The newspaper reports that the case is adjourned. I call the court from Mack’s house once his mother goes upstairs. The clerk hedges.
“I can’t really say since I’m only allowed to release public information,” she says.
“It’s my file. It’s about me. Don’t I have the right to read about myself?”
“Actually, because you’re a minor, it’s a closed file.”
I guess she feels sorry for me, though, because she goes on and on.
“There will be court dates coming up. The court will notify your parents for each of those. And they can follow the procedures about witnesses at that point. If they have a lawyer, he can make copies from the file as part of his preparation. He’ll know the way to do that. Even though you’re a minor, you can attend the hearings if you want to. You should talk to your parents about all this. And the lawyer.”
It becomes very clear even though she doesn’t say it right out that adjourned doesn’t mean ended. She does mention that the court records list it as “pending a trial date.” That can’t be good.
When my parents notice the newspaper article, I volunteer to go back to school. But the truth is I can’t stay awake for more than four, four and a half hours in a row, so it wouldn’t help. Falling asleep in class lands you in detention. I’d be a permanent resident. And the other kids in detention are not people my mother would trust in the hygiene category.
The official court summons arrives with Officer Brewer in a county cruiser one evening in mid-October. Dad, being the nice guy, rows in and takes the documents from Brewer. I can hear Brewer explaining from the front seat in that bullhorn voice of his. He announces that he only does this, serving papers for the court, in his off-hours. They let him use the county car. Along with several apologies, he explains that he’s not a county employee and he’s sorry it’s come to this. After he leaves, Mom and Dad have a huddle on the deck back by their cabin. It ends in Dad telling her to calm down, which, of course, only makes her angrier. She slams the cabin door. When Dad comes into the galley to make coffee, I get my chance.
“Why won’t they let me talk to the judge? It’s my life.”
Mom appears in her bathrobe. When Dad motions for me to sit next to him at the table, I understand we’re getting into serious issues.
Dad pours two mugs. “The law isn’t set up that way. You’re a minor.”
“I have no rights?” I put out a third mug.
He ignores it. Coffee is a stimulant, not good for growing bones. “That’s not it exactly. We’re your legal guardians. The way Mr. Walker explains it, the state expects us to take responsibility. And if we don’t make the right decisions, the state can make decisions for us.”
“Not the right decisions,” Mom interrupts. “Decisions they think are right. They don’t care what we think, even though we’re the ones who’ve talked to all the experts.” She has said this over and over since Social Services stuck their nose into things. What’s so offensive to her is their assumption that she’s ignorant for not choosing the traditional chemotherapy route. Slumping down in the chair next to Dad’s, she leans in like a cat seeking comfort from the biggest cat hater in the room. Without touching her, he folds the papers and turns them around and around in his hands, one of his favorite I’m thinking poses. Almost more than being sick, I hate to see what’s happening to my parents. It’s my fault.
Mack says not to worry, his parents argue all the time. But before this when mine argued, it was over before it started. Afterward, sometimes the same day, sometimes the next morning, they would tease each other, a kind of remember when they laughed about as if it was an achievement, not a failure, to disagree and to work it out without falling apart. The court case and the damn leukemia have pushed them into a hole. Even I can see they’re drowning in it.
Mom’s voice frays around the edges. “The collective IQ of everyone at the Social Services Department is lower than my age.”
“Maybe we should ask Misty to testify.” Dad speaks directly to her. They’ve forgotten me again.
“She’s done so much already.” Mom’s voice has lost that killer edge. “I hate to drag her into this.”
“She wants to help.”
“I know, but—”
“Sylvie, ask her at least. She can always say no.”
“She doesn’t even have a college degree. They’ll crucify her.”
In this relatively peaceful interlude Nick gathers up his school papers and retreats. No secret handshake for me, abandoned in the Colosseum with the lions.
“I want to talk to the judge,” I announce.
My parents hardly take a breath. They speak in unison. “No.”
“I’ll tell him if you won’t.”
“They won’t let you. You’re too young.”
“Too young for what? Too young to talk about what I want for the rest of my minuscule life?”
“You have no experience with this kind of thing.”
“And you do? How many kids have you nursed through cancer? How many have you buried?”
Mr. Walker agrees to meet with me only if my parents sign a waiver of the conflict of interest. Dad argues with him about that on the cell phone. “How can there be a conflict? He’s our son. We want the same things.” Dad repeats Mr. Walker’s explanation to Mom in whispered asides as Walker offers it to Dad on the phone. Supposedly, according to Walker the Great Legal Mind, different people have different interests and there might come a time when I want something different than what my parents want for me. Mr. Walker insists on the signed waiver. When Mom signals Dad to cave, it crosses my mind that for her it’s just about the expense of cell phone minutes during the daytime. Concession is so unlike her. Two days later, they sign Walker’s three-page waiver when it arrives in the mail. Mom pushes the form across the table at me.
“I’m allowed to read it?”
“Just sign,” Dad ignores my sarcasm, his eyes on Mom in that I’ll handle this signal.
So I don’t ask any of the questions that are keeping me up at night. He folds the forms and creases the edge.
“Your appointment’s tomorrow at one.”
Mom drops me off with a zillion cautionary instructions and reminders. My head is so full I can hardly focus on the mental list of questions I made. Then Walker is late getting back from court and I have to sit for an hour in an office that reeks of cigarettes and leather polish and those weird dried curlicue plant stalks that smell like the medicine Mom spread on my chest when I was little and had a cough. When Walker breezes in, he’s already not on my A-list and I’m about to puke.
He stops with a jolt just inside the door and bows his head at his receptionist while he stares at me, this stranger in his space. There is a huge spot of ancient ketchup or barbecue sauce on his tie.
“Mr. and Mrs. Landon’s son,” she says. “Daniel.” Like my name is an afterthought, hardly significant once he has the relationship right.
“So, Daniel Landon.” As if he’s been waiting all his life to meet me. What a crock. He’s supposedly come from court—quick to mention it so I can be impressed with how important he is—and he nods to the receptionist as if he knew all along who I was. This is not starting well.
In his office—which is a total pigpen, coffee cups wedged between files and loose papers on chairs—he picks up one pile, sets it on another chair, and motions for me to sit. Once he places his briefcase on his desk blotter, he gives a huge sigh of relief. I guess I’m supposed to believe it’s so heavy because he’s such a flipping fantastic lawyer. He pops up the briefcase top as if it’s one of those plastic windows in a prison to keep the prisoner from slitting the visitor’s throat, a clear demarcation of his space versus mine. When he starts to unload the files, I can see the bald space on the top of his head and tiny little gray sprigs. Hair implants?