, that brings us to the reason we are here today. Chloe’s placement.”
“Yes,” Judge Storrick said. “Ms. Ling, what is your recommendation?”
“We had secured a spot for Chloe at St. Cleran’s, a group home in Yarmouth, but as of this morning, we have a better possibility.”
“What is that?”
“Ms. Manwaring informed me that a family has offered to take Chloe in as a foster child. They are not registered with my office, and we’ll have to do background checks, a thorough investigation, but it is my opinion that this is a much better option.”
“And who is this family?” Judge Storrick asked.
“The Lonergans,” my father said, and both he and my mother stood. “I’m Thomas, and this is Mary. We’re Emily’s parents.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Lonergan,” Judge Storrick said. “While I commend your compassion, considering all that has gone on, surely it would be too traumatic for Emily to share her home with Chloe.”
“It was Emily’s idea,” my mother said.
The court was completely silent except for the sound of all the reporters tapping out their tweets.
“We were licensed as foster parents in Connecticut,” my mother explained. “It’s been nearly twenty years since we have taken in a child, and we realize we’ll have to reapply for certification. But we’ve known Chloe since she was born. We understand, probably better than anyone else will, what she has been through. My husband and I consider her to be a victim of her parents, just as our daughter was. We’ll do everything we can to make sure she gets whatever help she needs.”
“We love her,” I said.
Chloe turned to look at me, and our eyes met and held.
“She’s like my sister,” I went on. “Please let her live with
us. Please don’t send her anywhere else. She needs us. And I need her.”
“I need you, too,” Chloe whispered.
The judge was silent, gazing at Chloe, then me.
“Well, that’s compelling,” the judge said after a few minutes.
“I would like to request that Your Honor give us a week to work with the Department of Children and Families in Connecticut,” Ms. Ling said. “Perform home visits, determine whether the Lonergans’ license can be renewed, and, if warranted, transfer the case from Maine.”
“A week?” the judge asked. “And where would Chloe live during that time?”
“St. Cleran’s is ready to take her today,” Jane Manwaring said. “We agree with that as a temporary measure.”
“This is a very unusual case,” Judge Storrick said. “I can’t think of another like it, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t a good solution. I’m hoping you can resolve this expeditiously—not only for Chloe, but for Emily.”
“So, she can come live with us?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
My mother’s arm slid around my shoulder, holding me tight. Casey squeezed my hand on the other side.
“If everything works out the way we all hope it will,” the judge said, “yes. She can live with you.”
I nodded, so choked up I couldn’t say a word. My parents hugged me hard. They had taken in foster kids, after all. They had taught my brothers and sisters and me to care about people, to not let them suffer when we could do something about it. And they had named us after saints; that had to count for something.
“Ms. Ling, report to me your findings in one week’s time,” the judge said. She banged her gavel. “Court is dismissed.”
We all went to Chloe. My parents, Mr. Donoghue, Casey, and I. We reached for her across the rail, and then a court officer unlocked a gate so she could come through and we could give her real hugs.
“I can’t believe this,” Chloe said.
“Way to come through, Mom and Dad,” I said.
“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” my mom said. “Chloe, are you sure you want to do this?”
Chloe’s lower lip wobbled. I saw her eyes flood with tears again. “I wish, more than anything, that I could go back in time. Before everything fell apart. That Lizzie could be alive, that our family could still be together. But since I can’t have that … yes, I’m so happy you want me.”
“We do,” I said.
Then my parents talked to her quietly, saying they understood it wouldn’t always be easy for her, that they knew how much she’d miss her mother and father.
“Can we come live with you, too?” Casey asked me in a low voice.
“I wish,” I said.
“I’m only kidding,” he said. “Sort of. I think.”
“Where will you go?” I asked him.
“I’m not sure, but don’t worry. My dad will figure something out. He has one guitar in the shop, getting the neck repaired. And I can work after school. I can probably get a job at Mark’s tree farm.”
“It’s not Christmas anymore,” I said.
“No, but they have to take care of the trees, right?” He smiled. “I’ll get a new mandolin, and I’ll write songs and sing them to the baby trees. It will make them grow.”
I was listening to Casey, but my heart was starting to pound with a new idea. I grabbed Casey’s hand and pulled him toward the back of the courtroom. It was basically empty except for a few reporters, including Marcela.
“Emily, I want to warn you,” she said, stepping toward me. “Everyone will be waiting on the steps with cameras—they’re allowed to photograph you there. If you speak to the officer, he can take you and your family out the back way.”
“Actually, I came to talk to you, to ask a question,” I said.
“Anything,” she said.
“My parents said news organizations would pay for my story,” I said bluntly.
“Em!” Casey said, sounding shocked.
Marcela studied me, her eyes warm and possibly amused. “Our station doesn’t,” she said. “Because it would compromise our journalistic integrity. But I’d still love to talk to you.”
“I can’t,” I said. “Not without money.”
“Whoa, Em,” Casey said.
“It’s not for me,” I said, clutching his hands. “It’s for you and your dad. I never wanted to talk about what happened, not ever. But if telling my story can help you pay for a place to live, I’ll do it.”
A bunch of the other reporters had crowded around, but Casey pulled me really close. My heart was trying to beat out of my chest.
“I won’t let you,” he said. “You’re the best person in the world, but I know how you feel about your privacy, and you can’t do this.”
“There might be a way,” Marcela said.
We decided to do it in the Apiary.
It was thirty-one days after Chloe’s hearing, the Friday before April vacation. Everyone in school was excited about spring break, but I knew they were also revved/curious/weird about what was happening with me.
Yesterday I’d stood alone in the Apiary, figuring out where everyone would sit, where the lights should go. I staged it like a play. Although I hadn’t written a script—there was no point, we each had our own stories, our own points of view—I felt it was a type of theater. There had been a first, second, and third act. We had each played a role.
Bea and Patrick drove us to school. My parents were in the car behind us.
“This is the last time we’ll see the TV trucks,” Patrick said, pulling into the parking lot.
“Good riddance,” Bea said.
“You ready for this?” Patrick asked. He and Bea were in the front seat, and his eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.
“I think so,” I said.
“Definitely,” Casey said from beside me.
“Can I let you know after it’s over?” Chloe asked from my other side. “Ha-ha.”
“You’ll be fine,” I said, squeezing her hand.
When we got out of the car, Casey and I kept Chloe in between us. We walked so close together, our shoulders were touching. I felt protective of Chloe, and it made me feel like an older sister, let me know how my siblings felt about me.
When Chloe had first moved in, Mick, Anne, and Iggy had all come home from college and grad school to welcome her. Only Tommy was missing because his internship wouldn’t give him the time off, but he’d sent her a UC Berkeley hoodie and told her he’d see her soon. We’d had a big turkey dinner, a sort of make-up Thanksgiving, with all our favorite dishes and two of Chloe’s that the Porters had always served and we hadn’t: sweet potatoes with maple syrup instead of marshmallows, and Lizzie’s special M&M pie. We’d wanted Chloe to start feeling as at home as possible right away.
She’d sat next to me, her head bent down through most of the meal, and I saw two big tears plop onto her plate. No one called attention to it. We all just had our typical big family banter, with lots of teasing and laughs, and a rousing chorus of “Jingle Bells,” because we had a tradition of taking strange joy in mixing up holiday tunes. My heart relaxed when I heard Chloe singing quietly and letting loose with Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh—hey!
Now, entering Black Hall High, she pressed closer to me. She had turned fourteen in Casco Bay Development Center, and my parents had enrolled her at middle school, just across the playing fields—the one she’d attended before the Porters had moved to Maine—to finish eighth grade.
“Lizzie should be here,” Chloe said. “This was her school.”
“I know,” I said.
“Being here, I can feel her. Where was her locker?”
“We’ll pass it on our way to the Apiary.”
“The Apiary,” Casey said. “Bees?”
“Yep,” I said. “That’s why I chose it for the interview. Because you can’t just rebuild your house—you have to fix up the beehives, too.”
“Em, you don’t have to do this,” Casey
said, for the millionth time. “Sell your story.”
“I don’t think of it that way,” I said. “We’re telling it.”
Heading up the stairs, it seemed that just about everyone had come to check out Casey and Chloe. Some kids acted cold and rude toward her, but most gave her smiles and hugs and told her how good it was to see her back. I couldn’t help noticing she was wearing Lizzie’s anchor necklace. I was glad.
When we got to Lizzie’s locker I stopped and pointed. I didn’t have to say a word; Chloe just knew. She brushed her fingers over the dark gray metal, gave the dial—now programmed with someone else’s combination—a gentle rattle. Then we walked along.
Marcela Perez stood at the end of the hall, right outside the Apiary. The camerawoman stood behind her, and bright lights illuminated the hallway. Marcela wore a blue suit today. She’d told me not to wear white, that it tended to bounce on TV, and she said stripes would vibrate. So, I wore a blue dress printed with pots of honey—I’d found it at the Nearly New Shop and thought it just right for the occasion.
“You did an amazing job setting up,” Marcela said. “The chairs are angled just right, and I like the way you placed the table. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were a television producer.”
“She’s a playwright and a set designer,” Chloe said. “She knows her stuff.”
“That she does,” Marcela said. “This is going to be brilliant.”
“It was your idea,” I told her.
“Well, it was the only way we could accomplish everything,” she said. “It’s my get, the program will air on my network. We’re sticking to our rules and not paying for your story.”
“But wait,” Chloe said, turning to me. “I thought this was going to help Casey and his dad rebuild their house.”
“It is,” I said. “But since I’m interviewing you and Casey, and since we’re telling what happened on our own, we can charge a fee. We’re setting up a nonprofit, and this will be the first donation. The Sarah Royston Foundation.”
“Really?” Marcela asked, taking notes.
“Yes,” I said. “Casey and his dad live in a historical house. It was Sarah’s. The Donoghues will have the top two stories, and the town is going to open the first floor as a museum to her work, tell everything about what she did for troubled girls.”
