25. Lillian
I’min the hospital bathroom fixing my hair into a low, neat bun and touching up my makeup when a knock rapts on the door. “Lil, if you don’t leave soon you’re going to be late,” Kim calls from the other side, making me look at the time on my watch.
Shit.
She’s right.
With one last look in the mirror, I decide it’s about as good as it’s going to get. I swipe the black blazer that is hanging on one of the handicap rails and rush out.
It’s mid-morning Wednesday. Court day.
After Grace was admitted in the middle of the night Monday, or I guess Tuesday morning, they took some scans and saw her left lung was fifty percent filled with fluid, and there was some inflammation on her right lung, too.
The older, kind nurse told me the doctor would want to keep Grace for several days to give the antibiotics time to work and make sure the fluid drains. For that, they told her to stop swallowing the mucus she was coughing up—which I didn’t even know she was doing—and spit it in a cup.
Since she can’t leave yet, I’m going to the hearing alone while Kim and Nicky stay here with Grace.
Not having her in the courtroom is a mistake, my lawyer had said when I called to tell him Grace wouldn’t be there. We have a strong case, but nothing is going to be as strong as the judge seeing her with you and hearing her say she wants to live with you.
But I shut that down fast. Even if it would help, I refuse to jeopardize Grace’s health to take her to this farce of a hearing. I’m the one who has been taking care of her for four years. That has to be enough.
My modest, one-inch heels click across the linoleum floor as I hustle over to Grace. “I love you. I’ll be back tonight. Be good for Aunt Kim and be polite to the nurses.”
She doesn’t even look up from Nicky’s gameboy he brought from home. “Love you, Mommy.”
Well, at least I got that. I grab my phone from the stand beside her bed, blow a goodbye kiss to Kim, and leave the room. When I make it to my car, I check my phone for any calls or texts from Michael, my lawyer. There’s just one telling me to show up on time.
No shit, I want to type back, but just go with ‘okay’ instead.
Then I check the one from Lincoln. In another bout of terrible news, Becca’s hearing was moved up. To today.
They paid someone in the judge’s office off. They had to have. That’s the only way something like this moves so quickly. He was absolutely fuming on our phone call late yesterday afternoon when he got the news. I had called to tell him about Grace that morning, and he wanted to drive to Flagstaff to be here for her. I told him not to worry about it, to stay in Phoenix. What a blessing that turned out to be because he would have ended up missing the letter stating the date was moved.
So we’ll both be in the same courthouse, at the same time, fighting for our family. If it wasn’t so unbelievably screwed up, I’d almost see the irony in it all. But it is screwed up, and I have this terrible feeling in my gut that won’t go away. That feeling pretty much sums up a question I’ve been asking myself all day.
What are the odds we both leave the courthouse today with a good outcome?
Pulling up to the courthouse is a test to my already fried nerves. I have to make three passes around it before I can find a parking spot, and now I’m a few minutes behind schedule. Michael is waiting for me on the steps as we walk in.
“Sorry I’m late,” I pant as I run up to him.
He shakes his head. “You”re not late. I always tell my clients to be here thirty minutes before I need them just to be safe. Let’s go in.”
I can’t tell whether I’m annoyed or impressed by that. As a little bead of sweat drips down my back and a few hairs whip into my eyes from where they fell from my once neat bun, I go with annoyed.
“I need to go to the bathroom to freshen up,” I grumble at him, and he nods and pulls his phone out as he stops next to it to wait for me.
Standing in front of the mirror, I grab some paper towels, untuck my blouse, and dry all the sweat from my back and under my boobs. Shirt tucked back in, I take a little water and tamp down the frizzies in my hair.
Michael is still in the same place he was when I walk back out, fussing with the length of my skirt. He sees me and puts me at ease. “You look fine, don’t worry. Mature and professional. You did good.”
A little hope creeps in. Professional enough to convince a judge to let me keep my child, hopefully.
“Remember,” he starts, and I interrupt him, nerves already frying my control.
“Turn off my phone, be respectful, don’t look bored, let you do the talking.” I wring my hands together as we walk to the room where Judge Whittington is hearing our case.
The smirk on Michael’s face is amused. “You got it.” Then the smirk drops off as he gets serious again. “Listen, this is a hearing where you’re trying to keep your child. Don’t talk over the judge or anything, but showing him how much you love Grace is paramount. Since she isn’t here for him to see it for himself, you have to fight for her.”
The seriousness in his face brings a different level to today. The way he said it sounds like he’s nervous about the outcome.
“Michael. I need you to be honest with me, what are my odds today now? Without Grace here.”
We make it to the room, and he puts his hand out to open the door for me but pauses. His eyes search mine for a second before sighing. “I don’t know. Half the time, the outcome in court depends on the judge you get.”
“And Judge Whittington?” My voice wavers.
“Favors reunification.”
For the number of people crowding the benches in the room, it is unbelievably quiet. I suppose everyone else’s lawyer gave them the same speech as mine did. Almost immediately, my eyes find the back of Talia’s blonde head of hair. She’s dressed almost exactly like me, down to the damn hairstyle. Michael puts a hand on my back, drawing my attention to him, and he shakes his head, telling me silently to ignore her.
Easier said than done, but I nod and follow him to an empty bench in the back.
We sit there for an hour watching other people’s cases. The judge pulls a file from his enormous stack, waits for the court reporter to read the docket number, and then confirms the case with the plaintiff or defendant.
“The judge hears this many cases a day?” I whisper to Michael, leaning in close so the people around us can’t hear us, much less the judge.
He shakes his head as he watches the case currently being decided—a small claims case for a homeowner who stiffed a landscaper out of a few thousand dollars. His head bends down closer to me to respond. “Depends on the day and type of case. This is a heavy day. Sometimes, he only hears one or two. Other weeks, he’ll load all his cases into one day.”
A gavel bangs, and the judge rules in favor of the landscaper. The court reporter stands up and reads from her sheet of paper. “Docket number six-four-two-three-J-eight-eight-one.”
“That’s us,” Michael tells me, and my heart feels like it drops into my stomach, heavy as a ten-pound weight, as we both stand.
On weak legs, I walk to the front of the room, and Michael guides me to the table on the left. Talia and her lawyer take the one on the right.
The judge takes his time marking something on the last file, then pulls a new one—ours, presumably—from his pile and reads it before finally looking up at us.
“You can be seated,” he asserts, and we all take a seat. “Our twenty-six hearing is now a change of circumstance hearing for Ms. Talia Wilson. Is that correct?” the judge asks, looking at Talia and her lawyer. A twenty-six hearing…where we were supposed to rule that Talia’s parental rights be terminated so I could adopt Grace once and for all. That’s what this was supposed to be. Hearing the judge announce the switch to a change of circumstance where she is hoping to change the custody order back in her favor feels like a knife is slicing me open.
“That’s correct, your honor,” her lawyer confirms.
“I’m told we also have Miss Grace Wilson,” he continues, looking at the sheet of paper or notes in front of him.
I lean forward to say she’s not here, but Michael taps me on the leg, stands and speaks for me. “No, your honor. Grace was supposed to be here, but she was admitted to the hospital last night with pneumonia, where she remains under observation.” His words are matter-of-fact and face blank. I hate it.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Who’s with Grace now, then?” the judge asks, and this time it’s directed right at me. But I’m so nervous about knowing when to talk or not talk, so I glance up at Michael, who nods. I answer.
“My sister and my nephew are at the hospital with her, your honor.” The look in his eyes is one of sorrow, for Grace being sick, I presume.
“I hope she has a speedy recovery,” he tells me, and I thank him. The judge moves on quickly.
“Ms. Wilson, I see that you have been keeping up with your visitation. It says here that you’re also six months sober. Is that still the case?” He glances at Talia from under his glasses.
“Yes, your honor. Almost seven now,” she answers him, and I grit my teeth, wishing like hell I could call her a liar. She’s never stayed sober this long, and with my whole being, I know she’s lying now.
“Congratulations,” he says, a little off-handedly, and it cools my temper just a little. I don’t think it’s as much of a dig at her as it is that he”s seen a lot of cases today, and the room still has a good number left after us. The man is probably fed up, but it still goes some way to making me feel better.
“I’ve looked over all of the documentation submitted by counsel. Ms. Wilson has kept the same residence for over a year as well as the same job, is that correct?” Another question for her lawyer.
“That’s correct, your honor.”
“And if Grace was to be placed in your custody today, your current residence could accommodate her?” He raises a brow at Talia to answer.
“Yes, your honor,” she says, but her lawyer adds a little more.
“Child services made a home visit to Ms. Wilson’s residence prior to the hearing and signed off on it. I have that confirmation with me, as well as some new information that came to light that is relevant to today’s hearing.” The lawyer holds up a folder, and my pulse picks up when I see Michael frowning at it, confused.
This doesn’t bode well.
The judge nods that her lawyer can approach with it, takes it from him, and reads the contents quickly before glancing up at me and Michael.
“Ms. Frasier, this suggests that you have not held down a steady job for several years and that you just started a new relationship with a man who lives here in Phoenix. Is that true?” It feels as if all eyes turn toward me, and I feel my mouth pop open in shock. I gape at the judge like a fish, so baffled by this turn of events that I don’t know what to say. Michael fills in the blanks.
“Your honor, my client is a successful freelance graphic designer. She has been more than capable of providing for Grace and herself the past four years.”
The judge scribbles something down, nods, and asks, “And the relationship?”
“If I may, your honor, I’m not sure why that is relevant to today’s custody hearing.” Yeah, what he said.
“It is relevant because Ms. Frasier is a foster parent. Which means the state must be notified of any substantial change of circumstance, including, but not limited to, loss of job, change of address, and change in relationship where it can affect the child under their care.”
Blood thrums in my ears, making it hard to hear what’s happening around me. The judge says something else, but I can’t make it out. Michael nudges me, and I flinch. Looking at him, he jerks his head discreetly at the judge for me to answer the question.
“I’m sorry,” I say, tail tucked between my legs. “Could you repeat that?”
The glimmer of irritation is hard to miss. “I said, is this inaccurate? Are you not engaged in a new, serious relationship with someone where you have spent several weekends away from home with him?”
“Um, no, your honor. That’s true.” He jots down another note.
“Okay, I’ll hear brief statements from each party or counsel before ruling. Let’s make it quick, please.”
He motions toward Talia’s side to begin.
Her lawyer stands up, buttons one button on his suit jacket, and starts his spiel. “You’re honor, there is no doubt that Ms. Frasier has done a remarkable job raising Grace. Nobody denies that. But we’re here because Grace’s biologicalmother has proved that she is capable of caring and providing a stable life for her daughter. She’s gotten herself clean and sober, shown immense guilt and regret for her actions while she was fighting addiction, and followed all the right steps toward reunification. She just wants her daughter back.”
“Ms. Frasier?” The judge motions toward me, showing no emotion following Talia’s lawyer.
Michael looks at me, brow raised.
Right.
Fight for her.
I stand on shaky legs and smooth down my blazer and skirt. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I clasp them in front of me, and then do just that.
“When I found Grace, it was on the sidewalk outside of a safe surrender facility. Twenty yards. That’s all Ms. Wilson had to walk to make sure Grace was safe. Instead, she dumped her in a cardboard box with no blankets or formula. It’s only by luck and happenstance that she wasn’t hurt or worse. Since then, I’ve given up my nine-to-five job to move back home where Grace could have a stable home and a real family. I’ve provided for us financially through freelance work, that’s true, but what’s more important is the emotional support and love Grace gets from me and my family. Ms. Wilson doesn’t know her. She doesn’t know that Grace can’t sleep without her favorite stuffy and nightlight, or that she loves Disney movies and ice cream more than almost anything else in this world. She might be her mother by blood, but she’s not her mom. I am. And I’m asking you to please not take Grace away from the only home she’s ever known.” A brief pause, and then I tack on quickly, “Your honor.” I finish lamely, taking a seat. From the corner of my eye, I see Michael give me a nod, so I assume I did well.
The entirety of the courtroom is silent. All the people sitting in the benches still, waiting to have their cases heard, myself and Michael, Talia and her lawyer…all waiting for the judge to finish writing his notes in the file in front of him. Finally, he looks up.
“If there’s nothing further from either Ms Frasier or Ms Wilson, we can continue on to the ruling.” One last searching glance between Talia and me, both remaining silent, and then the judge nods and opens his mouth to seal mine and Grace’s fate.