Chapter 7 #3
He’d come into their lives like a hurricane, swift, unexpected.
While so many of their community had been left to die in the eighties and nineties—the so-called gay cancer—Don and Rodney had been part of a movement, one quiet and surreal.
Behind the scenes, out of the spotlight, hidden away in shadows.
They, like so many other same-sex couples, had wanted a child.
Surrogacy in the eighties and nineties was still a new frontier, prohibitively expensive and fraught with the chance the mother would refuse to give up the child, as was her right.
But even if they had found someone willing to carry a child, a gay couple taking the newborn home? Near impossible.
Like so many potential parents, Rodney and Don weren’t deterred, even when they were told no time and time again, a crushing blow that felt deeply personal.
But what they could not know before that phone call came in the summer of 1990 was that social workers wanted them.
Social workers wanted to find homes for as many of the kids under their care as they could.
And yet, they were left with certain children, unwanted children.
Children who had physical or developmental disabilities.
In the system, in foster care, in group homes.
Children who were different, children who weren’t what society deemed as normal.
Children with Down syndrome, children with cerebral palsy, children with histories of significant trauma.
Children born in drugs and violence, children who were never given a chance to just be children.
They were rejected by most families. People didn’t want a child they thought broken or ill or traumatized. They wanted a pretty girl or handsome boy, tailor-made for their families. Babies were especially popular because people could pretend that the child had come from them.
So then what became of the other children? What became of the orphaned kids who used wheelchairs or had epilepsy or autism? Children who had been harmed, children who lashed out, children who could be angry and violent? Who would take them?
In that summer of 1990, the phone rang. On the other end, a friend of theirs, a woman who worked with the state.
She said she had someone she wanted them to meet.
She said she hoped they would be as affected by the story as she was.
She knew Don and Rodney had been considering adoption.
They’d thought they’d have no real chance.
After all, they weren’t heterosexual. Homosexuality had only been removed from the list of psychological disorders in 1973.
Combine that with the AIDS crisis, and same-sex couples never had a chance.
She said, “I have someone I want you to meet.”
Two weeks later, they’d driven to Bangor.
They’d gone to a nondescript office building to the third floor.
Their friend, the social worker, had greeted them.
She’d been excited, but nervous. “You’ll love him,” she told them.
“He’s a handful, but I think you two would be so good for him.
” She showed them pictures, told them stories.
Jeremy. Seven years old. A boy, a small boy with brown hair and brown eyes. Knobby knees. Skinny arms and legs. Scars, so many scars. On his back, on his chest, on his shoulders. Scars from other people. Scars from violence.
And a long list of diagnoses. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
Attachment disorder. Traits of autism, but that could be a symptom of oppositional defiant disorder.
Antisocial behavior. Basically, she told them, it boiled down to this: The boy had been through the wringer.
He had survived, but not wholly intact. He was quick to anger.
Didn’t like authority. Easily irritated.
Resentful. Argumentative. Defiant. Vindictive, something that Don thought no child should ever understand.
Cruelty through words and actions, even if the intent wasn’t there.
“Long story short,” she told them with a trace of sadness, “he’s an angry kid.
He’ll need a lot of support. I won’t lie to you: This won’t be easy on any of you.
You might even regret ever taking this meeting if things should progress. ”
Confused, Don asked, “Why does it sound like you’re trying to talk us out of this?”
She shook her head. “I’m not. I swear I’m not.
It’s just that you need to be prepared. Bringing a child into a home changes everything.
But when you have a child with the issues Jeremy has, that change increases exponentially.
Jeremy might not ever be able to lead a so-called normal life.
Kids can grow out of ODD, but some don’t.
And given Jeremy’s history, it could lead to other things. ”
“Like?” Rodney asked.
“Schizophrenia,” she said bluntly. “The research isn’t there yet, but from what I could gather, Jeremy could potentially develop schizophrenia as he gets older.
There will be symptoms to watch out for, symptoms that you might think are part of his ODD or of a potential autism diagnosis, but you need to be aware. ”
“Has he been in a home before?” Don asked, mind racing.
She shook her head. “Not for any length of time. He became a ward of the state at the age of five. Mom was abusive. She overdosed. Dad was abusive, now in jail serving thirty years for armed robbery. Jeremy has been a ward of the state ever since.” She sighed.
“He … didn’t do well, in the foster homes.
Many people who foster are some of the kindest and most empathetic people you’ll ever meet.
Some, though. Some are in it for the monthly checks from the state.
Others have too many children already, and it makes it hard to have individual care.
” She hesitated. Then, “He has hit people. His fosters. Other people in the house. He’s punched holes in walls, kicked in doors.
He’s even taken a swing at me a few times. ”
“And you think that will make us want to take him in?” Rodney asked.
“No,” she said. “I don’t. Because that would scare the living daylights out of most people.
If you’re worried, good. But all of these things we’ve talked about, everything I’ve mentioned, it’s only part of the whole.
Is it a big part? Yes. But I know him. I know him very well.
He’s curious. He’s smart, even if his schoolwork doesn’t always reflect that.
He can be funny, especially when he’s feeling comfortable.
He likes to read, even though he has trouble with some of the words.
He likes ice cream, especially chocolate.
Cats. Blueberries. Climbing. Pretending sticks are swords.
He’s a child, guys. A child who has been through more than most people see in a lifetime.
A child who hasn’t really gotten the chance to be a child.
” She looked at them both. “He needs a place to feel safe, a place he knows isn’t temporary.
I think if he has that, he’ll blossom. But again, it’s going to take time, patience, and more hard work than you can even begin to imagine.
I know you aren’t making this decision lightly, but it’s better to understand what you’re getting into.
I don’t want to give you any false hopes. ”
She left them, then, telling them she wanted to give them some time alone before she took them to meet Jeremy. She hadn’t told him they were coming, just in case they decided to back out after hearing from her.
They didn’t.
The conversation lasted maybe three minutes. Don said that it would be hard, not just on Jeremy, but on them too. Were they ready for something like that? They’d been wanting to have a kid for a while now, and this was the farthest they’d gotten.
Rodney said he didn’t know, but that he wouldn’t know unless they tried. Could they walk away from this now? Could they really stand up and walk out of the building and drive home and pretend nothing had happened?
“We don’t owe him anything,” Don said, trying to play devil’s advocate.
“Not yet,” Rodney said, and that was that.
When their friend came back, she knew from the moment she saw their faces. She smiled at them. “You want to meet him?”
She took them to a small room. Inside, there was a container filled to the brim with toys, some in better condition than others.
Colorful plastic blocks, little toy cars, stuffed animals, a Speak & Spell machine, orange and yellow with blue buttons and a black screen.
A See ’n Say toy with different types of farm animals on it: The cow says moooo.
And the boy, of course. The boy sitting in a little chair.
He wore shorts and a shirt with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it.
The collar was a little stretched, hanging down almost like a V-neck.
Don and Rodney would learn the boy pulled on his clothes when getting worked up.
In his hands, a picture book that Don recognized immediately: Where the Wild Things Are.
The boy looked up at them with suspicion, seemingly incapable of smiling. Don didn’t blame him for that. They were strangers and he didn’t yet know whether or not they were the type of people he’d known in his young life, the type of people who caused harm.
“These are friends of mine,” the social worker told Jeremy. “Told them all about you, and they wanted to meet you. This is Don, and that’s Rodney.”
The boy turned back to his book, flipping through the pages.
Rodney said, “Hi, Jeremy.”
Don said, “It’s nice to meet you, Jeremy.”
The boy didn’t speak.
“What are you reading?” the social worker asked.
“A book,” Jeremy muttered. “I like the pictures.”
“It’s one of my favorites too,” Don said.