Three Little Words: Chapters 7–9

I was a fire child, a furious child, my gut clamped over a molten core radiating my hostility.

Since most of the students were transient and many had behavior problems, the curriculum was designed more to keep us out of trouble than on grade level.

Once I was out of the clutches of Mrs. and Mr. Moss, I complained about them to anyone who would listen, and there were plenty of sympathetic ears at Lake Magdalene.

Even though I do not remember instigating the investigations, the Mosses later claimed that I had called in nine “false” abuse reports using the hotline number.

Luke was distraught and kept asking for me, but luckily, Lake Mag was less than two miles from where they lived, and the staff allowed me to visit him at the Merritts’ home.

“The judge will decide where you will live,” Mr. Ferris said in the mushy voice I had come to despise.

The shell around that once-perfect egg that held my childish faith was more fragile than ever, and I feared she was going to say something hurtful.

“In this house I am the mother and you are the child,” she said so adamantly that I stiffened and fluttered my gaze to a corner before she could attack.

“It means that I will tell him when he has to do things and what the consequences for not doing them are.”

By now I was accustomed to all sorts of workers coming to visit us in our various foster homes.

I resented Lena Jamison because she had taken me away from Adele, and it still irked me that Miles Ferris had robbed me of my possessions.

Although I sulked about my toys, my darkest moods erupted when I realized that Miles Ferris should have taken me away from the Mosses when the investigators found out that some of us were being abused.

“Is that like a guardian angel?”

Noticing my cynical look, she added quickly, “I’m also not a caseworker. I will represent your best interests in court.”

Behind the scenes, though, she became our champion, and it would be years before I realized everything she had accomplished on Luke’s and my behalf.

Mary was suspicious of my mother because Lorraine claimed she had held a job for more than a month, but Mary learned that it had lasted for one day.

I believed it was my responsibility to stick with him no matter what, yet I resented the fact that I had to give up what was dearest to me because I was all that he had.

I knew the Chavezes were trying to make me feel welcome, yet I also knew the day would come when their hospitality would end suddenly and I would find my stuff in garbage bags again.

I shook my head vehemently and mouthed No! but she ignored me.

Until Mary Miller took our case, the legal issues concerning Luke and me had been neglected for years and were in violation of all the laws that were supposed to either return children to their parents or come up with another permanent family.

Judge Giglio wrote in his order that it was “manifestly in the best interest of said child for the mother’s parental rights to be terminated” and that the state was to receive permanent commitment of said child and “place said child in an adoptive home.”

While we made the bed, she explained that “primary” was short for “primary caregiver.”

Part of the therapy routine was playing what’s called the “Talking, Feeling, and Doing Game.”

To outsiders, the campus seemed like a prep school where adorable children lived in cute cottages and had excellent recreational facilities.

Yet each resident had hidden terrors that lurked like sea monsters in the murky bottom of an unfathomable lagoon.

Most of the time our personal monsters stayed submerged, even though the constantly undulating water kept us on edge.

After that, my survival strategy was to mind my own business and stay out of trouble.

The staff told prospective parents something about a child, then permitted them to observe her or him during meals, campus events, sports, or talent shows.

Eventually, they drove off into the sunset with their “forever families”—or so they thought. Many came back. Sometimes it was weeks after placement, sometimes years after the adoption finalization had taken place. Workers called this a “disruption,” as if it were temporary, though few children ever returned to the same adoptive family.

To keep my audience enthralled, I developed a comedic routine featuring “funny” lines about my life.

“The lists are given to our sponsors—really rich people, even companies—and they go out and buy us everything.”

Living in an institution with a myriad of regulations, it was impossible to lead a normal life.

I remember thinking that all three of us had red hair, sunny smiles, plucky dispositions, and names that begin with A.

Even though there were carnival games and hot dogs and burgers on the grill, the real purpose was to display the merchandise: the children nobody else wanted.

I should have known not to anticipate a great birthday because I had always been disappointed before.

If someone found me crying, I’d refuse to answer their probing questions because I did not want to have to explain my feelings to Ms. Sandnes, Mary Fernandez, and Mr. Bruce over and over, as if words alone would bring my mother back.

That sounded like something they thought they should write, because on closer inspection, their expressions in the photographs did not look as happy-go-lucky as their words claimed, but I figured they would be able to offer me opportunities.

I couldn’t decide if they seemed more like one of those quirky sitcom families or a bunch of weirdos who make a good first impression but flip out behind closed doors.

How could I have been oblivious to the family that had been shopping for me?

Were this balding man and this intimidating woman really going to be my parents?