Damaged (28 page)

John looked up from his notes. “Did you talk with him about the physical and sexual assault at school?”

“Just briefly, and that it wasn't the purpose of this evaluation. He did say that Mr. Robertson hit him in the face, and I didn't take it further. It was neither the time nor the place, and you had told me that criminal charges are pending. I didn't want to contaminate his testimony. This is not my first time evaluating a child who's been physically or sexually assaulted.”

Mary thought that was sad, but didn't say so. It was awful to think that innocent children were horribly treated by those entrusted to love and care for them. She had always known it was true, but that was as an academic matter. Seeing it up close made it real, and if she could just save one of them, she should. Shouldn't she?

John asked, “Susan, do you have a diagnosis for him?”

“Yes, he has an Adjustment Disorder with a depressed mood arising out of the loss of his grandfather and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I think he also has mild PTSD as a result of the assault at school. I would recommend psychotherapy. He would benefit from structured activities that involve a cognitive behavioral approach, that is, specific strategies to reduce his anxiety.” Susan seemed to read from her notes, her tone turning more professional. “I would recommend role-playing to improve social interactions with other children and help him with bullying, shyness, avoidance, and social activities. I think it would be important to create opportunities to improve his flexibility and general social skills. He's never even been to a birthday party.”

John looked up. “Do you think he needs medication?”

“No, not at this point. I think he would respond to talk therapy. I think his prognosis is excellent, given the right therapies, support, and placement.” Susan's gaze shifted to Mary, her features softening. “I think Patrick will do very well with you. You'll be giving him a great head start and he's a wonderful candidate for permanent adoption. I have a list of referrals for therapy for him, and I wish you the best.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, grateful.

Abby called out, “Thanks, Susan!”

“Yes, thanks, Susan. Good-bye.” John hit the button and the laptop went dark, leaving Mary to her own troubled thoughts.

“I'm going to go now.” Abby put her pad away, with a happy sigh. “I feel so legit when Susan agrees with me, she's one of the best.”

John rose. “I think we're all on the same page for the hearing. Let me walk you out.”

“You don't have to.” Abby turned to Mary, grinning. “He's such a gentleman, isn't he?”

“He is.” Mary stood up. “Thank you so much.”

“No worries.” Abby hoisted her purse and messenger bag to her shoulder. “I hate carrying files.”

“Let me help.” John hustled over, lifted her tote bag, and handed it to Abby.

“Thanks.” Abby went to the door. “I'll let you know if there are any changes or DHS moves him again.”

“Thanks,” John and Mary said, in unison, then Abby left the office.

“Mission accomplished.” John went back to his desk with a satisfied smile, stretching his arms. “We're all set.”

“Yes, we are.” Mary sank into the chair, masking her mixed emotions.

“First, we finalize the paperwork for filing.” John spoke as he typed. “Then we outline Abby and Susan's direct-examination. Next, we outline your testimony and rehearse you, then practice your cross. We're right on track.”

“Great,” Mary said, but she had never felt so confused. She wanted to take Patrick, but she was worried about taking him because of Anthony. For once in her life, she had no earthly idea what to do. She was running out of time to decide.

“Onward and upward!” John said, tapping away.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Mary and John worked through lunch, but all the time, her mind was racing. She couldn't stop thinking about Anthony's wounded expression last night or the pained tone of his voice when he asked her where he fit in her life. She knew in her heart that she put him first, but even she couldn't square that with her taking Patrick, against his express wishes.

She felt more nervous as the papers they needed to file got closer to final. Every time she thought that Anthony was right, she would remember Patrick. How lost and alone he was, and what a sweet child. She flashed on the horrible scene when the police had taken Edward's body from the house, and then, even worse, when they had taken Patrick.

The sun was falling in the sky outside John's window, and he was typing the cover letter to file their papers. Documents, Xerox cases, Family Court forms, and empty styrofoam cups of coffee cluttered his formerly neat desk. His hair had been finger-raked into rough layers, and his shirt sleeves had been folded up to the elbow.

Mary sat in the seat across from John's desk, staring at a draft of their papers without really seeing them. Everything had been set in motion. They were nearing the point of no return. She had to make a decision.

“Okay.” John looked up at Mary with a weary smile. “I think we're good to go, don't you?”

“Um,” Mary said, looking up from the draft.

“Is there a problem? Anything you want to correct or change?”

“No, it's perfect. You've done an amazing job. I couldn't be more grateful.” Mary set the draft down, feeling a wave of guilt.

“But you're mad at me, aren't you?” John cocked his head. “Is it because I kept asking about the gun?”

“No, it's not that.”

“Look, this is a tough situation, I know, I've been there.”

“Is this what it was like for you, with your brother?” Mary realized that John had never returned to the subject of being his brother's guardian or given her any details.

“Yes,” John answered, without elaborating. “But don't worry, we're in excellent shape. Abby and Susan's testimony will buttress yours in every particular. That means we hold three aces, including you.”

Mary took the hint that he didn't want to talk about his brother, but she didn't feel like an ace.

“You don't seem very happy.”

“I'm not.” Mary had to come clean. “My fiancé, Anthony, isn't behind my taking Patrick. I didn't get to talk to him about it until last night because he was out of town, and I didn't think he would feel that way. He thinks it's going to be difficult for me to give Patrick up, when the time comes.”

“It will be difficult to give Patrick up, but you can do it. I thought your plan to get him over the hump made sense. After he gets therapy and programming for his academic delays, he'll be a great candidate for permanent adoption.”

“When I came in this morning, I was worrying that this wasn't the right thing to do, that my fiancé was right. But then, when I heard Abby and Susan, I knew I was doing the right thing.” Mary felt a wave of shame, her neck flushing.

“You don't have to go forward if you don't want to.” John's expression softened behind his glasses.

“But I want to, mostly.”

“That's not good enough. Tell you what. Let's call it a day.” John closed his laptop, stood up, and began rolling his left sleeve down, brushing it into place and buttoning it at the cuff.

“What about filing the papers?”

“We don't have to file today.”

“When is the latest we can file?”

“Monday morning, it's an emergency hearing. I'll call chambers.” John unrolled his right sleeve, brushed it down, and buttoned it at the cuff, too. “That gives you tonight to decide. Let me know if you want to keep going. Or stop now.”

“How can I stop now?” Mary rose. “What about Patrick? And the experts we set in motion? And you, you've been working so hard. You gave up your whole weekend, you dropped everything. I don't want this all to have been for nothing.”

“That's not what matters.”

“I know. Patrick is what matters.”

“So does your fiancé.” John picked up his laptop, walked to a file cabinet near the door, and leaned against it. “Look, you have to make a very difficult choice. It's understandable to have reservations. It's not prudent to ignore them. I should've listened to my doubts more than I did.”

Mary didn't say anything, not wanting to interrupt him, if he wanted to open up. She could see that the words didn't come easily to him, and neither did making himself so vulnerable.

“It's your decision, Mary. Make it carefully. I'll see you here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I'm coming in anyway.”

“Thanks,” Mary said, but John was leaving the office. She followed him out and watched him walk down the hall, his posture typically ramrod straight as he passed the empty offices. Judy and Lou had left a long time ago, and the firm had gone quiet and still, in the waning light of day.

Mary wondered what it was that he wished he had done differently with his brother. She heard a
ping
as the elevator cab arrived for John and still she remained motionless, alone with her decision. Then she realized she wasn't alone, and there was an opinion she hadn't sought yet. In fact, it was a veritable collection of opinions, and they wouldn't hesitate to let her know what they thought she should do. Truth to tell, she was pretty sure she wouldn't be able to shut them up.

The thought cheered her, and she hurried to her office for her purse.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Mercy Street was one of the skinniest streets in South Philly, lined with mismatched rowhouses and parked cars. The cars were longer than the rowhouses were wide, presenting a notorious parking problem that the residents solved in their own way, via self-help. Mary double-parked in front of her parents' house, the unwritten prerogative of every South Philly resident, all of whom knew each other well enough to be on a first-name basis not only with their parents, but with their automobiles.

Mary cut the ignition, took her purse, and got out of the car, but noticed that The Tonys, her father's three best friends, were carrying cardboard boxes away, down the street. The boxes looked heavy, so she hustled to catch up with them, catching Pigeon Tony Lucia, who was bringing up the rear like an antique caboose. He was in his eighties, and his lined skin was as brown as a nut because he spent so much time outdoors, tending his pigeon loft.

“
Come stai,
” Mary said, which was all the Italian she had energy for tonight.

“
Maria! Ciao bella!
” Pigeon Tony's face lit up. He always reminded Mary of a bird himself because his neat head was completely bald, his eyes were perfectly round and black, and his nose divided them in the middle, hooked as a beak.

“Please, let me help with that.” Mary reached for the open box.

“No,
Maria,
is okay!” Pigeon Tony pulled the box away, but it fell to the ground. Round packs of red, white, and green streamers rolled down the sidewalk.

“Oh, sorry!” Mary scurried to pick up the packs before they rolled into the gutter.

“Alla good,
Maria
!” Pigeon Tony scrambled to pick up the other packs, then righted the box full of arts and craft supplies. Meanwhile the two other Tonys were turning, delighted to see Mary. On the left was Tony “From-Down-The-Block” LoMonaco and on the right was Tony “Two Feet” Pensiera, who went by Feet, since his nickname had a nickname. Mary remembered that Machiavelli had made some wisecrack about him, but she pushed that to the back of her mind.

“Mary, how you doin'?” Tony-From-Down-The-Block set down his box, then straightened up with a hand on his replacement hip. He had on a white T-shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts, which he always wore with black socks, rubbery brown sandals, and enough aftershave to bring Aqua Velva back.

“Good, how about you?” Mary tossed the streamers into the box, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block gave her a big hug.

“I can't believe you're getting married! You're too young!”

“I agree!” Mary grinned, having known The Tonys since she was little. In fact, all three were her godfathers, an octogenarian trifecta she considered her surrogate uncles and, sometimes, her crack investigative team.

“Don't get married, Mare! Play the field like me!”

Mary could only laugh. Tony-From-Down-The-Block had been married three times and was still actively dating. She guessed he had a new girlfriend since his remaining hair was a suspicious pitch black. The color was an improvement on his more recent orange, which looked better on orangutans.

Feet waddled over, his hooded eyes blinking behind his Mr. Potatohead trifocals. He had to walk slower than the others because he'd broken his foot working for her on a case. He also had on a white T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and sandals, and Mary started to wonder if they were dressing alike after a lifetime of friendship. She wondered briefly if that would happen to her and Judy, and if so, which way that would cut.

“Mare, how's my baby girl?” Feet called out, raising his arms for a hug.

“Good!” Mary gave him a hug, breathing in his familiar scent of cigar smoke, onions, and BenGay. When he let her go, she gestured at the boxes sitting on the sidewalk. “What are you doing?”

“We're decoratin' the car. We're goin' to drive in the parade like big
mahafs
!” Feet gestured at his massive green Bonneville.

“What parade?” Mary asked, then remembered. “Oh, Columbus Day.”

“Right, it's tomorrow!” Feet answered, pronouncing it
tammarah
.

“Mare, really?” Tony-From-Down-The-Block placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder. “Did you forget? Aren't you comin'?”

“I can't, I have to work.” Mary knew that her father would be disappointed. He loved his drive down Broad Street in the Columbus Day Parade, a homegrown promenade of high-school bands, local dignitaries, and saturated fats. Her father and The Tonys belonged to the same Sons of Italy lodge, and tomorrow was their Super Bowl.