Nobody's Child (28 page)
Authors: Austin Boyd
“Objection!”
“Mr. Brewer?” Judge O'Dell asked.
“No further questions, Your Honor. The defense rests.”
Mr. Brewer returned to the oak table where Laura Ann and Ian waited. She bent at the waist, her hands clasped together, a mental agony pummeling her insides. The sordid testimony about James's father, the explicit sexual references, and the thought of her genes joined in some way with Felix Mendoza all turned her stomach. Mr. Brewer put a gentle hand on her shoulder as he sat down, then withdrew it. Ian's arm threaded around her, pulling her close.
Laura Ann looked up as Mendoza and Whitt conferred with whispers to her right. For a long time, an uncomfortable silence hung over the court. She heard the rustle of a robe and looked up. The judge shifted about, moving some papers into his satchel.
“Well, I think we're about done here,” Judge O'Dell said. “Your Honor?” Mr. Whitt exclaimed, turning away from Mr. Mendoza, his hands raised in the air. “What is this?”
“I said, we're done, Mr. Whitt. Based on the evidence submitted by your client, and by Mrs. Stewart, in consideration of the legally binding and probated will of the deceased Ms. Sophia McQuistion, and after that enlightening evaluation of the medical risks of Mrs. Stewart's egg donation, the court finds in favor of the defendant, Laura Ann McGehee Stewart, legal guardian â and certified biological mother â of the child James McGehee McQuistion.”
“What?” Mr. Mendoza exclaimed, jumping up from his chair.
“Sit down, Counselor,” Judge O'Dell ordered. “Yes, the plaintiff did establish paternity. The defendant, however, has proven that she is not only the legal guardian, but is also the biological mother of this child. In addition, she may have experienced a significant risk to her health in order to donate genetic material to the deceased. The defendant has established a clear and compelling case for parental rights, in accordance with the laws of the State of West Virginia.”
Judge O'Dell shook his head. “This beats anything I've ever seen. It's time to go home, folks. The court rules for the defendant. Clerk of the court, please inform Child Protective Services I'll be giving them a call. It's time to get that baby back in his mother's arms.”
Judge O'Dell slammed his gavel into the desk. “Court is adjourned.”
Eagles took wing, gliding on high currents of cool air above a cliff of books and along sheer walls of pictures. An aviary came to life in her imagination, seated in Judge O'Dell's eagle-strewn chambers an hour after the trial.
“Angus would be so proud of you,” Judge O'Dell said, leaning
forward on his elbows, his hands clasped where they supported his chin in thought. “You didn't have to do that. You might have won it based on your care for Sophia, and the probated will.”
“Maybe,” she said, her smile so wide it gave her cramps in her temples. “But I'm tired of carrying that secret.”
“Why? I mean, why'd you do it?” Judge O'Dell asked. “Submit for the maternity test?”
“Gracious, no. Maybe it's a little personal, but humor me. I heard what you said in there, but why donate your eggs? With all those risks?” He tilted his head in the cradle of his hands, waiting.
“Other than the bloating and pain, they didn't tell me about the rest of the physical complications. They advertised a big payment. But it wasn't what I was paid. I needed the money for medical and bank bills. And it kept us goingâfor a while.” Her voice drifted off, and she looked down. “Four thousand dollars on my first visit. A few hundred dollars on my last visit when they couldn't harvest enough eggs. Then I stopped going.”
The judge listened, all ears, not pushing her.
“I wanted to get this story out in the open, to be free of all the secrets.” She shrugged. “I don't care what people think. I'd rather they knew I took a stand.”
He nodded, a patient listening ear. Laura Ann could hear the screech of eagles, winging their way across the void of his office, free at last.
“I learned something very important in all of this,” she said, taking Ian's hand where it dangled by her shoulder. Judge O'Dell raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“Actions have consequences. I sold part of myself to save Daddy and the farm. But that little decision affected many lives, and not all of them for the good.”
Judge O'Dell wiped at his eyes, then continued. “I'm glad
for Ms. McQuistion â and for you â that she had you in her life, Laura Ann. The way I see it, these challenges you've overcome in the past months represent a sort of extended detour, a byway on a long road that leads from grace to strength.” He cocked his head to the side. “But somehow, I suspect that detour is not yet finished. There are other Sophia McQuistions and Maggie Clarks out there â and surely another James.”
The judge took a long breath, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in thought. “This is all very new to me. You know, I read about these issues, but they've never hit this close to home.” He leaned back in the chair, hands laced behind his head.
“Your actions and this case raise some tough questions. Is a child a gift from God?” he wondered aloud. “Or have babies simply become some kind of commodity?”
Staring upward in thought, his eyes focused on the eagles that circled above, winging on the winds of change.
HAPTER 29
O
CTOBER 1
The lobby of Tyler County Bank reminded Laura Ann of a beehive. Or an anthill. A steady stream of people filed in and out of the bank, most of them here because of the confluence of lunchtime, a payday Friday, and the first of the month. Payments came due, checks waited to be cashed, certificates of deposit rolled over. Clerks moved from desk to desk, the bank's three officers negotiating, approving, and cajoling. Laura Ann stood on the edge of the fray, her son in her arms, and a wad of cash in her pocket. The time had come.
Her last trip. Except for the miraculous support of Sophia, Ian, and Granny Apple, the farm would have gone to the bank a long time ago. The McGehee account would be emptied today. She was a Stewart now, part of a proud clan.
Baby James stirred, bundled in his cotton blanket, fast asleep. She needed to move quickly in the bank, get the loan paid, and get home. She couldn't nurse him here.
Finally her turn came at the teller. Laura Ann approached the woman, someone she'd never met. “I came to pay on my mortgage.” Laura Ann fished a wad of more than a hundred twenty-dollar bills from her front pocket, one hand securing
James, the other clutching the cash surrounded by a rubber band and note with her loan number. “For this account,” she said, pointing to some writing on the wrapper.
The teller nodded, took the cash, and whipped through it in rapid fashion, her rubber-coated thumb expert with the bills. She typed a number in the computer at her station and waited, then typed again.
“Are you sure this is the correct loan number?” she asked, sliding the money back in Laura Ann's direction.
“Yes. Why?”
The teller shrugged, typed the number in again, and replied, “I'm sorry, but could you wait for a moment over there, ma'am” â she glanced at the screen â “Ms. McGehee.”
“It's Stewart. McGehee was my maiden name.” Laura Ann's heart skipped again, like it had last Thursday when Uncle Jack stepped into the courtroom. Even though he sat in jail now, under arrest for fraud, his connivings still spooked her. “I don't understand. What's the problem?” Laura Ann asked, shaking off the memory of her uncle and his sticky threads that ran through the mountain hamlet of Middlebourne.
“My system says that there's been a change to your account, not related to the name change. You'll need to talk to a loan officer. It will be just a minute.” She directed Laura Ann to a chair.
James whimpered, his stomach growing empty after a lunch two hours ago. Laura Ann kissed his forehead, her heart pounding, and prayed for some path to resolution, whatever this latest financial concern.
“Miss McGehee?”
She looked up to see an older gentleman she had met when Daddy first set up the loan.
“I'm Joe Emerson, Laura Ann. Your father and I went to school together.”
Frustrated with the delays, and James's stirrings, she cut her words short. “Hello, Mr. Emerson. I tried to make a payment on my loan,” she said, handing him the stack of bills, “but the teller won't take it. Is there a problem? I've changed my name â I got married,” she said, holding up her ring finger. “But that doesn't seem to be the problem.”
Mr. Emerson shook his head. “No. But there is something you need to know. About your account.”
Mr. Emerson ushered her into his office. After rummaging through a file cabinet, he retrieved a large envelope, then slipped some papers out and handed them to her. “I'll need your signature,” he said with a widening smile.
“What?” she asked, scanning the papers. More legalese.
“You may keep your money,” Mr. Emerson said, sliding her cash into a sleeve and sealing it. He set the money near her on the edge of the desk, and then placed a pen in front of her. “But we'll need your signature.”
“For what?”
His smile disarmed her. Laura Ann flushed, then riffled through the paperwork. On the second page, a large red label ran at an angle across the document, marked “PAID.”
Mr. Emerson handed her a small envelope. “A benefactor paid your loan off last month. Her attorney asked that we give this to you the next time you came to the bank.” The note read “Laura Ann.”
Tears swelled in her eyes as she held the envelope in shaking hands. “Thank you,” she stammered. “I don't know what else to say.”
Mr. Emerson met her gaze. “We all know what you did, to save the farm and your baby. And,” he said, “to uncover the fraud. You made us proud.” He folded the loan paperwork and handed it to her.
“Your debt is paid in full.”
Back on the farm, with the baby fed and laid down for a nap, Laura Ann settled into a rocker on the porch. Tears gathering in her eyes, she carefully opened the envelope and slid out the note. As she read, a tear fell, swirling with wisps of purple, dissolving the ink of a gentle cursive. Laura Ann's hands trembled as she held the dainty card, forcing her tear to run across lines, a snail trail of wet pain running down the length of the message. A message that stole her heart.
Dear Laura Ann,
You sold the gift of life to heal your father. You gave me new life and brought us both a son. You took me in as a friend, even though I was a stranger invading your special private world. I am praying for you and for our child. Your road will not be easy; I know that mine was not.
Perhaps with this gift, you will never again need to forfeit part of your body to save someone else. I have found my dream through you â through the sacrifices you made for your father and for me, through your loving care, and through your indomitable spirit.
As I write this my own heart is failing, Laura Ann. But you have enough heart for both of us. For the three of us.
Hug our baby for me. I love you.
Sophia
D
ECEMBER 25
Up before sunrise on Christmas Day, Laura Ann laid her pen down on the kitchen table and read her own words, a new page in the leather-bound journal she'd first opened a year ago today. Ian and James slept, a few minutes remaining before her husband's usual five-thirty feeding in the barn.
Dear Daddy,
It's Christmas Day, a year since my last letter. So much has happened. Where do I start?
You remember Ian, his Saturday visits every week, helping out around the farm when he wasn't at school or at work. Ian's here every day now. I'm his bride. You were right. He'd been courting me for years and I was too blind to see it. We were married in September, at the Baptist church in Pursley. You'd have loved it. He took me to the Blennerhassett for our wedding night. It was beautiful.
Granny Apple is still going strong. She opened up a red one-room schoolhouse, like the one you attended. She takes in homeschoolers whose parents want a return to what she calls the “old ways. “ And guess what? Auntie Rose is in there
with her, teaching and cleaning. They live together now. Granny Apple needs a little help, Auntie Rose needs a little company, and Uncle Jack is no more. He and Phyllis McIntosh wrote fraudulent crop policies for farmers who'd passed away. But you beat him at his game. He paid someone to burn our tobacco barn, and the claim he filed against it brought him down. He found a lonely one-room concrete apartment with some guards and an iron door. He'll probably be there for a long time. Phyllis too.
Remember Stefany? She's famous. She busted Uncle Jack's insurance fraud cases and many more related to a big flood that we had in June. You'd have hated it. The flood, I mean. It devastated West Union and Middlebourne. The water went up thirty feet at The Jug crossing and washed it out. That took months to repair, and they opened the new causeway after our wedding (and just in time for hunting season). It's nice being married to a game warden. No one comes out here to drink and shoot at night anymore.
I have a son, Daddy. We named him for you and I carved a new chain this year. His full name is James McGehee McQuistion Stewart. It's very Scottish. You'd love it. He has Momma's eyes. McQuistion is for his birth mom. That's where the story, and the chain, gets complex. I've never carved a chain like this, with two links hooked into one. Sophia was his birth mom, but he carries your blood, through me. It took two of us to carry a baby named James to term, I guess. That makes him twice as special.
We are praying to adopt a daughter in January through a birth mother Granny Apple connected us with. It's a way for Ian and me to give something back to the community, and to build a family in return. We're going to name her Hope, for Momma. She should be born any day. My doctor tells me that I have some female problems that will make
it hardâmaybe impossible â to have children, so we're thrilled to be able to give this little girl a home.
I miss you so much, Daddy. I needed you every day this past year. I lost a very good friend, Sophia. Then I lost my son to the state for a while. We almost lost the farm, but an angel saved us. I wish you could have known her. I tried to follow your advice every step of the way, listening to the Spirit â my little voice. With Ian's help, we did what you asked us. The farm is back in family hands for good.
This little spot on the page is a tear for you. I tried to wipe it away, but it smudged. Maybe that's a good thing, because now you know what I've spilled for you nearly every day since you left. I miss you. I always will.
I learned a tough lesson this year â many lessons. You were so wise in all the things you taught me, but I had to learn one special lesson all on my own. Sometimes I do the wrong thing for the right reason. You knew that. But I learned something else. Actions have consequences. It took me a while to figure that out. The good news is that God redeems our actions â if we'll trust Him and give Him a chance. There's still heartache, but He can heal that hurt, in time.
Be at peace, Daddy. I am married now. We have the farm. We have a son. I've added two more links to the family chain, and a third is on the way.
I love you.
Peppermint
Beside her, James suckled, wrapped in a thick knit blanket, Granny Apple's newest wool creation. Blue, green, and black, the tartan of Clan Mackay, surrounded her son from shoulder
to toe while they rocked on the porch after Christmas dinner. James squeezed her finger, his customary grip while he nursed, one blue eye and one green focused intently on his mother.
Laura Ann laughed at the hold on her index finger, tugging at him playfully.
“Manu forti,”
she said. “ âWith a strong hand.' The motto of Clan Mackay.” James never let go, his smile growing as she tugged, until he lost his latch on her, then let go of her finger and went back to dinner. His hand lay open, waiting like a flytrap to catch his momma.
“Your granddaddy would be tossing you in the air right now,” she said. “James Angus McGehee. That's where you get your first name. And from James McQuistion, your honorary father.” She paused for a long time, no desire to verbalize the next words. “Your birth father's name was Felix Mendoza.” That name still hurt, a stab of pain.
Laura Ann rocked, cuddling James against a cold afternoon breeze. Christmas came warm this year, but too cold to spend long on the porch feeding an infant.
“The daddy who loves you and gave you your last name is out in the barn tuning up the tractor. He'll teach you to drive it one day. He's a game warden. Ian Arthur Stewart. And your birth mom, where you get your middle name? She was Sophia McQuistion. I've got so much to tell you about her. She gave her life for you.”
“This is your home,” she said, waving a hand toward the horizon as she rocked on buckled grey boards. She cooed when his eyes started to shut, then added, “One day The Jug will be home to your children too.” She breathed deep of the farm air, smells from the barn of fresh hay and wintering cows, mixing with the fertile scent of bottomland, and the waters of the Middle Island Creek.
“It will be home to you and your children. A home for generations to come.”
