“They will.” Rip’s upbeat tone faded a little. “Remember what I told you? Act like it’s true and this’ll be a cinch.”
“Okay.”
Wendy didn’t want to disappoint him. Not when this whole thing was her fault in the first place. In the past week, Rip had grown frustrated with her a few times when they’d rehearsed the story at the dining-room table. She would become flustered or miss a piece of the story and he’d snap at her. But right away he’d calm himself down and apologize. So far the anger management, or whatever they’d taught him in prison, was working.
Besides, there was no reason to be nervous. So far the social worker seemed to believe everything she’d said.
On their first phone call to her, the woman pulled her file and seemed to remember their case. “Your husband was in prison. You gave your baby up because you were concerned for his future.” The social worker stopped short of saying whether she remembered the bump on Wendy’s collarbone, or the fact that Wendy had feared for her son’s life if Rip ever got out of prison.
“Yes.” Wendy exhaled. Rip was watching her, desperate to know which way the conversation was going. She closed her eyes. “Anyway, there’s a problem. My husband, Rip Porter, was released from prison this week.” She forced herself to sound weak, victimized. “All this time I thought he had signed the paperwork, the release papers. But now he says he never knew about the baby at all.” She hesitated. “He wants our son back, Allyson. We both do.”
A long pause filled the telephone lines. There was the sound of shuffling papers and fingers tapping on a keyboard. Finally, Allyson sighed. “Let’s arrange a meeting. This is the sort of thing we should discuss in person.”
“Fine.” She flashed the thumbs-up sign to Rip. “When can we meet?”
They scheduled the appointment, and every day for the past week, the idea became more exciting. Their son would’ve gotten a great start in life by now. Any healthy child would be able to make the adjustment from one home to another—especially if the move was handled right. They could tell him that his first family was sort of a foster family. Nice people who helped out for a few years. But now he was getting the chance to live with his real family.
Yes, that would take care of any issues the child might have. Wendy stared at her hands, folded in her lap. At least she hoped so. And if it took a little longer for their son to make the adjustment, then they’d all have to be patient. Because one day he’d understand. They were doing this because they loved him, because they truly thought he’d be better off with them.
His real parents.
A door opened and there was Allyson Bower. She looked the same as she had five years ago. The woman was in her mid-forties, tall and thin with hazel eyes. She wore a no-nonsense look, one that said she wasn’t there to make friends. She did her job strictly on behalf of the children.
“Wendy?” Allyson gave her a wary look, and then shifted her attention to Rip and back again. Her tone fell somewhere between anger and impatience. “I’m ready to talk with you and your husband.”
Rip took the lead. He met Allyson in the doorway and pumped her hand like a used-car salesman. “I’m Rip Porter.” He grinned, pouring on all the charm he was capable of. “Thanks for meeting with us.”
“Allyson Bower.” She stood eye-to-eye with Rip. She didn’t smile. “Follow me.”
The knots in Wendy’s stomach tightened. Allyson hadn’t seemed so intimidating before. Wendy held onto Rip’s arm and tried to remember her story. Dropping off the papers with the guards, getting them back signed, the long silence between her and Rip, figuring out that another prisoner must’ve done the deed, maybe as a trick.
Allyson opened the door to a small office and directed them to two chairs opposite a large wooden desk. A single folder sat neatly on top. Allyson sat in her chair, folded her hands, and rested them on the file. Once Rip and Wendy were seated, she looked at each of them for a long while. Then she drew a tired breath. “You realize what you’re asking me to do?”
Across from Allyson, Rip didn’t blink. “There’s been a mistake, Mrs. Bower. We’re asking you to get our son back for us.”
“At this point”—she opened the file—“he’s spent nearly five years as someone else’s son.” She looked at Wendy. “You picked the couple, remember?”
“I do.” Wendy slid her chair closer to Rip’s. “We never meant things to turn out this way.”
Allyson studied the first page of the file for a while and shook her head. “Before we take this another step, I’m asking if you’ve considered the turmoil and devastation this could cause your son.” She folded her hands again. Her eyes held a silent plea. “I’ve read the reports from the social worker in Florida. Your son is doing very well. Taking him from the only home he’s known could cause him permanent damage.”
Rip crossed his legs and leaned hard on the arm of his chair. He gave a brief, exaggerated laugh. “Making things right will be hard on everyone, Mrs. Bower.” He lifted his hands and dropped them again. “But the boy’s a child. A very young child.” He looked at Wendy, nodded a few times, and turned his attention back to the social worker. “My wife and I think he’ll be fine after he adjusts.”
Allyson couldn’t have looked more surprised if Rip had said he wanted to take their son to planet Mars. “The boy will not be fine, Mr. Porter. He is at an extremely impressionable age. He is excelling in every possible way.” Her voice grew louder, and she brought it back down. “Removing him from his home is a decision I highly recommend against.”
Rip must’ve seen that he had the edge. “You recommend against it.” He pointed at her and then lowered his hand. “But it isn’t up to you, isn’t that right?” He nodded to the file on the desk. “If someone forged my name, then my rights were denied and the boy belongs to me.”
A look of defeat washed over Allyson’s face. She returned her attention to the file. Without looking up, she drew a slow breath. “So what you’re saying is, if we can prove your name was forged on the paperwork, you want us to begin the process of having the boy removed from his adoptive home and placed into yours, with you and your wife.” Her eyes lifted to Rip’s. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” Rip crossed his arms. “We’re willing to deal with our son’s adjustment.”
The social worker tapped the file. “Fine. Let’s look at the paperwork. Explain to me how your name might’ve been forged.” She stared straight at Wendy. “Obviously if there is a forgery and we figure out who signed your name, this department will prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.”
Wendy felt her palms get sweaty. She looked at Rip and back to Allyson. “That would be good. Prosecuting whoever did this.” She gave a serious nod. “This is a terrible thing.”
“Right.” Allyson never broke eye contact. “So tell me how this happened. I have in my notes that I instructed you to take the documents to the prison and have your husband sign them.”
“Yes.” Wendy looked at Rip. “That’s what I did.”
Allyson raised her brow and pulled a notepad close. She picked up a pen and waited.
“Go ahead, honey.” Rip motioned to Allyson. There was a warning in his eyes that only Wendy could read. This is it. . . . Don’t mess up.
“Okay.” She cleared her throat and leaned forward. Her eyes were entirely focused on Allyson. She clenched her fists and kept them tight against her body, out of sight. “I did what you asked. I took the papers to the prison.” She blinked. “My husband and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms. I gave the guard at the desk the paperwork and a note explaining the situation. I was pregnant, and I was giving the baby up for adoption.”
Across from her, Allyson scribbled something on the pad of paper. She glanced up. “Go ahead.”
“I was very clear that the package was supposed to go to Rip Porter.”
“See,” Rip cut in. “It happened more than once where a guard would pass the mail to another guard and a few pieces would get delivered to the wrong inmate.
” He gave her a troubled smile. “We’ve talked about it, Wendy and me. That’s all we can figure.”
Allyson stopped writing. “So you think the guard gave the package to someone else.”
Rip pointed at himself. “I know I didn’t get it.”
“And I know I gave it to the guard to give to Rip.”
Allyson gave a long look, first to Wendy and then to Rip. “You’re sure you never saw the paperwork.”
“Never.” Rip sounded convincing, because at least that part was the truth. He hadn’t seen the papers.
Allyson studied her notepad and then wrote something else. “Okay, Wendy, what happened next?”
Wendy’s palms grew even sweatier. She wiped at them with her fingertips. This is it, make it sound good. She steadied herself. “I went back a week later and the package was waiting for me at the guard desk. I checked the papers before I left.” She shrugged one slim shoulder. “I didn’t look real hard, but everything seemed right. How would I have known it wasn’t Rip’s signature I was looking at?”
“Most people recognize their spouse’s signature.” Allyson’s answer was quick. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course.” She tried to sound indignant, as if she resented the social worker doubting her for any reason. “Rip’s signature isn’t real easy to read, and neither was this one. It looked close enough.”
“So you turned in the paperwork.” Allyson stared at her. “And until your husband was released from prison last week you believed that he’d signed off on the adoption.”
“Yes.” She felt her hands relax. Was it that easy? “That’s what I believed.”
They spent the next ten minutes helping Allyson understand that Rip and Wendy truly hadn’t had more than a handful of awkward visits over the next four years, and that Wendy had been too disturbed by the adoption to bring up the baby when they were together.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” Wendy finally said. “That’s the way I figured it would always be. A mother would go crazy thinking all the time about a baby she gave up.”
Rip reached over, took her hand and squeezed it. The hint of a smile on his lips told her she’d done well. He was pleased with her.
Finally Allyson had Rip sign several papers, swearing under penalty of law that he had known nothing about the adoption and that he hadn’t signed the paperwork. There were other papers, and a sheet he had to sign several times so that a handwriting analyst could verify that the signature on the adoption documents truly wasn’t his.
There was talk then about Rip’s domestic violence charge and the counseling and rehabilitation he’d received in prison. “I’m a different man today, Mrs. Bower.” He sat a little straighter. “I learned anger management. I’m ready to be a father.”
“Yes.” Allyson looked disgusted. “I’m sure.”
When the meeting was over, Allyson stood and pointed them to the door. “As long as the handwriting analysis matches what you’ve told me, I’ll have no choice. I’ll conduct a home study with you and your wife at your house. Then I’ll take the issue before a local judge, and most likely he will grant you custody, Mr. Porter.” She sounded tired, defeated. “After that, I’ll contact the social worker in Florida and we’ll begin the process of removing the boy from his current home and placing him in yours.”
“Hey, thanks for your time.” Rip took hold of Wendy’s hand and headed for the door. “We really appreciate your—”
“Don’t.” Allyson held up her hand. “I must say . . .” Her eyes were angrier than before. “I’ve never had a placement reversed because of a technicality. Almost always the system works on behalf of the child. But if you win custody of your son, Mr. Porter, I will be most certain that the system has failed.” She clenched her teeth. “I wanted you to know that.”
“Listen, that’s none of your—” He stopped short.
Wendy held her breath. For a moment it looked like Rip might explode. “Honey . . .” She squeezed his hand, and suddenly he seemed to remember where he was and what was happening.
He frowned. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Bower. Maybe when this is all over, you’ll change your mind.”
Allyson looked like she hadn’t heard him. She picked up the folder, turned, and filed it in the top drawer of a cabinet.
Rip didn’t make another attempt. He nodded to Wendy and led the way through the door and into the hallway. When the door closed behind them, Rip eased his arms around his wife. “You were perfect.” He swung her in a full circle. “He’s as good as ours. They know where he is, and he’s doing great.”
“I’m so glad it’s over.” Wendy felt faint, anxious for the fresh air outside. They walked to the end of the hall, far from Allyson’s office. She stopped and faced Rip. “She knew we were lying, don’t you think? I mean, I kept waiting for her to tell us to go home and never come back.”
“She couldn’t do that.” Rip’s smile stretched the full width of his face. “I didn’t sign those papers, and she can tell. No matter what she believes, it was wrong that I lost custody of my son.”
“Yeah.” Wendy pulled a piece of gum from her purse and popped it in her mouth. “I need a drink.”
“Me, too.” He wiped his brow and led her through the waiting room and outside onto the front steps. “Let’s stop and get a twelve-pack.” He kissed her hard on her mouth. “We have a lot to celebrate.” He skipped down the steps, turned and took her hand, making sure her high heels didn’t cause her to fall. A dreamy look filled his eyes. “I’ll bet he’s something else, that boy of ours.” They linked arms as they walked to the car. “Everything’s going to work out.”
Wendy smiled. He was right. The meeting had gone better than they hoped. But somewhere inside her there was just the tiniest seed of concern. Maybe it was because of the social worker’s warning early in the meeting. Allyson didn’t think the move would be good for their son. She said he might never recover from it. And then there was the last thing she’d said—that if they got custody the system would’ve failed the boy. Whatever it was, it took the edge off the victory, and even that night when Wendy and Rip were halfway through the twelve-pack, the feeling most intense in her heart wasn’t one of joy and excitement.
It was one of doubt.
Allyson Bower was tired.
She’d done everything she knew to get her mind off work. It was early summer—her favorite time of year—and the thunderstorms from earlier in the day had passed. As soon as she got home, she changed clothes and headed outside to her flower garden. Petunias and gardenias, roses and daffodils. All of them were thriving and would continue to thrive if she kept up on the weeds.
For the first hour after work, that’s just what she did.
But with every weed, every flower, she could see the little boy’s face, the pictures in his file. The ones she wouldn’t show Rip and Wendy Porter until a judge ruled in their favor. Finally she tried something else to clear her mind. She went inside and checked her baking cupboard. Milk, cream, sugar, bananas. All the ingredients were there. Maybe if she made her famous banana pudding the boys would love it, and that would keep her too busy to think about the Porter case.
She pulled her recipe from the old box with the fading flowers. Each card was alphabetized, so she immediately found the one she was looking for. It took fifteen minutes to make the batter, and while the pudding was in the oven, she helped her boys with their homework. Travis, fifteen, had questions about lowest common denominators and factoring, and Taylor, seven, was trying to understand double-digit addition. More than enough to keep Allyson’s mind distracted. Just before dinner, Tavia, her oldest, stopped by on her way home from work. She brought little Harley with her, Allyson’s only grandchild. An hour of talk about Legos and dinosaurs and the chaos of fixing tortillas, beans, and rice with Harley underfoot, and Allyson wanted to think she’d put her work aside.
But it was impossible.
After the kids were in bed, she popped in a video of Alabama football highlights fr
om the previous season, but even then she was distracted. Finally she clicked the Off button on the television, turned out the lights, and stared at the ceiling.
How could they do it?
The boy was absolutely perfect. He was ahead of his class in preschool, well-adjusted in every way possible. The latest report showed that relatives of the adoptive mother had recently moved to West Palm Beach. That meant the boy had an aunt and uncle and possibly cousins in the area.
She hadn’t been lying to the Porters earlier that day. To tear him away from that environment truly would be devastating. She turned onto her side and stared through the sheer curtains to the streetlight outside. Something about their story didn’t ring true. Even if a prison guard gave the packet of documents to the wrong prisoner, why would that prisoner forge Rip’s name?
If it was a lie, it was a careful one. The way the story went it, didn’t matter why someone would do such a thing. The culprit was nameless, faceless. Short of interviewing every inmate at the prison four years ago, there was no way to find out who might’ve received the package and forged Rip’s name.
Allyson suspected it wasn’t a prisoner at all, but Wendy Porter herself. She’d documented the conversation she’d had with the woman in the hospital four years ago. And she’d read it several times that day, both before and after the meeting with the Porters.
Wendy Porter had been afraid of Rip. She hadn’t wanted him to come home from prison and release his rage on her baby son. That’s the reason she gave him up. At the time Allyson had asked the woman whether Rip would have a problem signing the papers, and Wendy’s answer had been quick. Definitely not.
But did that really make sense?
The branches in the trees outside her window swayed gently, casting moving shadows on her bedroom floor. If the man was abusive, and if he followed the profile of most domestic-violence perpetrators, he would never have signed away his rights to a son. Abusers tend to have a strong sense of ownership. It was at the root of why they were abusive in the first place. They see people as objects to be owned and manipulated. When a person doesn’t respond correctly, the abuser unleashes on that person as a way of keeping his possession in line. Abusive people are very aware of their possessions.
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